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MODERN PHILOLOGY

EDITED BY

PHILIP S. ALLEN, Managing Editor
FREDERIC I. CARPENTER JEFFERSON B. FLETCHER

ADVISORY BOARD

JAMES W. BRIGHT FRANCIS B. GUMMERE

GEORGE HEMPL GEORGE L. KITTREDGB

JOHN E. MATZKE CALVIN THOMAS

FREDERICK M. WARREN

VOLUME FOUR
1906-1907

CHICAGO

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS
1907

P6
i

Published

July 1906, October 1906
January 1907, April 1907

Composed and Printed By

The University of Chicago Press

Chicago, Illinois, U. S. A.

CONTENTS

RUDOLPH SOHEVILL. Studies in Cervantes. Parti. Persiles y Sigismunda 1

T. M. PARROTT. The Authorship of Sir Gyles Goosecappe 25

E. P. DARGAN. Cock and Fox. A Critical Study of the History and

Sources of the Mediaeval Fable 39

WILLIAM H. HULME. A Valuable Middle English Manuscript .... 65

HAROLD DEW. FULLER. Romeo and Juliette 75

GEORGE L. MARSH. Sources and Analogues of The Flower and the Leaf.

Parti 121 •*=

KARL YOUNG. Chaucer's Use of Boccaccio's Filocolo 169 >

G. L. HENDRICKSON. Chaucer and Petrarch: Two Notes on the Clerkes

Tale 179

FRED ALLISON HOWE. The Authorship of The Birth of Merlin . . .193
CAMILLO VON KLENZE. The Growth of Interest in Early Italian Masters.

From Tischbein to Ruskin 207

PHILIP S. ALLEN. A Venetian Folk-Song 275

E. H. TUTTLE. Galician G 279

GEORGE L. MARSH. Sources and Analogues of The Flower and the Leaf.

Part II 281

WILLIAM W. LAWRENCE. Structure and Interpretation of Widsith . . 329 »

KARL D. JESSEN. Ein Brief Goethes 375

GEORGE L. HAMILTON. Trotula 377

GEORGE B. CHURCHILL. The Relation of Dryden's State of Innocence to
Milton's Paradise Lost and Wycherley's Plain Dealer. An Inquiry

into Dates 381

F. N. ROBINSON. A Note on the Sources of the Old Saxon Genesis . . 389 •

A. E. H. SWAEN. The Authorship of What if a Day and Its Various

Versions 397

ARTHUR R. SKEMP. The Transformation of Scriptural Story, Motive, and

Conception in Anglo-Saxon Poetry 423

JOHN E. MATZKE. The Source and Composition of Ille et Galeron . . 471

FRANCIS A. WOOD. Studies in Germanic Strong Verbs. Part I . . . 489 ^

AURA MILLER. The Sixth Quarto of Hamlet in a New Light .... 501
MARTIN SCHUTZE. Repetition of a Word as a Means of Suspense in the

German Drama Under the Influence of Romanticism 507

B. S. MONROE. French Words in La^amon 559

ERNST Voss. Nachricht von J. Wimpfelings Deutschland 569

iii

iv CONTENTS

JOHN M. MANLY. Literary Forms and the New Theory of the Origin

of Species . 577

JOHN W. CUNLIFFE. The Influence of Italian on Early Elizabethan

Drama , . . 597

GEORGE C. TAYLOR. The English Planctus Mariae 605

EDWARD P. MORTON. The Spenserian Stanza Before 1700 639

FREDERICK M. WARREN. Some Features of Style in Early French Narra-
tive Poetry (1150-1170). Part III 655

RUDOLPH SCHEVILL. Studies in Cervantes. Part II. Persiles y Sigis-

munda . . 677

Modern Philology

VOL. IV July, IQ06 No. i

STUDIES IN CERVANTES
I. "PERSILES Y SIGISMUNDA"

I. INTRODUCTION

When, on September 9, 1616, but a few months after the
death of Cervantes, el Maestro Josef de Valdiviesso1 penned the
necessary aprobacion prefixed to the first edition of the Persiles
y Sigismunda, he perhaps unconsciously gave to his opinion of
the work a personal note which lends it a charm and value sel-
dom or never found in the usually perfunctory official approval.
The cheerful and buoyant spirit of the aged romancer was now
no more, but he had left to posterity works which were destined
to become thenceforward a part of the national life of Spain.
Addressing his official approval to the king, Valdiviesso says:

For mandado de Vuessa Alteza, he visto el libro de los trabajos de
Persiles de Miguel de Ceraantes Saauedra, illustre hijo de nuestra
nacion, y padre illustre de tantos buenos hijos, con que dichosamente la
enoblezi6; no hallo en el cosa cotra nuestra Santa F& Catolica, y buenas
costumbres, antes muchas de honesta, y apazible recreacion, y por el se
podria dezir, lo que san Geronimo de Origines por el comentario sobre
los Cantares: Cum in omnibus omnes, in hoc se ipsum superauit Ori-
genes; pues de quantos nos dex6 escritos, ninguno es mas ingenioso,

1 Also written Valdivielso ; an account of his life and writings may be found in Ticknor's
History of Spanish Literature (London, 1863), Vol. II, p. 331; the single volume which con-
tains his dramatic works is very rare, but the Imperial Library at Vienna has a copy. The
title reads : Doce actos sacramentales y dos comedias divinas por el Maestro Joseph de Valdi-
vielso (Toledo, 1622). Cf. Schack, Geschichte der dramatischen Litteratur und Kunst in
Spanien (Frankfurt, 1854), Vol. II, pp. 491, 497, 651, and Obras de Francisco de Quevedo Vi-
llegas, edited by Don A. Fernandez-Guerra y Orbe (Madrid, 1876), Vol. II, p. 467.
1] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, July, 1906

2 KUDOLPH SCHEVILL

mas culto, ni mas entretenido, en fin cisne de su buena vegez: casi entr
los aprietos de la muerte cant6 este parto de su venera(n)do ingenio.

To us, no doubt, this exaggerated appreciation has little value
beyond that of a friendly tribute ; after a lapse of three hundred
years its praise finds no echo, for no work by Cervantes has been
so thoroughly consigned to an oblivion which, according to most
critics, would appear to be well deserved. Yet the verdict of
the aprobacion was justified, for a time at least, by an unusual
demand for the book immediately after its publication.1 Within
the same year of the first edition (1617) six others appeared,2
and by 1629 ten editions had seen the light. Thus the Persiles

1 A complete list of all the editions of the Persiles may be found in the BibUografla
Critica de las Obras de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, por D. Leopoldo Rius (Madrid,
1895-1905; 3 vols.) ; cf. Vol. I, pp. 160 ft'. The first edition was printed by Juan de la Cuesta,
who had issued the Don Quixote. After that of 1629 there was no other until the eighteenth
century, when eight new issues appeared. The romance, however, had been used by Fran-
cisco de Rosas Zorrilla in his comedia Persiles y Sigismunda, of which the earliest printed
copy known is dated 1636 (cf. Barrera's catalogue, p. 685). In the nineteenth century there
were twelve editions, of which one saw the light in New York (1827), and one in Paris (1835).
Translations of the story were made almost immediately after its appearance (cf. Vol. I,
p. 363, of Rius) ; two in French appeared in Paris, 1618, the first by Francois de Rosset, and
the second by le Sieur D'Audiguier ; and one in English, in London, 1619, by an unknown
person. The title is of interest : " The Travels of Persiles and Sigismunda. A northern
history : Wherein amongst the variable Fortunes of the Prince of Thule, and this Princesse
of Frisland, are interlaced many witty discourses, morall, politicall, and delightfull. The
first copie was written in Spanish; translated afterward into French; and now last into
English. London. Printed by H. L. for M. L., etc., 1619." Upon this English version John
Fletcher based his play, The Custom of the Country, one of the vilest ever put upon the
stage. When Alex. Dyce edited it (Vol. IV, p. 385) in the Works of Beaumont and Fletcher
(11 vols., London, 1844), he was unaware that Cervantes' Persiles was the source, though the
fact had been pointed out as early as 1818 by F. W. V. Schmidt, in his Beitrdge zur
Geschichte der romantischen Poesie (Berlin), p. 180 (cf. p. 5, n. 3). Ticknor, Vol. II, p. 133,
n. 2 (cf. p. 9, n. 2) mentions some of the ideas and episodes which were taken from Cer-
vantes by Fletcher, making it clear, at the same time, that the indecency is all Fletcher's
own. I am not aware that any thoroughgoing comparison of the romance with the play has
yet been made. Leo Bahlsen, "Spanische Quellen der dramatischen Litteratur, besonders
Englands zu Shakespeares Zeit" (Zeitschrift fur vergleichende Litteraturgeschichte [Berlin,
1893], Vol. VI, p. 155), repeats the gist of Ticknor's comparison. Cf. also Dunlop-Liebrecht,
Geschichte der Prosadichtung, pp. 278, 493, 511 ; also Englische Studien, Vol. IX, p. 24, No. 37,
"On the Chronology of the Plays of Fletcher and Massinger" (Fleay), and A. W. Ward, A
History of English Dramatic Literature (London, 1899), Vol. II, p. 722. Here Ward says that
the actual origin of the play was first pointed out in 1875 ! Cf. also Eraser's Magazine, Vol.
II, New Series, p. 592 ; Koeppel, Quelten-Studien zu den Dramen Ben Jonson's, etc. (Erlangen
und Leipzig, 1895), p. 65; The Works of Beaumont and Fletcher, Variorum edition (London,
1904), Vol. I, p. 480.

A translation of the Persiles into Italian appeared in Venice in 1626. Various transla-
tions have followed since. The first edition of the Persiles y Sigismunda may be consulted
in the Ticknor library in Boston and in Mr. Huntington's library in New York. The first
English version is in the British Museum. In referring hereafter to the romance, I shall
give the page according to the edition of Rivadeneyra, Biblioteca de Au tores Espafioles,
Vol. I, Obras de Miguel de Cervantes.

2 No. 346 of Rius' catalogue is considered a counterfeit ; cf . also the catalogue of Tick-
nor's library, that of the British Museum, and that of Salva, No. 1755.

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 3

saw almost as many issues within twelve years of its first appear-
ance as Part I of Don Quixote, which was printed eleven times
from 1605 to 1617. Master Valdiviesso had unquestionably
diagnosed his times well, recognizing the taste then in vogue
among readers of romance; and the public, for its part, could do
nothing but accept into the body of current literature a novel so
thoroughly in keeping with it as the fanciful experiences of Per-
siles and Sigismunda. For in its imaginative and frequently
irrational character this remarkable "Story of the North" was
either on a par with, or far superior to, most of the tales which
could have been found on the shelves of the aficionados. To
realize that this is the truth, we need but examine not only such
romances of a purely irrational type as the Pastoral novels, but
also such tales as were meant ostensibly to reproduce the every-
day life in the peninsula, namely the Peregrino en su patria or
the Novelas by Lope, or the tales of Montalban incorporated in
his Para Todos. That even the latter class are frequently a
tissue of extravagances and impossibilities would be difficult to
deny. As regards the popularity of the Persiles, however —
whether justified or not will be seen later — there is some evi-
dence, at least, that it was still a favorite book about the middle
of the eighteenth century. There exists a valuable list of enter-
taining stories (made up by one Alonso de Padilla), of which a
reprint was considered opportune. The Persiles stands among
the first, and it is certain that a bookseller who knew his market
would issue only books of which a profitable sale seemed assured.1
Now, in 1728 an edition of the Persiles had already been printed
by Alonso de (sic) Padilla in Madrid, which would indicate that
the prospectus of forthcoming books had been compiled but a
few years previous. The large demand for the romance must

1 My copy of the list is printed in a volume entitled Historias peregrinas y exemplares,
etc., por Don Gonzalo de Cespedes y Meneses (Madrid, 1733), and occupies two introductory
leaves. The list is called: "Indice de libros entretenidos de Novelas, Patranas, Cuentos,
Historias, y Casos tragicos, para divertir la ociosidad, hecho por Don Pedro Joseph Alonso
y Padilla, Librero de Camara de su Magestad, quien desea dar noticia a los Aficionados, y
con el tiempo los irk reimprimiendo muchos de los que aqui van anotados, que no los ay, y
muchos no tienen noticia de ellos por el transcurso de el tiempo." Then follows the list
which was probably prefixed to all the books issued from Alonso y Padilla's press at about
this time. Cf. also the prologue al lector of Lope de Vega's Romacero Espiritual (Madrid,
1720) (written by Alonso y Padilla) ; printed in Barrera's Nueva Biografla de Lope de Vega,
p. 392.

4 KUDOLPH SCHEVILL

have justified still another edition, for in 1734 the Persiles was
published again in Barcelona. Moreover, in the important edi-
tion of Don Quixote published in London in 1738 (4 vols. printed
by J. & R. Tonson), to which was prefixed the first scholarly life
of Cervantes (dated 1737), by D. Gregorio Mayans y Siscar, the
latter does not hesitate to give Persiles y Sigismunda the pref-
erence over Don Quixote. This is an eloquent testimony to the
high position which the former held at the time.1 As late as

JCf. p. 101 of the Vida de Cervantes; seeing that this first important judgment passed
upon the romance is inaccessible to most students, I quote from it the following, much of
which has been so frequently repeated, but without any reference to the source: "Cer-
vantes dijo, que su Persiles y Sigismunda se atrevia a competir con Heliodoro. La mayor
alabanza que podemos darle, es decir, que es cierto. Los amores que refiere son castisimos,
la fecundidad de la invencion maravillosa ; en tanto grado, que pr6digo su ingenio, excedi6
en la multitud de Episodios. Los sucesos son muchos i mui varies. En unos se descubre la
imitacion de Heliodoro, i de otros, mui mejorada ; en los demas campea la novedad. Todos
estan dispuestos con arte, i bien explicados, con circunstancias casi siempre verosimiles.
Quanto mas se interna el Letor en esta Obra, tanto es mayor el gusto de leerla, siendo el
Tercero i Quarto Libro mucho mejores que el Primero i Segundo. Los continues trabajos
llevados en paciencia acaban en descanso, sin maquina alguna: porque un hombre como
Cervantes, serla milagro que acabasse con algun milagro, para manifestar la felicidad de su
raro ingenio. En las descripciones excedi6 a Heliodoro. Las deste suelen ser sobrado fre-
quentes, i mui pomposas. Las de Cervantes a su tiempo, i mui naturales. Aventaj61e
tambien en el estilo; porque aunque el de Heliodoro es elegantisimo, es algo afectado,
demasiamente figurado, i mas Poetico de lo que permite la Prosa .... Pero el de Cervantes
es propio, proporcionadamente sublime, modestamente figurado, i templadamente Poetico
en tal qual descripcion. En suma, esta Obra es de mayor invencion, artificio, i de estilo
mas sublime que la de Don Quijote de la Mancha. Pero no ha tenido igual acetacion:
porque la invencion de la Historia de Don Quijote es mas popular, i contiene Personas mas
graciosas ; i como son menos en numero, el Letor retiene mejor la memoria de las costum-
bres, hechos i caracteres de cada una. Fuera de esso el estilo es mas natural, i tanto mas
descansado, quanto menos sublime.'' Cf. also Clemencin's edition of Don Quixote (Madrid,
1894), Vol. I, p. liv. The favorable opinion of Mayans y Siscar probably became known in
England chiefly through The Life and Exploits of . . . . Don Quixote .... translated ....
by Charles Jarvis (London, 1742). Vol. I contains the life of Cervantes by Mayans y Siscar,
translated by Ozell. Subsequent editions of Jarvis' translation, however, substituted
another biography of Cervantes. The testimony of this upon the standing of the Persiles
during the latter half of the eighteenth century is of interest. "[The Persiles] is a romance
of the grave sort written after the manner of Heliodorus1 Ethiopics with which Cervantes
says it dared to vie. It is in such esteem with the Spaniards, that they generally prefer it
to Don Quixote, which can only be owing to their not being sufficiently cured of their fond-
ness for romance." (From ed. London, 1821, Vol. I, p. xlviii.) Smollett, in his translation,
1755 (cf. prefatory life of Cervantes), merely copies from the Spanish biography of Mayans y
Siscar, when he speaks of the elegance of diction, entertaining incidents, and fecundity of
invention to be noted in the Persiles (p. xxvi of Life of Cervantes, Vol. I, 2d ed., London,
1761). J. G. Lockhart, in the biography of Cervantes which he prefixed to his edition of
Motteux's translation of Don Quixote, 1822, stands at the parting of the ways. What he
says of the Persiles combines the appreciation of the eighteenth century with the indiffer-
ence of the nineteenth. He says: "This performance [the Persiles] is an elegant and
elaborate imitation of the style and manner of Heliodorus. It displays felicity of inven-
tion and power of description, and has always been considered as one of the purest speci-
mens of Castilian writing; nevertheless, it has not preserved any very distinguished popu-
larity nor been classed (except in regard to style) by any intelligent critic of more recent
times with the best of Cervantes' works." (P. xxx of Life, Edin., 1879.) Coleridge, in a

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 5

1811 Sismondi felt justified in telling hearers of the lectures
which he delivered at Geneva, that the Spaniards rated the story
of Persiles as the equal of Don Quixote.1 He unfortunately does
not say from what evidence he reaches this conclusion, but it is
not likely that the large number of the editions of the Persiles
which were published during the eighteenth century was suffi-
cient to account for such a view ; Sismondi, no doubt, was familiar
with the high regard in which the Persiles was held by several con-
temporary Spanish writers.2 On the other hand, a search among
German men of letters, especially such as were under the in-
fluence of the Romantic movement at the time, reveals an enthu-
siasm for the last work of Cervantes which, while limited to those
in sympathy with the peculiar tenets of a school of fiction, was
apparently unqualified.3

lecture on Don Quixote and Cervantes, says the latter ".was the inventor of novels for the
Spaniards, and in his Persiles and Sigismunda the English may find the germ of their
Robinson Crusoe'1 (p. 274, Vol. IV, of Complete Works [New York, 1871]). It is too bad that
Coleridge did not enlarge upon this rather vague assertion.

i " Le jugement des Espagnols place en effet ce roman & c6t6 de Don Quichotte, au
dessus de tout le reste de ce qu'a 6crit Cervantes." (Printed in Vol. Ill, p. 419, of De la
litterature du midi de VEurope, par J. C. L. Simonde de Sismondi [Paris, 1813]).

2 D. Vicente de los Eios (1780) and D. Juan A. Pellicer (1797) say nothing worthy of note
in the introductory matter to their respective editions of Don Quixote. In the prologue to
Sancha's excellent edition of the Persiles, however (Madrid, 1802), may be found an expres.
sion of the opinion then .current in Spain: "No son pocos los sabios, que, no obstante el
notorio m6rito de todas las obras del famoso EspafLol Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, y sin
embargo de los repetidos elogios prodigados principalmente & la Vida y Hechos de Don
Quixote de la Mancha, que ha corrido siempre con la primera estimacion, dan la preferencia
sobre todas ellas & los Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda," etc. Then the editor goes on to
praise, as others had done, the excellence in style and plan of the work (" Prologo del
Editor"). Sismondi must have known this edition. Only a few years later Navarrete, in
his Vida de Cervantes which was prefixed to the Spanish Academy's fourth edition of Don
Quixote (1819), says of the Persiles: " El [estilo] de este [Cervantes] es siempre propio con
igualdad, y sublime con templanza y proporcion . . . . De aqui resulta que esta obra de
Cervantes sea de mayor invencion y artificio, y de estilo mas igual y elevado que el Quixote,
pues corrigi6 en ella las faltas de lenguaje y const ruccion," etc. (p. 190). Thus it may be
seen how writers who came after Mayans y Siscar did little more than adopt his view (cf.
p. 4, n. 1), and even his words.

3 As an excellent example, the words of so noted a Spanish scholar as Fried. Wilh. Val.
Schmidt may be cited; they might have been written by Aug. Wilh. or Fried. Schlegel:
" Das letzte Work des grossen Cervantes, Los Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda, scheint
ttberall ungeburlich wenig bekannt. Und dennoch kennen wir keinen geistlichen Roman,
der sich mit diesem vergleichen diirfte. Die himmlische Liebe, vermfthlt mit der zartesten
irdischen, durch tausendfache Noth gelautert, immer wie der Karfunkel strahlend durch die
Nacht der gemeinen Umgebung, endlich zum Schauen des langersehnten gelangend, das ist
die Axe um welche herum die verschiedensten Erscheinungen des Lebens, Bestrebungen
und Gesinnungen sich schwingen." Cf. Beitrage zur Geschichte der romantischen Poesie.
(Berlin, 1818; [small] 8vo), p. 179. The interest which August W. Schlegel took in the
Persiles was apparently limited chiefly to the romantic or poetic features of the novel, as

6 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

In the face of this highly commendatory attitude toward the
Persiles in the past, what adequate, or even tentative, apprecia-
tion can we turn to in our own times? Could this creation by
Cervantes have been treated with greater indifference if it had
been turned out by some unremembered literary drudge? What
correspondingly important productions by the world's truly great
writers — even though they be classed among their "minor works"
— have been so consistently laid upon the shelf by either literary
critic and historian, or by the modern analytic scholar? In this
connection it will be necessary to summarize the verdicts passed
on Persiles y Sigismunda during the nineteenth century, inade-
quate and repetitional though they be.

The first criticism worthy of consideration is naturally that of
the German scholar, Friedrich Bouterwek, whose history of
Spanish literature1 is the earliest systematic presentation of the
subject in German.2 Bouterwek' s judgment is of interest because

can be inferred from the three translations which he made of two sonnets and an ode to be
found therein (pp. 665, 633, 583 of the Persiles, which is the order in which Schlegel's trans-
lations are printed, p. 189, Vol. IV, of Aug. With. SchlegeVs Sdmmtliche Werke [Leipzig,
1846]). An unimportant work by Edmund Dorer, entitled Cervantes und seine Werke nach
deutschen Urtheilen (Leipzig, 1881), contains a collection of opinions expressed by German
novelists, poets, and philosophers, whose verdicts are, for the most part, imbued with the
spirit of the Romantic School of Germany, and are consequently highly appreciative of all
of the writings of Cervantes. For, in accordance with the theories proclaimed by the
school, he had become one of their standards of excellence in fiction. Many of the opinions
have rather the interest of a novel point of view than the value of critical discrimination.
But Dorer's book deserves to be cited, if only because it adduces further evidence that the
Persiles was one of the hobbies of almost every one of the noted writers of the Romantic
School. Among the most important opinions is that of Ludwig Tieck (p. 45), taken from
his introduction to Dorothea Tieck's translation of the Persiles (Leipzig, 1837). He says:
" Dieses bunte, seltsame Werk, Reiseabenteuer zweier Liebenden, ist wie eine Abzweigung
jener prosaischen Ritterpoesie, oder jener steifen und unwahrscheinlichen Heldenromane
anzusehen. Cervantes fuhrt die wunderbare Geschichte in die vertrauliche Nfthe seiner
Leser; Spanien, das Vaterland, wird geschildert, beruhmte Namen werden genannt und
merkwurdige Begebenheiten angedeutet .... Die Erfindung ist oft so seltsam, .... dass
es der launige Cervantes nicht unterlassen kann, sein Gedicht selbst ironisch zu betrachten
und tiber die Unmoglichkeit der Begebenheit zu scherzen .... Ton und Sprache sind
hochst mannigfaltig, etc." From the pen of A. W. Schlegel there is a sonnet (p. 55) extoll-
ing the excellence of the Persiles, while the opinion of Friedr. Schlegel might be taken to
voice the enthusiasm of the whole school (p. 60) : "Es ist die spftteste, fast zu reife, aber
doch noch frisch und gewflrzhaft duftende Frucht dieses liebenswurdigen Geistes [i. e.
Cervantes] der noch im letzten Hauch Poesie und ewige Jugend athmete."

1 Geschichte der schonen Wissenschaften (with subtitle), "Geschichte der spanischen
und portugiesischen Poesie und Beredsamkeit." Von Fried. Bouterwek (1804). Being Vol.
Ill of a work entitled : Geschichte der Poesie und Beredsamkeit seit dem Ende des drei-
zehnten Jahrhunderts (Gottingen, 1801-19).

2 Cf. Ferd. Wolf, Studien zur Geschichte der spanischen und portugiesischen National-
Litteratur (Berlin, 1859), p. 1.

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 7

it contains in a nutshell practically all that has been said of the
romance since his day. He regards the Persiles as "ein inte-
ressanter Nachtrag zu seinen [i. e., Cervantes'] tibrigen Werken;"
and he adds:

Sprache und Darstellung haben in diesem Roman besonders, bei der
reinsten Simplicitat, eine seltene Precision und Politur. Aber die Idee
eines solchen Romans war keiner neuen Ausfuhrung werth. Cervantes
wollte am Ende seiner glorreichen Laufbahn noch den Heliodor nach-
ahmen.1

Bouterwek sums up the work as a romantic description of fearful
adventures with a sustained interest in the situations, but an
absurd mixture of the real and fabulous, while the last half, where !
the scene is Spain and Italy, does not harmonize with the spirit
of the first.

To what extent Bouterwek was influenced by Mayans y Siscar
and subsequent critics of the eighteenth century, when he com-
mends especially the simplicity of composition as well as the
excellence in style of the Persiles, cannot be determined, and is
unimportant. But this criticism, such as it is, has constituted the
chief, if not the only, praise which the work has met with since
his day. In stating his opinion, however, that the idea of the
romance was old and did not deserve to be reproduced in a new
manner, that Cervantes had taken it into his head to imitate
Heliodorus, Bouterwek made a most insufficient and misleading
statement. He has become responsible for the sweeping generali-
ties patterned after his own by other writers, by not making it
clear that the Persiles, though it is but an old theme in a new
form, has none the less the merits of an original creation, just as
does a new play though it be based upon an old plot. As
regards the imitation of Heliodorus, what follows later will show
how few are the reminiscences of the Greek romance, especially
in substance, when compared with the rest of the material gleaned
from the storehouse of Cervantes' reading. The remainder of
Bouterwek' s judgment is fair and to the point, but, being un-
favorable to the Persiles, it could not have made the book attrac-
tive to the ordinary reader.

1 Bouterwek, p. 359; cf. also the English translation of Thomasina Ross, History of
Spanish Literature, by Frederick Bouterwek (London, 1847), p. 252.

8 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

When in 1814 John C. Dunlop published his History of Prose
Fiction? he appears to have been unaware of any relation between
Heliodorus and Cervantes. The omission is, however, supplied
by Felix Liebrecht, who translated Dunlop's work into German
.with the addition of numerous valuable notes.2 The former saw
,'fit, nevertheless, to repeat merely the unqualified statement that
the Persiles is an imitation of Heliodorus, which he took, perhaps,
as much from Ticknor as from Bouterwek. In 1822 the same
idea had emanated from the pen of the noted Calderon scholar,
Friederich W. V. Schmidt, which is all the more remarkable since
he was an enthusiastic admirer of the Persiles, and must have
recognized in it something more than a mere imitation of Helio-
dorus. Whereas we have extravagant praise in his Beitr&ge
referred to above (p. 5, n. 3), we are now told merely that "die
beruhmteste Nachahmung [des Heliodor] bei den Spaniern ist die
nordische Geschichte Persiles und Sigismunda von Cervantes."3
In 1857 Schmidt's early studies on Calderon's plays were incor-
porated in his important work on that poet, so we have the same
idea unchanged, after a lapse of thirty-five years.4

i This work, of the utmost importance for a study of the genre to which the Persiles
belongs, was entitled: The History of Fiction: Being a Critical Account of the Most Celebra-
ted Prose Works of Fiction from the Earliest Greek Romances to the Novels of the Present
Day (Edinburgh, 1814; 3 vols., 8vo; 4th Engl. ed., 2 vols., London, 1888, from which I shall
quote from time to time).

2 The title reads: J. Dunlop's Geschichte der Prosadichtungen oder Geschichte der
Romane, Novellen, M archen .... aus dem Englischen ubertragen .... vermehrt .... mit
Anmerkungen versehen (Berlin, 1851 ; cf. pp. 458 and 511). Liebrecht's notes were incorporated
into the fourth English edition. The remark referred to is on p. 404, Vol. II, n. 3, of latter
work. Erwin Rohde, in his excellent work, Der griechische Roman und seine Vorlaufer (2d
ed., Leipzig, 1900), cites Liebrecht's note without comment (p. 472, n. 1). In the English
edition of Dunlop's work the Persiles ie called by the peculiar title of The Sorrows of Per-
siles and Sigismunda, and in German Die Leidensgeschichte des Persiles und der Sigismun-
da, a title which Liebrecht may have taken from Dorothea Tieck's translation called Die
Leiden des Persiles und der Sigismunda (cf. p. 5, n. 8). A better rendition of Trabajos
would be "Wanderings," since the plural Trabajos is used in this connection to signify the
hardships of adventure.

3 Wiener Jahrbucher der Litteratur, Vol. XVIII, 1822. Cf . Anzeige-Blatt fur Wusen-
schaft und Kunst, No. XVIII, p. 8.

*Die Schauspiele Calderon's dargestellt und erl&utert von Fried. Wilh. Vol. Schmidt
(Elberf eld, 1857) , p. 290. Even Gervinus, in his Geschichte der poetischen National-Litteratur
der Deutschen (2d ed., Leipzig, 1840), left the opinion of his predecessors unchallenged. He
says (Vol. I, p. 263) : " Es ist aber zu vermuthen, dass, wie spftter Tasso den Heliodor be-
nutzte, wie den italienischen und spanischen Schftferdichtern Longus vorschwebt, wie Cer-
vantes' ernster Roman [i. e., Persiles y Sigismunda] den ganzen Zuschnitt der griechischen
Romane tragt, so auch in fruherer Zeit vielerlei Griechisches in die neue romanische Poosie
Eingang gefunden haben mag." This view was modified in the fifth edition, entitled

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 9

I have dwelt thus far only upon the appreciation which the
Persiles met in Germany, where scientific research and scholarly
criticism in the field of Spanish made practically the only prog-
ress achieved during the first half of the nineteenth century.1 We
come now to the judgment passed upon the Persiles by George
Ticknor, which is the most important of all, inasmuch as it has
been unhesitatingly accepted and repeated up to the present
time.2 Ticknor's criticism is, as usual, a thoroughly independent
one, and will to a large extent — at least, where common-sense or
what is rational forms the only criterion — remain irrefutable.
But while, generally speaking, it is impossible for a historian who
covers a nation's whole literature to do justice to every important
work, it will also be admitted, in the particular case of Ticknor,
that, great as is his history as a whole, he was temperamentally
less fitted to judge some works than he was others. Among those
which suffered in his clear, unemotional treatment we must place*
the Persiles; whose importance lies in the fact that it is a charac-
teristic production of its epoch, a creation not only typical of
Spanish temperament, but one indispensable in any final word
on the genius of Cervantes. This neither Ticknor nor any critic
who followed him has. duly recognized.

Ticknor begins by saying that the purpose of Cervantes seems
to have been to write a serious novel when he undertook the Per-

Geschichte der deutschen Dichtung, Vol. Ill ( Leipzig, 1872) , p. 206 : "In Persiles und Sigismunda
ging er [Cervantes] bis auf die Quelle der ernsten Ritterdichtungen zurfick, auf den alex-
andrinischen Roman, schildert uns gleichsam zur Erkenntniss den Typus dieser ganzen Lit-
teratur, in dem er uns ein liebendes Paar, das durch ein stetiges Geffthl aneinander geknupf t
1st, von dem wunderlichsten Wechsel der Dinge ergriffen und als Spielball einer giinstigen
GOttin, Fortuna, zeigt." The latter idea is important and will be considered in connection
with Cervantes' theory of fiction. O. L. B. Wolff, Allgemeine Geschichtedes Romans (Jena;
2d ed. 1850, p. 119), adds nothing to our knowledge. J. L. Klein, Geschichte des spanischen
Dramas (Vol. IX of Geschichte des Dramas; Leipzig, 1872; p. 274), sees no saving qualities
whatsoever in the Persiles.

1 To be convinced of the interest and activity in behalf of Spanish literature in Germany
at this time, one need but consult the notes in Ferd. Wolf's work on Spanish and Portuguese
literature (1859), or such works as Schack's history of the Spanish drama, or Lemcke's
Handbuch der spanischen Litteratur; and as regards the interest taken in Cervantes alone,
the long list of translations as well as of editions in the original Spanish printed in Ger-
many (given by Rius, Bibliografia, Vol. I) is an ample testimony.

2 History of Spanish Literature, by George Ticknor (3 vols. ; London, 1863), Vol. II, pp.
133 ff . The edition from which I quote differs but little from the German version of Julius,
or the Spanish edition by Gayangos. Ticknor himself said, referring to all the scholars who
completed his work : " From the results of their labors, carefully prosecuted .... I have
taken .... everything that, as it has seemed to me, could add value, interest, or complete-
ness to the present revised edition." (Preface, p. x.)

10 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

siles, and then he casts about to see what models Cervantes could
have found for serious romantic fiction. All that the latter says,
however, is that he hopes to produce an excellent libro de entre-
tenimiento,1 and nothing could have been farther from his thoughts
than Ticknor's "serious" — that is, "modern" — conception of fic-
tion. What Cervantes meant to produce was simply a tale of
adventure extended beyond the ordinary length of the current
novela. That this is all he implied can be seen from the common
meaning of entretenimiento in his day. Near the beginning of
the novela,2 Las fortunas de Diana, written shortly after the
death of Cervantes, Lope de Vega tells of his hesitancy in under-
taking this genre in literature, which he had left untried up to
that time, and which seemed to him more at home in Italy and
France than in Spain. He admits the success of Cervantes in this
field, and then adds:

Confieso que son libros de grande entretenimiento, y que podrian ser

ejemplares, como algunas de las historias de Bandelo Y habiendo

hallado tantas invenciones para mil comedias .... servirfc a vuestra
merced con esta.

This, however, was addressed to his mistress, who was probably not
expecting any serious psychological treatment in a tale written for
her pleasure and entertainment. Moreover, the large majority
of the reading public, especially the women, considered a book of
fiction as a pleasant means of passing an hour of leisure, and not
even a limited circle of the educated classes was trained to look
upon a novela or a comedia as an accurate reproduction of society
and its environment. All that the public demanded of a libro de
entretenimiento is voiced in the desire so often expressed, namely,
that the events described therein be verosimiles or credible.
Characters and sentiments were not subjected to scrutiny, pro-
vided they were pleasing or amusing. Therefore, even such produc-

i Cf. "Dedicatoria al Conde de Lemos," Don Quixote, Part II. "Con esto me despido,
ofreciendo a V. Ex. los Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda, libro a quien dar6 fin dentro de
quatro meses, Deo volente; el qual ha de ser, o el mas malo, o el mejor que en nnestra lengua
se hay a compuesto : quiero dezir de los de entretenimiento; y digo que me arrepiento de auer
dicho el mas malo, porque segun la opinion de mis amigos, ha de llegar al estremo de bon-
dad possible/'

2 Printed in La Ftlemena, con otras diversas Rimas, Prosas y Versos, de Lope de Vega
Carpio (Madrid, 1621); accessible in "Biblioteca de Autores Espafioles" (Rivadeneyra),
obras no dramaticas de Lope de Vega (Madrid, 1872), p. 1.

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 11

tions in Spanish literature as may be said to give a good picture
of contemporary life must be carefully examined, if definite results
regarding the customs and culture of the times are to be reached.
JThis is especially true in the case of the theater of Cervantes' day.
To be sure, the comedia is one of the most important sources that
/we have for the study of Spanish culture, but its value is frequently
vitiated by the playwright's failure to differentiate sufficiently
the spirit of fiction in comedy from that of the novela. In the
latter, absence of psychological truthfulness and an excess of ro-
mantic or imaginative elements are pardonable and even logical ;
but the farther a comedia gets from that which is simply natural
and actually representative, the less it can be used as a reliable
document on contemporary life. The power of appreciating the
distinctions between fact and fiction, however, is a matter of train-
ing, and playwrights were indifferent to them even when they
were ostensibly walking upon the solid ground of history. Not
infrequently do we find the claim of a historia verdadera1 made
for a comedia which, though drawn from a germ of truth lodged
in some chronicle or popular ballad, is in its ultimate form, for
the most part, an imaginary creation. Such being the spirit of
every kind of fiction, a novelist would not feel tempted to look for
"serious" models for his work; he would be guided by the spirit
and practice of contemporary writers. It is therefore plain that
Cervantes was merely in need of some framework which would
enable him to draw out indefinitely the manner of the novela, and
thereby create a book for general entertainment,2 longer than the
ordinary tale. That was all he could have intended to do. But
Ticknor is troubled to find a guide for the Persiles, and all that he
can hit upon is "the imaginary travels of Lucian, three or four
Greek romances, and the romances of chivalry." I have been

1 For a fall discussion of the term historia verdadera in connection with the comedia
cf. Max Krenkel, Klassische Biihnendichtungen der Spanier, Vol. Ill (Leipzig, 1887), pp.21ff.

2 The term libro de entretenimiento or libros entretenidos (cf. p. 3, n. 1) had come to
include all prose creations of fiction, just as the term comedia included both tragedy and
comedy. It was applied to trifles like patranas, and didlogos (cf. those de apacible entre-
tenimiento, by Gaspar Lucas Hidalgo), as well as to a long history like that of Persiles (the
aprobacion of the Spanish version of Tatius [cf. p. 14, n. 1] says it was worthy of being
printed "para apacible entretenimiento y exemplo de artificiosas y utiles ficciones"). Or
we find it replaced by pasatiempo and recreo (cf. El Patrafiuelo, by Timoneda, epistola al
amantisimo lector), or by apactble recreation, as in Valdivieseo'e aprobacion, cited above.

12 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

able to discover no evidence from the Persiles itself that Cervantes
ever saw Lucian's True History. Moreover, it would be a diffi-
cult task to prove either from his life or his writings that he could
read Greek — or had the time to do it. I hope to show in what
follows later that the knowledge which he had of Latin authors
could have been obtained through the medium of translations;
and I see no reason to believe that he could read French. On the
other hand, both his long sojourn in Italy as well as the testimony
derived from his works justify the conclusion that he was thorough-
ly acquainted with Italian.1 I have been unable to find any men-
tion of a complete Spanish translation of Lucian2 printed within
the lifetime of Cervantes, but at least seven editions in Italian
appeared in the first half of the sixteenth century.3 One of the lat-
ter he could therefore have seen during his sojourn in Italy. But
the idea of Ticknor is at bottom somewhat illogical. The True
History of Lucian is a wild extravaganza,* a satire on previous
books of travel; and, notwithstanding this fact, Cervantes, who
had planned a "serious romance," according to Ticknor, is sup-
posed to have had it among the few books which served as a guide
for the Persiles. Lucian may therefore be dismissed without
further thought.

The influence "of three or four Greek romances," as Ticknor
rather vaguely puts it, is, on the other hand, worthy of the most
careful consideration. In the absence of any specific names, we

1 It is possible that Cervantes knew the works of Teofllo Folengo (1491-1544), which may
have suggested to him the origin of Don Quixote's madness. The first impulse to write his
great work would thus have come from Italy. Cf . B. Zumbini, Studi di Letteratura Italiana
(Firenze, 1894), p. 165.

2 Salvfi's catalogue No. 1879 mentions a Historia verdadera de Luziano traduzida de
Griego en lengua Castellana (Argentina, 1551) ; but this contains only Book I. Lucian's
Dialogues, however, appeared in Spanish in 1550 (anonymously), and again in 1621, translated
by Franc, de Herrera Maldonado. Both are mentioned by Salv& (Nos. 3934, 3935 of his
catalogue), and by Graesse, Tresor de livres rares etprecieux (Dresden, 1863; under Lucian,
Vol. IV, p. 277). Lucian's works were first translated (into French in 1583 (Paris) ; cf.
Graesse; another edition, 1634 (Paris), is mentioned in Fabricius. Bibliotheca Graeca, Vol.
Ill, p. 507 (Hamburg, 1726).

3Cf. Graesse, Tresor de livres rares etprecieux.

4 It will be remembered that among the various experiences through which Lucian and
his companions go in their travels, are shipwrecks upon islands where the rivers are of wine
and the trees women from the waist upward ; a trip to the moon, where they meet men car-
ried by great vultures ; a battle between the hosts of the Sun and the Moon, in which the
soldiers from the Great Bear are mounted on fleas as large as elephants ; a sojourn in the
belly of a whale large enough to hold forests and great cities, etc. Cf . Bohde, Der griechische
Roman, op. cit., pp. 204 ff.

STUDIES IN CEBVANTES 13

may take it for granted that Ticknor meant Heliodorus, Achilles
Tatius, and possibly Longus, or whoever was the author of the
pastoral romance of Daphnis and Chloe. The atmosphere as well
as the entire make-up of the last, however, are so different from
those of the other two that it can more easily be disposed of
first.1 Whatever influence it exerted upon Spanish literature was
most likely through the channel of the Italian pastoral, and then
in an attenuated form; for, owing to the similarity of its nature
to that of the eclogues of Theocritus and Virgil, its influence must
at an early date have become indistinguishably fused with theirs.
The Daphnis and Chloe has consequently nothing to do with the
genre to which the Persiles belongs, and though it will be clear
later that some influence was exerted upon the latter by the pas-
toral novel, such influence will be found to be only in the man-
nerism which distinguishes the Spanish prose pastoral of the
Renaissance epoch. This leaves the works of Heliodorus and
Achilles Tatius to be dealt with. I shall treat the question of
Heliodorus at length in my next article, and shall consequently
speak of Tatius first.

If the romance of the faithful loves of Klitoplion and Leucippe,
by Tatius, had been favored by fortune with a great translator
like Amyot, as was the case with the Theagenes and Chariklea of
Heliodorus, its influence upon literature during the Renaissance
might have been as great as that of the latter novel. Two trans-
lations2 of Tatius into French appeared within a few decades of
the publication of Amyot's Heliodorus;3 but they must have made

i The romance of Daphnis and ChloS was first translated into French in 1559 by Amyot,
but it was not printed in Italian before 1643, according to numerous catalogues which I have
consulted. It first appeared in a Spanish garb anonymously in our own times (1880), in a
translation made by Juan Valera. It is not likely that Cervantes ever read the story. Noted
Greek romances which were unknown in the seventeenth century are the romance of
Chaereas and Kallirrho$, by Chariton, first printed at Amsterdam in 1750; and that of
Habrokomes and Antheia, by Xenophon the Ephesian, published in 1726 at London, follow-
ing a translation into Italian also published there, 1723. (Cf. Dunlop, Vol. I, pp. 58 and 61 ;
Graesse, Tr6sor; British Museum catalogue; and Rohde, op. cit., pp. 517 if., 409 ff. I have
found no reason for touching upon the Byzantine imitations, such as the story of Hysmine
and Hysminias by Eustathius, Rohde, pp. 556 ff.

2Fabricius (Bibliotheca Graeca, Vol. VI, p. 797) gives them the dates of 1568, 15.75 \
(Paris).

3 The first edition of Amyot's Heliodorus, with the title Histoire Aethiopique d'Heli-
odorus traitant des loyales et pudiques amours de TMag&nes el de CharicUe appeared in
1547 (Paris; fol.).

14 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

comparatively far less impression, for I cannot find a record of
any translation into Spanish1 earlier than the seventeenth century.
But Cervantes could have seen some Italian version, for during
the latter half of the sixteenth century no less than six editions
of Tatius appeared in that language.2 The character of the latter
tale, however, is so similar to that of Heliodorus that the influ-
ence of both becomes more or less identical in those elements of
the Persiles where it may be noted, namely in the bare outline or
framework of a story of adventure. In a few unimportant details
it is possible that the history of Klitophon and Leucippe lurked
in the memory of Cervantes, as will appear in another paper, but
it cannot be definitely proven, that such was the case.

As regards the Theagenes and Chariklea, we have the state- /
ment of Cervantes himself that he was competing with Heliodorus j y
when he wrote the Persiles and he had ample opportunity of
becoming acquainted with the former romance in his own tongue, '
for up to the time of his death there is a record of at least four
editions in Spanish.3 But in order that the nature and substance

i The list of Alonso de Padilla cited above (p. 3, n. 1) includes a novel, called Los mas
fieles amantes Leucipe y Clitofonte. I cannot find any mention of it in the catalogues of rare
books, but the prologue to Fernando de Mena's translation of Heliodorus (1787, Madrid)
cites it in a footnote: ''''Los mas fieles amantes, Leucipe y Clitophonte: historia Griega por
Achiles Tacio Alexandrine : Traducida, censurada y parte compuesta por D. Diego Agreda
y Vargas, vecino y natural de la villa de Madrid, etc., En Madrid por Juan de la Cuesta, Afio
de 1617." The romance, which appeared in Venice 1552, with the title of Historia de los amores
de Clareo y Florisea y de los trabajos de /sea, by Alonso Nufiez de Reinoso, has one or two
episodes reminiscent of Tatius (cf. p. 17, n. 1) ; printed in Bibl. de Aut. Esp. (Rivadeneyra),
Vol. Ill, p. 431, "Novelistas anteriores & Cervantes," edited by D. Buenaventura C. Aribau
(3d ed., Madrid, 1858).

2Graesse (cf. supra), Vol. I, p. 13, gives the dates 1546, 1550, 1598 for Italian versions,
while the British Museum catalogue mentions four with the dates 1560, 1563, 1598, 1608.

3 The original romance 'HAioSoipov AtflioTrucijs ioropta? /3ij3Ai'a fie'/ca was first printed in 1534
(4to Basileae, Hervag.), and translated into French in 1547, by Amyot (cf. p. 13, n. 3) ; then
into Latin, 1552 (fol. Bas.) . A Spanish version appeared at Antwerp in 1554 ; one in Italian at
Venice in 1556 ; and one in English at London in 1587. Only the Spanish version concerns
us here. Its title reads : "Historia Ethiopica de Heliodoro trasladada de frances en vulgar
Castellano por un segreto amigo de su patria y corregido segun el Griego por el mismo, en
/ < ^ ^ Anvers 1554. En casa de Martin Nucio (12mo British Museum) (8vo Salva)." It is an anony-

mous translation and not by F. de Mena, as is well proven by the aprobacion and prologo of
a new translation which followed in 1587 with the title: "Z,a historia de los dos leales
amantes Theagenes y Chariclea, trasladada agora de nuevo de Latin en romance por Fer-
nando de Mena Vezino de Toledo, Alcalfi de Henares (Juan Gracian) 1587, 8vo." The
aprobacion speaks of a previous translation by another author, while the prologue by Mena
says that a translation of Heliodorus made from a French version had come into his hands,
and that the numerous errors and suppressions to be noted therein justified the new version
which was made from the Latin and then compared with the Greek. In spite of this testi-
mony, the British Museum catalogue attributes the edition of 1554 to Mena, and Graesse
(cf. his Tr&sor under "Heliod.") makes the same mistake. Nicolas Antonio confuses the

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 15

of the influence of Heliodorus on Cervantes may be perfectly
clear when we are ready to take it up, it will be necessary to
dwell at length on the latter' s statement just mentioned. What
did he mean, when in the prologue to his Novelas exemplares,
he characterizes the Persiles as a libra que se atreve d competir
con Heliodoro? Cervantes would undoubtedly have admitted
that he had imitated the Greek writer, but what would he have
meant by "imitation," and how does the term, when baldly ap-
plied to a story nowadays, differ in meaning from that given it in
the lifetime of Cervantes? Upon this difference hinges my
objection to the unqualified dicta uttered all through the nine-
teenth century, of which I have given specimens above.

There can be no doubt that the admission quoted from the
prologue to the novelas has been the first and chief cause of all
the generalities and vague opinions uttered about the Persiles, and
yet Cervantes cannot be blamed for confessing to a competition
or imitation in the sense in which he would have used the word.
In the first place, it was employed by novelists to contrast with the
term "to translate" ( romanzar or romancear), though the latter did
not, generally speaking, mean a close and faithful rendering of
the original. Thus in the first dedicatoria to his Historia de los
amoves de Clareo y Florisea y de los trabajos de Isea* Alonso
Nunez de Reinoso says that, having found in a certain bookstore
a fragment of a Greek story, he was greatly taken with its lively
and pleasing invention. "For lo cual," he adds "acorde de,
imitando y no romanzando, escrebir esta mi obra;" that is, his „ ^
intention was to be_Qjtigi»al and not to cop^LJbis-aiQdel ; and as a
further testimony to the fact that he is standing on his own feet
he says, "no uso mas que de la invention, y algunas palabras de
aquellos razonamientos " (i. e., of the fragmentary book he had

two translations (Biblioteca, Nov., 1783, Vol. I, p. 380), saying that Mena's version was made
from the French and not from the Latin or the Greek. Owing to the growing demand for
romantic novels of adventure, Mena's version was reprinted (1) Barcelona (Ger. Margarit),
1614 (Colophon 1615), 8vo; (2) Madrid (Alonso Martin), 1615, 8vo; and (3) Paris (" Vista y
corregia por Cesar Oudin"), 1616, 12mo. In 1722 F. M. de Castillejo published a new transla-
tion (Madrid, 4to) ; and (4) in 1787 Mena's version was reprinted by A. de Sotos (Madrid,
2 vols., small 8vo). Of these versions, the last two are in the Ticknor library. The prologue
to the edition of 1787 speaks of an anonymous translation published at Salamanca in 1581,
8vo, of which I have not seen mention elsewhere.

i Cf. op. cit., p. 14, n. 3.

16 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

found). Consequently, such imitation, since it followed merely
the invention or framework of some other fiction, could in no way
be considered open to censure. If, however, anyone should be
unreasonable enough to blame such a procedure, the common
practice of the age, as he goes on to say, would be found sufficient
to justify it:

Cuanto en esta mi obra en prosa haber imitado a Ovidio en los libros
de Tristibus, a Seneca en las tragedias, a aquellos razonamientos amo-
rosos y a otros autores latinos, no tengo pena; porque no tuvieron mas
privilegio los que hicieron lo mismo de lo que yo tengo, siendo ellos
todos harto mas sabios e ingeniosos de lo que yo soy.1

And just as Nunez de Reinoso applies the word invention in a
very broad way to the skeleton or framework of a romance, so
also does Lope2 use it to designate the plot or outline of any one
of the thousand comedias which he has invented. In the second
place, in a more general sense, the word imitar as well as invention,
would imply merely an effort on the part of the novelist to pro-
duce another libro de entretenimiento for the idle reader, one
similar in genre to its model. Thus, as the Theagenes and Chari-
klea belongs to the class of the roman d'aventure, so also does the
Persiles. And the latter conception of imitation explains Cer-
vantes' substitution of the word competir for imitar, since he was
not imitating Heliodorus so much in substance as he was compet-
ing with him in popularity among the lovers of romance.3

The plea of originality would therefore be based largely upon
the way in which the framework had been filled out with original
material, with episodes and adventures newly imagined; at least,
borrowed elements would have to assume a new garb — or some
kind of effective disguise — before they could be placed to the
credit of the man who reinvented them. Naturally enough, in
most cases the reading public was not acquainted with the innu-
merable sources open to a writer of romances, and so the tendency
to call that which was not exactly a translation an original story

1 Second dedicatoria, p. 432.

2Cf. the passage in his novela, Lasfortunas de Diana, cited above, p. 10, n. 2.

3Pellicer, it seems to me, misunderstands the meaning of Cervantes entirely, when he
calls competir a stronger word than imitar ,' he thinks of both in a modern sense, when he
says: "ni el mismo Cervantes crey6 desayrar su ingenio original, proponiendose en su
Persiles no solo imitar, sino competir con Heliodoro" (p. xxx of "discurso preliminar" to
his edition of Don Quixote [Madrid, 1797]).

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 17

was no doubt frequently abused. But it is hazardous to apply
our word "imitation" to these novels in too general and off-hand
a way, lest the implied imitation be taken to mean a copy of its
model throughout. Close study reveals the absorption of numer-
ous ideas or episodes from various unacknowledged sources, and
the inclination which critics have had in the past to hit upon
some one writer, who represents the limit of their vision, and
must therefore be made entirely responsible for the invention of
the story, leads to woefully inadequate results, notably in the case
of such a genre as that to which the Persiles belongs.1 To say,
therefore, that Cervantes imitated Heliodorus is to say little or ;
nothing of significance. Besides, it must be remembered in this
connection that the mention of Heliodorus was, in part at least,
prompted by a certain literary affectation common in those times.
It was the fashion to mention the source of your inspiration in
the form of some worthy and popular writer, who, if he were an
ancient one, would be a further testimony to your erudition.2 But
another and more urgent reason for "daring to compete with Heli-
odorus" will be given in my next paper. Before going further afield
in this matter, it will be necessary to complete the study of Tick-
nor's appreciation, and that of some of those who came after him.
It may be remembered that, in planning his Persiles, Cervantes
had, according to Ticknor, only Lucian, some Greek romances,
and the romances of qhivalry to guide him. The influence of the
latter type remains to be considered, so that it may be clear with
what qualifications the words of Ticknor can be accepted. If we
look upon the romances of chivalry as a "serious" part of the

1 Thus Dunlop (supra, Vol. II, p. 404) calls the above-mentioned romance of Florizel (sic)
Clareo and the Unfortunate Ysea (p. 14, n. 1) a close imitation (in its first part) of the story
by Tatius. This characterization will hardly hold, for the story is patterned after the
novels of chivalry. In the same off-hand manner Ticknor (Vol. II, p. 134, n. 5) quotes Sainte-
Beuve in part : " des naufrages, des deserts, des descentes par mer, et des ravissements,
c'est done toujours plus ou moins 1'ancien roman d'Heliodore [celui de d'UrfS, le genre
romanesque espagnol, celui des nouvelles de Cervantes] " (Critiques et portraits litteraires
[Paris, 1839], p. 173) ; and then unjustly adds, "these words describe more than half of the
Persiles and Sigismunda."

2 This affectation, once common upon the title pages of many of the romances of chiv-
alry, was hard to eradicate. Braunfels says of it : " Die Romanschreiber wollten durch das
Vorgeben auslandischer und meistens entlegener Quellen, ihren Dichtungen einen grosseren
Anschein der Wahrheit und mehr Autoritat verleihen " (Kritischer Versuch ilber den Roman
Amadis von Gallien [Leipzig, 1876], p. 83). (Cf. also " Biblioteca de Autores Espafioles,''
Libros de Caballerias, edited by Gayangos [Madrid, 1857], "Catalogo," pp. Ixiii ff.)

18 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

genre of adventure, as models capable of suggesting possible
events in a world supposedly contemporary with the reader, and
believe that they were taken seriously by Cervantes, we may fol-
low Ticknor's suggestion and put them into the same type with
the Persiles. But it is not likely that Cervantes would have
been pleased to see his libro de entretenimiento classed with
books which were almost wholly a tissue of extravagant and
impossible adventures. For, whatever modicum of truth there
may be in the criticism made in some quarters,1 that Persiles vies
with Amadis in strange and fantastical experiences, it may, never-
theless, be said that Cervantes generally strove to remain within
the bounds of what to him seemed perfectly possible. Occasion-
ally, where he has accepted a legend or incorporated a miracu-
lous event,2 he does so apologetically. Much of what to us seems
so impossible in his Persiles can be accounted for if we take into
consideration the absolute ignorance of the times in matters of
climate, geography, plant and animal distribution, and finally of
the customs which prevailed among distant and scarcely heard-of
peoples. The age of discovery was now in full swing, and Europe
was constantly thrilled by the unsubstantiated reports on the one
hand, or by extended printed narratives on the other, of wonder-
ful events which had come to pass in some unknown parts of the
world. Even among the sober historians their narrative has at
whiles the style of romance.3 Unscrupulous travelers who
returned home after years of wandering no doubt found willing
ears for their biggest tales, and so Cervantes must unquestionably
have taken the accounts about the northern countries which he
describes in the Persiles from possible eyewitnesses without the
necessary grain of salt.4 In what, then, could Cervantes' story of

i Cf. Schack, Geschichte der dramatischen Litteratur und Kunst in Spanien (Frankfurt,
1854), Vol. II, p. 29.

2Cf. the werwolf incident, chap. 8 of Book I, pp. 571 ff., and chap. 18, pp. 583 ff. and the
episode of the capsized boat, chap. 2 of Book II, pp. 591 ff. I shall speak of Cervantes1
apparent amusement over the extravagant possibilities of his romance, when I treat of his
conception of fiction.

3Cf. Garcilasso de la Vega, Historia de la Florida (1605), which is a history of the con-
quest of Florida written in the spirit of a romance of chivalry, or a story of Moorish
conquest.

* The increase in commercial relations between southern Europe and the countries of
the far North was a steady one after the rise of the mercantile class in the fourteenth
and fifteenth centuries ; in addition to the information brought home by merchants, how-

STUDIES IN CEKVANTES 19

adventure have been influenced by the romances of chivalry?
Perhaps here and there his way of stringing together adventures
was prompted by his remembrance of the many tales which he
had read years before. While, therefore, the mannerism of the
latter may have left a trace, nevertheless of the spirit and princi-
ples of the age of chivalry there is nowhere the slightest sign.
The chaste love and lofty ideals which characterize Cervantes'
hero and heroine are part of the invention taken over from the
Greek romance ; inasmuch as they form the principles upon which
( the Persiles was founded, they could not be greatly modified, no
matter how far the romance deviated from the prototype which
inspired it. But in spite of the wide breach which separates the
romances of chivalry from the Persiles, we must not lose sight of
the continuity which characterizes the transmission of the roman
tfaventure from ancient times through the Middle Ages to the
Renaissance. The Persiles is a descendant — in a greatly modi-
fied form — of a type which flourished intermittently in Byzantine
literature (inspired by the Greek romances), in mediaeval French
literature (where we find the loves and adventures of devoted
couples described, as in Floire et Blanchefleur, Aucassin et
Nicolette, Partenopeus de Blois, etc.) ,' and in the offspring of
the latter class, the romance of chivalry, which flourished not-
ably in Spain. While, then, it is logical to place the Persiles in
the genre of adventure after the stories of Amadis, nevertheless
it must be remembered, in the first place, that Cervantes' novel
stands without the pale of any direct influence from the romances
of chivalry, as these were no longer in keeping with the spirit of
the Renaissance ; second, that it was subject to the influence of the
contemporary love-story, affected in its turn by the Italian
novella and the revived Greek romance; and, third, to the cor-
recting influence of contemporary realism reflected from the
rogue-story. If, therefore, a comparison between the romances

ever, other sources of knowledge were the foreign pilgrims who visited Spanish shrines, or
the soldiers who returned from campaigns in distant lands. Cf. Gabriel Marcel, "Les
origines de la carte d'Espagne," Revue hi8panique,Vol. VI, p. 164; Konrad Habler, Die wirth-
schaftliche Blilthe Spaniens im sechzehnten Jahrhundertund ihr Verfall (Berlin, 1888), chap.
4, "Industrie und Handel;" H. F. Helmolt, History of the World, Vol. VII, Part I, Western
Europe, chap. 1 (New York, 1902).

iCf. Gaston Paris, "Le roman d'aventure," Cosmopolis, September, 1898, pp. 760 flf. ;
as well as, La litterature franQaise an moyen dge (Paris, 1890), pp. 81 ff.

20 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

of chivalry and the Persiles is admissible, it is so only because
both are loosely constructed stories of adventure ; and even then
the comparison holds only with the first half of the Persiles,
which has an imaginary world as a background, while the second
part moves entirely among known customs and peoples. As
regards occasional episodes, an examination of all the books of
chivalry known to Cervantes would probably bring to light more
resemblances than I have been able to find hitherto. But the
tendency to detect these with frequency must be guarded against
until substantiated by a more thorough investigation. >

But there were other serious works which Ticknor overlooked,
and with which Cervantes was acquainted as one is with all stand-
ard creations which form part of one's education and blood. First,
there were the Greek and Latin classics; and if we examine the
Persiles, we shall detect an occasional reminiscence from them,
and among the first from the great Latin roman d? aventure, the
^ffineid. Herein also we have as the main theme manifold experi-
ence of travel by land and sea, a machinery of adventure in the
germ, which had come down from Homer and which, by growing
with the succeeding ages, had been incorporated in various guises
into many a literary creation before the epoch of Cervantes.1
The influence of the machinery of adventure, specifically emanat-
ing from the JEneid, had therefore grown to be a potent, even
though frequently a rather indirect, factor in the long career of
the roman d'aventure. In the case of the Persiles, however,
the influence of the ^Eneid is marked, and quite direct, and will
therefore be treated in a separate chapter. It is, of course, not
likely that the theme of adventure would be exhausted by a
writer of the Renaissance without ample reminiscences from other
ancient works, and this will be shown to be the fact in a treatment
of some of Cervantes' classical sources.

Apart from the classics, however, Cervantes could have found
further suggestions for the make-up of a libro de entretenimiento

i In these earliest stories of adventure, such as the Odyssey, "Sinbad the Sailor " (prob-
ably of ancient Indian or Persian origin; of. Rohde, Der griechische Roman, pp. 191 ff.), and
the JEneid, the theme of love plays only an insignificant r6le compared with the action of
the whole, into which it only enters from time to time. In the case of the JEneid, however,
it is noteworthy that the occasional episodes in which love plays an important part leave
the strongest impression, and they certainly aft'ected the writers of the Renaissance most-

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 21

of the adventure type, among the novelists of his own people and
century. There was, for instance, the Peregrino en su patria,1
by Lope de Vega, published only some ten years before the
Persiles, and belonging to the same kind of story, though of a
lower degree in the quality of imagination betrayed. For it is
also the history of a young couple who reach their goal only after
numerous shipwrecks, miraculous escapes, and strange chance re-
unions. Indeed, Lope may have taken his theme from Heliodorus
as well as Cervantes; only he did not say so, and consequently
any possible similarity has been overlooked. In addition to the
serious vein of the Peregrino, there was the lighter and more
realistic rogue-story, notably the various parts of Lazarillo de
Tormes and the Guzman de Alfarache, which represent a type of
adventure story the spirit of which is reflected in no small part of
the works of Cervantes. To what extent the adventure genre in
Spanish was influenced by Moorish tales — which Cervantes must
have known better than anyone else, owing to his long and forced
sojourn in an oriental environment — is more difficult to deter-
mine; yet the Moors, not only of Africa, but those of Andalusia
also, probably narrated stories of travel and adventure after the
manner of "Sinbad's Voyages," and other tales incorporated into
the Arabian Nights.2 Moreover, the numerous contemporary
1 histories about the various voyages of discovery are of value in a

!Cf. Groeber, Grundriss der romanischen Philologie (Strassburg, 1897), chapter by
Baist, on Spanish Literature* p. 461, par. 62.

2 That the close contact of oriental and Christian civilizations in Spain during many
centuries was of enormous influence upon the latter, must be evident to everyone acquainted
with Spain and her history. It is manifest even today, in many peculiarities of her social
and family life that such was the case. In the field of fiction, however, the residue of
Moorish influence is most difficult to determine, because of the complete lack of satisfac-
tory documentary evidence. Most writers of authority are consequently agreed in believing
in the communication of a large number of oriental stories through oral transmission, from
earliest times through the Renaissance. Cf . Warton, History of English Poetry, ed. Hazlitt
(London, 1871), Vol. II, p. 108; Schack, Poesie und Kunst der Araber (Stuttgart, 1877), Vol.
II, chaps. 13 and 14; Aug. Muller, "Die Mftrchen 1001 Nacht," Deutsche Rundschau, Vol. LII
(1887), p. 92; Gast. Paris, La litterature franQaise au moyen age (Paris, 1890), pp. 81, 111;
Men6ndez y Pelayo, Estudios de critica literaria, 2a serie (Madrid, 1895), "Influencias seml-
ticas," pp. 381 ff; Joseph Bedier, Les fabliaux, etude de litterature populaire, etc. (Paris,
1893), Introduction; on the versions of a single tale carried by Arabs into Spain and thence
into France, Gaston Paris, Romania, Vol. XXVII, p. 325. The main difficulty, however, lies
not only in establishing the character of the original germs of stories, but in finding the
time as well as the channels of their transmission from one people to another. The ways by
which oriental tales and bits of folklore could penetrate into Europe were many. Take,
for example, the story of "Sinbad the Sailor." If we are to adopt Rohde's view (p. 20, n. 1),
here is a tale which might have come from India through a Persian intermediary into

22 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

study of Cervantes' learning, and appear to have formed a part,
small though it be, of the source which inspired the Persiles.
Thus much then may be said in behalf of some additional guides,
especially for the outline of the Persiles. As regards the large
body of material which Cervantes gleaned from everywhere to
fill out the framework of his story of adventure, its numerous
sources will be discussed in due time.

Finally, the verdict of Ticknor can be summed up in a general
disapprobation, qualified by a measure of praise for the astonish-
ing imagination displayed by Cervantes in this romance of his old
age, for an occasional graceful story, "amidst the multitude with
which this wild work is crowded," and finally, as usual, for the
careful finish of the style. When all is said and done, therefore,
Ticknor hardly advances the study of the Persiles much beyond
the position in which it was left by his predecessors. He men-
tions, with his customary sobriety, some of the apparent charac-
teristics of the romance, but he fails to see that the Persiles is an
inexhaustible source from which may be derived valuable bio-
graphical details, hints about the nature of Cervantes' travel ex-
periences, his manifold reading, his final attitude on various sub-
jects, either of a literary, political, or social nature — all of which
is so indispensable in the study of his peculiar type of genius.

Since Ticknor' s day nothing has been done which makes for
a worthier appreciation of the Persiles.1 If we were to select,
among latter-day books on Cervantes, one read with some fre-
quency, in the hope that it, at least, might present something

Greece, whence it would be easy to believe that the whole or a part could have been carried
into Europe at various periods of the Middle Ages. It was also adopted into Arabic litera-
ture, and might have been communicated by the Arabs to their neighbors in southern Italy
and Sicily, or to the Spaniards in the Peninsula. No early Spanish version, however, of
either the Arabian Nights or Sinbad's travels has yet been discovered, while such works as
I have been able to consult (mentioned in V. Chauvin, Bibliographic des ceuvres arabes
[Liege, 1903], Vol. VII, pp. 1 ff.) say nothing satisfactory on this interesting question of Sin-
bad's travels and their influence in European literature. Cf. also Bohde, pp. ci£., pp. 568, 578.
i To give an example of the persistence with which his opinions are copied by those who
know nothing of Spanish at first hand, mention may be made of a study by Michael Oefter-
ing, printed in Vol. XVIII of the Litterarhistorische Forschungen, herausg. von Schick und
Waldberg (Berlin, 1901). In this uncritical work, entitled "Heliodor und seine Bedeutung
fur die Litteratur," a few pages are devoted to the Spanish side of the question (pp. 101 ff.),
but without any originality whatsoever, for all that is said of the Persiles is taken almost
verbatim from Ticknor and Bouterwek, or Wolff's Geschichte des Romans. H. Koerting,
Getchichte des franzdsischen Romans im siebzehntenJahrhundert (Oppeln und Leipzig, 1891),
Vol. I, p. 25, says practically what Bouterwek had said. In the latest edition of his history

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 23

worthy of so important an effort as the Persiles, the biography of
Cervantes by Henry Edward Watts would perhaps suggest itself
first; for it is a work written by one who has devotedly given
many years to the study and translation of the Spanish novelist.
How does Watts view the Persiles after a lapse of three hundred
years, in whose long perspective the romance has had the time
to find its proper place ? The biographer of Cervantes1 begins
with the uncritical statement that "of the works about which in
his last days Cervantes showed so much anxiety, all but one have
perished, probably without any great loss to the author's reputa-
tion." Without discussing the difference between reputation, or
popularity — in which sense the word is used here — and ultimate
position in literature, which is but the measure of immortality
granted to the children of fame, one may ask how the latter can
be duly meted out, and the true place of a great man be establish-
ed, if we are willing to overlook such works of his as have had no
sustained popularity. Watts continues: "written in Cervantes'
old age, [the Persiles] bears on its face but too palpable traces
of its birth. The only interest it has is a pathetic one, rather
personal than literary." And yet no work of Cervantes shows a
more vigorous gift of imagination; none, according to all critics,
including Watts himself, displays a greater finish in style, and only
the Don Quixote has an interest, specifically literary, of greater
value than the Persiles. Or are we, indeed, to look upon it as
the last "pathetic" performance of a doddering old man? We
hear, furthermore, that "the story is in professed imitation of the I
Theagenes and Chariklea" and that "it is only just to say that it
is equal to its model — quite as dull and tedious." We are told
also that the book is a return to the style of artificial romance
which Cervantes had exploded in the Don Quixote, since it deals

of Spanish literature in French (Litterature espagnole, par J. Fitzmaurice-Kelly ; traduc-
tion de H-D. Davray; Paris, 1904) Mr. F.-K. says, speaking of the Galatea: "sauf peut-6tre
dans le Persiles y Sigismunda Cervantes n'6crivit jamais avec un plus conscient effort vers
la perfection" (p. 228); and of the Persiles he says: "cette oeuvre de maniere et de visees
ambitieuses n'a pas reussi a int6resser malgr6 ses aventures et ses boutades," etc. (p. 249).
Cf. also English edition (New York, 1898), pp. 219, 240.

i Miguel de Cervantes : His Life and Works, by Henry Edward Watts; a new edition,
revised and enlarged (London: Ad. and Ch. Black, 1895), pp. 221 ff. The review of the book
in the Revue hispanique for the same year is by Fitzmaurice-Kelly and, while just, is some-
what severe.

24 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

with a life that was never led, by people who could not exist,1 and
several other sweeping generalities, the modicum of the truth of
which is concealed or distorted by a failure to see the virtues or
the shortcomings of the Persiles in their proper relations with the
age, as well as the genre of romance in the midst of which it grew.
Watts closes by expressing his astonishment that this most insipid
of Cervantes' works should have come from the same hand which
wrote Don Quixote — a circumstance almost incredible, "had we not
ample proof of the extraordinary range and diversity of his powers."
In view of the monotonous repetitions of the criticisms already
given, it would be of no value to add to their generalities the
opinions of various Spanish writers2 whose uncritical enthusiasm
for Don Quixote has left no room for any scholarly consideration
of the literary importance of the Persiles. A re'sume' of what has
been said and done to further an adequate appreciation of the last
long work of Cervantes, tells us hardly more, therefore, than that
it is at best an imitation of Heliodorus written in a polished style,
while the most unfavorable verdict would seem to call it a gratui-
tous contribution to a type of romance which had long before seen
its day. Consequently, to one who realizes the innumerable ele-
ments which must have contributed to the make-up of the mind
of a Cervantes, it cannot but appear unusually strange that any
knowledge whatsoever, which can aid us to understand the genius
of the foremost of Spaniards, should have been so persistently

disregarded.

RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

YALE UNIVERSITY

1 Watts, for example, laughs at Cervantes for giving the name " Mauricio" (Maurice) to
a family sprung " from an island in the neighborhood of Ibernia " (p. 577 of the Persiles) . If
we make due allowance, however, for a wholly fictitious romance, in which all characters
go under an absurd nomenclature, Spanish as well as foreign, the name " Mauricio" is not
bad for an Irishman. Cervantes, no doubt, had heard of James Fitzmaurice, among others
of that name, Count Desmond's nephew, who perished (1579) in the Irish Rebellion in which
Philip II of Spain played an important part. Cf . Hume, Espanoles 6 Ingleses en el siglo xvi
(Madrid and London, 1903), pp. 235 ff. Cf. also Dictionary of National Biography under
"James Fitzmaurice Fitzgerald ;" incidentally it will become evident from this article how
common the name " Maurice" was in that family.

2 The latest life of Cervantes, the monstrous tome of D. Ram6n L. Mafnez, Cervantes y
su epoca ( J6rez y Madrid, 1901-3; huge 4to), is a specimen of the more unfortunate type.
This ponderous work is an indigesta moles, of little scientific value, in which authentic
documents alternate with uncontrolled bursts of extravagant praise. Especially from Vol.
Ill of the Bibliografia critica, op. cit., by Rius may be gathered how few and how unimpor-
tant are the criticisms and opinions which have been expressed on the Persiles during
several centuries. Cf. especially pp. 64, 46, 59, 107, 140, 307, 382, 395.

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "SIR GYLES GOOSECAPPE"

Sir Gyles Goosecappe was entered on the Stationers' Registers
on January 10, 1605/6 to Edward Blount with the proviso that it
"be printed acording to the copy whereat Master Wilson's hand
is at," an entry that strongly suggests a revision of the acted play
before it was licensed for publication.1 It was published anony-
mously by Blount later in 1606, and was reprinted in 1636 by
Hugh Perry. Perry prefixed to this second edition an elaborate
dedication to "the Worshipfull Richard Young of Wooleyfarme in
the County of Berks, Esq.," in which he declared that the author,
whose name he did not mention, and perhaps did not know, was
no longer living. The play does not seem to have been partic-
ularly well known, and apparently was never reprinted from 1636
until 1884, when it appeared in the third volume of A Collection
of Old English Plays, edited by A. H. Bullen. In his introduc-
tion to Sir Gyles Mr Bullen suggested that the unknown author
was probably a student of Chapman, and pointed out the close
similarity of a passage in Sir Gyles, III, ii (p. 53) to one occur-
ring in Strozza's speech to his wife in The Gentleman Usher
(IV, i; p. 100, Shepherd's edition). Mr. Bullen held that the
anonymous author had either seen The Gentleman Usher (first
printed in 1606) in MS or had inserted the passage in question
in a revision of Sir Gyles, which an evident allusion to Queen
Elizabeth (I, i; p. 12) shows to have been composed before her
death in 1603. In either case Mr. Bullen assumes that the phrase
appeared for the first time in The Gentleman Usher.

The proof-sheets of Mr. Bullen's Collection were seen by Mr.
Fleay before the book was published, and in a letter to the
Athenceum under the date of June 9, 1883, the latter suggested
that Sir Gyles was the work of Chapman himself, and not of an
imitator. The substance of this letter was reprinted by Mr. Bullen
in a note appended to his edition of Sir Gyles (Vol. Ill; pp. 93,
94). He admits the resemblance to Chapman's style in certain

i Vide Fleay, English Drama, Vol. II, p. 322.
25] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, July, 1906

2 T. M. PARKOTT

parts of the play, but holds that the likeness is stronger in the
serious than in the comic scenes, and thinks it "curious that, if
Chapman was the author, his name did not appear on the title-
page of the second edition." If, as I have already suggested, the
publisher were ignorant of the author's name, this omission is, of
course, accounted for.

In his Biographical Chronicle of the English Drama, 1891
(Vol. II, pp. 322, 323), Mr. Fleay repeated his assertion that the
play was by Chapman, and fixed the date in 1601 after Biron's
visit to England early in September in that year. He goes on,
however, to admit that the allusion in III, i (pp. 42, 43) by
which he fixes this date may be to a later visit of " French
gallants" mentioned by Chamberlain, April 26, 1602. When
making this admission, Mr. Fleay apparently forgot that in the
first volume of this work (Biographical Chronicle, Vol. I, p. 58)
he had stated that The Gentleman Usher, "probably acted in the
Christmas season of 1601-2," was certainly later than Sir Gyles.
The certainty rests upon the fact, unmentioned, though probably
noticed, by Mr. Fleay, that in The Gentleman Usher (II, i; p. 85)
Bassiolo calls a stupid servant " Sir Giles Goosecap," with evident
reference to the foolish hero of the like-named play. "Goosecap"
was a not uncommon Elizabethan term for a fool,1 but the alliter-
ative combination "Sir Gyles Goosecap" occurs, so far as I am
aware, only in the play of that name and in this passage in The
Gentleman Usher.

Mr. Fleay goes on to say that The Gentleman Usher was "as
certainly before Marston's Malcontent." But since he himself in
his treatment of Marston fixes the date of this play between
October, 1600, and October, 1601 (Vol. II, p. 78), it is plain that
if The Gentleman Usher were earlier than the Malcontent, it
cannot have been acted for the first time in the Christmas season
of 1601-2. As a matter of fact, there is no connection between
the two plays ; for Mr. Fleay 's attempt to establish such a connec-
tion by pointing out a similarity of names, Bilioso in The
Malcontent and Bassiolo in Chapman's play, and by calling atten-

1 See Nash, Martin's Month's Mind, p. 45 ; Dekker, OulVs Horn-book (" Temple Classics,"
p. 26) ; Ford, Fancies Chaste and Noble, IV, i.

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "SiR GYLES GOOSECAPPE" 3

tion to the fact that the former character remarks (III, i) that a
gentleman usher called him a coxcomb, whereas the latter, a
gentleman usher, is called a coxcomb (Gentleman Usher, III, i,
p. 95 and IV, i, p. 104), carries no conviction whatever.

All that we can affirm, then, of The Gentleman Usher is that it
is later than Sir Gyles; i. e., after September, 1601, and before
its entry in the Stationers' Registers under the title of Vincentio
and Margaret, November 26, 1605. It is there entered by
Valentine Syms, the V. S. who, as the title-page declares, printed
The Gentleman Usher for Thomas Thorppe.

To return to the authorship of Sir Gyles: Ward (English
Dramatic Literature, Vol. II, p. 412, n. 1) notices the statements
of Bullen and Fleay without giving his own opinion, and Professor
Kittredge (Journal of Germanic Philology, Vol. II. p. 10, note)
accepts without discussion the ascription of the play to Chapman.
So far as I know, this exhausts the literature existing upon this
subject.

Sir Gyles Goosecappe is by no means a comedy of remarkable
merit, and the student of Elizabethan drama might, perhaps, con-
tent himself with the more or less positive ascriptions of this play
to Chapman, were it not for the bearing that it has, in case its
authorship is demonstrably his, upon that poet's life and develop-
ment as a dramatist. If the play can be shown to belong to
Chapman, as I believe it can, it will connect him with a company
of actors for whom he is not so far known to have written, i. e.,
the Children of the Chapel (see title-page of Sir Gyles) ; it will
assign at least one piece of dramatic composition to a period
(1599 to 1605) when he is generally supposed to have been wholly
occupied with his work on Homer,1 and it will furnish a rather
curious first sketch of certain scenes in one of his finest romantic
comedies, The Gentleman Usher. Moreover, it will serve to link
Chapman's early work for Henslowe with his later dramas, and
will exhibit him as a student of the dramatic methods of Lyly and
Ben Jonson. It seems to me, therefore, that Sir Gyles, if not on
its own account, yet for Chapman's sake, deserves a closer study
than it has so far received.

i See article in Dictionary of National Biography by Bullen, and Ward, History of Eng-
lish Dramatic Literature, Vol. II, p. 410.

4 T. M. PARROTT

The external evidence for Chapman's authorship has been
summed up by Mr. Fleay in his letter to the Athenceum and in
his Chronicle of the English Drama. He points out that, since
Sir Gyles was produced by the Children of the Chapel, it must
date between 1599 and 1601, l probably as its allusion to Biron's
visit shows, late in 1601. Now, the only known authors writing
for this company in 1601, and dead before 1636, are Marston,
Middleton, and Chapman, and of these Chapman is the only pos-
sible author of the play, since the evidence of style is clearly
against either of the other two. The play shows marked traces of
Jonson's influence, and Chapman, as we know, worked on a plot
of Benjamin's for Henslowe, and2 collaborated with him in the
composition of Eastward Hoe.

This evidence seems to me rather suggestive than conclusive;
but the internal evidence is much stronger. Since the play is
little known, and Bullen's Collection, in which it appears, a com-
paratively rare book, it may be worth while to preface an exami-
nation of this evidence by a brief account of the play.

It opens with a dialogue between three waggish pages of the
type that Lyly had fixed, especially in plays written for boy-
actors. The purpose of the dialogue is to give a description of
some of the chief characters in the play. This preliminary intro-
duction is a well-known device of Jonson's, and had been used by
him before the date of Sir Gyles in Cynthia's JRevels, II, i.3 The
second scene is a dialogue between three knights whose "humors"
in speech and manner mark the play as a drama of social satire
— a form which Jonson was already exploiting. In the third
scene the pages trick the knights into a fool's errand to meet the
ladies early next day at Barnet. The fourth scene introduces
the main action, a romantic love-comedy, which as Professor Kit-
tredge has shown, is largely an adaptation of Chaucer's Troilus
and Cryseide to the Elizabethan stage.

The second act consists of but one scene, which treats first of

iThis should be 1603, 1 think, when this company was succeeded at Blackfriars by the
Children of Her Majesty's Revels.

2 Marston was also a collaborator in this play, but there is not a trace of his peculiar
and strongly marked style in Sir Gyles.

3 Acted by the Chapel Children in 1600.

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "SiR GYLES GOOSECAPPE" 5

Momford' s appeal to his niece, Eugenia, in behalf of Clarence—
a passage closely modeled after Chaucer's account of the first visit
of Pandarus to Cryseide — and then of a dialogue between
Eugenia and her ladies on the one side, and some fresh visitors
on the other, in which the talents of Sir Gyles, a suitor for one
of the ladies, are humorously extolled.

The first scene of the third act opens at Barnet, where the
deluded knights talk much "besides the matter," especially Sir
Gyles, who speaks "as backward still as if a crabfish had bitten
him by the tongue." The pages meet them, persuade them that
their disappointment was planned by the ladies as a test of their
love and patience, and tell them of a great supper at Lord Furni-
fall's house to which the ladies are invited. The knights resolve
to attend, not only to see the ladies, but to divert themselves with
the "drinking humor" of Lady Furnifall, who "is never in any
sociable veihe till she be typsie." It is worth noting that Lady
Furnifall does not appear in the list of characters, and that no
such scene as we are here led to expect occurs in the play. Pos-
sibly it may have had a personal reference which led to its omis-
sion when the play was revised for publication. In the second
scene Clarence composes, with the aid of music, a letter to his
lady, and discusses with Momford the nature and influence of
woman. The scene is written in stately blank verse, marred here
and there by a touch of pedantry, but rising at times to a dignity
of both thought and expression that is eminently characteristic
of Chapman. Mr. Fleay holds, indeed, that it is quite impossible
to doubt the authorship of such a passage as the first speech of
Clarence in this scene.

The fourth act opens at Eugenia's house, where, after a bit of
easy, though not particularly witty, dialogue, Momford appears
bearing Clarence's letter. In a scene of considerable comic
power he inveigles Eugenia into writing an answer in which she
promises to marry Clarence, and then, like Pandarus in Chaucer's
poem, invites her to stop at his house. To the objection that he
may be plotting to bring her together with Clarence he answers
by assuring her that his friend is " extreame sick and cannot come
abroade." The second scene, at Lord Furnifall's house, is strik-

6 T. M. PARROTT

ingly deficient in action; I take it that the scene of Lady Furni-
f all's drinking humor occurred here and has been struck out.
The third scene is a dialogue between Clarence and Momford,
remarkable only for the former's paradoxical defense of ladies'
painting. At the close of the scene Momford informs his friend
that Eugenia is coming to supper, and begs him to feign sickness,
and then, while apparently unaware of her presence, to "speak
that which may make her flie into his opened armes."

The first scene of the fifth act is laid at Momford's house. Sir
Gyles displays his skill in needlework and his folly in speech
before his mistress, and Momford praises Clarence in a speech of
" eloquent but somewhat strained language," in which even at
first reading Mr. Bullen saw a likeness to Chapman's style. The
long second scene concludes the play. Clarence tells the doctor
of his love and reverence for Eugenia; she overhears him and
takes an opportunity, without Momford's knowledge, to confess
to Clarence that she returns his love and to betroth herself to
him. In the midst of an outburst of Momford's on the levity of
women Eugenia reveals herself and receives his blessing and his
announcement that Clarence is the heir to his earldom. The
play ends with the bestowal of Eugenia's ladies upon Sir Gyles
and one of his friends, while the other, Captain Foulweather, is
crowned with a willow garland.

Every student of Chapman is familiar with his repetitions, not
merely of words and phrases, but of similes, incidents, and situa-
tions. If, therefore, in a play whose authorship may be assigned
to him on external grounds, we find a remarkable number of such
coincidences, the possibility becomes a probability — as strong a
probability as we can attain in matters of this sort where mathe-
matical certainty is, by the nature of things, impossible. Even
in my brief sketch of Sir Gyles some of the analogies to Chap-
man's known plays have been pointed out. It remains to make an
investigation of the play on this basis. I quote, referring to
pages in Bullen's Collection and in Shepherd's Works of Chap-
man— Plays.

Bullen, p. 21: Jack says, after playing a trick on the knights:
"Here's a most sweet gudgeon swallowed."

THE AUTHORSHIP OP "SiR GYLES GOOSECAPPE" 7

Chapman, p. 62 : Rinaldo says, when proposing to play a trick
on Marc Antonio : "Do you think he'll swallow down the gudgeon ?"

Bullen, p. 28: With Momford and Wynnifred's joke, "hose
about your heeles," cf. Poggio's dream in The Gentleman Usher,
p. 78.

Bullen, p. 29: With the stage direction, "Enter Wynnifred,
Anabell with their sewing workes and sing" cf. the directions in
All Fooles, p. 58, "Enter Gazetta sewing" and below, "Gazetta
sits and sings sewing"1

The word "Eternesse," apparently a coinage of Chapman's
(see New English Dictionary), appears Bullen, p. 29, and in
Byrorfs Tragedy, p. 269.

Bullen, pp. 30 and 32: The ejaculations, "God's pity" and
" God's precious" unknown to Shakespeare, are of repeated occur-
rence in The Gentleman Usher (pp. 98, 103, 105 (bis), 106, 108).

Bullen, p. 30: The rare word u mankindelie" — "cruelly," of
which this instance alone is given in the N. E. D., may be com-
pared with Chapman's use of "mankinde" ( All Fools, p. 69, where
Shepherd quite unwarrantably alters to "unkind;" Gentleman
Usher, p. 96, also altered by Shepherd). The use of "mankinde"
as an adjective meaning "cruel" is not unknown in the Eliza-
bethan English; N. E. D. gives instances from Ealph Royster
Doyster, The Scourge of Villany, and The City Madam. But it
is infrequent enough to attract our attention, and its repeated use
in All Fools and The Gentleman Usher is analogous, at least, to
the use of the corresponding "mankindelie" in Sir Gyles.

Bullen, p. 31: The stage direction, He daunceth speaking,
reminds one of a somewhat similar direction, He untrusses and
capers, in All Fools, p. 60. The situations, to be sure, are by no
means the same. It may be, however, that the same actor took
the parts of Momford and Valerio at the Blackfriars, and that
this direction was inserted to give him a chance to do a "dancing
turn." There seems to be no particular reason in Sir Gyles why
Momford shoiild dance in this particular scene.

Bullen, p. 39: Lord Tales's remark on Sir Gyles, "He has an
excellent skill in all manners of perfumes, and if you will bring

ICf. also a direction in Eastward Hoe (Shepherd, p. 453).

8 T. M. PAKKOTT

him gloves fro forty pence, to forty shillings a paire, he will
tell you the price of them to two pence," has an exact parallel in
All Fools, p. 72:

[Dariotto] can tell ye ....

That there is not in the whole Rialto

.... One pair of gloves pretty or well perfumed,

And from a pair of gloves of half-a-crown

To twenty crowns, will to a very scute

Smell out the price.

Bullen, p. 51:

111 power my poor soule forth
In floods of ink:

Of. Hero and Leander, Sestiad VI, 11. 139, 140:

In floods of ink
Must droun thy graces.

Bullen, p. 53: Momford's speech in defense of women has
certain resemblances, though not very close, in diction to Valerie's
defense of love (All Fools, p. 100). The striking similarity
between Momford's phrase "sweete apes of humaine soules" and
Strozza's "in all things his [man's] sweet ape" (Gentleman
Usher, p. 100) was pointed out by Mr. Bullen. Even apart from
this I believe no student of Chapman can read this speech of
Momford's without feeling that it is in the same vein and by the
same hand as Strozza's speech.

Bullen, pp. 71, 72: Clarence's defense of women's practice of
painting their faces is a paradox very much in Chapman's
manner. No Elizabethan dramatist took such delight in express-
ing opinions which ran counter to the conventions of his day.
He represented the hated Duke of Guise as a hero in The Re-
venge for Bussy, and put a defense of the Massacre of St.
Bartholomew into the mouth of the main hero of that play. He
defends the practice of dueling in Bussy D'Ambois (pp. 148, 149),
of pilgrimages to the tombs of saints, and of hanging votive offer-
ings at their shrines in the Gentleman Usher (p. 10). The
involved and labored style of Clarence's speech is quite as
markedly in Chapman's manner as is its paradoxical turn of
thought.

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "SiR GYLES GOOSECAPPE" 9

Bullen, p. 78: Hippolita's speech beginning, "Respect, my
Lord," expresses an idea, common enough in Chapman, that the
man who is sufficient unto himself is greater than a king. This
conception of the stoical hero is worked out in detail in the figure
of Clermont in The Revenge for Bussy. Bullen has noted the
likeness to Chapman in Momford's speech at the foot of this page.
The last lines of this speech,

Then wood my friend be something, but till then
A cipher, nothing or the worst of men,

bear a distinct likeness to the first speech of Monsieur in Bussy

(p. 141):

There is no second place in numerous state
That holds more than a cipher.

The use of the word "cipher," i. e.,"zero," to denote a man of no
importance is alike in both passages.

Enough has been said, I believe, to show the striking likeness
between Sir Gyles Goosecappe and undoubted plays of Chapman.
There remains, however, a special likeness between Sir Gyles
and The Gentleman Usher. Mr. Bullen holds that the likeness
of Sir Gyles to Chapman's work is stronger in the serious than
in *the comic scenes. More easily discernible, perhaps, for Chap-
man seems, to me at least, more individual in his elevated but
somewhat cumbrous verse than in the racy and fluent prose which
he shares with so many of his contemporary dramatists. But I
have pointed out two distinct parallels to Chapman's work in the
comic scenes of Sir Gyles; and I would further call attention to
the close similarity in humor, if so it may be called, between the
character of Sir Gyles himself and that of Poggio in The Gentle-
man Usher. Both are foolish, prattling busybodies; but the
mark they have in common — a mark which distinguishes them
from the ordinary run of Elizabethan clowns — is an ingenious
faculty of putting the cart before the horse in speech. Compare,
for example, Poggio's account of the attempted murder of Vin-
centio (Gentleman Usher, p. 107), with Sir Gyles' s talk about
horses (Bullen, pp. 41, 42). A single instance of this sort is, of
course, of little value in itself, but ridiculous talk of this peculiar
kind is put in the mouth of these two characters steadily and

10 T. M. PABKOTT

consistently in each play. And, what is more important, their
fellow-characters in each case notice and comment on it. Strozza
calls Poggio "cousin Hysteron Proteron" (Gentleman Usher,
p. 78), and Rudesby says to Sir Gyles: "I lay my life some
crabfish has bitten thee by the tongue, thou speakest so backward
still" (Bullen, p. 42).

Possibly, if we possessed Sir Gyles in its original and unre-
vised form, a still more striking similarity to The Gentleman
Usher might be pointed out. I have already spoken of the
apparent fact that a scene containing the "drinking humor" of
Lady Furnifall was struck out in the copy of the former play
which was licensed for publication. Every reader of Chapman
will remember the grotesque scenes in The Gentleman Usher in
which Corteza' s "humor of the cup" is portrayed. They consti-
tute an unhappy blot upon Chapman's most poetic and romantic
comedy, and serve no purpose whatever save to tickle the ground-
lings. Is it not a fair supposition that a scene in Sir Gyles
which had proved its value as a laugh-raiser, but which had been
struck out on account of its personal satire, real or alleged, was
later incorporated in The Gentleman Usher, and assigned then to
a character in whom not even the sharpest censor's eye could dis-
cover a personal allusion? It is further worth noting, I think,
that Lady Furnifall is described (Bullen, p. 47) as "never in any
sociable veine till she be typsie, for in her sobriety she is mad,"
i. e., bad-tempered. Corteza in The Gentleman Usher is in her
sober moments a malignant shrew ; in her intoxication she is most
affable, not to say amorous. Again, Lord Furnifall is said to
"make his wife drunk and then dote on her humour," exactly as
Poggio (p. 92) makes Corteza drunk, and calls her behavior
"the best sport." The jest does not strike us as in particularly
good taste, but Chapman, as his earliest play, The Blind Beggar,
shows, was by no means scrupulous in his devices for raising a
laugh, and drunkenness has been a favorite theme of the comic
writer from the days of Aristophanes to those of Dickens.

In the higher comedy, as opposed to the farcical scenes of Sir
Gyles, there is, as Mr. Fleay has pointed out, a striking similarity
between the scene in which Momford brings a love-letter to

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "SiR GYLES GOOSECAPPE" 11

Eugenia and writes an answer at her dictation (Sir Gyles, IV, i),
and the scene in which Bassiolo performs the same offices for
Margaret (Gentleman Usher, III, i). The similarity might
perhaps be called a likeness in difference. In the one Momford
overrules the lady, and alters and enlarges the letter at his
pleasure; in the other the deluded Bassiolo is made the veriest
butt of his sharp-witted mistress. Yet it is impossible to read
the two scenes in connection without feeling that the second is a
variation of, and in comic force an immense improvement upon,
the first. Here, as elsewhere, I believe, Chapman worked over a
bit of Sir Gyles for his later play. It is worth noting that
another comic scene in which the dictation of a love-letter (in
this case a practical joke) plays a main part is found in another
of Chapman's plays, Monsieur _D' Olive, IV, i.

The testimony, it seems to me, is fairly convincing that Sir
Gyles Goosecappe is a play of Chapman's, and when in due time
we obtain a critical and definitive edition of this neglected
dramatist, it might well be included among his plays, even if it
should oust such more than doubtful compositions as Alphonsus
or Revenge for Honour.

Assuming, then, the fact of Chapman's authorship of Sir Gyles,
we find him, about two years after his last recorded connection
with Henslowe, writing for the Chapel Children. His connection
with this company is the more likely since his friend Jonson was
at this time their leading playwright, composing for them, among
other comedies, the Poetaster, in which Chapman was lauded
under the transparent disguise of Virgil.1 It was probably for
this company also that Chapman wrote May-Day, which, although
not printed till 1611, must have been composed early in the cen-
tury, as is shown by its parody of a passage in Marston's Antonio
and Mellida, acted ca. 1600. Such a parody would be effective
only so long as the original passage was fresh in the minds of the
audience. If May -Day was acted at Blackfriars, as the title-
page tells us, and before 1603, it must have been acted by the
Chapel Children. It was by the successors of this company, the

i In spite of Mr. Lee's attempt to identify Virgil with Shakespeare (Life of Shakespeare
p. 218, note), I hold this to be fairly well established.

12 T. M. PABKOTT

Children of Her Majesty's Revels, that All Fools was acted at
the same theater and at court on January 1, 1605.1 Monsieur
D' Olive and Eastward Hoe were acted by the same company,
and it is a fair guess that The Gentleman Usher, in regard to
whose production we know nothing, was also brought out by
them. It is plain, I think, if Sir Gyles, May-Day, and East-
ward Hoe were written, and All Fools revised for the Blackfriars
companies between 1599 and 1605, that we must reject the notion
of Chapman's having withdrawn from the stage at this time to
devote himself to the translation of Homer. And, in fact, there
is not the slightest ground for this assertion. Chapman's work
on Homer began to appear at a time when he was busily engaged
with Henslowe; the First Seven Books of Homer's Iliad and
Achilles' Shield were published in 1598.2 His next fragment of
Homeric translation, the first twelve books, was not published
till 1609-10, when he was under the patronage of Prince Henry
— a patronage which probably relieved him from the necessity of
writing for the stage, and allowed him to devote himself wholly
to his studies. That Chapman, when once engaged upon this
work, translated at almost an incredible speed, we know from his
own statement, "that less than fifteen weeks was the time in which
all the last twelve books were entirely new translated." ("Preface
to the Reader" in The Iliads of Homer, 1611). It is, therefore,
quite unnecessary to suppose him plunged in Homeric studies
between 1599 and 1605, without producing any results of these
until 1610.

Finally, Sir Gyles shows Chapman's first attempt at a form of
mingled farce and romantic comedy in which he was to achieve
such notable results as the Gentleman Usher and Monsieur
Z)' Olive. His earliest work for Henslowe, was, if we may judge from
the two plays of this period which are preserved, The Blind
Beggar and An Humorous Day's Mirth, crude enough. It was
lively and vigorous, but lacked almost entirely the breath of

1 This latter fact we owe to an entry in the Revels Accounts, published by Cunningham
for the Shakespeare Society. The entry, indeed, is a forgery, but it is supposed to be based
upon a genuine document used by Malone.

2 Fleay holds that this work on Homer was done before Chapman began to write plays
(English Drama, Vol. I, p. 52).

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "SiR GYLES GOOSECAPPE" 13

poetry and the note of romance that marks the three comedies
just mentioned. And if Sir Gyles is weak in construction and
notably deficient in action, this is no argument against Chapman's
authorship.1 His best-constructed plays are A II Fools and May-
Day, adaptations from Latin and Italian comedy, and Eastward
Hoe, in which he was assisted by that master of dramatic archi-
tecture, Ben Jonson. And the lack of action in Sir Gyles may
well be due to Chapman's uncertainty as to what would please
the more refined and critical audience of the private theater for
whom he had deserted the mob that packed Henslowe's theater
to applaud such boisterous farce as The Blind Beg gar. Sir Gyles
is not Chapman's first play, but it is his first work in a style of
composition in which he later gained distinguished success. I am
inclined to believe, moreover, that the romantic comedy of Chap-
man's exercised an influence upon a later dramatist which has not
yet been recognized. The question of Chapman's influence upon
Fletcher deserves, in my opinion, to be carefully investigated.
There are, at any rate, several interesting parallels in situation
and tone between both Sir Gyles and The Gentleman Usher, on
the one hand, and two of Fletcher's characteristic comedies on
the other.

T. M. PARROTT
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY

1 Chapman's tragedies, modeled upon the Senecan drama, are fuller of words than
action, but his comedies are crowded with action and incident.

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COCK AND FOX

A CRITICAL STUDY OF THE HISTORY AND SOURCES
OF THE MEDIEVAL FABLE

The story of the Cock and the Fox has long had a wide range
and popularity. It is known, in one form or another, as extend-
ing from oriental antiquity down to our own days. It is known
in the different genres of animal epic, clerkly fable, and folklore
tale. It is known and celebrated in the varying versions of
Chaucer, the Roman de Renart, Marie de France — and Uncle
Remus.

The fable proper seems in its entirety a special mediaeval
growth. Its oriental1 forms are too remote for purposes of deriva-
tion or of discussion. It has not been discovered in Greek
antiquity or in classical Latinity. A kindred form, however, is
found in Apuleius, and there seems, as will be noted, even some
reason to suppose that it may have constituted part of the original
Phcedrus collection which has not come down to us.

The known and accessible mediaeval versions, strictly of this
fable, are about fifteen in number, and they extend apparently
from the Rheims MS of the Appendix to Phaedrus (ca. 750)
down to the publication of Caxton in 1484. In the following
list these orthodox versions alone are enumerated. There are in
addition some twelve allied stories and fables which will be
reserved for later treatment.2

i See Benfey, Pantschatantra, I, 610; Vartan, 12,13; Jacobs is mistaken in his reference
to the Katha-Sarit-Sagara; but see especially Benfey, I, 310, with which cf. Miss Peterson,
Sources of the Nonne Prestes Tale (Boston, 1898, pp. 40-42). This is the story of the "kiss"
theme, which is closely related to the "decree" theme of the Fox and Dove (Warnke's
Marie, LXI). There are also the jackal story and the sparrow story (references in Miss
Peterson, pp. 16, 27, 37). These may possibly be allowed an influence of the oral tradition
sort. But until the Fox and Cock fable is found entire in some collection— oriental, classi-
cal, or pre-mediaeval— the a priori hypothesis later advocated may be considered as
tenable.

2 1 am indebted to Dr. A. Marshall Elliott, head of the Romance seminary of Johns
Hopkins University ; to Dr. George C. Keidel, associate in the department, for much assist-
ance in arranging the material; and to various members of the seminary— especially to
Mr. D. B. Easter — for help in collecting versions. The paper, in so far as concerns the
main method of motifs, proceeds along the regular lines followed in this seminary. It may
39] 1 [MoDBBN PHILOLOGY, July, 1906

2 E. P. DARGAN

I. LIST OF VERSIONS
(These are arranged chronologically.)

1. "Appendix Fabularum JSsopiarum, ex MS Divionensi, Rimicio,
Romulo et aliis," part of Phaedri Aug. Liberti, Fabularum ^Esopiarum,
etc., curante Petro Burmanno (editio quarto) (Lugduni Batavorum,
1778), Fab. XIII, p. 382. Rheims MS(?) Date ca. 750 (?) Phaedr.
Burm. App. ^PhB.1

2. "B. Flacci Albini seu Alcuini, Abbatis, etc., Opera Omnia, Tomus
Secundus," part of Migne, Patrologia Latina, Vol. CI (Lutetia Parisi-
orum, 1863), Carmen CCLXXVIII, col. 805. Date ca. 800. Alcuin = Al.1

3. Grimm and Schmeller, Lateinische Gedichte des X. und XI. Jh.
(Gottingen, 1838),2 pp. 345-54. Date probably eleventh century. = GS.1

4. Ademar de Chabannes, "Fabulae Antiquae," in Hervieux, Les
fabulistes latins (Paris, 1893), Vol. II, second ed., Fab. XXX, p. 142.
Date before 1029. = Ad.

5. "(Alter) ^Esopus de Baldo," in Du Me"ril, Poesies inedites du moyen
age (Paris, 1854), Fab. XXIII, p. 253. Date not known— probably twelfth
century.3 = Ba.

6. Warnke, Fabeln der Marie de France (Halle, 1898), Fab. LX
p. 198. Date ca. 1175. = M. (Roquefort, Poesies de Marie de France,
Vol. II, Fab. LI, p. 240, has variants which affect only the subordinate
motifs.)

I. "Romulus Trevirensis," Hervieux, op. cit., Vol. II, Fab. L, p. 598.
Date ca. 1175. = RTr. ("L. B. G." is a misnomer for this collection.)

8. Leitzmann, Gerhard von Minden (Halle, 1898), Fab. 112, p. 165.
Date ca. 1270. = GM.

9. "Romulus Bernensis," Hervieux, Vol. II, Fab. XXI, p. 308. Date
ca. 1275. = BR.

10. Bromiardus, Summa Praedicantium (Nuremberg, 1518), h. XIII,
28. Datecq. 1390. =Br.

II. Magdeburger JEsop, also known as Gerhard von Minden (Seel-
mann, Bremen, 1878; Niederdeutsche Denkmdler, Book II), Fab. XLVI,
p. 65. Date ca. 1400. =ME.

12. "Romulus Monacensis," Hervieux, Vol. II, Fab. XXVIII, p. 274.
Date ca. 147-. = RM. (Misnomer Fabulae Extravagantes.}

13. Stainhowels JEsop (Oesterley, Tubingen, 1873), Book V, Fab.
LXXXIII (Fab. Extr., Ill), p. 196. Date 1475. =S.

interest fable specialists to know that some fifty fables have been in such fashion worked
out, from Marie de France as a basis; and that the quantity of material thus accumulated
probably surpasses any similar collection in the country.

1 Abbreviations used in the tables.

2 Courtesy of the library of Columbia University.

3 See Du Meril, op. cit., pp. 215, 216.

COCK AND Fox 3

14. The Poems and Fables of Robert Henry son (D. Laing, Edin-
burgh, 1865), "Tail of Schir Chantecleir and the Foxe," pp. 118-26.
Date 1476. =H.

15. The Fables of JEsop as First Printed by William Caxton
(Jacobs, London, 1889), Vol. II, Book V,Fab. Ill, p. 132. Date 1484. =C.

II. PLOT OP THE FABLE

I will give the oldest and one of the baldest versions, which
is that of the Appendix to Phsedrus; then one of the latest and
best, which is that of Marie. Attention is called to the principal

divergences :

PnB — Perdix et Vulpis

A partridge once sat in a high tree. A fox came up. Then he began
to talk thus: "Oh, how great is the beauty of your face, partridge!
Your beak surpasses coral, your legs the splendor of purple. But if you
would sleep, how much prettier you would be!" So the foolish thing
shut her eyes; the fox immediately carried off the credulous creature.
She uttered supplicatingly these words mingled with grievous weeping:
"By the dignity [decus] of your arts, fox, I beg you to speak my name
first, [and] then you will eat." When the fox wanted to talk, he opened
his mouth; but the partridge slipped away from the fool. The deluded
fox [says]: "What use [was there] in my talking?" Replies the par-
tridge: "And what use in my sleeping? Was it necessary for one to
whom sleep came not ? " This is for those people who talk when there is
no need, and who sleep when they ought to watch.

MARIE, De Vulpe et Gallo

I tell of a cock who stood on a dung-hill and sang. Near him came
a fox and addressed him in very fine words. "Sir," he says, "I see you
are very beautiful; I never saw such a nice bird. Your voice is clear
beyond everything: except your father, whom I saw,1 never did a bird
sing better; but he did better, because he shut his eyes." "So can I,"
said the cock. He flapped his wings, he shut his eyes; he thought he
would sing more clearly. The fox jumps forward and takes him; and
withal away he goes toward the forest. All the shepherds ran after,
through a field where he passed; the dogs bark at him all around. "See
the fox who holds the cock. In an evil hour he deceived him, if he comes
this way!" "Come," says the cock, "cry to them that / am yours and
do not let me go!" The fox wants to talk aloud, and the cock leaps out
of his mouth; he mounted on a high tree. When the fox came to his
senses, he considered himself very much fooled, since the cock tricked
him so. With indignation and with full anger he commences to curse

i Conui (Roquefort).

4 E. P. DABGAN

his mouth, which talks when it ought to keep quiet. The cock replies:
"So ought I to do: [I ought] to curse my eye which wants to close, when
it ought to watch and ward lest evil come to its master."

Fools do this: a great many people talk when they ought to stop,
and keep quiet when they ought to talk.

The additions and improvements are readily seen. In Marie,
the cock is singing; the fox flatters his voice and stimulates him
to surpass his father; there is a pursuit of shepherds and dogs;
the cock escapes by telling the fox to cry, "I am yours;" and the
fox abuses his mouth.

III. METHOD OF PKOCEDUKE

Such is the story. It is now our task to trace this story from
its earliest to its latest appearance in mediaeval fable literature,
and to discover what are the relations of the versions among
themselves.

In order to do this, we must have resort to one or more of the
three methods usually allowed for determining such data: i. e.,
(1) by external evidence; (2) by external-internal evidence;
(3) by internal evidence. Of these three, the first will concern
us only for verification or refutation;1 the second will be of but
slight service; while the third is the standard adopted in this
paper, because of its far-reaching applications, as well as of the
accurate and unimpeachable character of its inferences when de-
duced with care. The procedure within this class is usually that
of the tabulation of motifs; and an exhaustive list of the words
and ideas in each fable, with their repetitions, imitations, paral-
lels, or substitutions in other fables, is held to furnish a sufficiently
plausible basis for the erection of a genealogical tree.

The justness of the method needs in general no defense. But
in practical application, when one has a hundred or more motifs
to consider, when each motif has a given number, and each is
numerically equal to any other, the bewildering cloud of details
tends to obscure the main facts and figures in the story, and we
find it difficult to see the wood for the trees — or the underbrush.
It has occurred to me, therefore, that it might be well to distin-

i There is little enough in this class concentrating on the individual fable — though
data for whole collections are more abundant. We will include here general opinions of
authorities (see Division VIII).

COCK AND Fox 5

guish between the importance of motifs. To illustrate: It is
evidently of more consequence in the two versions just given
whether the bird closes his eyes, than whether or not he is said
to have a beautiful beak; the fact that there is a pursuit is of
more consequence than the circumstance that the bird flaps his
wings; the escape of the bird helps us more than the details of
that escape. It is true that some significant or peculiar cir-
cumstance, not of a conventional character, will, if repeated,
aid greatly in establishing relations. But, as a rule, it is mani-
festly the chief outlines of the story that call for primary con-
sideration.

Granting then a different value in motifs, the question arises
how to mark that value. It would be possible in one voluminous
table to include all major and minor motifs, according to each a
numerical value proportionate to the degree of its significance.
But I have abandoned this plan as at once too mechanical, too
confusing, and too elaborate ; for a motif that is important for a
group may lose its importance within the group; and again the
ranking would lead to infinite subtleties and would be largely
subject to a posteriori considerations. Accordingly, I have made
three distinct classes of motifs. The first are those three or four
essential points which really make the story — and these I have
called themes. The second are the subdivisions and the striking
incidents or circumstances (some forty in number) which are
least to be ignored and which constitute the development of the
story — and these I have called Leitmotiven. The third class
includes the two or three hundred details — often minutiae — which
will help where the others prove insufficient. These we may
style motifs simply. The themes and Leitmotiven I have ex-
hibited in Analytical Table I, which forms the basis of the first
part of the paper. The second table1 will confirm what this only
tentatively establishes, will correct it, and will furnish minute
clues where such are needed.

The statement that the themes are essential does not mean
that they are to be found in every version of the actual fable;

1 Too bulky to print. It is merely an extension of Table I, about six times its size. It
has been made over four times and should be reasonably complete and accurate (see Divi-
sion V).

E. P. DARGAN

ANALYTICAL TABLE I

(Leitmotiven Marked with Greek

Letters)

M
j=.
PH

«
PQ

~.
«

g
O

(Apuleius)|

(Bozon) |

(Cent

ury) .

a
>

?Ca.
750

Ca.
1029

Ca.
1390

?
XII

Ca.
1275

[7a.
47-

1475

484

Ca.
1175

270

Ca.
400

Ca.
175

Ca.
380

476

325

y
s

I. INTRODUCTION

••

a. Title .. ..

Partridge and Fox

PhB

••

Crow and ^£heese| ..

••

Ap
Ap

6 Moral

(Br)

d. Description of Bird . .

••

f. Circumstances

g. Concours

>j
e

A.
M-

f
o

7T
P

II. RUSE or BEAST
Wolf .

PhB

RTr

6. Appeal to vanity

PhB
PhB

Ad
Ad

Br
Br

RTr
RTr
RTr

GM
GM
GM

ME
tfE
ME

M
M
M

Ch
Ch
Ch

H
H
H

Ap
Ap

Bo
Bo
Bo

Bo
Bo

1. Of Person

2 Of Voice

3. Of Race

c. Father

••

Ba
Ba

BR
BR

RM
RM

s
s

c
c

RTr
RTr

RTr

GM
GM

M
M

H
H

Ap
Ap

d. "Sing"

e. "Sleep" . .

PhB

f. ' ; Close eyes "

g. u Open mouth"

h. Bird leaps

i. Titbit

III. BIRD TRICKED

b. Actions

RTr

c Is taken

PhB

e. Attendant circum-
stance

V
«*»

IV. PURSUIT

(GS)

••

RTr

••

1. Shepards and dogs ..

RTr

••

6. Manner
c. Speech

••

•>

••

•

d. Circumstances

a'
P'

V. RUSE OF BIRD

GS
GS
GS

PhB
PhB

Ad
Ad

Ba
Ba
Ba

BR
BR
BR

RM
RM

s
s
s

c
c
c

RTr
RTr

a. "they say'1
6. "tell them"

••

c. "my name"

d. "your voice"

«;

e
if

VI. ESCAPE OF BIRD

..
"

a. Beast opens mouth ....
6. Bird flies away
c. Bird's speech

GS
GS

Al
Al

PhB
PhB

Ad
Ad

Ba
Ba

BR
BR

RM
RM

s
s

c
c

RTr
RTr

GM
GM

ME
ME

M
M

Ch
Ch

H
H

d. Beast's disgust
beats himself

K.'
\'

VII. MORAL

a. From beast

GS
GS
GS

Al
Al

PhB
PhB
PhB

Ad
Ad
Ad

••

(C)

RTr
RTr
RTr

GM
GM
GM

ME
ME
ME

M
M
M

Ch
Ch
Ch

..
9

6. From bird

c. Reciprocal

d. From author
Church influence

COCK AND Fox 7

but they are the principal points of departure, and every version
is incomplete without them. The themes are:

1. The RUSE OF THE BEAST, with its accomplishment.

2. The PURSUIT.

3. The RUSE OF THE BIRD — its escape.

(With the RECIPROCAL MORAL as a doubtful fourth.)

IV. ESTABLISHMENT OF A TREE BY LEITMOTIVEN

The Marie version has been given as representing very closely
the orthodox or complete form of the fable. Let us then examine
the other versions, having this standard in mind.

The earliest is that of the Burmanus Phsedrus Appendix
(PhB), which I take in this instance to derive from the Rheims
MS,1 and which is distinguished in the following particulars: The
bird is a partridge; there is no appeal to the vanity of voice, nor
mention of a father, nor request to sing; the bird is asked to
sleep; there is no pursuit; the fox, foolishly enough, is beguiled
into pronouncing the bird's name. There are three of these Leit-
motiven which are found only in PhB and Ademar (Ad). PhB
and Ad have each 13 motifs,2 and they are identical. Therefore
PhB > Ad3 probably as a direct source.

Let us turn to the other two early versions, Grimm and
Schmeller (GS) and Alcuin (Al).

It had as well be stated here that this fable, since it is not
found in our text of Phsedrus, nor in the principal Romulus ver-
sions, since it is one of the Fabulae Extravagantes, must have
had, as to its main outlines, and some time before the tenth or
eleventh century, a source unconnected with the central streams
of fable literature. Where is this source to be found? Very
likely in ecclesiastical circles; for the church influence is strong
both in GS and in Al.

To consider Al first, this version is extremely remote from our
standard. We have only one theme — the Ruse and Escape of
bird — no pursuit, and no ruse of beast, who is here a wolf. Al

1 Since it gives Ad. See Hervieux, Vol. I, pp. 68, 80, for a discussion of this lost MS.

2 Throughout this first part motif = Leitmotif.

3 See G. Paris, review of Hervieux in Journal des Savants, 1884, pp. 684, 685.

8 E. P. DAKGAN

agrees in but five motifs with PhB and Ad. Therefore it can
hardly itself be a source, and its common origin with the partridge
story must be very remote indeed.

GS is much nearer the norm. It is, parenthetically, the
longest of the versions, and contains a great deal of extraneous
matter. But when boiled down it is seen to contain, at least in
germ, nearly all the later material. It is true that the pursuit is
only suggested. There is no flattery of person. Yet it agrees
with Marie, for instance, in 14 motifs, which leaves it only 3
unaccounted for. One of these (TT) is peculiar to itself, while
another (o>) is found in subsequent collections, though not in the
Marie branch. The "church influence" (X), while a possible
quality of the source, cannot be expected invariably to persist.
The inference is that GS is close to the source (i. e., the second-
ary mediaeval source) from which the bulk of our versions derive.
The relation of GS to PhB and Ad is not so close. They agree
in 9 motifs.

One would then be tempted to conclude that the fable was
probably in the lost portion of the original Phaedrus ; that through
several intermediaries it gave on the one hand PhB and Ad, on
the other the common source (designated as X) of GS and the
later versions; while in a mutilated form, and through a mixture
with some wolf story, it may have contributed to Alcuin's hex-
ameters. This suggests the following scheme (lost versions in
parentheses) :

(Ph) (co. 25)

r ~i

x (Lost MS) (ca. 500)

| (Lost MS) (ca. 800) Rheims MS = PhB (ca. 750)
Al (ca. 800)

(X) Ad (ca. 1029)

GS (XI<0

This table, as will be seen, is extremely constructive. We
shall find reason later to examine its reliability. But for the
present the source question may be left here.

COCK AND Fox 9

The Baldo I must leave for later discussion. It has not a
single distinctive Leitmotif.

The next in order is the Marie branch. It has been seen that
M agrees with GS in 14 motifs. The differences are in the flat-
tery of person (0) and the developed form of the pursuit, which
indicates several intervening versions. M further agrees with
RTr, GM, ME, in 15 motifs, 3 of them distinctive — note espe-
cially the important (u) motif of the shepherds and dogs. These
also share with GS and Br the (f) motif" close eyes." Therefore
there is no doubt of the intimate relation of these first four. RTr
is distinguished from the other three in that it contains the sug-
gestion to "sing" (/A). Its date also makes it contemporary with
M. The descent of the other three would then seem direct:
M>GM>ME(?). Their differentiations are too slight at
present for such inference. But the relationship to the main
stem is clearly

X
I

r n

(Anglo-Latin Romulus) (ca. 1100) GS (XI<>)

(Alfred) (ca. 1150)

r n

M (ca. 1175) R. Tr. (ca. 1175)
10)
GM (1270)

ME (ca. 1400)

As to Br and BR the question is more complicated. The
Berne Romulus offers particular difficulties. There are two col-
lections of this name, the one deriving from the Romulus Vulgaris
in two parts, while the other is more directly out of Romulus
Primitivus. Our fable is in that part of the first collection which
is supposed to come out of the Romulus Vulgaris directly. But
our fable is not in the Romulus Vulgaris, and therefore cannot
be in its true descendants. The same holds good for Br, S, H,
all of which usually derive from the Romulus Vulgaris. Hence
these versions, BR, Br, S, H, are from a branch independent of
Romulus Vulgaris and even of Romulus Primitivus. This is

10 E. P. DARGAN

natural enough when we remember that the fable is one of the
Extravagantes. They are all near enough our X to derive there-
from. That is to say they have the same general relationship to
GS which we have found in the others.

BR and GS have 12 motifs in common, though none distinctive
to the two. BR shares four distinctive motifs with the S group,
and none with the M group. It may therefore be considered as
out of a common source with the S group, more remotely with
the M group, since they agree in ten general motifs; also the
"speech" motif (#), which is already in GS, forms a further
point of agreement between M alone, BR, and the S group, indi-
cating that all three are fairly near the source.

The form of Br is so truncated that any inferences are likely
to be unwarranted. It develops only one theme — the Ruse of
the Beast — and has but 6 motifs. Yet of these 6, 7 (doubtful)
is shared distinctively with the S group, and f with GS and the
M group. Otherwise he follows GS. He might accordingly be
assigned to the common source, one or two removes off. It should
likewise be remembered that Bromiardus was a churchman. The
table will now stand:

r "i

(A-L. Romulus) x?

(Alf

red) x

r i

~] Br (ca. 1390)

M R. Tr

: ~1
BR (ca. 1275)

There remains the S division. S,1 which corresponds with
Fab. Ext., Ill, is practically identical with the RM (which Jacobs
and Hervieux label Fab. Ext., XXVIII). This identity holds
good for all but a few words and one sentence (a'). Therefore
RM ( = FE) will form a connecting link between S and its source.
This source can hardly be farther back than Alfred, since S agrees

1 Latin translation. The others offer no variants worthy of notice.

COCK AND Fox 11

less than M with GS — 13 and 15 motifs respectively. The loss
of the bird's moral and of the reciprocal moral (*', #') is an impor-
tant distinction for the S group. As we have seen, the fact that
this is a Fob. Ext. does away with the usual S provenance.

S and C are identical in 18 motifs, and C adds but one more,
which is doubtful. Therefore S > C.

As to H, he is not for the bulk of his story a fabulist at all.
He is held to derive from Chaucer,1 and Chaucer undoubtedly
belongs to the epic cycle.2 But Morris3 suggests that the fabular
portion of Ch (as well as of the Roman de Renart) descends
from Marie. Neither Skeat4 nor Miss Petersen contravenes this
view. The language of the first seems to hint at the Renart as a
possible intermediary. Miss Petersen, while constantly admitting
a connection, comes to no definite conclusion regarding Marie. I
transcribe her diagram:5

[= M ?] b^ ^-RF [= Reineke Fuchs]

[Renart] Branch II NPT [Chaucer]

Branch II is that portion of the Renart which contains the
"Chanticleer episode." Hence Renart and Ch are, according to
her, somewhat parallel derivatives from 6, which she qualifies
only as "an (epic) version of the epic story, very similar to the
original of R. F.m But it is held to give Renart "through one
or more elaborations."7 However, we may tentatively assume
that b = M, waiting for further light from Analytical Table II.
As matters now stand, Ch and M agree in 14 motifs, 3 of them
distinctive to the M branch. Henry son omits several of these and
adds one or two more. The agreement as a whole between Ch

i Petersen, op. cit., p. 2, n. 4. ?Ibid., p. 9.

3 Chaucer: Prologue, Knightes Tale, Nonne Prestes Tale (Oxford, 1893), Introduction,
p. xxviii; cf. (Skeat) pp. liii, liv.

*As above, and in Complete Works, below.

5 P. 88 6 Pp. 87, 90. 1 P. 88.

12 E. P. DARGAN

and H is marked; while the agreement for the "Chanticleer
episode" may be sustained for all three.

Therefore M > Ch > H.

The table, complete but for Baldo, will be:

1 1
x (Lost

1 1 » r

x (Lost

L i
1

MS)

PhB
Ad

(A-L. Romulus)

(Alfred)

1
x

Brt

1
08

1 1 1
M RTr 1RM

BR*

f [

GM
ME

71 S
Chi \

V. TREE TESTED BY COMPLETE TABLE OP MOTIFS. CORRECTIONS.

Having advanced in the first part several unproven theories, it
now remains to consider these in the light of an exhaustive tabu-
lation of all motifs; and to discuss what views have been advo-
cated by others concerning the history of the fable.

The doubtful points may be thus summarized: The source is
not definitely placed; the exact provenance of Br, BR, and Ch is
still to be determined; the claim of Alcuin's fable to enter here
must be questioned ; the exact relationship of M to GM and ME
must be established; the immediate source of RM determined;
and Ba is still untouched.

In this Table II the aim has been to give place to every idea
and almost to every word which has had a share in the develop-
ment of the fable proper; also to record such distinctive indi-
vidual variations as may not be fairly considered extraneous. It
has been necessary to draw the line somewhere, and I have
accordingly excluded (1) verbal modifications which are without

COCK AND Fox 13

significance — as "said" for "told," "desiring" for "wishing,"
etc.; (2) voluminous amplifications and interpolations, which, as
a rule, need only to be indicated in brief, and which, if inserted,
would serve but to swell the list of motifs distinctive to each fable
—as in the cases of Al and GS; (3) epic material as found in
Ch and H. But I have tried to list every motif occurring in
more than one version ; to include every word of the more regular
collections; and to assign to individual variations an amount of
space proportionate to their importance. As the sum-total of
motifs amounts to 361, I think the tabulation may be held fairly
complete.

As a rule it takes between 50 and 150 words — i. e., between
40 and 70 motifs — to tell this story. We may accordingly expect
that the versions below 40 will be truncated in important par-
ticulars, and that those above 70 will be unnecessarily amplified.
GS, with its 112, would seem the longest of all; but if all of the
Nonne Prestes Tale or even all of Henryson were included,
either would much exceed this. On the other hand, we found
that Bromiardus had but one theme and 6 Leitmotiven; and he
had only 23 motifs.

Let us examine this new evidence. Our four earliest versions,
Al, GS, PhB, Ad. First as to Alcuin. Has Al, after all, a right
to be considered a regular member of this family ? I doubt it.
For he contains, it will be recalled, only one theme, and but 4
other Leitmotiven which are found later. In the new table he is
credited altogether with only 37 motifs, of which about 20 (twice
this number, if all were listed) are distinctive, peculiar to him-
self. Seventeen is not a large number of common motifs,
Furthermore, Al agrees with GS in only 9; with PhB and Ad
minus GS in none; with all three in 6. Therefore Al is either
to be thrown still further oft8; or he is to be thrown out; or his
connection with the Cock and Fox is to be sought through the
intermediary of some other fable.

The intimate connection of PhB and Ad is still further
evidenced. They have 49 and 48 motifs respectively; they have
6 and 3 distinctive to each respectively. But they have 43 out
of the 49 in common, and 16 of these are peculiar to the two. It

14 E. P. DARGAN

is the clearest case we have. PhB remains the parent of Ad.
The relationship of Ad to GS continues about where it was.
They have 16 motifs in common, one peculiar to them, plus Al.
This ("your fine") is an interesting point. It is under that of
the "counter-flattery of the bird," who, wishing to escape, praises
the fox. It makes a good point in the story, and it is strange
that we do not find it later than GS. If it be objected that this
paucity of agreement calls for a further eloignement between GS
and PhB, the reply is that they are already at a comfortable
distance — since X is not here the common source and several lost
MSS are supposed to intervene.

Thus the interrelationship of the first group remains as it
was, except that Al had a somewhat larger title to be held an
interloper.

Our main divisions after that cannot well be shaken. The
two large branches of the M and S groups may be expected to
hold firm, and it is a question of hanging the others around
these.

As to the comparative closeness of the M and S groups to GS :
all three have 29 motifs in common; GS plus S group minus M
group have 3; GS plus M group minus S group, 5. The 3 are
less important than the 5 — or 9, if agreement with the M group
individually be counted in. Several of these are quite significant.
Especially so is the reciprocal or antithetical moral Leitmotif
with its subordinate motifs. In GS the fox cries:

(33) " Incurrat lingua pustulas,
Quam possidet loquacitas,
Cum est dampnosum proloqui
Neque sic valet comprimi."
"Has incurrunt et oculi."
Gallus e contra reddidit, etc.

Compare with this the Marie version and Gerhart :

"we spreket, wan he swigen sal
dat is sin egen ungeval."
de hane sprak: "du redest recht.
we dan ok to winkene plecht,
wan he van rechte sulde sen,
darvan mach em wal lede schen. ,

COCK AND Fox 15

In the 8 group we have nothing like this; the moral comes only
from the side of the beast. Another interesting resemblance is
that only in GS and M does the bird when told what his father
did call out, "so can I." This leaves us with the M group closer
GS and the source than the S group; which seems to require an
intermediary x between the S group and Alfred.

Br has only 23 motifs, 9 distinctive. Of the remaining 14, 9
are in GS, 1 in the S and M groups, 1 in the M group plus GS.
Four of the distinctive form a moral which serves as introduction.
Two more finish off the moral with a "haec fabula docet,"
agreeing here with the S group. But this phrase is too much of
a commonplace to furnish good grounds for inference. More
significant is the accord with the M group. Since Br is a church-
man, it seems reasonable to seperate him from the later versions,
where he has but one or two resemblances for each case, and to
bring him nearer to GS and the supposedly clerical source. Yet,
unless he derive directly therefrom, this analogy fails, and since
in point of time (ca. 1390) he is far after X, it may be better to
connect him with the Anglo- Latin Komulus, a regular collection,
and as such a likely place for a preacher to find his exempla.
This seems to satisfy the requirements of comparative proximity
both to GS and to M; while with reference to date it is at any
rate more plausible than a provenance from X. There is really
too little of Br to go on. The striking feature about him is that
he has the "close eyes" Leitmotif which is found in GS and the
M group, but not in the S group. We can suppose that this
motif was still in Alfred and was lost only in the x version
between him and the S group. Hence another reason for
assuming this intermediary x.

Turning to Ba which so far has been left untouched, we see
that he represents a fairly full form of the fable. He has 63
motifs, 22 of them distinctive. Several of the latter may be
owing to the exigencies of the verse. As to Leitmotiven first, he
follows GS, with four exceptions: he has the 'developed form of
the pursuit (T), the suggestion to "sing" (/*), is without the
"close eyes" (£), and the reciprocal moral (#'). Now, all three
points are characteristic of the S group. Do we find further help

16 E. P. DARGAN

in the ordinary motifs? Of his 41 common motifs^ he has 26
with GS, 4 distinctive. The value of these 4 must be examined.
They consist in the statements that the bird and the beast each
seeks a trick or arts ; that the pursuit is swift ; and that the beast
is called a ravisher. But on close inspection none of these is
found to be identical. The resemblance with GS is therefore
not marked. Ba's kinship to the S group is much closer. They
share 4 distinctive motifs, 3 of which are significant. With the
M group it agrees in 3 peculiarities, rather unimportant. But
what we especially note is that Ba further removed from GS by
the introduction of new material found either in the M group,
the S group, or both. Such are the fact that the cock is already
singing; the fox is told to hear; the fox runs to a grove; also 7
others, making 10 motifs in all which are not in GS. Therefore
Ba is nearer Alfred than GS; and since he bears the specific
marks of the S group, we are tempted to conclude him out of the
common source with RM, which has been called x. But here
external considerations must give us pause. The difference in
date between Ba and S is over three hundred years. A common
source for them, without intermediaries, seems improbable.
Accordingly, since some distinctive resemblance with M has been
remarked, we may assign him hesitatingly to Al.1

For BR the same internal arguments hold with even greater
force, and the claims of date are less imperious. He has 44
motifs, only 4 distinctive. Of the 40, only 22 derive from GS,
and BR would therefore seem even more remote from X than
either Ba or the M group. One distinctive motif with GS counts
for but little. With the M group he has also one distinctive.
But with the S group he has more than Ba — no less than 12 in
all distinctive. When we consider that among these are num-
bered the cock's words, "thou liest, I am not thine, but theirs
(or mine)," and the circumstance of the fox beating his mouth, I
think it is clear enough, since neither of these peculiarities pro-
ceeds from GS and neither is found in the M group, that the
association of BR with the S group is of the closest. The x

!Baldo has always been a puzzle. He generally derives from Kalilah and Dimnah,
which, however, has not this fable.

COCK AND Fox 17

which has been held to intervene between each and Alfred may
now be supposed identical. Our table, revised according to
secondary motifs, will stand thus far:

(Lost MS)

PhB

(A-L. Romulus) GS

(Alfred) Br

r \

M B

There remain the interrelationships within the S and the M
groups. The S group offers little to detain us. These three
(RM, S, and C) have 89 motifs in common, of which 11 as dis-
tinguished from the M group. RM and S further share alone 12,
and 11 more as distinguished from C. Of C's 57, 9 are dis-
tinctive, and 2 more are not found in S. He repeats S in 44
altogether, and omits 21 of S. Accordingly we recognize the
necessity of a connecting link ; and this group stands : RM > S

> Machault > C.

As to the M group, M and RTr have 39 motifs in common, 2
distinctive to themselves, 16 peculiar to the group, while RTr has
16 not in M. This is sufficient to indicate their common prove-
nance from Alfred. The inference was made above that M > GM

> ME. This provisional grouping is now discounted by the fact
that GM has 4 motifs in common with RTr not in M, while the
two distinctive with M are of little consequence. Therefore:

M
Alfred > "

RTr > GM > ME

18 E. P. DARGAN

It is now necessary to consider the Chaucer question, with his
relation to Henry son and Marie. As the first two are epic ver-
sions, only that portion of their stories has been entered in the
table which corresponds to the story of the fable proper. Henry-
son undoubtedly derives from Chaucer, as he follows him in 42
motifs, 15 distinctive, 1 more distinctive to the two plus M. Ch
and H also agree in several epic details omitted from the table.
It is known that Henryson imitated Chaucer in another poem.
Therefore Ch > H, almost certainly, as a direct source.

But what is their relation to Marie? She has nothing dis-
tinctive with H. With Ch she has 36 in common, 3 peculiar to
the two. On general principles it is highly probable that Chaucer
was indebted here to some French source, as he often was. The
French form of the words, the proper names, the manner of tell-
ing, all point to the same conclusion. Is this source Marie or
another? Is it the Roman de Renart, and if so, what is Marie's
connection with the Renart 9

It is impossible here to go thoroughly into this matter, which
would involve us with the whole epic cycle of the fox, including
the Renart, Reineke Fuchs, Ysengrimus, etc. Grimm, Warnke,
Voretsch, Miss Petersen, et al., have handled the subject ex-
haustively, and some of their conclusions will be reserved for
later comment. Suffice it now to say that, judging from motifs
as we are doing, the Renart is much nearer Chaucer than is any
other version. Here is the Renart story in brief:1

Constant Desnoes has an excellent garden, orchard, and poultry-yard.
Reynard enters this last to see what he can get. The cock, Chanticler,
has had a dream which he recounts to Pintain his wife, who interprets it
as foretelling his death at the hands — or teeth — of Reynard. Chanticler
scoffs at this idea, and goes to sun himself in the dust-heap, stretching
himself out and closing his eyes. Up rushes Reynard; but the cock
escapes him to take refuge on a dung-heap. Reynard flatters him in
regard to his voice, and says that Chanticlin, the father of Chanticler,
used to sing gloriously with his eyes closed. In emulation, Chanticler
does the same thing, and is at once seized by Reynard, who rushes off
with the cock in his mouth, pursued by Constant and his farm-hands.
Chanticler tells Reynard to cry out to the pursuers that, in spite of them,
he is taking off the cock. The idea tickles Reynard's fancy, and he opens

i Abstract by Mr. Easter. Roman de Renart, ed. Martin, Branch II, 11. 25-468.

COCK AND Fox 19

his mouth so to do, when forth leaps the cock and speedily seeks a place
of safety; whence he preaches a sermon to Reynard from the text that
he does wrong who sleeps when he should watch. Reynard goes away
hungry and sad, leaving the cock rejoicing at his unexpected escape.

The points where this agrees distinctively with Chaucer are
(1) the poultry-yard, (2) Chanticler, (3) the dream, (4) the
cock's wife, (5) the fox is incited to cry that he will carry off his
prey anyhow. Marie has this last in a modified form, and she
has also among others, the two distinctive motifs of the dung-
heap and the word "watch" in the moral. It would seem, then,
that Marie is the connecting-link between the epic and the fabular
versions (which is at any rate an important point gained); and
that Renart — or his supposititious putative brother — is the con-
necting link between Marie and Chaucer, Therefore we may sup-
pose either (1) that Renart as to this episode is an amplification
of Marie; hence

M > Renart > Chaucer > H
Or else (2)

S Renart
x > Ch > H

The latter is perhaps the safer hypothesis. An intermediary
version or two between Marie and the Renart may be allowed.

The circle of the versions has again been completed. All the
results deducible from the internal evidence in the forms of the
regular fable have been obtained. Their examination has led to
the inferences summed up in the tree appearing at the top of the
next page — which is not yet definitive.

VI. BELATED FABLES

But this is not all. There are, besides the regular versions,
several stories more or less like the Cock and Fox, some of
which may very well have had influence upon our fable. Among
these are:

1. Juan Manuel, Conde Lucanor, ed. Kunst and Birsch-Hirschfeld
(Leipzig, 1900), p. 53. The only visible connection with our story is that
the fox tries to get the cock out of a tree. He finally scares the bird out
by gnawing the bark, and thus, making him fly from tree to tree, tires
him out in the end.

E. P. DARGAN

(Ph)

(A-L.

(Lost MS)

(Lost MS)
1

PhB

r n

Rom.) GS

"1
(Alfred)

Renart

— ]

R. Tr
GM
ME

S
(Macha

,ult)

2. Four passages are found in Odo of Sherrington, two of which
(Parabolae, XCIX, and Fabulae, XLIX) are mere allusions to the fable
of the fox feigning death. It is worth noting, however, that the fox is
compared to the devil, as in GS and others.

3. The other two are properly fables. The one (L) is of the fox who
persuades the fowls to open the poultry-house from pity, and the other
(XXV) is of the fox confessing to the cock.

4. In John of Sheppey, we have (Fab. XX) the same poultry-house
story.

All these concern us only in so far as they illustrate the
wiliness of the fox. But there is a group of others which may
prove to have a more direct connection with the fable.

5. Phaedrus, I, 15; Apuleius, Liber de Deo Socratis, Prologus, ed.
Hildebrandt, pp. 107-10; John of Sheppey, VII; Odo of Sherrington,
LXX; Nicole de Bozon, II, p. 257; Marie XIII; etc.

This is the fable of the Crow and Fox. As a whole, it should
be considered a separate story with a separate history, and there-
fore has not been placed among the regular versions. However,
it greatly resembles in many particulars the Cock and Fox, and
it is a plausible hypothesis that the two became at some point

COCK AND Fox 21

interwoven or confused. A symposium of the Crow and Fox
stories will show how likely this is. First the Phsedrus version ;

When a crow had stolen cheese from a window and wanted to eat [it],
he flew up into a high tree. A fox, who had seen it, began thus to speak:
" How great is the strength \vigor\ of your feathers, O crow. Had you a
farther-reaching voice, no bird would be before you." This one, wishing
to show his farther-reaching voice, let fall the cheese; which swiftly and
eagerly the crafty fox carried off with his teeth. Then indeed the crow
lamented, because, like a fool, he had been deceived by a trick.

Apuleius adds the following points: That in the first place
both the fox and the crow saw the morsel (not cheese) and made
for it, the one running, the other flying. The crow consequently
outstrips the fox, siezes the morsel, and flies rejoicing into the top
of an oak. The fox announces the Dark Plots motif. He stops
under the tree and begins his flattery: "You have a beautiful,
well-proportioned body, soft feathers, silvery head, strong beak.
You excel in your color as the swan does in his. Could you but
sing as the swan !" There is flattery of race also. And the sug-
gestion of an antithetical moral — "what [the crow] had gained
by flight he lost by song ; but what the fox had lost in running he
regained by craft."

Marie and other versions have practically this content. But
Odo and Nicole de Bozon add the father motif — "how well your
father sang!" — and they preach against vainglory. The vigor
of the feathers is changed to nitor, in which form we know it.
The moral in Marie is against "false losenge."

It will be seen that the ensemble of these stories contains the
whole of one of our themes — the Ruse of the Beast. This is most
significant and at once suggests an intimate relationship. Nearly
all the Leitmotiven are there — the appeal to vanity of person, of
voice, of race, the allusion to a father, the request to sing. The
"close eyes" is not there — but neither is it in the S group. The
main difference is that the fox wishes to eat the cheese instead of
the bird himself. But the Beast's Ruse to acquire the desired
thing is practically identical with our norm.

Where shall we go for the other two themes — the Pursuit and
the Ruse of the Bird ? Among other extra versions are :

22 E. P. DAEGAN

6. Recueil de Fabliaux, Barbazon-Meon, III, 53ff ., " Dou lou et de
1'ove," of which an abstract follows :

Famine forces a wolf to leave the woods in search of food. He sees a
flock of geese feeding near by, and, catching one that is somewhat apart
from the rest, makes away with her in his mouth. The goose begins to
lament that she is to die without the accompaniment of sauce and song
. . . . To oblige her the wolf says: "Nous chanterons, puisqu'il vous
siet," and, sitting down on his haunches, opens his mouth to howl — when
out wriggles the goose and flies into an oak tree. The wolf is disgusted;
but, returning to the flock, catches another goose, which he takes good
care to eat before he does any singing.

This is evidently near to the Alcuin story. The details of the
ruse are different from our norm, but the vital point — that the
beast is tricked into opening his mouth — is identical in all three,
as likewise in the next :

7. Dialogus Creaturarum, Book I, No. 8512, p. 50 (quoted in Du
Menl, p. 253, n. 4):

Aesopus tells that a wolf took a very tender kid from among the
goats. To this one the kid said: " Rejoice and be exceeding glad that
you have such a kid in your power; but before you eat me, I beg of you
to sing, and while you sing I will leap." Then the wolf began to sing
and the kid to leap, hearing which the dogs made an attack against the
wolf, and pursuing him they compelled him to leave the kid and the kid
fled."

Here is the theme of the Pursuit; as also the motif of the
dogs, to which some commentators1 on the Cock and Fox are
inclined to attach much importance.

VII. HYPOTHESIS OF A SOUBCE

These various tales, widely dissimilar among themselves, have
been adduced for the purpose of setting forth an hypothesis
which, though it does not bring with it absolute conviction, seems
to me a quantity to be reckoned with. I make the suggestion
that, since the ultimate source of our Cock and Fox is still un-
known, since we have found nothing satisfactory earlier than GS
and his assumed relative X, since the fable is not in Phsedrus or
his first imitators and copyists — it may have had its origin in a

i Notably Sudre, Sources du Roman de Benart (Paris, 1893), pp.273 ff. Cf. comment by
Miss Petersen, op. cit., pp. 10-21.

COCK AND Fox 23

composite presentation and rifaccimento of these stories. That is,
cannot the ensemble of the wolf tales and of the crow tales have
united to constitute our Cock and Fox ? It should be remembered
that most of these stories, as given above, antedate GS; and to
those which do not earlier forms may be attributed.

If it can be shown (1) that this ensemble (which we will label
E) contains most of the material of the Cock and Fox story, and
(2) that it contains motifs not in GS, but found in later branches,
the presumption will be strong in favor of the hypothesis. For ( 1 )
E need not contain all the material, as each author subsequently
may be allowed individual variations. And (2) the omission in
GS, and by inference in our assumed source X, of certain material
which is found later sends us directly for an ultimate source to
where this material actually is found. If it is found in Alcuin or
Odo or the Dialogue Creaturarum, they or their origins count in
so far as sources for us. It is certainly more reasonable to go
where we know the material is, than to proceed on the assumption
that it was in a lost Phsedrus or in X — both unknown quantities.
First, then, how much of the Cock and Fox story is in this E=
the Alcuin story plus the Kid story plus the Goose story, com-
bined with the Cheese story? Having read these stories, one
cannot hesitate for an answer. Nearly all the Cock and Fox is
there. We have in E all the themes and fifteen of the Leitmotiven
afterward used. The exceptions are (a) the "close eyes," which
is only in Br and the M group anyhow ; (6) the town-people as pur-
suers, which is not in GS either; (c) speech of the pursuers; (d)
"they say;" (e) "tell them" — which are good exceptions; (/) the
moral from the beast — not very significant. There are accord-
ingly only three good exceptions; surely we may allow to X the
credit of originating these. In E both the bird and the beast are
tricked into singing. The later substitution, where the beast is
induced to speak instead, may have arisen from a process of dis-
similation. This would happen after the introduction of pursuers,
and would be a natural sequence thereof as well as a good point
in the story. Hence (c) above > (d) and (e). There is therefore
little of moment to account for, apart from E, in the later course
of the fable.

24 E. P. DAKGAN

Second, does E throw any light where GS has failed? It
evidently does. The Crow and Fox contributes these important
Leitmotiven, otherwise unaccounted for : ( 1 ) the flattery of person
— occuring in much the same words in Ad, PhB, and the M
group; (2) the suggestion to sing, which, though an inartistic
detail, characterizes BR, Ba, and the S group. As to the Pursuit
theme, that is certainly elaborated in GS, but we must turn to
something akin to the Dialogus Creaiurarum for the motif of the
dogs. Al furnishes no Leitmotiven, but it may be noted that he
describes the bird as credulous and mentions his position in a
high tree — both of which motifs find continuations, though not in
GS. Yet the Cheese story gives this last, and among others, the
address as "lord," and "I should like to hear your voice."

I conclude then:

Wolf and Cock

wu™
Wolf and Kid

Crow and Fox, etc.

This necessitates readjustment of the table. We may discard
the highly constructive Phsedrus derivation, and we may allow
more intermediary versions where imperatively demanded by dis-
crepancy in dates. The tree will finally stand as facing the initial
page of this paper.

VIII. AUTHORITIES

Some of the views expressed by various writers on the Cock
and Fox may be cited for comment or confirmation.

1. Warnke, Die Quellen des Esope der Marie de France,1
pp. 206-8, makes the following points: He declares that "Greek
and Latin antiquity offers nothing analogous" to this fable. This
seems correct for the Greek. But the Crow and Fox, which we
have found to present considerable analogy, occurs in Phsedrus
and Apuleius. He says also that the first part of the fable (i. e.,
the Ruse of the Beast) does not occur alone, and he believes the
second part, the Alcuin version, to be the originative form. The
Crow and Fox is not only presumably the older part, but gives

i In Forschungen zur romanischen Philologie: Festgabefilr Suchier (Halle, 1900).

COCK AND Fox 25

the first theme isolated in its every version. Our conclusions
accord better with his further statements. He asserts that the
Fabulae Extravagantes text =(8) of Cock and Fox agrees com-
pletely in essentials with Ba and BR ; which supports our deriva-
tion of these from a common source. He thinks that Ad cannot
go back to antiquity ; and our hypothesis sends it back to antiquity
only for its first part. He considers M the best and most natural
version. Finally he holds that the version known to M was that
which served the need of the composers of Renart and the other
epics, including Chaucer. This is going a remove farther back
than we had gone: the one supposition seems quite as tenable as
the other.

2. Voretsch, "Der Reinhart Fuchs und der Roman de Renart,"
in Zeitschrift fur romanische Philologie, Vol. XV, pp. 136-47.
He considers the Wolf stories as constituting one division of the
fable. He believes that Chaucer comes out of Renart, Branch II,
directly, but claims that it is widely different from the original.
He observes that in the Renart as in GS the cock closes first one
eye, then both. This cannot be the invention of a trouvere; there-
fore it is probably an addition to a reworking of Reinike Fuchs.
For us, this shows still more clearly the relation between fable
and epic.

3. Du Me"ril, Poesies inedites du moyen age, pp. 215, 216,
has some conjectures concerning Baldo, whose versification he
considers too elaborate for the eleventh century, and not suffi-
ciently developed for the thirteenth — the latter point being also
supported by external evidence.

It would be a very precious fact for literary history, if one could
succeed in establishing it by proofs of a more precise date: for most
of these fables are imitated from Calilah and Dimnah, and it would
result therefrom that the influence of the Orient upon the literary ideas
of the Romance peoples had made itself felt earlier than is supposed.

The last reflection does not concern the Cock and Fox.

4. G. Paris, "Les fabulistes latins, par Hervieux," in Journal
des Savants, 1884, pp. 684, 685, supports Warnke in assign-
ing Ademar's fable to a mediaeval source. "The question [of
Ad's origin in Phsedrus] is much more doubtful for Perdix et

26 E. P. DAKGAN

Vulpes,1 where the ideas and the style of the Middle Ages seem
to rule."

5. Skeat, Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer. "The House

of Fame, etc Account of the Sources of the Canterbury

Tales," second ed. (Oxford, 1900), pp. 431, 432, says of the
Nonne Prestes Tale:

An early version of the tale occurs in a short fable by Marie de
France, afterwards amplified in the old French Koman de Renart. The
corresponding portion of the Roman de Renart contains the account of
the Cock's dream about a strange beast, and other particulars of
which Chaucer makes some use.

According to him, again, M > Renart > Ch.

6. Miss Petersen, Sources of the Nonne Prestes Tale, passim.
We fall back on this excellent monograph, as giving perhaps the
most elaborate discussion of the Chaucer question, and as raising
incidentally, several points bearing on the fable. Miss Petersen
contributes these suggestions:

a) Chaucer is "unmistakably epic," as evinced by the features
of the dream, the proper names, the description of the cock's
owner and of the yard, the dialogue between cock and hen, the
lament of the hens — all peculiar to the epic versions. Chaucer's
immediate source is "some epic tale belonging to the Renart
cycle." (P. 9.)

6) She cites the opinion of Sudre that "the intervention of
the dogs .... is a survival of the original cadre of the story.
This cadre, he thinks, is to be found in the JEsopic fable of the
Dog and Cock." She admits that "in the ^Esopic account, the
part of the dog is of great consequence .... his rdle as protector
is really the turning-point of the story." But she holds that in
the Chanticleer episode the pursuit by the dogs is merely an
"accessory theme," and adds with apparent justice, that it may
have been "formulated from the observation of real life." Yet
she grants the similarity of our .ZEsopic Wolf and Kid story as to
the Pursuit theme. (Pp. 10-16.)

i It may be noted that in the figures around the Bayeux tapestry— which some suppose
to derive from Ad — our fable occurs more frequently than any other. See Bruce, The
Bayeux Tapestry Elucidated (London 1856), Plates I, II, VI, XIII. It occurs as the Cheese
story twice, as Fox and Partridge once, as Cock and Fox perhaps once or twice. This
serves well to illustrate tho great popularity of the fable.

COCK AND Fox 27

c) She mentions also the story of the Cat with One Trick, in
which the dogs appear, and believes that from some such
mediaeval "floating tale" the theme of the pursuit by the dogs was
drawn and appended to the Cock and Fox Story." (Pp. 18-21.)

d) She follows Warnke in considering Al the originative
form; but she wisely differentiates the oculis clausis trick from
the first theme, and is right in declaring that this trick itself is
not found alone. (P. 46.)

It would take us too far afield to discuss all of Miss Petersen's
views. Suffice it to say that she does not actually confute our E
hypothesis, and that her Chaucer descent agrees with our table —
except that she leans to the belief that the folklore story of Cock
and Fox, rather than any special fabular version of it, as M,
contributed to the Renart cycle. (For her conclusions see pp.
46, 118.)

7. Furnivall, Origin and Analogues of the Canterbury Tales,
p. 115, claims an English origin for the fable. This view is
unsupported by others, but seems to me quite tenable, when we
remember that the bulk of our versions are more or less directly
English — that all save four or five derive directly from Alfred.

IX. CONCLUSION

We see thus that the Cock and Fox fable has been variously
oriented as ^Esopic or Phsedric, popular, clerical, English. Our
composite hypothesis admits all of these influences. That is to
say, we refer the fable for one part to Phsedrus, and for the other
to the folk-tale (?) of the wolf. It is possible that in this latter
we are to see an English clerical presentation, transmitting its
marks to E, which gave on the one hand the partridge story, on
the other GrS and X. This X remains the secondary source out
of which proceed all later versions. The story loses then its
clerical character, but maintains its English dominance, becomes
finally a regular fable, deviates into the epic, but persists in the
end as a crystallized exemplum with a definite history, having
evolved out of a mass of chaotic and apparently uncoordinated
tales.

E. P. DARQAN

JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY

A VALUABLE MIDDLE ENGLISH MANUSCRIPT

In my search for Old and Middle English versions of the
Gospel of Nicodemus I recently came upon a very interesting
MS in the Worcester Cathedral Library. And it is a MS which
has not thus far attracted the attention of students of English
literature and history.1 There are at least two reasons why the
volume has remained unknown: (1) there is no complete and reli-
able catalogue of the Worcester collection; (2) the MS, being
comparatively late (last quarter of the fifteenth century), and
of unattractive appearance generally, would hardly appeal to the
average "skimmer" of libraries and seeker after antique treasures.
The MS is full of important historical and literary documents,
but it is nevertheless entirely ignored in the Historical Commis-
sion's report on the Worcester libraries.2 Nor have I been able
to find anything about MS fol. 172 in any of the archaeological
histories of the city of Worcester.

The MS originally contained at least 226 paper leaves (prob-
ably more), of which 16 have been lost from the beginning. So
there remain 210 leaves and 6 fly-leaves, 3 at the beginning and
3 at the end, and f. 4 of the modern pagination agrees with
f. XVII of the earlier. The MS is bound together in quires of
12 leaves each — except the first quire which has only 6 (and the
3 fly-leaves) — the ends of the quires always being indicated by
catch-words. The leaves measure 11x8 inches and more than
half of them have been considerably injured — perhaps by mois-
ture or heat. So it is difficult to make out the reading of the
upper part of the first few pages. The MS is generally without
ornamentation, except the original rubrics and capitals in red.
The Psalter, however, contains red and blue script in great pro-
fusion. One scribe seems to have been responsible for the copying

1 Professor A. S. Napier kindly called my attention to this version of the Gospel of
Nicodemus some years ago.

2 Cf. Report of Historical Commission for the year 1895. H. Schenkl has not yet pub-
lished an account of the Worcester Cathedral Library in bis series of articles on the pa-
tristic literature in English libraries. Cf. Wiener Sitzungsberichte since about the year 1890.
67] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, July, 1906

2 WM. H. HULME

of the entire volume, and it is not improbable that he was the
translator of several of the pieces, such as the Gospel of Nico-
demus, the Statutes of Blac Rogier, and Peter Alfons' Disciplines
Clericalis. All the pieces of the MS are in English prose, ex-
cept the last, which is a fragment of the Psalter in Latin and
English. The "Table of Contents," which is in a much later
hand than that of the MS, is imperfect and conveys no proper
conception of the real importance of this volume. On the inside
of the first cover and on the first fly-leaf the same hand that
wrote the brief table of contents has scribbled a considerable
bibliography of the works of Richard Rolle of Hampole — which
was, however, evidently copied from the well-known catalogues
of Leland, Bernard, and Bale. The items of the table of con-
tents are as follows:

P. 29. explicit Passio Nichodemi.

P. 30. The libel of Richard Hermit of Hampol, of the rule of good
living in 12 chapters.

P. 46. A treatise against ghostly temptations. The twelve degrees of
humility.

P. 61. The deeds or Acts of the Apostles.

P. 856. Of Life contemplative and of the works thereof; it endeth
p. 129.

P. 1816. Part of the Psalter, Latin and English.

The most interesting and valuable documents preserved in this
MS are not mentioned in this table of contents. It will therefore
be necessary to call attention to these productions before attempt-
ing to give a complete list of the contents of the volume.

For the student of literature the most valuable piece in the
MS is the version of Peter Alfons' well-known collection of orien-
tal tales, which bears the Latin title of Disciplina Clericalis.1
There were apparently from twenty-five to thirty-five tales in the
original collection from which this version was translated; and
the whole was written by a Jew named Moses, who was converted
to Christianity and baptized under the name "Petrus Alfonsi"
(Peter Alfons) in Aragon in July, 1106, by Stephen, bishop of

i Known in Old French Poetry as Le chastoiement d'un p&re d, sonfils. There are several
MSS of this poem, as well as of the Latin prose version, in the British Museum. Cf . Ward,
Catalogue of Romances, Vol. II, pp. 235 ff. The "Castoiement" was edited from the Mai-
hingen MS by M. Roesle (Munich, 1899).

A VALUABLE MIDDLE ENGLISH MANUSCRIPT 3

Huesca, King Alfonso I of Aragon (VII of Castille and Leon)
standing as his god-father. The tales are told by a dying Arab
father to his youthful son for his admonition and instruction.
The version of the Worcester Cathedral MS 172 is the only one
that has as yet been discovered in Middle English literature.1 It
contains the usual (according to the Latin) prologue, and twenty-
four or twenty-five tales, evidently translated directly from the
Latin. But the order in which the tales are reproduced differs
materially from that of any of the MSS described by Ward.

I am not able to say whether or not the "Libel of Richard
hermyte of hampol" is a genuine work of Richard Rolle of Ham-
pole. It is at any rate ascribed to the famous "Yorkshire Writer"
both at the beginning and close of the piece, and the presump-
tion is strongly in favor of its genuineness. Moreover, it has
never been noticed by Horstmann, or any other modern student
of the life and works of Richard Rolle — that is, Horstmann does
not record this piece in the list of "Works bearing his name,"
though the title of the first work given in this list ( The form of
living — an epistle to Margaret Kirkly, in 12 chapters and 2 parts)
does bear some resemblance to it.2

It is possible that another piece of our MS, A treati agenst
gostly temptaciouns (ff. 336 ff.), is the work of Hampole. Horst-
mann prints3 a piece with a similar title (A tretyse of gostly
batayle), but judging from a comparison of the first few sen-
tences of the two works, they are in no sense identical.

Still another piece of a similar character which seems to have
been very popular during the latter years of the Middle Ages
begins (f. 726) with the indefinite heading "That the inner
havyng of a man Shuld be like to the vtter." This extensive

i That this Collection was by no means unknown in ME. literature is shown by the
fact that a large number of the tales are included (in abbreviated form) in the ME. version
of the Alphabetum Narrationum (cf. Mrs. Mary M. Banks, An Alphabet of Tales: An Eng-
lish Fifteenth Century Translation of the Alphabetum Narrationum, etc. ; ed. for the
E. E. T. S. from Brit. Mus. MS Addit. 25, 719 ; Part II [London, 1905]. An Old Norse version
of the Disciplina was edited by H. Gering, Islendzk *3£ventyri; Isldndische Legenden, No-
vellen und Mfirchen (2 vols., Halle, 1882-83), Vol. I, pp. 163-98.

2Cf. C. Horstmann, "Richard Rolle of Hampole" (Yorkshire Writers, Vol. II,
Introd., pp. XL f.).

3 Ibid., pp. 420 ff. Horstmann did not know about the Worcester Cathedral MS, when
he published his work.

4 WM. H. HULME

moral-religious treatise exists in several MSS1 in the British Mu-
seum under the title, The Diuyne Clowde of Unknowynge; or A
Boke of Contemplation. It has been at different times ascribed
to William Exmeuse, Maurice Chawney, and Walter FitzHerbert.

"The statutes of the blissed Lord and Bisshop, blac Rogier"
(ff. 155-63) is of especial interest to students of English history.
The document is composed of thirty-three "statutes" concerning
the episcopal government of the city of London, issued in Latin
by Roger Niger, who was bishop of London during the second
quarter of the thirteenth century.2 The regulations touch upon
many of the most interesting social questions with which the
church had to deal during the Middle Ages. The English ver-
sion of this MS, which is the only one known,3 was probably
made in the fifteenth century.

For the sake of convenience to those students of literature and
history who may be interested in any of the pieces contained in
MS 172, I give the following complete list of the contents, to-
gether with the rubric and first few words of most of the pieces:

Ff.4r-12 (olim "XVII-XXV"4)' A fragmentary version of the Gospel
of Nicodemus, embracing chaps. 12-27 (according toTischendorf s Evang.
Apocr.)

Ff . 12-126 : A short account of the discovery of Joseph of Arimathea
in a prison at Jerusalem by Titus and Vespasian and of the death of
Pilate — a sort of Paradosis Pilati?

Ff . 13-16, The Legend of the Holy Rood, at the close of which the
copyist incorrectly placed the colophon, "explicit Passio Nichodemi."

Ff. 16-166: A short homiletic treatise beginning: "It was wont to be
doubted of sum whi Tithes bien yevon to holichirche."

Ff . 17-326 : Richard Rolle of Hampole's Libel of the Amendement
of mannes lif. Rubric, or prologue: "This is the libel of Richard her-
myte of hampol of the Amendement of mannes lif, other ellis of the

1 Cf. especially Reg. 17 G. XXVII and XXVIII, Reg. 17 D v; Harl. 674, 91c; 959 f. 41 ; 2373.

2 Roger, surnamed Niger, succeeded Eustachius de Fauconberge as bishop of London
and he was consecrated in 1229 (?). He died at Stepney, near London, in 1241 (cf. Newcourt,
Repertorium Ecclesiasticum, Vol. I, pp. 13 and 58).

3 A Latin version of the Statutes is preserved in the Cambridge University Library MS
Gg. IV, 32 (ff . 108-16), beginning : Statuta inter rectores, Archidiacon. London per dominum
Rogerum bone memorie nigrum, etc.

* The older pagination may always be arrived at by adding 13 to the later numbering
of the leaves which is followed here.

5 This piece and the next following one are virtually merged with the Gospel of Nico
dcmus in this MS.

A VALUABLE MIDDLE ENGLISH MANUSCRIPT 5

Rule of goode livyng; and it is departed in .xij. chapters. The first is
how a man conuerte hym to god. The secunde is how he shal disport
hym vnto the world. The .iij. is of poverte. The .iiij. is of thordynaunce
of goode livyng. The .v. is of tribulacioun. The .vj. is of pacience. The
.vij. is of praier. The .viij. is of meditacioun. The .ix. is of Redyng. The
.x. of clennesse of mynde. The .xj. of the love of god. The .xij. of the
contemplacioun, other the biholdyng of god. Of thiese matiers eueriche
after other as god yevith hem we shuln folowe." l

Then the first chapter begins: "Tarie the noght, man, to be conuerted
vnto the lord god, nother delay the noght from day to day," etc.

The twelfth chapter ends with the colophon: "Explicit Ricardus de
Ampull."

Ff . 33-336 : A short homily on the "office of a Bisshop."

Ff. 336-44: A treati agenst gostly tempt aciouns, beginning: "Ure
merciful lord god, Ihesu, chasticith his children and suffrith hem to be
tempted for many profitable skillis and to their profite."

Ff . 41-466 : A homiletic piece with the rubric, " Hie incipiunt duo-
decim gradus humilitatis," and beginning: "Seynt Gregory, the doctcwr,
saith that without mekenes it is vnlief ul of truste on foryevenes of thi
synne." The colophon runs: "Expliciunt .xij. gradus humilitatis."

Ff. 466-476: A series of four short tales or narratives: (a) Rubric,
"Narracio de periculo differendi penitenciam." Begins: "Ther was a
worthi man and a Riche whos name was Crisaurius, and as plentivous
as he was of worldly goodis, also ful he was of synne and vice in pride,
in lechery, in covetise," etc. (6) "Alia narracio," beginning: "Ther was
.ij. scoole felawes, of the whiche oon entred into Religion," etc. (c)
"Narracio contra confesses de peccatis sed non contritos," beginning:
"Cesarius2 the grete clerk telleth that ther was a man in Parice, a young
man that yaf al to lechery," etc. (d) "Narracio de peccatore penitente
et Saluate" (sic), beginning: "Ther was a Thief in a grete desert, leeder
maister of many," etc.

Ff. 48-72: The dedis of Apostels, having the heading: ''The prolog
on the dedis of Apostels." The "prolog" begins: "Luke of Antioche, of
the nacioun Sirie, whos praiseng is told in the gospel. At Antioche he
was a worthy man of lechecraft, and afterwards a disciple of Cristes
apostels," etc.3

Ff. 726-116: The Booke of Contemplation; or, The Diuyne Clowde
of Vnknowynge, a long moral -theological treatise in ninety-three chapters

i 1 have retained the reading of the MS in all cases, though the punctuation is gener-
ally my own, and capitals have usually been introduced at the beginning of the sentences.

2Caesarius von Heisterbach (|1240), the well-known German monastical writer and
historian, whose Dialogue magnus visionum et miraculorum is also a store-house of medi-
aeval tales and fables. Cf. Mary Banks, op. cit.

3 A comparison of the "prolog" with those printed by Forshall and Madden (Wyclifflte
Bible) shows that this version of the Dedis of the Apostels is a copy of Purvey 's translation.

6 WM. H. HULME

with the heading: "That the inner havyng of a man Shuld be like to
the vtter," and beginning: "Gostly brother in Ihesu Crist, I praie the
that in £e callyng whiche our lord hath callid the to," etc.

Ff. 1166-117: A short theological or religious piece which has been
crossed out, beginning "Ihesus be oure spede, Amen." The words:
" Pater Noster" in large red letters occur frequently on the page.

Ff. 117-1176; "Ui (i. e. six) vertuous questiouns, and answers of .vj.
holy doctours, of tribulacioun paciently taken in this world."

Ff. 1176-118 seem to contain a few "Masses" by Popes Gregory and
Innocent, which have been crossed out.

Ff. 1186-138: The Disciplina Clericalis by Peter Alfons, the prologue
to which begins: "Peter Alfons seruant of Ihesu Crist, maker of this
booke, with Thankynges I do to god, the whiche is first and without
bigynnyng; to whom is the bigynnyng and the end of al goodenes, the
fulfillyng," etc. The tales proper have the following beginning: "Ther-
for Enoch the philosophre, whiche in Arabik tung is named Edriche,
saide to his sone: 'The dreede of god be thy busynes, and lucre and
wynnyng shal come to the without any labour.' "

Ff. 138-148: A version of the Epistle of Alexander to Aristotle,
having the rubric: "Incipit epistola Alexandri magni Regis macedonum
ad Magistrum suum Aristotilem," and beginning: "Alwey I am mynde-
ful of the also among the preeks and doubtes of our batels, most diere
comandour, and, after my Moder and sisters, most acceptable," etc. The
piece ends with an Epitaphum in Latin verses, the first two lines of

which are:

Primus Alexander, pillea natus in vrbe
Quern comes Antipater, confecto melle veneno.

Ff. 1486-155: A theological treatise on the power and authority of
the Pope.

Ff. 155-163: The Statutes of Roger Niger, bishop of London (1229-
41), which piece has the heading, " The statutes of the blissed Lord and
Bisshop blac Rogier." Begins : " To the Bisshop of London of the com-
fort of the lord Petir, Archedeken of London, made and direct to al the
Persons, vicars and parassh praestes in the Citee of London constitute."
Ff. 1636-1656 : A deed or charter of William de Courtney1 (from 1381),
beginning: " Wilh'am bi divyne suffraunce Archebisshop of Caunterbury,
of al Inglond Prymat, and of the Apostels seete legate, to our wel beloved
sone, Thomas Bekaton,2 doctour of lawe, Archedeken of London, and
Deane in the chirche of our lady at the Bo we of London," etc. Ends:
yeven in our Manor at Lamblith the .xj. Kalendis of December, the yeere
of our lord MCCCLxxxvij, and of our translacioun the .vij."

Ff. 1656-166: Another short archiepiscopal document, having the
rubric: "The tenour folowith of constituciouns memoratief." A rubric

i Cf . Newcourt, Vol. I, p. 19. 2 ibid., p. 61, n. c.

A VALUABLE MIDDLE ENGLISH MANUSCRIPT 7

on the next page seems to refer to the same document: "Thiese bien the
constituciouns provincial of the Archebisshop of Caunterbury, Robart of
Wynchelsey."1 It ends: " Writen Anno dorami Milesimo CCCCXLvij."
Ff . 166-2136 : An interlinear (Latin-English) version of the Psalter,
with a prologue beginning: "Here bigynneth a prolog vpon the psautier,"
and extending to the bottom of f. 168. At the top of the following
page there is a lengthy rubric which serves as a sort of introduction to
the Psalter: "Here bigynneth the psautier, the whiche is comunely vsed
to be rad [in] holichirche service; for it is a booke of grete deuocioun and
of high gostly conceivyng. In whiche booke men fynden ful moche
wetnesse and parfite vndirstondyng of gostly comfort. Also Pis booke
sheweth the meedis of iust men and the of uniust men, the Reward of
everyman after his travaile." The MS breaks off after vs. 19 of chap.
Lxxij, the last verse of the fragment running: "How bien thei made
into desolacioun; the faileden sodainly; thei perisshiden for their wick-
idnes."2

WM. H. HULME
FREIBURG i. B.
Germany

1 Archbishop of Canterbury, 1436-46 (Newcourt, Vol. I, pp. 22, 23).

2 This version of the Psalter is probably a copy of the translation made by Purvey.

ROMEO AND JULIETTE1

At the present time the only recognized sources of Shakspere' s
Romeo and Juliet are Arthur Brooke's long poem, Eomeus and
Juliet, published in 1562, and William Painter's novel, contained
in his Palace of Pleasure, 1566-67, both of these works being
based directly on a French novel by Boaistuau, written in 1559.
Painter's story is merely a close prose translation, whereas the
poem shows a much freer handling of its original ; of the two pro-
ductions it was chiefly from the poem that Shakspere drew his
material.

But, in addition to these two sources, there seems to have
existed once in England a pre-Shaksperian play on this subject.
Brief mention of it is made in the address to the reader which
Brooke prefixed to his poem. He says: "Though I saw the same
argument lately set forth on stage with more commendation than
I can look for (being there much better set forth than I have or
can do) yet the same matter penned as it is, may serve the like
good effect." Unfortunately, this play seems to have been short-
lived in England, for no other explicit reference to it has been
found, and, so far as we are aware, it is no longer extant. The
important part, therefore, which it may have played in the history
of the drama, and the influence which it may have exerted on
Shakspere have remained hitherto matters of profitless specu-
lation.

But though this play in its original form be irrevocably lost,
we shall find, I think, that it has been fairly well preserved in a
foreign adaptation; namely, in the Romeo en Juliette, a Dutch
play in Alexandrine couplets by Jacob Struijs, written about
1630.

At first glance, to be sure, one might easily suppose this drama
to be, like the well-known German Romio und Julietta, nothing

iTo Professor Kittredge and Professor Baker, of Harvard University, I must here
acknowledge indebtedness ; for although they have not seen my paper in its present form,
yet, when I first approached this question some time ago, they offered most helpful
suggestions.
75] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, July, 1906

2 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

more than a poor remodeling of Shakspere. But closer study
reveals the fact that Shakspere, if a source of the play at all, was
certainly not the only source. To be more explicit, we are con-
fronted by the following important situation: (1) Large portions
of the Dutch play clearly go back to Boaistuau, or to some trans-
lation of Boaistuau. (2) One significant incident finds its coun-
terpart only in Brooke's version of the story. (3) Numerous
agreements between the Romeo en Juliette and Shakspere' s drama
cannot be accounted for by any known form of Boaistuau or by
Brooke's poem. With the Dutch play thus agreeing in turn
exclusively with Boaistuau, with Brooke, and with Shakspere, one
is forced to admit that Struijs made use of all these three other
works, or drew upon some other document which was also used by
Shakspere — perhaps indeed the play referred to by Brooke. The
first supposition is on the face of it unlikely; the second I shall
now try to illustrate and confirm.

But to convert this latter supposition into a justifiable conclu-
sion will require at least two stages of proof: a thorough demon-
stration, in the first place, that the agreements between D (if this
letter may stand for the Dutch play) and each of the other three
works have in reality the exclusive nature which I have ascribed
to them; and, in the second place, ample proof — reached by a
careful analysis of certain agreements between D and Shakspere —
that Shakspere was influenced in these cases by some original of
D, instead of, vice versa, being here drawn upon by Struijs.

In considering the first stage of our reasoning, we may pass
by hurriedly the agreements between D and Boaistuau. They
really demand no proof; so close are they and so numerous that
critics have always supposed the play to be founded chiefly upon
the novel. Thus the names of certain characters — Montesches,
Capellets, Thibout, Lord van der Schale, Anselmus — have evi-
dently been suggested by forms similar to those which we find
in Painter's translation of Boaistuau: Montesches, Capellet,
Thibault, Bartholomew of Escala, Anselme. In Shakspere these
names have been changed, in accordance with Brooke's initiative,
respectively to Montague, Capulet, Tybalt, Escalus, and John.
Likewise great blocks of dialogue have much closer correspon-

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 3

dences in Boaistuau than in Brooke or Shakspere — so, for example,
the conversation between Romeo and Thibout just preceding the
fight; Juliette's comments on Thibout's death and Romeo's deed;
Capellets' angry words to Juliette at her refusal to accept Paris;
and a considerable portion of Juliette's reflections before taking the
sleeping-potion. Critics were probably led into such a hasty con-
clusion as to Struijs' chief indebtedness by the known existence,
certainly as early as 1618, of a literal Dutch translation of
Boaistuau.1 The conclusion is manifestly false; but the agree-
ments upon which it is based are perfectly genuine. Here is a
convincing example. The words exchanged by Romeo and
Thibout just before the fatal encounter read, according to Boais-
tuau, as follows:

Thibault tu peux cognoistre par la patience que j'ai eue jusques £
1'heure present, que je ne suis point venu icy pour combatre ou toy &
les tiens, mais pour moyenner la paix entre nous: & si tu pensois que
par deffault de courage, j'eusse failly £ mon devoir, tu ferois grad tort &
ma reputation, mais je te prie de croire qu'il y a quelque autre particulier
respect, qui m'a si bien command^ jusques icy, que je me suis contenu
comme tu vois: duquel je te prie n'abuser, ains sois content de tant de
sang respandu, & de tant de meurtres commis le pass6, sans que tu me
contraignes de passer les bornes de ma volont6. Ha traistre, dist Thi-
bault, tu te penses sauver par le plat de ta lague, mais entends & te
defendre, car je te feray maintenant sentir quelle ne te pourra si bien
garantir ou servir de bouclier que je ne t'oste la vie.2

Next I quote from D:

0 Thibout, thou canst see from my patience that I have not come
here to fight with thee; my only intention is sincerely to make peace
between thy party and mine. And so if thou dost think that I did not
take part for lack of courage, thou dost wrong mine honor. Therefore I
beg thee, believe me — I swear it — that there was no desire on my part to
do injury to thy faction, but it was rather a very particular affair. Be
content, then, with the blood which has been shed and with the lives which
have thus far been lost, without persistently forcing me to act contrary
to my desire.

1 The only extant form of this translation of Boaistuau's stories is that which came
out in 1650; but this now appears to be the second edition. For information concerning
the first edition see J. de Witte van Citters, Nederlandsche Spectator, 1873, No. 18, pp. 140 ff.
The same article furnishes a comparison of the Dutch translation with Struijs' play ; on
this latter subject see also H. E. Moltzer, ShaJcspere's Invloed (Groningen, 1874), p. 49.

ZHistoires Tragiques, extraictes des oeuvres Italiennes de Bandel, & mises en nostre
langue Francoise par Pierre Boaistuau surnomme Launay, natifde Bretaigne (Paris, 1559),
Vol. I, p. 55, V '.

4 HAKOLD DE WOLF FULLER

Thibout. Ha, ha! traitor! thou thinkst by thy idle talk to escape
me. No, no, look that thou defend thyself, and be ready for my strokes,
for thou shalt not leave this place alive.1

Here is Brooke's version:

Thou doest me wrong (quoth he) for I but part the fraye;
Not dread, but other waighty cause my hasty hand doth stay.
Thou art the cheefe of thine, the noblest eke thou art,
Wherefore leave of thy malice now, and helpe these folke to parte.
Many are hurt, some slayne, and some are like to dye:
No, coward traytor boy (qd he) straight way I mynde to trye,
Whether thy sugred talke, and tong so smootely fylde
Against the force of this my swerd shall serve thee for a shylde.2

Shakspere's phrasing at this point is so different that it need
not be quoted. Certainly everyone will here recognize Boaistuau
and not Brooke as the ultimate source of D. And what applies
to this instance is true of the other instances which I have enu-
merated above.

We come now to the one important incident in D which in a
certain sense is exactly reproduced only in Brooke's poem ; for in
Shakspere it has been significantly altered. Everyone remembers
the familiar scene (III, v, 213 ff.) in which Juliet, after having
antagonized her father and mother, at length turns for help to the

nurse :

What say'st thou? hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse.
Nurse. Faith, here it is.

Romeo is banish'd, and all the world to nothing,
That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you;
Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the county.
O, he's a lovely gentleman!
Romeo's a dishclout to him : an eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye

i Romeo en Juliette, door Jacob Struijs (Amsterdam, 1634), D 2 r°. Struijs died two or
three years before the publication of his play. For help in translating Struijs' play I owe
much to Professor Kalff, of Leyden, who showed at all times the utmost patience and kind-
ness in correcting my blunders. To him and to my other friends in Netherland my heartiest
thanks are due for their cordial appreciation of my work in Netherlandish literature; par-
ticularly to Professor Logeman, of Ghent; Professor Verdam and Dr. S. G. de Vries, of
Leyden ; Dr. A. J. Barnouw, of The Hague ; and Dr. J. A. Worp, of Groningen.

iRomeus and Juliet, reprinted in Shakespeare's Library, second edition enlarged by
Hazlitt (London, 1875), Vol. I, p. 134.

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 5

As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,

I think you are happy in this second match,

For it excels your first: or if it did not,

Your first is dead; or 't were as good he were,

As living here and you no use of him.
Jul. Speakest thou from thy heart?
Nurse. And from my soul too;

Or else beshrew them both.
Jul. Amen!

Nurse. What?

Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.

Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,

Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell,

To make confession and to be absolv'd.
Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. [Exit.]
Jul. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!

Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,

Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue

Which she hath prais'd him with above compare

So many thousand times? — Go, counsellor;

Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain, —

I'll to the friar, to know his remedy;

If all else fail, myself have power to die. [Exit.]

Now, in both D and Brooke this deceiving of the nurse occupies
a place later in the story. It comes after Juliet's visit to the friar,
by whose good counsel Juliet's change of cheer is supposed to
have been effected. The scene in D, which serves as a touching
prologue to Juliette's ponderings over the possible fatal effects of
the sleeping-potion, is as follows:

Juliette. Don't you see, nurse, how nicely all things are turning
out? Who could have augured for me so soon this happiness? I cer-
tainly should not have believed I could forget my Romeo so soon; but
what else is it? I must lookout for my own welfare, and yield to my
father's wishes. Therefore, no longer perforce, but joyfully I am pre-
pared to marry with Count Paris tomorrow. Shall Romeo hold me for
untrue? What think you, nurse?

Nurse. No, my mistress, not at all. He well understands that he
shall not possess you again; therefore he shall be content.

Juliette. Let us cease this talk, for I am sleepy. Since we must rise
up early in the morning, let us go to bed; my bed, I suppose, is ready?

Nurse. Yes, quite ready.

Juliette. Well, then, you may go.

6 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

Nurse. I go. Good night. God give you sweet sleep, my mistress.

Juliette. The like to you.

[Exit Nurse.]

Oh, indeed! Well, you leave me just in time; for I could not have
restrained my wretched grief any longer, with my husband so fixed in
my thoughts.1

I quote now from Brooke:

But Juliet the whilst her thoughts within her brest did locke;

Even from the trusty nurce, whose secretnes was tryde.

The secret counsell of her hart the nurce childe seeks to hide.

Forsith to mocke her dame she dyd not sticke to lye,

She thought no sinne with shew of truth, to bleare her nurces eye.

In chamber secretly the tale she gan renew,

That at the doore she tolde her dame as though it had been trew.

The flattring nurce dyd prayse the fryer for his skill,

And said that she had done right well by wit to order will.

She setteth foorth at large the fathers furious rage,

And eke she prayseth much to her, the second mariage,

And County Paris now she praiseth ten times more,

By wrong, then she her selfe by right, had Romeus praysde before.

Paris shall dwell there still, Romeus shall not retourne,

What shall it boote her life, to languish still and mourne.

These wordes and like, the nurce did speake, in hope to please,
But greatly did these wicked wordes the ladies mynde disease;
But ay she hid her wrath, and seemed well content,
When dayly dyd the naughty nurce new arguments invent.2

In Boaistuau, and hence also in Painter, there is not the
slightest suggestion of any such conversation between Juliet and
the nurse.

With these facts before us, the situation becomes very signifi-
cant. We find the incident in D and Brooke coming at the same
point in the story, and Juliet's attitude given reasonableness by
the same preceding event, namely, the friar's counsel. In Shak-
spere, on the other hand, the conversation has been shifted so as
to lead up to Juliet's visit to the friar :

Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,

Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell,

To make confession and to be absolved.

J Op. cit., Q 3 V°. 2 Op. cit., pp. 174, 175.

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 7

We must admit, therefore, that there is contact at this point
between D and Brooke; or make the most unlikely supposition
that Struijs, though taking this incident from Shakspere, chose
for some uncalled-for reason to restore it to its original position
in the poem.1

It remains now to consider in detail the matter occurring
exclusively in D and Shakspere. All of this need not be cited,
but only those passages where the resemblance is very striking.
Romeo in D, recounting to his boon companion, Phebidas, his
experiences at the masquerade, rhapsodizes as follows:

There for the first time I beheld my love, who like a silver moon
shone down upon her mates. Next other jewels a brilliant diamond she
appeared. Her two eyes I saw sparkle as gleam Castor and Polux on
high.2

In S (that is, Shakspere' s drama), I, v, 46 ff.:

Romeo. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright !
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellow shows.

And II, ii, 15 ff.

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

Again in D, Romeo is waiting below Juliette's window, hoping
to get a chance to speak to her. He says:

Oh that the blessed window would once open behind which my
goddess lies in sweetest slumber! Through its opening streaming, my
bright sun could requicken this half-dead soul of mine. O my dear
love, knowest thou not my passion? Doth thy heart's blood not
violently keep time with mine? Methinks that, were my lady in such plight,
I should a witness of it have within me. O heavens! what do I see?
A light in my lady's rooms begins to burn; my heart thrills and bounds

1 Attention is also called to the fact that in these extracts Shakspere in one case shows
closer correspondence with Brooke than with D— in the nurse's praise of Paris; in another,
with D as opposed to Brooke— in Juliet's expression of her impatience, and of her relief
that the nurse has withdrawn. This looks as if some original of D had once served as a
pre-Shaksperian link in the Romeo and Juliet story.

2 Op. cit. A 4 ro.

8 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

from fear and joy. Oh, might I once accost my goddess on this spot,
then were the burden lifted from my heart. Soft ! let me listen to what

she says.

[Juliette leans out her window.]

JuL What troubled voice laments below me here? Who is it here
goes prowling alone in the darkness and breaks my light sleep ? Ah, by the
moon's light I now see Romeo sheltered, 'neath my window standing.1

InS (II, ii, 2ff.):

Romeo. But soft ! what light thro' yonder window breaks ?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!

JuL Ay me!

Romeo [Aside]. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this ?

JuL What man art thou that thus bescreened in night
So stumblest on my counsel?

In neither Painter nor Brooke does the language at this point
of the story bear any close resemblance to the passages which I
have just quoted. Painter says merely:

And after he had bene there many times, missing the chiefest cause
of his comming, Julietta, impacient of hir evill, one night repaired to hir
window and perceived through the brightnesse of the moone hir friend
Rhomeo hard under hir window, no lesse attended for, than he himself
was waighting. Then she secretly with teares in hir eyes, and with
voyce interrupted by sighes, sayd: "Signer Rhomeo, methinke that you
hazarde your persone too much," etc.2

And the conversation then corresponds to dialogue in D and S
immediately following that which I have quoted. Brooke gives
much the same account as Painter:

And Juliet that now doth lacke her hearts releefe;

Her Romeus pleasant eyen (I mean) is almost dead for greefe.

1 Op. cit., B 1 r<>.

2 Rhomeo and Julietta. The goodly Historic of the true and constant Loue betwene
Rhomeo and Julietta, the one of whom died of poison, and the other of sorow and heuinesse:
wherin be comprised many aduentures of loue, and other deuises touching the same. The
XXV. Nouel. Contained in Vol. II of the Palace of Pleasure (London, 1567), p. 224.

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 9

Impacient of her woe, she hapt to leane one night

Within her windowe, and anone the moone did shine so bright,

That she espyde her love; her hart revived sprang

And now for joy she clappes her hands, which erst for wo she wrang

"O Romeus (of your life) too lavas sure you are,
That in this place, and at thys tyme, to hazard it you dare," etc.1

After taking leave of Juliette at the break of day, Romeo, in D,
departs with the resolve to put his affair before Friar Lourens.
And the friar, discovered in front of his cell, opens the next scene
with the following words :

The black curtains of heaven's dome fall down towards the west,
letting the eastern sky grow pleasant with light. The messenger of the
sun begins to color the horizon a fiery glow. Each bird draws out its
head from under its wing and hops from branch to branch, and with its
sweet voice sings the praise of God. But man lies still in his soft and
senseless bed, dumb with restless slumber. He looks not toward the
day, nor thinks but once of God; but dotes on idleness and sloth, etc.
[He reads to himself from a little book.]

Romeo. Soft! is it not he? Yes, there he goes muttering along,
seeming to converse with the pages of the book. I will go to him and
lay my affair before him. Good morning, father.

Friar Lourens. Deo gratias, my son. What brings thee here so
early? This strikes me as most strange.2

In S the arrangement of scenes is exactly the same. Bidding
Juliet adieu, Romeo determines to visit Friar Laurence and
exit. The friar opens the next scene thus (II, iii, 1 ff.) :

The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,
Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
And necked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels:
Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,

I must fill up this osier cage of ours

With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.

[Enter Romeo.]

Romeo. Good morning, father.
Fr.L. Benedicite!

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

Young son, it argues a distempered head, etc.

Op. cit., pp. 95, 96. 2 Op. cit., B 2v<>.

10 HAROLD BE WOLF FULLER

Another one of these exclusive resemblances is brought out by
the following: In D, Romeo, in recounting to Phebidas what
happened at the banquet, explains that when he was recognized,
all of the Capellets restrained their ire and feigned the utmost
courtesy. So far this is in complete accord with all the versions
of the story except Shakspere's, where Tybalt is with difficulty
silenced by a stern rebuke from his uncle. A little later in D,
however, there occurs something not at all unlike this Shaksperian
situation. In a scene involving Capellets, Thibout, and Paris,
Thibout, commenting on Romeo's conduct in appearing at the
house of his enemy, starts a discussion by exclaiming:

Alas! friend Paris, it was the greatest agony for me not to chastise
his impudence on the spot; my blood boiled from top to toe. And if it
had not been for dishonoring the company I would have split his head
in two before the eyes of all.

Capellets. It is better that you did not so.

Paris. There would have been little honor in it, too.

Thibout. Be it shame or honor, I say it here, and I swear it, that I
shall be Romeo's undoing the very next time I meet him; or, if not, then
he shall make me greet the dust.

Capellets. Pardon his youth.

Paris. He hath done little that is wrong.

Thibout. No my friend, not you nor anyone shall talk me out of this.

Capellets. Be better advised.1

The well-known passage in S reads as follows (I, v, 56 ff.) :

Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a Montague.

Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave

Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,

To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

Now, by the stock and honor of my kin,

To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
Cap. Why, how now, kinsman! Wherefore storm you so?
Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe,

A villain that is hither come in spite,

To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Cap. Young Romeo is it ?

Tyb. 'Tis he, that villain Romeo.

Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone;

He bears him like a portly gentleman;

1 Op. eft., B 3 Vo.

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 11

And, to say truth, Verona brags of him

To be a virtuous and well govern'd youth :

I would not for the wealth of all the town

Here in my house do him disparagement;

Therefore be patient, take no note of him :

It is my will, the which if thou respect,

Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,

An ill-seeming semblance for a feast.
Tyb. It fits, when such a villain is a guest;

I'll not endure him.
Cap. He shall be endured.

Tyb. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall
Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall.

It has always been said that Shakspere's was the only version
of the story in which Mercutio was killed in the fray between the
two hostile houses, and in which therefore Romeo was given an
almost righteous motive for attacking Tybalt. But observe the
following passage from D, remembering that Mercutio is here
impersonated by Phebidas:

Thibout, Count Paris, Marco, Bastro : Capellets, enter. Phebidas,
Carlo, Paulo, Jacomo : Montessches, skirmishing with one another.

Thibout. Allons! friends, step up to them; each one look to his
blade. The rogues stand, and draw their swords.

Paris. What! so courageous?

Marco. Can we endure this impudence?

Bastro. Come, then! why do we hold back? 'tis time to chastise them.

Thibout. You night-lopers ! how comes it that you let not good folk
sleep? What madness is this, that you bawl about the streets? Home
with you at once! unless you are looking for hides striped with blows.
Well!

Phebidas. To sling abuse is no art. What right have you so grossly
to dub us night-lopers? Would you dare answer me this, point for
point?

Thibout. What say you, naught but villain? Have you the courage
to brandish a dagger's point? I think not. Come, then! I will teach
you — have you a heart? — to become the fencing-master of the other
world.

Paulo. Impudent fool!

Marco. Come on!

12 HAKOLD DE WOLF FULLER

Jacomo. You see that we are not retreating very much, you bluster-
ing wind-bags !

Thibout. You shall soon pay for that. Now stand, stand! give way
not a step.

Phebidas. I step back only to get my wind. There! your mantle
just saved you from a deadly wound.

Marco. Give way! give way! — you have no chance — before I stab
you through the heart.

Carlo. Step up! you begin to brag too soon.

Paris. There, then!

Paulo. That missed.

Bastro. Oh, that came too near. Expect the same from me.

Jacomo. Behold! you put your life at stake.

[Romeo comes out and speaks while they fight.]

Romeo. Make haste, my feet! — why do you fearfully hold back? —
that I may soon be with my soul's delight. What may it mean that I
feel in my heart the shadow of a sad misfortune?

Thibout. How is that for a touch?

Phebidas. I'm done for.

Jacomo. That shall be avenged.

Romeo. What do I hear? They are really in earnest. Oh! they are
my friends. I must manage to stop this fighting.

[Romeo tries to separate them, but Thibout then proceeds to thrust at

him.]1

Then follows a scene in which Romeo, despite himself, is forced
to encounter Thibout. The encounter in S is too well known to
require quoting in full; a few lines will suffice (III, i, 86 ff.) :

Tybalt. I am for you. [Drawing.]
Romeo. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.
Merc. Come, sir, your passado. [ They fight]
Romeo. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.

Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage!

Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath

Forbidden bandying in Verona streets : •

Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!

[Tybalt under Romeo's arm stabs Mercutio and flies with his followers.]
Merc. I am hurt.

The situation in neither Painter nor Brooke contains any hint
of Mercutio's death.

i Op. cit. D 1 V°.

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 13

Shortly after this point in the story, Shakspere shows us
Romeo at the friar's cell desperately bewailing his fate. It is
worth while to compare this scene with the corresponding scene
in D, both in respect to arrangement of material and to dialogue.
In S the scene is occupied for some time with Romeo's ravings,
which are kept somewhat in restraint by the comforting friar.
Then knocking is heard, and the friar is naturally alarmed for
Romeo's safety; needlessly, however, for the visitor proves to be
the trusty nurse. She enters, and from her Romeo learns of
Juliet's desperate plight. It is arranged that Romeo shall visit
his mistress the same night, and exit nurse. The conversation
between Romeo and the friar is then resumed for a short time,
before the scene culminates.

In part the scene reads as follows :

Fr. L. O, then I see that madmen have no ears.

Arise; one knocks; good Romeo, hide thyself.

Nurse [within]. Let me come in and you shall know my errand;

I come from Lady Juliet.
Fr. L. Welcome then.

[Enter NurseJ]
Nurse. O holy friar, O tell me, holy friar,

Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo?

O, he is even in my mistress' case,
Just in her case ! O wof ul sympathy !
Piteous predicament ! Even so lies she,
Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.

Romeo. Spakest thou of Juliet? how is it with her?

Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;
And now falls on her bed ; and then starts up,
And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries,
And then downfalls again.

Exactly the same plan is followed in D, the dialogue, too, is
very similar. I quote from the middle of the scene:

Fr. L. My son, keep to thy senses .... Truly, thy grief exceeds all
bounds. Methinks I hear some one. Still ! I will go first and see who

14 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

it is, that thou mayst not be betrayed; and so it be not a trusty friend,
he shall remain outside. Ha! 'tis the nurse. Now I may open the door.

[Enter Nurse.]

Romeo. My heart is comforted. What may she bring? Welcome,
nurse; how is it with my Juliette? What tidings bringest thou me?

Nurse. Alas! Romeo, my mistress lies for thy sake in extreme
grief; she sighs the whole day long, and cannot sleep an hour of the
night — so presses her her sorrow. My heart breaks to hear her moan
and sob in the bitterest of the night. Thy absence, my lord, makes her
often call for death.1

There is a total lack of such dialogue in Painter and Brooke.
Painter simply states that the nurse came to the friar, who agreed
to send Romeo to his mistress that evening. Brooke gives the
nurse exactly the same r6le:

By this, unto his cell, the nurce with spedy pace,

Was comme the nerest way; she sought no ydel resting place.

The fryer sent home the newes of Romeus certain helth,

And promesse made (what so befell) he should that night by stelth

Comme to his wonted place, that they in nedefull wise

Of theyr affayres in time to comme, might thorowly devyse.

Those joyful! newes, the nurce brought home with merry joy, etc.2

One more citation will perhaps be sufficient to clinch for the
reader the reality of this exclusive agreement between D and S.
The lines which I shall now quote all have to do with Romeo's
leave-takings of Juliet. In S there are two: one the first evening
in the orchard, the other just before Romeo sets out for Verona.
In D there is one additional farewell, as indeed in the narrative
versions; namely, on the night when Romeo visits Juliette under
most propitious circumstances. This visit Shakspere has natur-
ally omitted, inserting some of its details, perhaps, in the second
of his two scenes. The first evening that Romeo is in the orchard
Juliette in D exclaims:

I love thee, it is true, and am wholly thine; but ah! my love, too
horribly I fear that our passion shall come to naught, all for the deadly
hatred which my kin have sworn to thine.3

At the corresponding point in S Juliet expresses the same senti-
ment (II, ii, 116 ff.):

l Op. cit., E 2 ro. 2 Op. cit., pp. 130, 131. 3 Op. cit., B, 1 v«.

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 15

.... although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract tonight:
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden.

Some features of the second and third leave-takings in D also
remind one of the familiar last farewell in S. The trusty nurse
becomes anxious because of the length of Romeo's stay. She says:

Good people, hurry ! I see Aurora rising up red in the east :

[Romeo proceeds to climb down.]
Juliette. Farewell, with this kiss, my love. God keep you safe.2

Then in the third leave-taking:

Romeo. Alas! how time flies! the clock already says four. My
dearest wife, I must depart at once.

Juliette. Is it already so late? this night has seemed to me much
shorter than the half hour I waited for thee.

Romeo. My time approaches.

Juliette. Alas!

Romeo. Do not give way to sadness.

Juliette. Thy going makes my heart most heavy, as if we never more
should meet together.

Romeo. Put away this idle fancy, which lays a heavy doubt upon
thy heart. Think not upon the darkest path, but picture a sun-lit future.
Well then, soul of my soul, with this one kiss I needs must take my
leave; it is high time.

Juliette. O bitter parting! it breaks my heart in two. I shall die,
my love, of grief.

Romeo. Be patient yet, I bid thee, and put this sorrow from thy
heart; like sorrow presses me, and yet I needs must go. Farewell, my wife.

Juliette. O sweet mouth, let me kiss thee for the last. O my soul!

Romeo. I must be gone with haste; I must descend. Be content,
my love, and trust that fortune will soon change our sorrow and grief to
joy. For the last, farewell.

[He climbs down.]

Juliette. Farewell, my only lord and master. Alas ! my grief has
made me giddy — I fear lest I fall. [Exit.]2

This should be compared carefully with the following from
Shakspere (III, v, Iff.):

i Op. cit., C 3 vo. 2 Op. cit., F 1 ro.

16 HAEOLD DE WOLF PULLER

Juliet. Wilt them be gone? it is not yet near day.
Nurse. The day is broke; be wary; look about. [Exit.]

Romeo. Farewell, farewell! one kiss and I'll descend.

[He goeth down.]
Juliet. Art thou gone so? love, lord, ay, husband, friend!

O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again?
Romeo. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve

For sweet discourses in our time to come.
Juliet. O God, I have an ill-divining soul!

Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,

As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:

Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale..
Romeo. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you.

Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! [Exit.]

Painter and Brooke, at this point of the story, could have
furnished Shakspere with next to nothing. In regard to the last
two leave-takings, it is stated by both authorities, though not in
direct discourse, that the lovers, disturbed by the approach of
Phoebus, make their adieus, Romeo on the first occasion kissing
his mistress good-by , and on the second swearing eternal constancy,
amid much lamenting by both.

So much for the passages in which D agrees exclusively with
one or another of the three works. Surely sufficient citation of
these has been made to confirm my original hypothesis — that
Struijs either made use of Boaistuau, Brooke, and Shakspere —
all three; or drew his material from some once extant document
which contributed largely toxthe growth of the Romeo and Juliet
story in England, before it reached Shakspere's hands. The
former supposition, as was indicated at the outset, seems most
unlikely. But in the next stage of our reasoning it will, I hope,
appear not only unlikely but quite untenable.

To establish this point beyond doubt will require some psycho-
logical study of certain other matter occurring only in D and S;
for the discussion now resolves itself into a question of mental

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 17

reaction. We shall find, I think, parallel passages which, if
judged impartially and quite apart from any thought of their
time or place of composition, will seem to imply that lines in D
stimulated Shakspere; and not, vice versa, that the Shaksperian
lines reacted upon Struijs. If real traces of such mental reaction
exist, then the inference will be inevitable that Shakspere was
influenced in reality by some lost source of D, since D itself was
not composed until after his death.

Now, there are, indeed, lines in D which in every case look
like the starting-points of Shakspere's subtler, more compact
creations. For it will never do to infer that we here have in D
Shakspere's drama unaccountably garbled and degenerate. On
the other hand, as everybody knows, Shakspere's mind was
always widely reactive : a line, a word, the barest hint in whatever
source he was using stirred for a moment his imagination, and
then became practically transformed. The following quotations
will, I hope, bring out the point I am trying to establish. When
Romeo, in S, receives from his man the false news of Juliet's
death, he says (V, i, 24) :

Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars!

Meaning, probably, that he defies fate to do him any further
harm, since this news has already killed him. But in D there is
at this point a much more elaborate passage. It reads as follows:

Is my mistress dead $ is it true ? How comes it then that Phoebus
still shines on? Or can he still without flickering cast his gaze upon the
earth? Away day! away day! depart and leave me in my grief; and
draw the black hag, Night, before your eyes .... Fade, wretched stars,
and lead Diana from this place; let hell's deep darkness settle on me here. *

Here is a typical Senecan wail which Shakspere has apparently
condensed to a poignant exclamation.

To continue : Romeo, in D, while he is waiting below Juliette's
window, thus invokes night:

Come, thou dark shroud, as is thy wont, and cover with thy shadow
the half of this world's orb; while I in lonely gloom make echo rewail
my own lament, in the innermost of Venus' temple, where my Juliette is.2

In S (II, ii, 159 ff.) Juliet, thinking that Romeo has withdrawn
from the orchard, cries:

i Op. cit., H 2 vo. 2 Op. cit., B 1 ro.

18 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

Hist ! Romeo, hist ! O, for a falconer's voice,

To lure this tassel -gentle back again !

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;

Else would I tear the cave where echo lies,

And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine

With repetition of my Romeo's name.

The essential similarity of these two conceits is of course apparent.
And since they appear at practically the same point of the story,
there can be little doubt that one was dependent upon the other,
with the chances greatly in favor of Shakspere's having been the
borrower, for there is exactly the sort of transformation that one
would expect at his hands.

The next instance of this kind is found in the orchard scene.
A part of Romeo's love-making, in D, is the following:

Thou, O Goddess, art the sole beacon towards which I sail. Wilt
thou unpityingly withhold thy light from mine eye, then must my ship,
to my ruin, perish; for unless some haven be at hand, its freight will sink
it to the depths.1

Compare with this Romeo's similar love-making in S (II, ii, 82 ff. ) :

I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far

As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea,

I would adventure for such merchandise.

Again, when Romeo in D is leaving Verona for Mantua, the
thought of his love brings to his lips this sad lament:

When I think that I am banished from that divine being whose
sweetest nectar I may no more taste; whose dear mouth I may no more
reach unto; whose godlike voice my ears, as if unworthy, shall hear no
more — I fall o'erwhelmed in tears.2

At the friar's cell Romeo in S expresses similar grief (III, iii,
29 ff.):

'Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here,

Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog

And little mouse, every unworthy thing,

Live here in heaven and may look on her;

But Romeo may not : more validity,

More honorable state, more courtship lives

In carrion-flies than Romeo: they may seize

On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand

And steal immortal blessing from her lips.

1 Op. cit., B 1 yo. 2 Op, cit., F 2 ro.

KOMEO AND JULIETTE 19

Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin ;
But Romeo may not; he banished.

Certainly this idea in D might easily be construed as the barest
embryo of the Shaksperian lines ; it could never have resulted from
a slovenly adaptation of these.

A very few more examples of this sort will perhaps be suffi-
cient. After Romeo, in D, has learned from his man of Juliette's
supposed death, he says, among other things:

O death, O cruel death! thee will I curse to all eternity. Must thou
needs have reft that dear life, so before her time? Must thou needs have
hastened to banish from the light of day that sweet mistress whose dear
eyes rejoiced the earth? Didst thou think her gain thy triumph? ....
No, 'tis to thy shame that thou dost root from the earth the fairest flower,
and sparest the rankest weed. Thou dost the greatest injury to the
world that thou robbest her of her choicest, and leavest the halt, the

blind, the deaf O archer, void of reason, or else uncertain of thy

aim ! thou hast envied the earth the fostering of her, and thou grudgest
me the joyful embraces of such a wife.1

The corresponding passage in S comes a little later in the story;
namely, when Romeo is at Juliet's tomb. He says (V, iii, 45, 46):

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorg'd with the sweetest morsel of the earth;

and 11. 91 ff.:

. . . . O my love! my wife!

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,

Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

.... Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?

In D, after Pedro has helped Romeo to effect an entrance to
the tomb, he becomes thoroughly frightened:

From fear I seem to see a troupe of ghosts prowling about me, and to

hear groans and loathsome crackling sounds I will sit down here

to sleep a while, to rid my brain of this dread fantasy.2

i Op. c«., H 3 Vo. 2 Op. cit., H 4 V<>.

20 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

In S, it will be remembered, there are two servants at the tomb:
the page of Paris and Romeo's man, Balthazar, it being generally
admitted that Paris' visit to Juliet's tomb was added to the story
by Shakspere himself. When the page is bidden to withdraw,
he says (V, iii, 10 ff.):

I am almost afraid to stand alone

Here in the churchyard ; yet I will adventure.

A little later Balthazar confides to the friar (1. 137) :
As I did sleep under this yew-tree here, etc.

It is perhaps not without the bounds of coincidence that in both
D and S a servant should be afraid of spooks in the churchyard;
but that in each Romeo's man should go to sleep, while his master
is engaged in such precarious business, is good proof of borrow-
ing. Suppose, therefore, that in an old English play Shakspere
found this incident much the same as I have described it in D.
How natural, then, for him, in adjusting it to his newly created
situation, to distribute these two states, fear and drowsiness,
respectively, to the tender young page and to Romeo's man!

To test this explanation one may revert for a moment to a con-
trary supposition — that Struijs was here pilfering Shakspere. If
this was the case, why did he choose to obliterate the important
feature of Paris' visit to the tomb, and to conform thereby to the
older versions ? Here is a case, then, of peculiar significance, for
it brings out the similarity in D both to S and to the earlier form
of the story. What better proof could there be that an English
source of D served as a link somewhere between Boaistuau and S !
Nor is this the only instance of this sort; there are at least two
others. In the first orchard scene Juliet, in D, is able to recog-
nize Romeo because of the moonlight, just as in Boaistuau and
Brooke; Romeo does not need, as in Shakspere, to speak to dis-
close himself. And yet the "business" in both dramas at this
point is surprisingly close. He stands, in D, singing Juliette's
praises beneath her window, out of which she then leans. "Soft!"
he whispers, "let me listen to what she says." In this design,
however, he is thwarted because she has become aware of some-
one's presence. "What troubled voice," she asks, "laments below

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 21

me here? Who is it here goes prowling alone in the darkness,
and breaks my light sleep? Ah, by the moonlight I now see
Romeo sheltered, 'neath my window standing." In this compli-
cated instance, what really happened seems to have been this:
The source of D followed Boaistuau in having Juliette recognize
Romeo in the moonlight, but added the conversation which here
corresponds with S, as also Romeo's expressed wish that he might
secretly overhear Juliette's words — a wish, however, that was not
gratified — not at least until it fell under Shakspere 's notice, who
at once saw the dramatic and poetic power to be gained by work-
ing out this hint.

The other similar case can be described more briefly. Romeo,
in D, takes leave of Juliette three times — the first night in the
orchard, on the marriage-night, and finally when he departs from
Verona. This agrees well enough with Boaistuau and Brooke,
both of which authorities account for the first and last leave-
takings, and say in addition that after the marriage Romeo
frequently visited Juliet in her chamber. The second of the
three scenes in D is naturally not to be found in S; in place
of it there is Juliet's well-known soliloquy, beginning, "Gallop
apace, you fiery-footed steeds." The phrasing in all these three
scenes in D, however, shows marked correspondence with lines
in S, rather than with Boaistuau or Brooke. What does this
mean? Again that the source of D was a pre-Shaksperian link
in the story.

The argument thus far may be summarized as follows: The
first part tended to prove that D was indebted either to all three
of the works, Boaistuau, Brooke, and S, or to some English docu-
ment, anterior to Shakspere, but now lost, which once added to
the growth of the Romeo and Juliet fable. The second part of
the argument made the latter of these suppositions alone seem
tenable, by establishing indebtedness on Shakspere' s part to this
assumed English prototype.1

!The objection may possibly be raised that Struijs may have based his play uponShak-
sphere's first, 1591 (?) version, and that therefore the cases cited in this section of my paper
are only, after all, examples of Shakspere making over his earlier self. This objection,
however, seems to me hardly valid. For in these revisions there are the distinctive
features of Shakspere's genius, which were not lacking to him even in the early period of
his career.

22 HAEOLD DE WOLF FULLER

III

Hitherto I have taken it for granted that the lost source of D
was a play. And, indeed, this seems hardly to require proof,
since it would have been far easier for this type of literature to
stray from England over to Holland, through the agency of trav-
eling troupes of English actors, than for an obscure prose romance
or poem. To assume off-hand, however, that this source was the
play referred to by Arthur Brooke might appear a little hasty,
since a popular story of this sort might well enough have been
dramatized in England two or three times before, say 1590. But
other things than Brooke's mere reference urge one to place the
play at an early date.

Thus we shall find it instructive to make some comparison of
D and the poem ; especially of those points of contact in the case
of which Boaistuau, and therefore Painter, furnish no correspon-
dences. These are two in number — the scenes containing Romeo's
ravings at the friar's cell, and the nurse's attempt to reconcile
Juliet to the marriage with Paris. In the former case, resem-
blances in phrasing being rather vague, no inference can be drawn
other than that, as far as the mere incident is concerned, the
English play and the poem were certainly interdependent. A
study of the latter case, however, will prove to be more illuminat-
ing. In D the nurse makes no attempt whatsoever to praise
Paris above Romeo. Her only comment on the situation is her
reply to Juliette's question: "Shall Romeo hold me for untrue,
what think you, nurse?" She says: "No, my mistress, not at all.
He well understands that he shall not possess you again; there-
fore he shall be content." In Brooke's poem the matter is
managed differently. Here the nurse

.... prayseth much to her, the second mariage,
And County Paris now she prayseth ten times more,
By wrong, then she her selfe by right, had Romeus praysde before.
Paris shall dwell there still, Romeus shall not retourne.
What shall it boote her life, to languish still and mourne.1

If the English source of D had drawn this incident from
Brooke, would there not still remain in D more of this dramatic

i Op. cit., pp. 174, 175.

KOMEO AND JULIETTE 23

irony? For to have the nurse praise Romeo above Paris, when
Juliet is in such desperate straits, furnishes an emotional situation
which even the crudest dramatist, if once acquainted with it,
could hardly have disregarded.1

To place the play in point of time before the poem also
explains other peculiarities. One sees, for example, why there is
in D no following of Brooke's initiative in making the nurse a
comic character. Brooke had mapped out at least rough outlines
for the Shaksperian scenes in which the nurse, to the great amuse-
ment of any audience, visits Romeo, and then brings back a mes-
sage— haltingly given — to Juliet. Certainly no one dramatizing
this story, and knowing the poem, would have ignored all of the fol-
lowing lines, which were so easily convertible into dramatic form : 2

To Romeus she goes of him she doth desyre,

To know the meane of manage, by councell of the fryre.

On Saterday quod he, if Juliet come to shrift,

She shalbe shrived and maried, how lyke you noorse this drift ?

Now by my truth (quod she) God's blessing have your hart,

For yet in all my life I have not heard of such a part.

Lord how you yong men can such crafty wiles devise,

If that you love the daughter well, to bleare the mother's eyes.

An easy thing it is, with cloke of holmes,

To mocke the sely mother that suspecteth nothing lesse.

But that it pleased you to tell me of the case,

For all my many yeres perhaps, I should have found it scarse.

Now for the rest let me and Juliet alone;

To get her leave, some feate excuse I will devise anone;

And then she sweares to him, the mother loves her well;
And how she gave her sucke in youth, she leaveth not to tell.
A pretty babe (quod she) it was when it was yong;
Lord how it could full pretely have prated with its tong!

And thus of Juliets youth began this prating noorse,
And of her present state to make a tedious long discoorse.
For though he pleasure tooke in hearing of his love,
The message aunswer seemed him to be of more behove.

1 Even the young Cambridge student (see Appendix II), in his hasty Latin dramatization
of Brooke, used this passage extensively.

2 Here again the Cambridge student took his cue adequately from Brooke.

24 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

Then he vj crownes of gold out of his pocket drew,
And gave them her; a slight reward (quod he) and so adiew.
In seven yeres twise tolde she had not bowd so lowe,
Her crooked knees, as now they bowe

She takes her leave, and home she hyes with spedy pace;

The chaumber doore she shuts, and then she saith with smylingiace:

Good newes for thee my gyrle, good tidings I thee bring.

Leave off thy woonted song of care, and now of pleasure sing.

For thou mayst hold thy selfe the happiest under sonne,

That in so little while, so well so worthy a knight hast woone.

The best yshapde is he, and hath the fayrest face,

Of all this towne, and there is none hath halfe so good a grace:

So gentle of his speche, and of his counsel wise:

And still with many prayses more she heaved him to the skies.

Tell me els what (quod she) thus evermore 1 thought;

But of our mariage say at once, what aunswer have you brought ?

Nay soft, quoth she, I feare your hurt by sodain joye;

I list not play, quoth Juliet, although thou list to toye.

Nothing was done or said that she hath left untolde,
Save only one, that she forgot the taking of the golde.1

Here was a gratuity for any dramatist. And, once in the
English play, the scenes would never have been dropped out by a
Dutch translator or remodeler; for if there is one thing in broad
comedy which causes the Dutch the greatest merriment, even to
this day, it is the garrulity of a housemaid.

Assumed priority on the part of the English play would
likewise explain why its author made such extensive use of
Boaistuau instead of turning to the much more elaborate account
in Brooke. From the Frenchman he apparently got the proper
names and great blocks of dialogue. Whereas a comparison of D
with the poem reveals but the two points of contact which have
just been commented upon.

Of course, it is fair at this point to put the question: Why did
Brooke, except in two instances, entirely ignore the play? The
answer is not far to seek. The play, judging by D, added to the
growth of this fable, it is true, a good deal of figurative language
and many suggestions for the arrangement of scenes ; but, on the

i Op. cit., pp. 102-5.

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 25

other hand, introduced but one important new incident — the
death of Mercutio. And this latter is brought in so by the way
that its purpose might easily have escaped detection. A narrative
poet, therefore, like Brooke, would have found little to glean
from the play; for him the more kindred novella- writer, Boaistuau,
would have been a sufficient guide. Further, Brooke probably had
the text of Boaistuau directly at hand, whereas he undoubtedly
had to trust to his memory for the play.1 Hence it seems safe to
conclude that the English source of D antedated the poem.

With this much determined, the date of composition of the
play falls within very narrow limits — between 1562 and 1559,
the years in which the English poem and the French novella,
respectively, first appeared.

The mere knowledge that an English play on this subject
existed as early perhaps as 1560, and that Shakspere used it ex-
tensively, does not, however, entirely satisfy one's curiosity. One
wonders about the nature of this tragedy. Did it share with its
contemporaries, Gorboduc, Cambyses, Appius and Virginia, and
Tancred and Gismunda, in all the Senecan characteristics which
were clogging the drama at that time? Or did it depend for its
tragedy solely on the tremendous situation inherent in the plot?
These are questions which one can answer only by referring to D.

Fortunately, the play seems not to have been greatly changed
at the hands of the Dutch redactor. In only one instance, indeed,
is there positive evidence of interpolation. This is where the nurse,
apropos of Romeo's visit to Juliette's chamber, grossly compares
feminine temperaments, Italian and Dutch. In other instances
the author probably adhered pretty closely to his original.

Two things, at least, make this seem likely. For, in the first
place, as I pointed out before, considerable portions of D are nothing
more than slavish paraphrases of Boaistuau, indicating that its
author's method was certainly no more original than that of his
English predecessor. And, in the second place, many lines in D,
as we have amply seen, still have a close similarity to their coun-

i For reminding me of the cumulative value as testimony of this literary condition I
must thank Professor Neilson, of Columbia University

26 HAKOLD DE WOLF FULLER

terparts in S. The force of this testimony will at once become
apparent if one but reflect what Shakspere's method of adaptation
habitually was. He seldom paraphrased, he transformed. Take
the following for example:
Brooke :

Art thou quoth he [the friar to Romeo] a man f thy shape

saith so thou art ;
Thy crying and thy weeping eyes denote a woman's hart.

So that I stood in doute this howre (at the least)

If thou a man, or woman wert, or else a brutish beast.

Shakspere (III, iii, 109-11):

Fr. L. Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art;
Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote
The unreasonable fury of a beast.

Here one, surely, observes a tightening up of clauses and a
deepening of the imagination sufficient to transform Brooke's
lines from doggerel to poetry of venerable poise, quite suited to
the sternest mood of the genial friar. Now, if the Dutch author,
too, had remodeled to any great extent his English source, it is to
be seriously doubted whether the parallelisms already cited in D
and S would still be so numerous and comparatively close. Let
the unconvinced but place side by side the Romeo and Juliet of
Shakspere and Lope de Vega's dramatization of this fable. The
absolute dissimilarity of the two plays is proof of what results
when playwrights of imagination attack the same story. On
these grounds, therefore, it seems highly probable that Struijs
did not bother to make many changes.

If this inference be just, a description of D will serve well
enough to characterize the English original. Perhaps, first of all,
since D is so generally inaccessible, a brief analysis should be given
of each scene. Preceding the play there is, as in Shakspere, a pro-
logue outlining the action that is to follow. In the opening
scene of the play, Romeo, besought by Phebidas — who corre-
sponds to Mercutio — to reveal the cause of his depression and

100

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 27

solitary wanderings, at length owns to being involved in a love
affair the hopelessness of which makes him mad. Phebidas,
however, is most encouraging ; he informs Romeo in a lyric stanza
of six lines that the mind of woman changes like the wind; he
must therefore persist and not despair. Whereupon Romeo is
induced to recount the circumstances of his first meeting with
Juliette, which occurred at a banquet at Capellets' house, to which
Romeo went from a sheer love of danger. After he had taken off
his masque, as he tells Phebidas, the Capellets, though surprised
at this evident effrontery, still concealed their anger. Juliette, he
continues, every portion of whose fair body he proceeds in a lyric
stanza to eulogize, sat next to him once during the evening, and
pressed his hand with amorous sighs. Romeo, though admitting
perforce the impossibility of intermarriage between the two fam-
ilies, is yet quite beside himself with passion. He has been pass-
ing by Juliette's house, he says, in the day time, exchanging
glances with her; but, realizing the danger to which this exposed
her, he now approaches her house only by night, hoping sometime
to get a chance to address her. Phebidas, alarmed at this state of
affairs, yet seeing that any attempt at dissuasion would be futile,
wishes his friend all success, and exit.

In scene ii Romeo is discovered beneath Juliette's window,
invoking the shroud of night to shelter him. While he stands
rapturously singing her praises, he sees a light suddenly flash in
her window. Then Juliette appears, and though startled at first
by this intrusion, soon perceives by means of the moonlight that
it is Romeo. At once she fears for his safety, but is reassured,
and at length responds to his ardent love-making, being first
convinced that marriage is his intention. It is arranged that
he shall disclose their affair to Friar Lourens and shall urge him
to appoint a time for the marriage. As the dawn is beginning
to appear, Romeo sadly takes his leave, resolving to visit the friar
as soon as possible.

At the beginning of scene iii Friar Lourens is discovered in
soliloquy, which reaches the extent of some twenty lines before
Romeo appears and sets forth his desperate case. The friar's
objections are only overruled when he hears that Romeo, rather

101

28 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

than forego this union with Juliette, will tale his life. Finally a
plan for the marriage is devised: Romeo is to be concealed in
the cell the following day and to wait for Juliette to come to
confession.

Scene iv finds Capellets, Thibout, and Paris in conversation
concerning the fierce feud between the two families. Thibout,
insisting that his self-restraint at the feast which Romeo had the
impudence to visit made him swallow much gall, fiercely denounces
Romeo and swears revenge, being, however, rebuked in turn by
Paris and Capellets. Juliette enters for a moment to obtain
permission from her father to attend confession. After her with-
drawal Paris pays her a high compliment, whereupon old Capel-
lets defends the proposition that parents are apt to be happier in
the possession of a daughter than of a son, enumerating the scrapes
which a son is likely to get into. Thibout, at once piqued by
this, takes of course the other side. Then Paris steps in as peace-
maker, agreeing in general with each, but in particular with
Capellets, since, as he says, "You have a paragon, pleasing to
both God and man ; I do not believe that the earth can boast of her
equal." Further self -felicitations by Capellets follow, in which
the author has mingled dramatic irony almost too plenteously.
Exeunt all three. The audience then sees Romeo and Juliette in
the act of being married ; this, however, is effected by pantomime.

Act II. The first scene of this act is devoted to a long mono-
logue in which Paris professes love for Juliette and displays some
fear that she may not accept him. From a scrap of dialogue
between Romeo and Pedro at the outset of scene ii we learn that
the ladder has been procured, and that Juliette awaits her lover,
it now being toward midnight. Before he enters her window,
Romeo, half-delirious, rejoices at the smiles with which Fortune
is at present regarding him. Then he goes within, leaving the
nurse in an outer room to soliloquize at some length, and with
great indecency, on a subject which in Shakspere is found beauti-
fully refined in Juliet's monologue (III, ii, 1 ff.) beginning,
"Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds."

Scene iii is occupied with a discussion by several members of
Capellets' faction, arising from some information imparted by Thi-

102

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 29

bout. He has heard that a party of the Montesches are to spend
the evening at Madame Masor's — apparently a notorious inn —
and is determined to attack the party on the way home. Paris
at once objects, fearing that blood may be spilt and a great strife
caused, but is at length entirely overruled.

In the fourth scene Phebidas and his associates appear on the
stage, half drunk as a result of their gay evening. Phebidas, to
the great delight of his companions, retails a flirtation which he
has just had with Margrita. Soon they are joined by Jacomo,
who has avoided Madam Masor's and who, by professing a single-
hearted love, serves as a good foil to the gay, dashing, fickle
Phebidas, who finds something lovable in every girl, "provided
she be pretty and accessible." At this juncture they are set upon
by the Capellets. A lively scene ensues, in which there is blus-
tering on each side. Then Romeo comes upon the stage, mum-
bling praises of his love, just in time to see Thibout kill Phebidas.
At once he tries to interfere, saying that his heart is inclined
rather to friendship than to hatred; but finally, inflamed by Thi-
bout's mockery, he pursues and kills this assailant.

Act III. "Curtains open; the Capellets in mourning with the
body of Thibout. The Montesches on the other side, prepared to
exculpate Romeo. The Lord of the Council of Verona." Capel-
lets proceeds to charge Romeo with murder, but is answered by
Montesches, who defends his son's action by relating how the
affair took place. The lord of the council banishes Romeo for-
ever from Verona.

The second scene opens with a long lament uttered by Juliette
alone in her bedroom. At first upbraiding Romeo, she in turn
falls to chiding her tongue for such uncharitable words, and sinks
upon her bed in utter exhaustion, just as the nurse enters. At
length, however, being aroused and somewhat cheered, she forces
the nurse, by herself bewailing Thibout's death, to utter generous
sentiments in Romeo's defense. Her attendant finally volunteers
to get word from Romeo, whom she believes to be in hiding at
the friar's cell.

The third scene finds Romeo at the friar's. He complains of
fickle fortune, which has turned his bliss to banishment, much

103

30 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

preferring death to living out of Juliette's presence. Not at all
encouraged by the friar's suggestion that the judgment which has
been passed upon him will probably soon be lightened, he goes
almost out of his senses from despair. At this point knocking is
heard, and the friar, looking out cautiously that Borneo may not be
betrayed, is relieved to find that it is the nurse. Inquiring of her
how her mistress fares, Romeo learns that Juliette does nothing
but weep and long for death; whereupon he promises to go to
her chamber that evening before quitting Verona. Although
this plan is vigorously opposed by the friar, who considers it
dangerous, Romeo insists that he would not omit the visit, even
though he knew that the streets through which he must pass were
paved with nickers.

Act IV. Juliette is seen leaning on her window, awaiting
Romeo. Though in despair at her unhappy lot, she intends to
help Romeo endure his trials. Her lover soon appears, entering
by means of the ladder, and exclaiming : "Ah, my love!" Juliette
cries passionately: "Oh, might I swoon to death in these arms of
thine!" She is determined, as in Brooke and Painter, to accom-
pany him to Mantua, if not as his wife, at least as his page. Prom
this, however, she is at length dissuaded when Romeo shows her
the inevitable misfortune which this course would occasion. He
promises to return to Verona in three months, if in that time his
sentence is not remitted, and by force of arms to carry her off as
his wife. Seeing that the dawn is breaking, he takes affectionate
leave of Juliette, who is all the more distressed at letting him go
because she has a premonition that she shall never again see him.
Exit Juliette. At the foot of the ladder Romeo bids a tender
farewell to the house which has been the scene of his greatest
happiness.

The second scene is devoted to a monologue by Paris, from
which we gather the information that Juliette has been promised
to him by Capellets, who means, however, to give the count a
chance to woo her, not wishing to force his daughter to the
marriage, unless this be absolutely necessary.

Following this scene, Romeo, with his servant, Pedro, is dis-
covered bidding farewell to Verona. He compares himself to a

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ROMEO AND JULIETTE 31

rudderless ship tossed on relentless waves, and becomes desperate
as he reflects that he is banished forever from Juliette's sight. In
dismissing Pedro he enjoins on him the duty of bringing frequent
news of Juliette, and then resumes his sorrowful way to Mantua.

In scene iv Paris informs the audience that he has failed to get
a favorable reply from Juliette, but that he is still hopeful.
Capellets, appearing at this juncture, is astounded to hear of his
daughter's attitude, and swears angrily that she shall obey him;
nor is he diverted from this decision by Paris' dislike of any such
compulsion. Exit Paris, and enter Juliette, who protests that she
would gladly die to avoid this marriage. In a frenzy, however,
her father reminds her, as in Brooke and Boaistuau, of the
supreme authority which their ancestors, the Romans, had over
their children, urging her thus to reconsider. He swears that if
she does not make herself ready for the wedding on the following
Sunday, he shall disinherit her and make her curse the day that
she was born. Left alone, Juliette ponders mournfully over her
sad predicament. Finally she concludes that it would be better
for her to take her life than to be untrue to her husband.

In scene v Friar Lourens is discovered before his cell. He is
greatly surprised at the rumor that Juliette is about to enter into
a second marriage, and comments on her fickleness. To him enter
Juliette and the nurse. Bidding the latter to step aside, Juliette
informs the friar that, unless he can find her some escape from the
marriage, she intends to kill herself, so that her soul in heaven and
her blood on earth may both testify to her unstained constancy.
The sleeping-potion is then hit upon, the effect of which is to last
forty hours. Exit friar. Juliette decides to feign willingness to
marry Paris, and exit.

In scene vi Capellets is sputtering to his servants, as in Shak-
spere, about the need of wonderful preparations for the approach-
ing wedding, but at length finds time to dispatch to Count Paris
the news of Juliette's fortunate change of mind. The latter
almost immediately appears, delighted at this information.

Act V. Juliette is in her bedroom with the nurse. Asked
whether Romeo is likely to think his mistress untrue, the nurse
replies that Romeo shall be well content, knowing that he can

105

32 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

never again hope to possess his love. Then the nurse is dis-
missed, and Juliette gives way to her impatience at this hollow
conversation. After she has poured the sleeping-potion into a
glass, she is overcome by various fears. She sees the ghost of
Thibout, and immediately falls back in fright onto her bed. The
ghost — for he actually appears on the stage — remonstrates with
her for having married his deadly enemy, and promises her that
she shall soon rot in the grave with her accursed husband.
Juliette now fancies that thousands of spirits are plucking at her.
So, calling upon Romeo, as in Shakspere, she drinks the potion
and sinks away into her unnatural sleep.

In the next scene the nurse enters to wake Juliette. But, find-
ing her cold, she raises a cry of alarm, which causes the hasty
entrance of Capellets and others. A doctor is summoned, and
pronounces Juliette's death to be the probable result of melan-
choly. This diagnosis naturally causes Capellets great remorse ;
likewise Paris, who now enters and delivers a tender lament for
Juliette.

The third scene is very short, being devoted to a conversation
between Friar Lourens and Anselmus. The latter receives a
letter which he is to deliver to Romeo at Mantua.

At the beginning of scene iv Romeo learns from Pedro that
Juliette is dead. Almost out of his senses, he wails his grief to
heaven, calling upon the sun, the moon, the stars to disappear and
to leave earth in utter darkness, now that his love is dead. He
complains of death's injustice, by which the loveliest flower is
plucked and the ugliest weed allowed to blossom on. Finally,
telling Pedro to make ready for their return to Verona, he departs
in search of poison.

In the short fifth scene Anselmus informs the audience that he
was so delayed on the way that he has missed Romeo.

Then, in the final scene, we see Romeo in the act of forcing an
entrance to Juliette's tomb. Pedro, meanwhile, afraid of seeing
spooks, has withdrawn a little way, in hopes of falling asleep and
of thereby dispelling his fears. In the tomb Romeo addresses
tender words to Juliette, and, after kissing her many times, and
after begging forgiveness of Thibout' s body, he drinks the poison,

106

ROMEO AND JULIETTE 33

commends his soul to God, and dies. Juliette then awakes, but,
finding her lord dead, she stabs herself with his sword. At this
point Friar Lourens enters; he wakes up Pedro and from him
learns of Romeo's mistake. ' In utter despair he bids Pedro tell
the parents of the lovers what a dreadful misfortune this feud has
led to; expresses the wish that peace may now reign between the
two families; and resolves herewith to retire to some solitary
place, because he feels partially guilty for this tragedy.

So much for the general outline of this old play. Looked at
more critically, the play shows several interesting aspects. Per-
haps its most striking, distinctive feature is the absence of any
great conformity to the Senecan type of tragedy. In the relic of
an English tragedy, dating from about 1560, one would naturally
expect to find most of the Senecan ear-marks — a continual harp-
ing on fate and fortune, periodic moralizing, inflated rhetoric, and
needless blood and gore.1 Now, of course, the breath of fortune
is constantly blowing across this play, veering around more and
more into a headwind — a thing to be expected in any dramatiza-
tion of the career of star-crossed lovers. And if this is the case
with the Dutch play, so is it also with Shakspere's. In D,
Romeo's "O fickle fortune! how easily canst thou change!" is
answered in S by Juliet's "O fortune, fortune! all men call thee
fickle." On the other hand, as we might expect, the references
to fortune are in D more elaborate and less potent; Shakspere,
by a terse intensity of words, has succeeded more subtly in keep-
ing this vexing, contrary breath always in our faces. And yet,
even in D, the cruder emphasis on fortune does not, as in many
early plays, force this element to serve as the entire dramatic
atmosphere.

Other Senecan characteristics in D are truly insignificant.
Thus there are, I believe, only two cases of moralizing. The first
is perpetrated by the friar. After he is approached by Romeo,
he mutters, "Blessed are those who shun the world, for by the
love of woman man's flesh is perverted from a love of God, and
led into much trouble; God's love, only, gives happiness." This

i Let no one suggest that these Senecan peculiarities may have been sloughed off by the
Dutch redactor, for it was eminently on the Dutch stage that Seneca was most pilfered.
Certainly in his other plays Struijs found it impossible to dispense with such matters.

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34 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

harmless bit, however, is thoroughly in character. The other
case occurs in the scene in which Thibout and Capellets are dis-
cussing the satisfaction given to a father by a son, compared to
that afforded by a daughter. Although carried to some length,
the conversation is prompted, not by a love of moralizing for
moralizing's sake, as in the typical Senecan play — in Grorboduc,
Tancred and Gismunda, etc. — being rather the author's device to
bring out dramatic irony; for immediately after the scene the
audience beholds Romeo and Juliette in the act of being married.
These two cases are quite different from the insistent accumula-
tion of ethical doctrines found in other English tragedies com-
posed in the fifteen sixties, and even later.

In the matter of inflated rhetoric this drama sins also but two
or three times. The biggest blot in this respect results from
Romeo's ravings upon getting the false information about Juliette.
Here he goes out of his head and rants, invoking everything in
the universe, including the furniture of heaven and hell.

As for the "horrors," so amply precedented by Seneca, the
play shows here, too, more fastidiousness than was usual. There
is no needless flaunting of blood. Take, for example, the fatal
encounter between the two hostile factions. In Boaistuau it
becomes so fierce that arms and legs are severed, and the street
runs blood — a spectacle fairly hard to represent on the stage, I
admit. Still, here was a good chance for your true lover of
Seneca to start his hacking. Yet in D, as in S, when the fight is
ended, only Romeo's boon-companion and Thibout are discovered
to be dead. Even the ghost of Thibout who appears to Juliette
just before she takes the potion, is not a dripping apparition from
Acheron, provided with power to sway her destiny, being rather a
symbolized embodiment of Juliette's own imaginings. No, assur-
edly, D is far from being a typical Senecan play; its flavor of
romance is left almost unpolluted.

Nor is this exceptional freedom from such fashionable sensa-
tionalism to be ascribed to any recondite cause. The reason lies
rather, it seems to me, in the sheer dramatic feeling found in the
original story. What other pre-Shaksperian romantic tragedy is
based upon a story of similar possibilities? Let us glance at a

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ROMEO AND JULIETTE 35

few notable examples. Gorboduc emerged from a congeries of
unromantic fable. Tancred and Gismunda was damned at the
outset in a hideous plot; so, too, the early Titus Andronicus plays.
Even The Spanish Tragedy, excellent as it is, has, mixed up in
the fabric of its plot, a deal of curious psychological jugglery.
Quite different the story of Romeo and Juliet. Once arrived in
western Europe, it served as a choice morsel for such talented
men as Luigi da Porto, Bandello, and Boaistuau. Owing to
repeated remolding at their hands it at length became easily con-
vertible into excellent dramatic form.

But though differing so much from the usual tragedy of about
1560, the play affords almost equal contrast to Shakspere's drama.
It is, for example, a thoroughly "be wept" play. Juliette says at
one place: "Oh, might I shed so many tears that my heart would
break!" In Shakspere, on the contrary, the love of the two is a
flame by which their tears are drunk dry ; grief leaves the lovers
parched and panting, incapable of the relief which tears are wont
to offer. Not when they are together on that last night, in the
rare, pure atmosphere of their passion, do tears come — love like
theirs creates an almost silencing awe — but only upon descending
from this elevated realm to a denser, stupider, and more irritating
plane. Then Lady Capulet may well say: "Evermore weeping
for your cousin's death?"

Similarly Shakspere has employed an exaggeration for pur-
poses of art which one fails to discover in D. The world in which
these Shaksperian lovers live and adore is almost infinitely
removed from the sphere of those who would check them. Like-
wise the world of Juliet's father is made over petty and selfish.
With the contrast thus sharpened, the principal scenes in the play
seem adequately motivated. Our sympathy is so strongly with
Juliet, both because her love exceeds that of any other girl in
the world, and because her father becomes so childish in his con-
duct toward her that even the nurse is justified in reproving him.
The older play, on the contrary, tends far more toward realism, or
perhaps better literalness, and therefore affords no such supreme
motives for action. We are certain that Juliette's love is tremen-
dous, though not all-surpassing, because we have seen her much

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36 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

with her lover, yet always displaying a more terrestrial, a more
usual, passion than Shakspere's heroine. Like this latter char-
acter, she, too, to be sure, loves tenderly, unsordidly, and even
poetically. Awaiting her lover the night before his departure,
she soliloquizes thus:

Diana, thou light divine! withdraw but for a little, and cover thy
beams with black clouds, that my dear husband may fearless come to me
this night. Hinder not by thy bright rays our final meeting, nor pile
yet higher our heap of woes.

Then comes a very human touch. Overcome by the terror of the
situation, she wishes for the moment that she had never seen
Romeo; but instantly her love for him returns with a rush, and
she exclaims:

Where can my dear love be? My heart begins to fear that something
has happened to him on the way, for grief follows hard upon grief.
What do I hear? Oh, if it were only my dearest! 'Tis he! I hear his
voice.

Romeo enters by the ladder with the greeting, "O my love!" to
which Juliette replies "Oh, might I swoon to death in these arms
of thine!" Here, no doubt, is real earthly passion, alternately
thrilling and despairing. The delirium of Juliette's "'Tis he!"
and of her last remark is not to be denied. But where Shakspere
by the use of contrast, heightened by exquisite poetry, has created
two imperishable lovers, the other author, in intensifying the
original story, has been content to describe more nearly what he
saw about him — a pair of pure but mundane lovers, whose most
exalted utterances go lowly, by the ground, compared to the rap-
tures of those other two.

Art suffers also for the sake of literalness in the case of one
other character in D — Paris. In Shakspere's drama he serves
primarily as a dramatic device — as a gentlemanly and unobjection-
able cause of Juliet's desperate extremes. A few swift strokes
succeed in giving him flesh and blood, owing to the great
emotional value of the pitiable situation into which he is forced
by the story. In D, on the other hand, he is needlessly elabo-
rated. His frequent monologues bring out insistently what the
audience readily ascribes to him in Shakspere — a gentle, concilia-

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ROMEO AND JULIETTE 37

tory disposition, colored by a stanch friendship for the Capellets ;
and also partially divert the absorbing interest of the central
theme by overemphasis on his passion for Juliette. Credence on
the audience's part in the genuineness of his love is, to be sure,
clinched by this method. Thus, for example, when Juliette is
discovered on the morning of the wedding supposedly dead, and
it is believed that her death was occasioned by her aversion to the
marriage, Paris' penitence and remorse ring true and tender,
because his frequent appearances on the stage have given ample
proof of his great love for her. Shakspere, however, chose the
much more artistic and dramatic method in postponing any great
display of feeling on Paris' part until the end of the tragedy,
when, by inserting a new incident into the story, he has him bear
flowers by night to Juliet's tomb, and then lay down his life
beside her.

In other cases, however, where a literal characterization was in
no way prevented by reasons of art, Shakspere has, of course,
beaten the older author at his own game. Indeed, we find in D
only two characters, besides those already mentioned, who are
given any color above that which they possessed already in Boais-
tuau. These are Phebidas and Jacomo, who correspond to
Mercutio and Benvolio. Although not coming to within hailing
distance of Shakspere's character, Phebidas is, to be sure, given a
truly heightened personality. He is gay, dashing, fickle in
matters of love, and recklessly brave. Like Mercutio, he fights
the Capellets conscientiously, until he is killed. Jacomo is done
with fewer strokes, though he is brought out with sufficient clear-
ness to serve as a perfect contrast to Phebidas. Other characters,
in D, as I have just indicated, can scarcely be distinguished from
their prototypes in Boaistuau.

My remaining study of D can perhaps be conveniently blended
with an attempt to bring out Shakspere's chief indebtedness to
the other play; first for certain general effects, and second for
numerous details. At the outset it should be stated that for the
management of his central theme Shakspere owes but little; par-
ticularly if this be judged by degree and not by amount. For
although the real problem in both plays is that imposed essentially

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38 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

by the story — a study of elemental passion — the success with
which this is worked out varies tremendously. Shakspere, by
supreme adequacy of imagination, presents a conspicuous develop-
ment even in this limited, unintellectual sort of love. Particularly
noticeable is this in the character of Juliet. At the start it is the
superficial thrills of love at first sight; in the orchard scene, the
pure lyric of a singing heart; later, where she is pondering
expectantly over the marriage -night — the first stirrings of com-
plete womanhood; in her farewell to Romeo — her "faint alarms"
have become dark presentiments ; and finally, when she drinks the
sleeping-potion, there is absolute realization of the power of love.
In other words, there grows in Juliet's heart a gradual deepen-
ing, even sophistication, of feeling, though reinforced but by very
little conscious thought. In D, as one might expect, such a beau-
tiful progress in pure instinct is not to be found. But there is
nevertheless a great superiority in this respect to the achieve-
ments of Boaistuau and Brooke. New situations are added, or
new suggestions for old situations are roughly sketched. Thus
in the orchard scene there is some attempt at lyric utterance;
likewise, when Juliette is awaiting Romeo in her chamber, her
feeling is shown at least to be extremely intense. Similarly, too,
she is possessed by dire presentiments when she says good-by to
Romeo. Even in the sleeping-potion scene, where in general
there is a close following of Boaistuau, Juliette gives a supreme
touch to the force of her love, when her imaginings become too
dreadful, by calling upon the name of Romeo, even as in Shak-
spere, and by drinking the potion to him. Certainly we here
observe the central theme of the story sufficiently revised to show
that the author of the older play had for his time no little psycho-
logical penetration; enough, indeed, to attract the attention of
Shakspere, and to stimulate his analytical faculty.

Another element of Shakspere's artistry may perhaps also be
somewhat indebted to the older play — the atmosphere of the
tragedy. In any case, it will not be uninstructive to compare the
two plays from this point of view. In the story itself, as it is
found in Boaistuau, and also in Brooke, there is, to be sure, an
inherent inevitability which, on the face of it, makes for tragedy.

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ROMEO AND JULIETTE 39

But this in D is naturally heightened, first by dint of the dramatic
form, and second by conscious devices inserted to this end. Thus
the feud between the two families is emphasized by vivid scenes
showing the intense feeling of both factions. The day after
Romeo's reckless appearance at the house of his enemy, Capellets,
Thibout, and Count Paris are discovered discussing this bit of
effrontery. The anger of Thibout in particular is not to be
restrained ; despite the rebukes of his uncle, he solemnly vows to
repay this insult. Similarly before the fatal encounter, a scene
is furnished to reveal the plot in the making with which Capellets'
faction are to be revenged upon their enemies. Then follows,
before the actual meeting of the two sides, a swaggering scene in
which the Montesches, some of them half drunk, are defiantly
parading the streets. With the emphasis so prominently put
upon the discord between these families, no reader of the play can
for a moment look forward to a happy, peaceful union of the two
lovers. Shakspere, realizing the need of such emphasis, for the
purpose particularly of atmosphere, as usual outdid the older play
by placing one of these factious scenes at the very beginning of
his drama.

But, though given some few hints for certain elements of the
atmosphere, Shakspere managed the dominant element almost
independently. I mean the lyric aroma which exhales from the
poetry. It is undoubtedly this which has often made the Romeo
and Juliet seem essentially a poem rather than a play. At all
events, it elevates the love of these two, though, strangely enough,
without taking them out of character, into a unique atmosphere,
so far above the realm of the usual that one seems here to have
the apotheosis of love rather than love itself. That, on the other
hand, D wholly lacks poetic buoyancy is not true; for I have
already pointed out numerous conceits from which in their ori-
ginal English form Shakspere apparently got potent suggestions.
More than this, however, cannot be said. The difference of poetic
atmosphere in the two dramas is that of heaven and earth.

As to more specific, more tangible suggestions taken by
Shakspere from the older play, a few words may be said by way
of summary. From it he got not only hints for frequent, detached
conceits ; he elaborated consecutive speeches and dramatic devices.

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40 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

Thus he drew on it for Romeo's impression of Juliet. "O, she
doth teach the torches to burn bright!" etc. (I, v, 46 ff.) ; for
much of the orchard scene (II, ii) ; for Tybalt's anger and Capu-
let's restraining words (I, v, 56 ff.) ; for the arrangement and
some of the phrasing of the scene in which Romeo first interviews
the friar (II, iii) ; for the special scene at the cell devoted to com-
passing the marriage (II, vi) ; for the management of the fatal
encounter in which Mercutio and Tybalt are killed (III, i) ; for
the first part of III, ii, where Juliet is impatiently waiting for
night and for Romeo; for Romeo's dismal time at the friar's cell
(III, iii) ; for a large portion of the scene in which he says fare-
well to Juliet (III, v) ; for the spirited ending of III, v — Juliet's
conversation with the nurse ; and finally for Romeo's apostrophe to
death at Juliet's tomb (V, iii). No inconsiderable indebtedness.
In conclusion, some mention should, I suppose, be made of
the bearing of D on the 1591 (?), 1597, and 1599 forms of Shak-
spere's play. Unfortunately, the consideration of this matter
yields nothing very illuminating. One may say, to be sure, that
those lines and scenes in S which show indebtedness to D were
undoubtedly among the earliest features of the play. Yet this
inference still leaves the 1591 (?) version practically undiscovered.
It casts, however, a faint ray of light on the nature of the first
two quartos ; enough, indeed, to confirm the now prevalent opinion
that the First Quarto was surely based on a cut-down, acting copy,
since some of the additional matter in the Second Quarto proves,
in the light of D, to have been previously composed.

HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

HARVARD UNIVERSITY

APPENDIX

Various attempts have been made to establish borrowing by Shakspere
from Luigi Groto's Hadriana, a play based chiefly on Da Porto's novel.
The resemblance upon which this case really hangs is the part played
by the nightingale. In Shakspere (III, v, 1-3) Juliet says:

Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear.
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ROMEO AND JULIETTE 41

The corresponding scene in the Italian play offers an only vaguely similar
reference. Latinus, the hero, upon leaving Hadriana observes that the
nightingale is singing plaintive notes in sympathy with their woes :

S'io non erro, e presso il far del giorne.
Udite il rossignuol, che con noi desto,
Con noi geme fra i spini.1

But that these lines probably exerted no direct influence on Shakspere
is brought out by a like allusion to the nightingale in D. Here, standing
below Juliette's window on the marriage night, Romeo rhapsodizes as
follows (E2r°):

O blessed night! thou hast more joy in store for me than ever the sun did
grant. The moon looks down and shimmers through the air ; and with her
stars she seems to smile in gladness at my approaching bliss. The nightingale,
rejoicing more than is her wont, sings deliriously of my happy lot; and a
sweet breeze comes to greet me, to be a sharer of my joys.

To this instance in D the lines in the Italian play bear a closer
resemblance than to Shakspere's use of the nightingale. Hence, if there
be any need at this point of ascribing indebtedness, one may say that the
author of the English original of D got his suggestion for the nightin-
gale from Groto, and in turn passed it on to Shakspere.
*

In the British Museum Library, included in folios 242-49, 251, 252 of
the Sloane MSS No. 1775, there is an unpublished fragment of a Romeo
and Juliet play in Latin. No descriptive account of this fragment, so
far as I know, has ever been given; and it is little wonder, for the hand-
writing of the author is such an illegible, crossed-out scrawl that one is
likely to think more than twice before attempting to decipher it. Mr.
Hazlitt mentions the play very briefly:

Mr. Halliwell's " Dictionary of Old Plays," 80, 1860, takes no notice of the
Latin play on this favourite story anterior to Shakspere's, and also in all
probability to Brooke's novel, of which a fragment is in Sloane MS, 1775. It
is not likely, however, to have served Shakspere.2

Mr. Gollancz, too, devotes about four lines to it, in which he says that it
is "evidently the exercise of a Cambridge student, but the MS belongs,
I think, to the beginning of the seventeenth century."3 Since there
seems to be divergence of opinion concerning the fragment, perhaps I
may be permitted to describe it at some length.4

iSee J. C. Walker, Memoir on Italian Tragedy (London, 1799), pp. 50 ff. I have reviewed
Walker's list of resemblances, and find only this point about the nightingale at all striking.

2 Shakespeare's Library, Vol. I, p. 58.

3Larger Temple edition (London, 1900), Vol. IX, introduction to Romeo and Juliet.

4 Through the courtesy and expert ability of Mr. A. Hughes-Hughes, of the British
Mueeum Library, I was able to get a transcript of this play.

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42 HAKOLD DE WOLF FULLER

Composed in iambic verses of six feet, with choruses, the play
narrates, usually with the utmost baldness, the fortunes of the lovers
from the time of the banquet to the scene in which Romeo flees to the
friar's cell. Although the order of the folios is badly confused — in one
case a folio is inverted — the sequence of events is not difficult to deter-
mine. In a scene between Philophilus (Mercutio) and Romeus, the
setting of which is uncertain, the charms of Juliett are highly extolled,
and Romeus is advised by his friend to press the suit. Hereupon the
object of their talk enters, and Romeus declares that he should be the
happiest of mortals if he could win her love. A gratulatory chorus
follows. Puer, also called Servus, discloses to his master Juliett's
identity. Romeus is of course horrified.

In the next scene comes Juliett's turn for enlightenment, where she
learns of her lover's parentage from Nutrix; she expresses her despair in
about forty lines, comparing herself in turn to Dido, Phyllis, and Medea.
Then follows the dialogue between Romeus and Juliett in the orchard,
at the end of which Romeus volunteers to seek assistance from Sacerdos.
A chorus ensues, invoking the gods to aid this mission. After due
persuasion by Romeus the priest agrees to marry the lovers, believing
that the union may possibly settle amicably the feud between the
Montagus and Capilets. Juliett, so as to have a go-between for herself
and Romeus, makes the nurse her confidante, who, though horrified at
first, at length agrees to help on the marriage. She is at once sent to
fetch a message from Romeus. Another scene discloses her in the
lover's presence, where, after learning his pleasure, she proceeds to
babble of Juliett's youth, until she is cut short and dismissed with a
generous tip. Returned home, she keeps Juliett in uncertainty as to
the message, while she at some length sings the lover's praises. The
chorus expounds the wisdom of a lover's being lavish with his gold, if he
wishes to shape fortune to his liking, and adds the information that the
priest is this day to perform the wedding ceremony.

Then comes dialogue between Servus and Nutrix, in which the rope
ladder is arranged for and the hope expressed that nothing may interfere
with the joys of the marriage-night. Philophilus congratulates Romeus
upon his good fortune, for Juliett is at length his. Romeus enjoins
secrecy. Enter Nuntius, announcing that hostilities have been renewed
between the two families, and that Tybalt is thirsting for Romeus'
blood. Hereupon Romeus is urged to come to the support of the Mon-
tagus. The duel follows, and Tybalt dies, declaring that he has deserved
his fate. Two of the Capilets call for vengeance on Romeus. The grief
of Tybalt's uncle. Two of the Montagus attempt to excuse Romeus;
Princeps, however, sentences him to banishment. The chorus bewails
the fortune of the young lovers.

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ROMEO AND JULIETTE 43

Juliett, upon hearing of Tybalt's death, at first upbraids Romeus in
her own mind, and then excuses him. Nutrix, desiring to cheer her,
volunteers to get word of Romeus from Sacerdos. The final scene of the
fragment is laid at the cell, where Romeus first hears of the judgment
pronounced upon him. The comforting priest succeeds only partially
in holding in restraint Romeus' ravings.

As to the date of this Latin play, Mr. Gollancz is apparently justified
in placing it as late as the seventeenth century. At all events, the state
of the case is as follows : The many corrections and alternative readings
in the fragment seem to indicate that it was written down by the author
himself, and not merely copied, subsequent to its composition, by some
clerk. Of this, I think, there can be little doubt. Now, it so happens
that in certain adjacent fragments, which — to judge from the handwrit-
ing— were certainly composed by the same person, there are references
to seventeenth-century characters. They occur in two poems which
occupy the folios 249-250b. The first poem, which is imperfect at the
beginning, ends with these lines:

For there is comic g out a booke
Will spoile Joseph Barnesius
I th' sale of Rex Platonicus.

And in the second poem, which is entitled "A Cambridge Madrigall
Confuting the Oxford ballade that was sung to the tune of Bonny Nell,"
we find equally significant lines :

And at his speech he snarles

Because he forg'd a word and cal'd

The Prince most Jacobd Charles.

Singularly enough, these two references supplement each other beauti-
fully. For Joseph Barnes, as is well known, was a printer to the Univer-
sity of Oxford, who published from 1585 to 1618. And in the British
Museum Library there is a Latin treatise called Rex Platonicus^ which
was written by Sir Isaac Wake; the title-page of the third edition, 1615,
reads as follows:

Rex Platonicus; sive, De Potentissimi principis Jacobi Britanniarum
Regis, ad illustrissimam Academiam Oxoniensem, adventu, Aug. 27, An. 1605.
Narratio ab Isaaco Wake, Publico Academiae ejusdem Oratore, tune temporis
Conscripta, nunc iterum in lucem edita, multis in locis auctior & emendatior.
Editio tertia, Oxoniae. Excudebat Josephua Barnesius, Academiae Typo-
graphus, 1615.

Here, then, we have a reference to an oration which was delivered
August 27, 1605, and published shortly afterward. Of course, it would
be hazardous to say that the Latin play was written the same year in
which these other two fragments were composed. But it seems pretty
certain that it was a student's exercise, and that, therefore, even though

* 117

44 HAROLD DE WOLF FULLER

allowance be made for the student's residence at Cambridge, it was
written subsequently to Shakspere's play.

The direct source of this Latin play is a matter which can also, I
think, be determined with a fair amount of certainty. Apparently Haz-
litt had not examined the play when he stated that it possibly antedated
Brooke's poem. Let the reader observe the following parallelisms, taken
from these two versions of the story:

Sacerdos. Mortis timorem principis sententia

Expulsit omnem; recipe laetitiam, precor:
Concessa vita est, exul at patria tua
Carebis.

Thy hope, quoth he, [Friar to Romeus] is good, daunger of death is none,
But thou shalt live, and doe full well, in spite of spitefull fone.
This onely payne for thee was erst proclaymde aloude,
A banished man, thou mayst thee not within Verona shroude.1
Romeus. Utinam antequam me mater in lucem edidit
Aluitque, saevae nostra lacerassent ferae
Viscera, sive ulla caede periissem innocens!
The time and place of byrth he fiercely did reprove,

He wished that he had before this time been borne,

Or that as soon as he wan light, his life he had forlorne.2

Then, in the scene in which the nurse visits Romeus to learn the plans
which he has made for the marriage, after getting his instructions, she

exclaims:

Caput facetum. Prosperum dent exitum

Superi. Quid unquam posset inventum pejus (?)3

Callidius omnis nota fraus amantibus,

Excogitare tale praetextu pio!

Pietatis umbra facile nostis providam

Fallere parentem suspicantem nil minus.

Si muta (?) placeat reliqua committas mi hi,

Ut venia detur ipsa commentum dabo:

Quod aureas reliquit incomptas comas,

Lasciva vel quod somniavit somnium,

Vel temere amoribus otium sumpsit suum;

Ad templa mater facilis accessum dabit

Die statute. Chara — (?) semper fuit:

O quam juvaret illud aetatis meae

Meminisse tempus, quo mea infans ubera

Tenella suxit: (?) audivi brevi

Lallare linguam saepe ventiliquos sonos.

i Op. cit., p. 131. 2 Op. cit., p. 133.

3 A question mark indicates that the MS reading is either illegible or extremely doubt-
ful ; the number of these question marks will perhaps serve as well as anything to show the
provoking condition of the MS.

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ROMEO AND JULIETTE 45

Quoties tenella posteras partes manu

Irata tetigi, et occisum taetis dedi,

Laetata potius (?) quam ore lascivi senis.
Now by my truth (quoth she) God's blessing have your hart,
For yet in all my life I have not heard of such a part.
Lord how you yong men can such crafty wiles devise,
If that you love the daughter well, to bleare the mothers eyes.
An easy thing it is, with cloke of holines,
To mocke the sely mother that suspecteth nothing lesse.
But that it pleased you to tell me of the case,
For all my many yeres perhaps, I should have found it scarse.
Now for the rest let me and Juliet alone;
To get her leave, some feate excuse I will devise anone;
For that her golden lockes by sloth have been unkempt,
Or for unwares some wanton dreame the youthf ull damsell drempt,
Or for in thoughts of love her ydel time she spent,
Or otherwise within her hart deserved to be shent.
I know her mother will in no case say her nay;
I warrant you she shall not fayle to come on Saterday.
And then she sweares to him, the mother loves her well;
And how she gave her sucke in youth, she leave! h not to tell.
A prety babe (quod she) it was when it was yong;
Lord how it could full pretely have prated with its tong!
A thousand times and more I laid her on my lappe,
And clapt her on the buttocke soft, and kist where I did clappe.
And gladder then was I of such a kisse forsooth,
Than I had been to have a kisse of some old lechers mouth.1

When the nurse comes back to Juliett we have the following:

Jul. Altrix, profare quid feras, quonam in loco est.

Nutrix. Beata vivas — conjugem talem tibi

Non ipsa sospes Troja non Priamus daret,
Virtute clarum, genere nobilem suo:
Amplum merentur candidi mores decus.

Jul. Nota haec statutum nuptiis tempus refert (?).

Nutrix. Subitum doloris gaudium causa est novi.

Jul. Omitte nugas; perage mandatum cito.

Good newes for thee, my gyrle, good tidings I thee bring.
Leave off thy woonted song of care, and now of pleasure sing.
For thou mayst hold thy selfe the happiest under sonne,
That in so little while, so well so worthy a knight hast woone.
The best yshapde is he, and hast the fayrest face,
Of all this town, and there is none hath halfe so good a grace:
So gentle of his speche, and of his counsell wise.

Tell me els what (quod she [Juliet]) this evermore I thought;
p. at., PP. 102, IDS.

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46 HABOLD DE WOLF FULLER

But of our mariage say at once, what aunswer have you brought?
Nay soft, quoth she, I feare your hurt by sodain joye;
I list not play quoth Juliet, although thou list to toye.1

Although the text of the above Latin quotations is doubtful in places,
still I think the reader will readily admit that the author has done little
more than paraphrase the corresponding lines in Brooke's poem. Certain
it is that neither Painter nor Boaistuau gives any hint for such senti-
ments; and, so far as I have been able to judge, the student also com-
posed his play without betraying any knowledge whatsoever of Skakspere.2

Only as a curiosity, therefore, can this youthful performance still
excite the interest of the student of the drama. Nevertheless, I have
thought it worth while to discuss at some length the question of its date
and provenience, so as to clear away, if possible, the vague doubts as to
these matters which have hitherto beset every commentator of Romeo
and Juliet.

ipp. cit., p. 104.

2 On the margin of folio 251b is written "descriptio Romei p. 172." This reference might
perhaps be employed to confirm my statement that the direct source of the play was
Brooke's poem. Unfortunately, the first edition of this poem has not been accessible to me ;
and even that edition might not decide this matter, since the student may have had recourse
jfco Brooke in some collection of poems which is no longer extant.

120

SOURCES AND ANALOGUES OF "THE FLOWER AND
THE LEAF." PART I

INTRODUCTION

Of the numerous poeins erroneously attributed to Chaucer,
probably the best-known, and certainly one of the best, is The
Flower and the Leaf.1 It first appeared in Speght's folio of
1598, and was regularly reprinted with Chaucer's Works until
1878. During this period, owing partly, no doubt, to the mod-
ernization by Dryden,2 the poem was usually regarded as one of
Chaucer's most characteristic and charming pieces. Keats wrote
a sonnet about it; Scott, Campbell, Irving, Mrs. Browning, were
all fond of it ; the editors of selections from Chaucer reprinted it ;
Taine quoted from it to illustrate Chaucer's most notable merits.3
Now, however, the question of Chaucerian authorship must be
regarded as settled adversely,4 for reasons which need not be
repeated here. In this investigation it is taken for granted that

iSkeat, Chaucerian and Other Pieces (Clarendon Press, 1897), pp. 361-79. References
will be to this edition.

2 Fables, 1700.

3 It may be of interest to indicate the vogue of the poem by the following specific ref-
erences: Warton, History of English Poetry (1774-81) ; see Index in Hazlitt ed. (1871). God-
win, Life of Chaucer (2d ed., 1804), Vol. Ill, pp. 249 if. Todd, Illustrations of Gower and
Chaucer (1810), pp. 275 if. Scott, Rokeby (1813), Canto VI, xxvi. Keats, Sonnet Written on
a Blank Space at the End of Chaucer's Tale of " The Floure and the Lefe" (1817). T.
Campbell, Specimens of the British Poets (1819), Vol. I, pp. 70 ff.; Vol. II, p. 17. Irving,
Sketch Book (1819), "Rural Life in England." S. W. Singer, "Life of Chaucer," in The
British Poets (Chiswick, 1822), Vol. I, pp. xvi, xvii, xxi. Hazlitt, Select Poets of Great Brit-
ain (1825), p. ix; Farewell to Essay Writing (1828). Clarke, The Riches of Chaucer (2d ed.,
1835), Vol. I, pp. 52 if. E. B. Browning, The Book of the Poets (1842). H. Reed, Lectures on
English Literature (1855), p. 136. Sandras, Etude sur Chaucer (1859), pp. 95 ff. G. P. Marsh,
Origin and History of the English Language (1862), p. 414. Taine, History of English Litera-
ture (1864-65), Book I, chap, iii, 3. Minto, Characteristics of the English Poets (1874), p. 15.
Ward, Chaucer, in "English Men of Letters'1 series (1879), chaps, i, iii. Engel, Geschichte
der englischen Litteratur (Leipzig, 1883), p. 74. Bierbaum, History of the English Language
and Literature (1895), p. 34. Filon, Histoir* de la litterature anglaise (2d ed., 1896), p. 54.
Palgrave, Landscape in Poetry (1897), p. 122. Gosse, Modern English Literature (1898), p. 44.
Saintsbury, Short History of English Literature (1898), pp. 119, 120. There are also nine-
teenth century modernizations by Lord Thurlow and Powell, and a French translation by
Chatelain.

* By ten Brink, Chaucer Studien (1870), pp. 156 ff . ; Skeat, Introduction to Bell's Chaucer
(1878), and Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. Ixii ff.; Lounsbury, Studies in Chaucer (1892),
Vol. I, pp. 489 ff . As is well known, Tyrwhitt first expressed doubt of Chaucer's authorship
(1775), but his suggestion was hardly taken seriously for nearly a century.
121]' 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, July, 1906

2 GEOEGE L. MABSH

the author was an imitator of Chaucer, writing during the first
half-century or so after his master's death.1

The plan of treatment adopted for study of the sources and
analogues of the poem is as follows:

1. The central allegory of the Orders of the Flower and the Leaf.

2. The accessories of the central allegory: the significance of
the white and green costumes, and the chaplets of leaves and
flowers; the choice of the nightingale and the goldfinch as singers
for the Leaf and the Flower respectively ; the cult of the daisy,
and so forth.

3. The general setting and machinery of the poem; its relations
to other vision poems with the springtime setting.

4. Conclusion as to the most influential sources.

SYNOPSIS OF THE POEM

The following summary of the action of F. L.2 will be useful:

1 1 say his because, although the poem purports to be by a woman, there is no adequate
reason for assuming that it is by a woman. I hope to show in a later article that Professor
Skeat's theory of common authorship of The Flower and the Leaf and The Assembly of
Ladies is untenable, and that various striking resemblances of the former to the work of
Lydgate suggest that he may have been the author.

2 In the course of this article abbreviations will be used as follows:
A. G. = Assembly of Gods, attributed to Lydgate, E. E. T. S.
A. L. = Assembly of Ladies, pseudo-Chaucerian poem.

A. Y. L. I. = As You Like It.

B.D. = Chaucer's Book of the Duchess.

B. K. = Lydgate's Complaint of the Black Knight.

C. A. = Gower's Confessio Amantis.
C. B. = Lydgate's Chorl and the Bird.

C. L. = The Court of Love, pseudo-Chaucerian poem.

C. N.= The Cuckoo and the Nightingale, pseudo-Chaucerian poem.

C. O. = Debat du Goer et de VOeil.

C. T. = Chaucer's Canterbury Tales.

Chansons = Chansons du XVme siecle, Soci6t6 des Anciens Textes Fraucais.

E. E. T. S. = Early English Text Society.

F. L. = The Flower and the Leaf.
Fablel = Fablel dou Dieu d' Amours.

L. G. W. = Chaucer's Legend of Good Women.

M. M. = Measure for Measure.

M. P. = Lydgate's Minor Poems, ed. Halliwell, Percy Society.

Night. = Lydgate's Two Nightingale Poems, E. E. T. S.

P. F. = Chaucer's Parlement of Foules.

R. R. = Roman de la Rose.

R. 8. = Lydgate's Reson and Sensuallyte, E. E. T. S.

5. T. S. = Scottish Text Society.

T. C. = Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde.
T. G. = Lydgate's Temple of Glas, E. E. T. S.
Thebes = Lydgate's Story of Thebes.
Venus = De Venus la Deesse d'Amor.

122

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 3

Very early on a May morning, when the spring growth is at
its height, the poet, represented as a woman to whom sleep is
"ful unmete," goes forth to a pleasant grove of oaks set out at
regular intervals. With joy she hears the birds sing, and listens
especially, though at first in vain, for the nightingale. Soon she
finds a narrow path, overgrown with grass and weeds, which leads
to a pleasant "herber," terraced with fresh grass and surrounded
by a hedge of sycamore and sweet-scented eglantine. This hedge
is so thick that anyone outside cannot see in, though one inside
can see out. Beside the arbor is a beautiful medlar tree, in which
a goldfinch leaps from bough to bough, eating buds and blossoms
and singing merrily. Opposite this is a laurel tree, which gives
out healing odors like the eglantine, and within whose branches a
nightingale sings even more ravishingly than the goldfinch. The
poet is delighted with the spot, which seems like an earthly para-
dise, and sits down on the grass to listen to the birds.

Soon she hears voices like those of angels, and in a moment a
"world of ladies" come out of a grove near by, singing sweetly
and dancing, under the leadership of the most beautiful member
of the company. All are brilliantly arrayed in surcoats of white
velvet set with precious stones. They are soon followed by a
"rout" of men at arms, also clad in white, with decorations of
cloth of gold. Both men and women wear chaplets of leaves —
laurel, woodbine, hawthorn, agnus castus. After the knights
have jousted with one another, they join the ladies in doing
obeisance before the laurel tree. Then come from an adjacent
field the adherents of the Flower — knights and ladies hand in
hand, clad in green and wearing chaplets of flowers. This com-
pany go dancing into a mead, where they kneel before a tuft of
blossoms while one of their number sings a "bargaret" in praise
of the daisy. Soon, however, the heat of noon withers the flowers
and burns the ladies and their knights ; a wind blows down the
flowers; and hail and rain bedraggle the company. Meanwhile
those in white beneath the laurel tree are unharmed by the ele-
ments, and, when they perceive the plight of the others, go to
their aid and kindly entertain them. Then the nightingale flies
from the laurel tree to the lady of the Leaf, Diana, and the gold-

123

4 GEORGE L. MARSH

finch from the medlar tree to Flora, the queen of the Flower,
both birds singing their loudest.

The two companies ride away together, and the poet, coming
forth from her concealment, asks a lady in white for an explana-
tion of what she has seen. The adherents of the Leaf, she is told,
are people who have been chaste, brave, and steadfast in love; the
adherents of the Flower are people who have loved idleness, and
cared for nothing but hunting and hawking and playing in meads.
Then, after explaining why the Leaf is to be preferred to the
Flower, the lady of the Leaf asks the poet to which she will do
service. The poet chooses the Leaf, and the lady hastens after
her company.

CHAPTER I. THE CENTRAL ALLEGORY: THE ORDERS OF
THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF

Obviously the kernel of the poem is the allegory of the Flower
and the Leaf — the strife between two contrasted orders of knights
and ladies, with one of which the author becomes allied. Distinct
mention of these orders is made by three persons besides our
unknown poet — by Chaucer, Deschamps, and Charles d'Orleans.

CHAUCER'S MENTION OF THE ORDERS

It has long been well known that in the Prologue to his
Legend of Good Women Chaucer refers to the rivalry of the
Orders of the Flower and the Leaf.1 He has been speaking of
his love for the daisy, and asks lovers to help him in his labor of
adequately praising it—

Whether ye ben with the leef or with the flour.

He says modestly that he can only be a gleaner among poets,
taking what others have left; but he hopes to be forgiven for his
lack of originality,

Sin that ye see I do hit in the honour
Of love, and eek in service of the flour,
Whom that I serve as I have wit or might.

i Text A, 11. 70-80; B, 11. 72, 189-96. First noted in Urry's edition of 1721, and taken as a
direct allusion to F. L., which Chaucer was assumed to have previously composed. See
articles by Professor Kittredge, in Modern Philology, Vol. I, pp. 1 if. ; and Professor J. L.
Lowes, Publications of the Modern Language Association of America, Vol. XIX, pp. 593 ff .

124

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAP" 5

The lines in text A corresponding to these are:

Sith hit is seid in forthering and honour
Of hem that either serven leef or flour;

and are immediately followed by an explanation which in text B
does not come till 1. 188. In the latter text the poet proceeds
with praise of the "flour" referred to in 1. 82. He tells how he

could

Dwellen alwey, the joly month of May, (176)

with nothing to do

But for to loke upon the dayesye,

The emperice and flour of floures alle.

But natheless, ne wene nat that I make
In preysing of the flour agayn the leef,
No more than of the corn agayn the sheef :
For, as to me, nis lever noon ne lother;
I nam with-holden yit with never nother.
Ne I not who serveth leef, ne who the flour;
Wei brouken they hir service or labour;
For this thing is al of another tonne,
Of olde story, er swich thing was begonne.

The last three lines in the corresponding passage in A are also
worth quotation, because they are a trifle more specific, especially
in the use of the italicized words:

That nis nothing the entent of my labour,

For this iverk is al of another tunne,

Of olde story, er swich stryf was begunne.

"This werk" apparently means the poem in hand, and "swich
stryf" the strife of the Flower and the Leaf.

Since the author of our poem was first of all an imitator of
Chaucer, it seems probable that the passage cited above furnished
him direct inspiration. It is also entirely proper to conclude
from Chaucer's language, especially in connection with that of
Deschamps, soon to be quoted, that there was a sentimental strife
between orders of the Flower and the Leaf, and that it was of
comparatively recent origin when Chaucer wrote his Prologue,
about 1385-86.

125

6 GEORGE L. MARSH

DESCHAMPS' MENTION OF THE ORDERS

Four short poems by Eustache Deschamps, in which the strife
of the Flower and the Leaf is mentioned, were written probably
about the same time as Chaucer's Prologue to his Legend.1 Two
ballades and a rondeau are in favor of the Flower, and one ballade
in favor of the Leaf. It seems desirable to reprint them in full:

I. BALADE AMOUBEDSE
(Sur I'ordre de la Fleur}
Qui est a choiz de deux choses avoir,
Eslire doit et choisir la meillour.
Et si me faut que je prengne, savoir:
De deux arbres ou la fueille ou la flour:
Qu'en la fueille est plaisir pour sa verdour,
Et qui resjoist les cuers des vrays amans,
Et aux oysiaux fait chanter leurz doulz chans,
Et tient toudiz une saison sa place,
Maiz quant au fort sa beautS est nians,
J'aim plus la fleur que la fueille ne face. 10

Car la fueille n'a pas tant de pouoir,

De bien, de senz, de force et de valour

Comme la flour; et ce puet apparoir

Qu'elle a beaut6, bont6, fresche coulour,

Et rent a tous tresprecieux odour,

Et fait bon fruit que mains sont desirans,

Duquel avoir est uns chascuns engrans.

Maiz la fueille sans flour et fruit trespasse,

Et sans odour devient poudre en tous temps.

J'aim plus la fleur que la fueille ne face. 20

Pour ce qu'elle vault mieulx, a dire voir,

Que la fueille qui n'a nulle doucour,

Et fruit ne fait au matin ny au soir.

La fueille n'est fors que pour faire honnour

Et pour garder celle fleur nuit et jour

De la pluie, du tempest et des vans,

Comme celle qui n'est que sa servans,

i See Professor Kittredge's discussion of them in Modern Philology, Vol. I, pp. 3-6; and
Professor Lowes' article cited above, p. 124, n. 1. The probable relation of Deschamps'
ballades to F. L. was first pointed out by Sandras in his fitude sur Chaucer (1859), pp. 102,
103. He gave no detailed attention to them, however, and did not mention the rondeau.
As Professor Kittredge says, editors of Chaucer have ignored them in relation to L. G. W. ;
and even Professor Skeat does not mention them in connection with his reprint of F. L.
The poems are grouped together in the complete edition of Deschamps' works published by
the Soci6t6 des Anciens Textes Francais, Vol. IV, pp. 257 ff.

126

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF"

Maiz en tous temps a fleur de tous la grace,

Comme belle, gracieuse et plaisans.

J'aim plus la fleur que la fueille ne face. jf 30

II. BALADE.
(Des deux ordres de la Feuille et de la Fleur)

(filoge de la Fleur)
Pour ce que j'ay oy parler en France
De deux ordres en Famoureuse loy,
Que dames ont chascune en defferance,
L'une fueille et 1'autre fleur, j'octroy
Mon corps, mon cuer a la fleur; et pourquoy?
Pour ce qu'en tout a pris, loange et grace
Plus que fueille qui en pourre trespasse
Et n'a au mieux fors que verde coulour,
Et la fleur a beaut6 qui trestout passe.
A droit jugier je me tien a la flour. 10

Celle doit on avoir en reverance,

Sy 1'y aray; qu'en toutes choses voy

Loer la flour en bonte", en vaillance,

En tous deduis, en manniere, en arroy;

S'on scet rien bon, c'est la flour pour un roy.

En tous estas vient la fleur a plaisance:

De tout dit on, et par grant exellance,

Que cilz ou celle a la fleur sans retour

De quoy que soit, tele est racoustumance:

A droit jugier je me tien a la flour. 20

Amour la sieut, doulz desir, esperance,

Beaute", bonte", et de tous loer Toy.

Coulour, odour et fruit de souffisance

Viennent de ly. Maiz mie n'apercoy

Que la fueille ait nulle vertu en soy,

Ne que doucour, fruit, ne grant plaisir face,

Maiz maintes foys apalit et efface,

Ne rien ne voy en li de grant vigour

Fors de couvrir la fleur dessus sa place:

A droit jugier je me tien la flour. 30

Celle humble flour aray en remembrance
Qui tant noble est, humble et de maintien coy,
Que n'est tresor, pierre, avoir ne finance,
Qui comparer peust a li par ma foy.
Son ordre prain et humblement recoy,
Qui plus digne est d'esmeraude ou topace:
127

GEORGE L. MARSH

Guillaume fay La Tremouille, or li place

Que du porter me face tant d'onour;

Car ordre n'est qui plus mon cuer solace.

A droit jugier je me tien a la flour. 40

Et qui vouldra avoir la congnoissance

Du tresdoulx nom que par oir congnoy

Et du pais ou est sa demourance

Voist en 1'ille d'Albyon en recoy,

En Lancastre le trouvera, ce croy.

P. H. et E. L. I. P. P. E. trace,

Assemble tout; ces .viii. lettres compasse,

S'aras le nom de la fleur de valour,

Qui a gent corps, beaux yeux et douce face.

Au droit jugier je me tien a la flour. 50

L'ENVOY

Royne d'amours, de douce contenance,
Qui tout passez en senz et en honnour,
Plus qu'a la fueille vous faiz obeissance:
A droit jugier je me tien a la flour.

III. RONDEAU
(Sur Elyon de Nillac)
Tresdouce flour, Elyon de Nillac,
Me tien a vous et non pas a la fueille,
Car po est gent qui avoir ne la veille.

On met souvent les fueilles en un sac,

Ains que la fruit ne que la fleur se queille. 5

Tresdouce flour, Elyon de Nillac,

Me tien a vous et non pas a la fueille.

Maiz vous estes le precieux eschac

Qui ne souffrez que nulz pour vous se deuille.

A vous me rent, vo pit6 me recueille; 10

Tresdouce flour, Elyon de Nillac,

Me tien a vous et non pas a la fueille,

Car po est gent qui avoir ne la vueille.

IV. ADTBE BALADE
(Des deux ordres de la Feuille et de la Fleur)

(filoge de la Feuille)
Vous qui prisez et loez la fleur tant,
Voulons par droit la fueille soustenir.
Car au jour d'ui n'est ne petit ne grant,

128 1

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF"

S'il a raison, que ne doye tenir

Que Dieux la fist en tous arbres venir

Pour resjoyr dames et damoisiaux

Et pour rendre leur chant aux doulx oysiaux.

Par sa verdour tuit nous esjoyssons,

Sans li ne puet li mondes estre biaux.

Pour ce a fueille plus qu'a fleur nous tenons. 10

Or responde qui veult, en arguant:

La fleur ne puet fors de la feuille issir,

Et se la fleur de la fueille descent,

Sa mere est done la fueille sans mentir;

Naistre la fait, puis croistre et espennir,

Et la norrit en ses tresdoulx rainsiaux

Virginalment; fuelle est riches joyaux,

Qui ainsi fait la fleur dont nous parlons;

Sur toutes fleurs est la fueille royaux:

Pour ce a fueille plus qu'a fleur nous tenons. 20

Et s'il avient qu'il face un po de vent,

La fleur verrez et sa colour palir,

En ordure chiet et va au neant,

Fruit et colour li faut perdre et perir.

Maiz la fueille ne puet nul temps morir;

Tousjours se tient forte, ferme et loyaulx,

Vert en couleur et amoureuse a ciaulx

Qu'elle recoit en 1'ombre de ses dons,

En destruisant les chaleurs desloyaux.

Pour ce a fueille plus qu'a fleur nous tenons. 30

En grans chaleurs voit on prendre souvent

Fueilles de saulx pour malades garir;

Es cours royaux, en maint riche couvent,

Arbres feuille's pour les lieux rafrechir.

En May voit on chascun de vert vestir;

On fait dossier es cours des arbrissiaux;

Fueilles porte qui veult estre nouviaux:

En cuer d'iver fueilles de lierre avons,

Maiz fleur n'avez en arbres n'en vessiaux.

Pour ce a fueille plus qu'a fleur nous tenons. 40

De vostre fruit que la fleur va portant
Voit on aucun par droit anientir;
Du mengier sont maint et maintes engrant,
Maiz petit vault pour le corps maintenir.
Fleur ne se puet a fueille appartenir;
129

10 GEORGE L. MARSH

Dessoubz li vont cerfs, bisches et chevriaux

Sanglers et dains, connins et laperiaux,

Tous les deduis que par le bos querons,

Fueille en lorier, de houx, jardins, preaux;

Pour ce a fueille plus qu'a fleur nous tenons. 50

L'ENVOT

Royne sur fleurs en vertu demourant,
Galoys d'Aunoy, Mornay Pierre ensement
De Tremoille, li borgnes Porquerons,
Et d'Araynes Lyonnet vont loant,
Et Thuireval vostre bien qui est grant;
Pour ce a fueille plus qu'a fleur nous tenons.

It is obvious that the foregoing poems are of very unequal
value, so far as any possible relation with F. Z/., or any influence
upon it, is concerned. The rondeau (III), indeed, may be dis-
regarded altogether. It is merely a personal tribute, couched in
language more naturally applied to a woman, but in this case
apparently intended for a woman to send to a man, since Hellion
de Naillac was councilor and chamberlain of King Charles VI of
France.1 A personal compliment, also, to Philippa of Lancaster,
is the chief burden of the second ballade, in favor of the Flower
(II) ; which, however, is of considerably greater value to us than
the rondeau, because it specifically declares that the poet has
heard of the existence, in French amorous law, of Orders of the
Flower and the Leaf. Though here said to be orders of women,
they apparently did not exclude men from membership, for in
both the second and the third ballades (II and IV) we find the
names of men belonging to the orders.

The first and last ballades, then, are of most interest to us,
because they present clear-cut arguments in favor, respectively, of
the flower and the leaf. In the first the poet says that, though
the verdure of the leaf gives pleasure to the hearts of true lovers,2
and moves the birds to sing sweetly,3 and though the leaf lasts
during a season,4 yet, because its beauty is nothing, he prefers the
flower; for the beauty and color and odor of the flower, and the

1 Raynaud, CEuvres de Deschamps, Vol. X, p. 215 ; Kittredge, Modern Philology, Vol. I, p. 5.

2 Cf. 1, 5-6; II, 8; IV, 8, 27 ; F. L., 485, 486, 551-54.

3 Cf . I, 7 ; IV, 7 ; F. L., 447, 448. * Cf . I, 8 ; IV, 25, 26 ; F. L., 551-56.

130

"THE FLOWEK AND THE LEAF" 11

fruit that comes from it, make it of much greater value than the /
leaf, which has none of these good qualities, but is worthless
except to protect the flower from rain and wind.1 Because of the
side taken in I and II, the argument is of course directly opposed
to that in F. L.; yet it is surprising how many of the points made
in favor of the leaf are suggested here — its pleasant verdure and
enduring quality, its influence on birds and true lovers, and the
protection it affords the flower against storms of various kinds.
Indeed, there is little else but elaboration of these points in the
long ballade in favor of the leaf (IV). The flower, we are told,
springs from the leaf and depends upon it for nourishment. If a
little wind comes, the flower loses its color and falls without pro-
ducing fruit ; but the leaf never dies. Instead, it always remains
green and fresh and "loyal," protecting those in its shadow from
the heat, and healing those who have been sick.2

Thus we see that there are found in these ballades of
Deschamps nearly all the arguments of our poem based upon the
physical characteristics of the flower and the leaf. The attribu-
tion of analogous mental and moral characteristics to the mem-
bers of the respective orders, however, is not even hinted at by
Deschamps. Nevertheless, such similarity of thought and expres-
sion as we have found, especially between the third stanza of
Ballade IV and the accounts of the storm in F. L., can hardly be
accounted for except by actual influence of Deschamps on the
English poet, or joint indebtedness of both to a common source
not now known.

CHABLES D 'ORLEANS' MENTION OF THE ORDERS

Some time during his imprisonment in England from 1415 to
1440, Charles d' Orleans wrote the following ballades:3

POEME DE LA PRISON

Ballade LXI

Le premier jour du mois de May,
Trouve" me suis en compaignie
Qui estoit, pour dire le vray,

1 Cf . I, 24-27 ; II, 28, 29 ; IV, 16, 21-30 ; F. L., 354-78, 551-65. 2 Cf . IV, 31, 32 ; F. L., 407-13.

3 See Patsies, ed. d'Hericault (Paris, 1896) ; Vol. I, pp. 79 ff. So far as I am aware, these
poems have not been previously mentioned in print in connection with F. L. My attention
was called to them by Professor John M. Manly.

131

12 G-EOBGE L. MARSH

De gracieusete" garnie;

Et, pour oster merencolie,

Fut ordonne" qu'on choisiroit,

Comme fortune donneroit,

La fueille plaine de verdure,

Ou la fleur pour toute Fanned;

Si prins le feuille pour livre"e, 10

Comme lors fut mon aventure.

Tantost apres je m'avisay
Qu'a bon droit 1'avoye choisie
Car, puis que par mort perdu ay
La fleur, de tous biens enrichie,
Qui estoit ma Dame, m'amie,
Et qui de sa grace m'amoit
Et pour son amy me tenoit,
Mon cueur d'autre flour n'a pas cure;
Adonc cogneu que me pense"e 20

Acordoit a ma destined,
Comme fut lors mon aventure.

Pource, le fueille porteray
Cest an, sans que point je Toublie;
Et a mon povoir me tendray
Entierement de sa partie;
Je n'ay de nulle flour envie,
Porte la qui porter la doit,
Car la fleur, que mon cueur amoit
Plus que nulle autre creature, 30

Est hors de ce monde passe"e,
Qui son amour m'avoit donne'e,
Comme lors fut mon aventure.

ENVOI

II n'est fueille, ne fleur qui dure
Que pour un temps, car esprouve"e
J'ay la chose que j'ay conte"e
Comme lors fut mon aventure.

Ballade LXII

Le lendemain du premier jour de May,
Dedens mon lit ainsi que je dormoye,
Au point du jour, m'avint que je songay
Que devant moy une fleur je v&>ye
Qui me disoit: Amy, je me souloye
En toy fier, car pieca mon party
132

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 13

Tu tenoies, mais mis Tas en oubly,

En soustenant la fueille centre moy;

J'ay merveille que tu veulx faire ainsi

Riens n'ay meffait, se pense je, vers toy. 10

Tout esbahy alors je me trouvay,
Si respondy, au mieulx que je savoye:
Tresbelle fleur, oncques je ne pensay
Faire chose qui desplaire te doye:
Se, pour esbat, Aventure m'envoye
Que je serve le fueille cest an cy,
Doy je pour tant estre de toy banny?
Nennil certes, je fais comme je doy
Et se je tiens le party qu'ay choisy,
Riens n'ay meffait, ce pense je, vers toy. 20

Car non pour tant, honneur te porteray
De bon vouloir, quelque part que je soye,
Tout pour 1'amour d'une fleur que j'amay
Ou temps passe". Dieu doint que je la voye
EnParadis, apres ma mort, en joye;
Et pource, fleur, chierement je te pry,
Ne te plains plus, car cause n'as pourquoy,
Puis que je fais ainsi que tenu suy,
Riens n'ay meffait, ce pense je, vers toy.

ENVOI

Le verite" est telle que je dy, 30

J'en fais juge Amour, le puissant Roy;
Tresdoulce fleur, point ne te cry mercy,
Riens n'ay meffait, se pense je, vers toy.

These two poems clearly have no close relation to P. L.
They may be earlier than it is, but there are no such resem-
blances of thought and expression as to indicate that our author
knew them; or, conversely, that the Duke of Orleans knew the
English poem. The most that can be said of them is that they
appear to be based upon the same amorous strife, which they
connect with the celebration of the first of May by a well-dressed
company whose members — "pour oster merencolie" — decide to
choose the leaf or the flower as livery for the whole year. This
poet chooses the leaf, not because of any such moral superior-
ity as it symbolizes in F. L., nor even because of the greater
durability and usefulness which are emphasized in the last ballade

133

14 GEORGE L. MARSH

from Deschamps; but because since his lady's death he cares for
no flower but her. And he comes to the melancholy conclusion
that neither leaf nor flower lasts more than a short time.

DOES GOWER MENTION THE ORDERS?

It seems generally to have been taken for granted that Gower
refers to the strife of the Flower and the Leaf in the description,
in the eighth book of the Confessio Amantis, of Cupid and his

"parlement"

Of gentil folk that whilom were
Lovers.1

This company are crowned with

Garlandes noght of o color,
Some of the lef , some of the flour,
And some of grete Perles were.

It is, of course, probable that the author of F. L. knew this
passage from C. A.; partly because of the resemblances pointed
out by Professor Skeat, and partly because a fifteenth-century
English writer of the school of Chaucer could hardly have been
ignorant of Gower' s great English poem. And it must be
admitted as quite possible that Gower had the strife of Flower
and Leaf in mind. Yet the last line quoted above seems to
preclude the idea of a twofold division in Gower's company, and
suggests the probability that the reference is merely to the
common custom of wearing garlands, generally of leaves and
flowers, at the springtime celebrations.2 Such a company as
that described by Gower is regularly met in Court of Love
poems,3 and garlands are part of its regular attire. Professor
Skeat zealously attempts to show greater resemblance between
Gower and F. L. by skipping a number of pages to

The grene lef is overthrowe,
and the following lines,4 which he compares with F. L., 11. 358-64,

iSee Skeat's Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. Ixviii-ix ; Gower's Complete Works, ed.
Macaulay, Vol. Ill, p. 546; Kittredge in Modern Philology, Vol. I, p. 2. Gower's mention of
garlands of the flower and the leaf was first noticed by Warton, History of English Poetry*
sec. 19 ; ed. Hazlitt, Vol. Ill, p. 31. The passage in Gower is Book VIII, 11. 2457 ff.

2 See pp. 153-57 below.

3 See W. A. Neilson's " Origins and Sources of The Court of Love," Harvard Studies and,
Notes in Philology and Literature, Vol. VI (1899), chap, iii, passim.

*C. A., Book VIII, 11. 2854 ff.

134

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAP" 15

where the overthrow of the followers of the Flower is described.
Any such comparison is entirely unjustifiable, however, as the
passage in C. A . is merely part of a rehearsal of the progress of
the seasons, and has no reference whatever to the leaves which
the gentlefolks of Cupid's company wore.

COMPARISONS OP PLOWER AND LEAP

One other alleged reference to the strife of the Flower and the
Leaf requires brief mention. It is discussed in an article by Pro-
fessor C. F. McClumpha,1 calling attention to Deschamps' Lay de
Franchise as a possible model for F. L. Deschamps, says Mr.
McClumpha, "attaches a brief comparison of the flower and the
leaf," and the author of the English poem, beginning with the
same personages, preserves the allegory. This is a singular error ;
for, though Deschamps indulges in a good deal of compliment to
an unnamed feminine flower, who is compared with the daisy, he
nowhere even mentions the leaf or hints at the strife of the
Flower and the Leaf. The wordfeuille does not occur in the
poem, except as applied (in 1. 45) to the petals of the flower; and
there is not the remotest suggestion of an allegory of the Flower
and the Leaf.2

An obscure comparison of the flower and the leaf is found in
a short Picard poem of the thirteenth century,3 which it seems
desirable to quote in full :

L'HONNEUB ET I/AMOUR

Qui de .II. biens le millour*
Laist, encontre sa pens^e,
Et prent pour li le piour
Bien croi que c'est esp[ro]v6e

Tr&s-haute folour.
Cause ai d' avoir mon penser
A ce que serve ai est6
Ai et sui de vrai ami

1 Modern Language Notes, Vol. IV (1889), cols. 402 ff.

2 Deschamps' poem is of some importance, however, in relation to the general setting
and machinery of F. L., and will therefore be considered further in chap, iii of this
investigation.

3 See "Fragment d'une Anthologie Picarde," ed. A. Boucherie, Revue des Langues
Romanes, Vol. Ill (1872), pp. 311 ff. The poem cited is on pp. 321, 322.
* Cf. Deschamps' Ballade I, p. 126 above.

135

16 GEOKGE L. MARSH

Sage, courtois, bien secre",
G[ou]vren6 par meurete", 10

Et gentil, preu et hardi,
Et qui sur tous a m'amour.
Dont sui souvent eno[re"e]
D'autrui amer, sans secour.
Mais pour mon mieuls sui donne"e,
S'en ferai demour.

Lasse! il m'est trop mal tourn6
A dolour et a griete",
Quant je ai si mal parti

Qu'il me faut contfre] mon gre", 20

Par droite necessity,
De corps eslongier cheli
A qui m'otroi sans folour,
Et sans estre a .... voe"e [supply lui?]
De coer; mais c'est vains labours,
Car tant ne doit estre ame"e
Foelle con la flours.

Or m'ont amours assent;

Mais, si c'a leur volente",

Est mieuls qu'il n'affier a mi. 30

Tous jours doi avfoir] fonde"

Mon desir sur loiaulte",

En espoir d' amour garni.

Car tout passe de valour,

Chus dont s[ui en] amourSe,

D'un si gratieux retour.

Sage doi estre avise"e,

Se j'ai chier m'onnour.

M. Boucherie's comment on this poem is as follows (p. 313):
Dans I'Honneur et V Amour, vrai bijou de versification, la femme
aim6e se re"signe, non sans lutte, a tenir " eloigne" de son corps " celui
qu'elle pr^fere. Sans doute T effort est pe"nible, mais elle doit mettre
1'honneur au-dessus de 1'amour, "car," dit-elle avec un rare bonheur
d'expression,

" Car tant ne doit estre ame"e
Foelle con la flours."

This implied connection of the leaf with love, the flower with
honor, is rather puzzling,1 and I have not found anything like it

1 Another possible interpretation seems to be that this mistress, plain in comparison
with another, cannot expect to be loved like the other, the flower.

136

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 17

elsewhere. Whatever the precise origin and meaning of the
comparison, however, there does not appear to be reference to
any such thing as the later strife of the Flower and the Leaf.
The poem is of interest only because of this early setting-off of
the one against the other.

In a great many other cases there is mention of flowers and
leaves together;1 but they are merely part of the natural back-
ground, and the juxtaposition seems without significance. The
only example worth quoting is from Lydgate's Reson and Sensu-
allyte? 11. 3900-2, about the trees in the garden of Deduit, which
nature sustains:

Ay tendre, fresh, and grene,
Ageyn thassaut of al[le] shours
Both of levys and of flours.

CHARACTERISTICS OF THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF

Reference to the characteristics of the flower and the leaf that
are emphasized in our poem — the perishable nature of the one
and the comparative permanence of the other — is frequently
found.

Thus in a chanson of Gonthier de Soignies, of the thirteenth
century, we are told that

Pucele est con flors de rose,
Qui tost vient et tost trespasse.3

In Jean de Condi's Dis de V Entendement :

etirs del monde et richesce

Ressamble la flour qui tost sesce
Et poi en sa biaut6 demeure,
Qu'ele chiet et faut en une heure.4

1 As, for example, in Mahn, Gedichte der Troubadours, Nos. Ixxiii-iv, ciii, ccii, ccxxi,
ccxxviii, cclxxxiii, ccccxv, dxxiv, dlxiv, dxcv, etc. The list might be greatly prolonged, if
necessary, from nearly all kinds of medieeval poetry in various languages.

2 Ed. Sieper, E. E. T. S. (1901-3).

3 Trouveres Beiges (Nouvelle Serie), ed. A. Scheler (Louvain, 1879), p. 29, 11. 48, 44.

*Dits et contes de Baudouin de Cond6 et de son Fils Jean de Conde, ed. Scheler
(Bruxelles, 1866-67), Vol. Ill, p. 92, 11. 1417 ff.

137

18 GEORGE L. MARSH

Lydgate several times comments on the transitoriness of the
flower in a way that strikingly suggests F. L. Thus in Beware
of Doubleness1 he declares ironically that because

these fresshe somer-floures
Whyte and rede, blewe and grene,
Ben sodainly, with winter-shoures,
Mad feinte and fade, withoute wene,

therefore there is no trust or steadfastness in anything but women.
Another ballade of Lydgate's has the refrain:

All stant on chaunge like a mydsomer rose;2

in still another he describes how "Alcestis flour" "in stormys
dreepithe;"3 and in R. S. beauty is compared to a rose that fades
with a storm.4 In Henryson's Testament of Cresseid5 is the line:

Nocht is your fairnes bot ane faiding flour.
Other references could be made, were an exhaustive list necessary.

On the other hand, the enduring quality of certain kinds of
leaves, including the laurel, the oak, and the hawthorn, is made
prominent in Chaucer's P. F., 11. 173 ff., and in Lydgate's T. #.,6
11. 503-16. In the latter passage a beautiful lady is advised to
be "unchanging like these leaves [hawthorn], which no storm
can kill."

It should also be noted that in R. R., buds are preferred to
blown roses because of their greater durability7 — a reason suffi-
ciently similar to that for the preference of leaf over flower to be
of interest.

THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF AS SYMBOLS

The use of the flower and the leaf as symbols is paralleled in
a rather interesting way in Christine de Pisan's Dit de la Rose?
which tells of the formation of the "Ordre de la Rose" for the
purpose of guarding "la bonne renomme"e . . . . de dames en
toute chose." This poem is, as the editor says,9 "en quelque

1 Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 291 ff.

2 M. P., ed. Halliwell, Percy Society, Vol. II (1840), pp. 22 ff.

3 M. P., p. 161. * LI. 6210-16.

5 Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 327 ff., 1. 461.

6 Ed. Schick, E. E. T. S., 1891. ? LI. 1653 ff., Vol. I, p. 54, Michel ed.

8 CEuvres po£tiques, ed. Roy (Soci6t6 des Anciens Textes Francais), Vol. II, pp. 29 ff.
^ Ibid., Vol. II, p. x.

138

"THE FLOWEK AND THE LEAF" 19

sort le couronnement de la pole"mique de Christine centre 1'oeuvre
de Jean de Meun" in satire of woman. The order is formed at
the suggestion of the "dame et deesse de Loyaute"" (11. 90, 91),
who comes directly from the God of Love. The symbolism of
the flower is more like that of the leaf in our poem, for the poet
is the friend of Diana (1. 279). The rose is evidently chosen
because of the controversy relating to E. R., and there is no
reference to any symbolism previously attached to that or any
other flower.

Mention should also be made, in this connection, of the well-
known Jeux Floraux of Toulouse, established in 1324 by seven
Provencal troubadours, for the purpose of fostering the "gay
science" of poetry. Though it is possible that the author of
F. L. had never even heard of this southern organization, the
name, the floral emblems given to winners of prizes, and the date
each year on which thejenx occurred — May 3 — are all of interest
as evidence of the way in which flowers were used as symbols in
connection with observances of the springtime.

THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE ALLEGOEY

The contrast between the adherents of the Leaf and of the
Flower in our poem is not quite clear-cut. Too many different
sorts of people are included in the company of the Leaf, and the
characterization of the company of the Flower is too general.
Yet the dominant ideas — serious achievement and steadfastness
on the one hand, idleness and frivolity on the other — are plain
enough, and are expressed elsewhere in ways of some interest to us.

Thus it is of value to examine somewhat in detail the plan
and purpose of Le livre des cent-ballades.1 A young man,
riding between Pont-de-Ce" and Angers, meets an old man, who,
suspecting the young man of being a lover, asks him whether he
intends always to be loyal in love and brave in war, and to observe
the rules of French chivalry. The young man promises, and pur-
sues his journey till he meets a company of young knights and
ladies disporting in a meadow watered by the Loire. He avoids
the crowd and proceeds to the river-bank to watch the fish; but

i Ed. de Queux de Saint Hilaire (Paris, 1868).

139

20 GrEORGE L. MARSH

is perceived by one of the youngest and merriest ladies of the
company, who seeks him out and unasked gives "conseils d' amour
le"ger, d' amour volage, bien diff e"rents des austeres et vigoureuses
lecons qui vient de lui donner le vieux chevalier."1 The young
man says he prefers to be loyal, and, in answer to the lady's
question where he received such advice, tells her of the old man
whom he had met. She proposes then that they submit to cer-
tain chevaliers renowned both in love and war the question:

Qui plus grant
Joie donne & plus enti&re,
Loiaut6, ou faux semblant

En amant.

He prefers to make the issue squarely as to the relative value or
success in love of loyalty or falsity; but she demands that they
ask of the judges only if they think —

Qu'estre secret & plaisant,

Pourchacant

En mains lieux joie plSntere,
Ne soit fait de vray amant.

The terms are finally agreed upon, and the question is sub-
mitted, with the result that nine out of twelve answers received,
purporting to come from some of the most famous men of the
time (not far from 1390), favor loyalty.

There is, to be sure, in the foregoing no mention of regular
orders, with symbolic attire and decorations, and the strife is
more specific and narrower in range than that of F. L.; but the
resemblance is noteworthy nevertheless. As Professor Neilson
says: "In this book we have very clearly opposed two different
ideals of love,"2 the old ideal of Ovid and his imitators, and a
newer and nobler ideal not so frequently expressed. Such a con-
trast is suggested, however, in the nightingale's complaint of the
degeneracy of love in Fablel and Venus? and was definitely made
long before the latter part of the fourteenth century ; for instance,
in a Provencal poem mentioned by Professor Rajna,4 in which we
find "1'Amor Fino o Verace, antagonista dell' Amor Falso."

1 Editor's Introduction, p. viii. 3 P. 162 below.

2 Harvard Studies, Vol. VI, p. 198. * Le corti d'amore ( Milano, 1890), p. 23.

140

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 21

The conflict in F. £., however, is not primarily or chiefly a
love conflict. In some ways it more closely resembles that between
Reason and Sensuality in Lydgate's amplification of Les Echecs
Amoureux,1 chiefly because Sensuality causes men to be

Ful of plesaunce and fals delyte (801)
And of flesshly appetyte.

Still more interesting, in the same poem, is the rivalry of Diana
and Venus. The poet meets the former in her evergreen forest
of chastity. She is clad in white, ornamented with pearls, and
wears a golden crown. She bewails the change from the days
when she was more highly regarded than Venus, and love was
pure and faithful. She particularly detests " Ydelnesse," the por-
ter of the garden of Deduit, Venus' son ; and warns the poet at
great length against the idle pleasures of this garden. In almost
every way2 the subjects of Venus and Cupid in the garden of
Deduit resemble the frivolous company of the Flower. And
though Diana has no company here, she bewails the loss of fol-
lowers who either in chastity or steadfastness were like some of
the groups in the company of the Leaf. Practically the only
inconsistency is that Diana, as in classical mythology, spends her
time hunting (to avoid idleness, she says, 1. 3000) ; whereas in
F. L. excessive love of hunting is one of the things condemned.
The pleasures of the garden of Deduit, to be sure, do not differ
materially from pleasures described in R. JR. and other poems
of its class ; but there is nowhere else, so far as I have discovered,
so important a contrast of the two ways of life contrasted in F. L.

ORDERS IN THE AMOROUS LAW

The fact that this conflict between two ways of life is attached,
in F. L., to orders mentioned by Deschamps as of the "amorous
law," requires little comment. The origin and characteristics of
this law have received such detailed treatment that repetition is
unnecessary.3 Suffice it to say that during the Middle Ages there

1 R. S., ed. Sieper.

2 See more detailed analysis in chap, iii below.

3 See especially P. Rajna, Le corti d'amore (Milano, 1890) ; E. Trojel, Andreae Capellani
Regii Francorum de Amore (Copenhagen, 1892) ; J. F. Rowbotham, The Troubadours and
Courts of Love (London, 1895) ; L. F. Mott, The System of Courtly Love (Boston, 1896) ; W. A.
Neilson, Harvard Studies, Vol. VI ; and various references given in the books just named.

141

22 GEORGE L. MARSH

did grow up — whether in actual practice or poetic fancy — an
elaborate system of courtly love, formulated and celebrated in a
long series of poems, with which ours is connected, not only by
"the landscape, the costuming, and the role of the queens,"1 but
also by the fact that the Orders of the Flower and the Leaf were
orders in the amorous law.2 Mention has already been made of
a slightly similar order of which a flower is used as the symbol.3
This "Ordre de la Rose" may have been only a poetical fancy;
but in 1399 an "Ordre de la Dame Blanche h 1'Escu Verd" was
actually formed,4 and there is interesting record of a "Cour
Amoureuse" of 1400.5

It is conceivable that the Orders of the Flower and the Leaf
did not actually exist, since literary influence may account for all
definite mention we have of them. Chaucer and Deschamps knew
some, at least, of each other's writings,6 and Charles d'Orleans and
the author of F. L. in all probability knew both Chaucer and
Deschamps. Yet the manner in which all the writers speak of the
contrasted orders is hard to reconcile with anything but their
actual existence in connection with the observance of May Day.
Chaucer's reference, as already pointed out,7 seems to imply that
the orders were not very old when he was writing the Prologue
to L. G. W. (about 1385-86). Deschamps, too, writing about the
same time, says, "I have heard of two orders," etc.;8 as if the
information had recently come to him. Charles d'Orleans' Poeme
de la prison cannot be later than 1440, and his reference to the
Orders of the Flower and the Leaf is probably due to the recollec-
tion of May Day festivities in France before he was imprisoned
in 1415. F. L. can hardly be dated later than 1450, and the
various facts to be observed as to its apparent relations with early
poems of Lydgate9 incline me to favor a somewhat early date.
Thus it seems probable that Orders of the Flower and the Leaf
existed as a part of the observance of May Day, according to the
"amorous law," in portions of both France and England, some

i Neilson, p. 150. 2 Deschamps' Ballade II, p. 127 above. a P. 138 above.

*To be discussed below, p. 153.
~5jSee A. Piaget, in Romania, Vol. XX, pp. 417 ff. ; Vol. XXXI, pp. 597 ff .

6 See the articles of Kittredge and Lowes previously cited, p. 124 above.

7 P. 125 above. 8 Ballade II, p. 127 above. 9 See especially chap, iii below.

142

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 23

time during the period beginning not long before 1385 and end-
ing before the middle of the following century. It is hardly prob-
able that the orders were very important, however, or there would
have been more frequent mention of them than we find.

CHAPTER II. THE ACCESSORIES OF THE ALLEGORY
A number of the details of F. L., as to costumes, chaplets, birds,
trees, and so forth, are clearly symbolic in relation to the central
allegory.

THE COSTUMES WHITE AND GREEN

The costumes are, we have noted, white and green — white for
the adherents of the Leaf, green for the adherents of the Flower.
At first this reversal of an apparently natural choice may seem
strange, for the daisy — the flower here worshiped — is white, and
the leaf is green; but when we remember that white is proverbi-
ally (and most naturally) the color of purity, the white attire of
the chaste followers of the Leaf is at once seen to be appropriate.

The use of white as symbolic of purity is so common as scarcely
to need comment : Thus Beatrice, when Dante sees her at the age
of eighteen, is attired in white, "the hue of Faith and Purity."1
Deschamps mentions the traditional interpretation of the color in
his Lay de Franchise, 1. 36, and his ^loge d'une dame du nom
de Marguerite.2 Christine de Pisan, in her DU de la Rose? and
Lydgate, in R. £,* represent Diana as clothed in white — Diana
the goddess of purity and leader of the company of the Leaf.
Especially interesting in this connection is another poem by Lyd-
gate— Pur le Roy? an account of the entry of Henry VI into
London in 1432, after his coronation in France.

The citezens eche one of the citee,
In her entent that thei were pure and clene,
Chees hem of white a full fayre lyverS,
In every craft as it whas welle sene;

1 Gardner, Dante Primer (1900), p. 46.

2 CEuvres, Vol. II, pp. 203 ff . ; Vol. Ill, pp. 379, 380, 1. 7.

3 (Euvres poetiques, Vol. II, pp. 29 ff., 11. 279-81. * LI. 2816, 2822-24.

5Jf. P., ed. Halliwell, pp. 1 ff. The same event is described in the Chronicles; see
especially Gregory's, ed. Gairdner, Historical Collections of a Citizen of London in the Fif-
teenth Century (Camden Society, 1876), pp. 173 ff.

143

24 GEOKGE L. MARSH

To shew the trouthe that they did mene
Toward the Kyng, had made hem feithefully,
In sondery devise embroudered richely.1

On the bridge a tower was erected, from which issued three ladies
representing Nature, Grace, and Fortune. On each side of these
ladies were seven maidens —

Alle clad in white, in tokyn of clennes,
Lyke pure virginis as in ther ententis.2

But purity is not the only meaning attached by mediaeval poets
to white. The appropriateness of the color for the Nine Worthies,
the Douze Pairs, the Knights of the Round Table and of the
Garter,3 is indicated in the following lines from Watriquet de
Couvin's Dis des .VIII. Couleurs:

Gils autres cuers de coragour, (206)

Gils visages simples dehors,

Qui n'espargne force ne cors

A biaus fais d'armes commencier,

Gils qui onques ne volt tencier

A honour, ainz le quiert touz diz

Simples est et douz et hardiz:

II portera par sa samblance

L'argente"e couleur tres blance,

Qui nous moustre en humilite"

Hardye debonnairet6,

Aspret6, travail & suour,

Et criera par grant vigour

.1. cri courtois et deduisant:

"Clarte", clarte", du roy luisant!"4

A third symbolic meaning is given to white by Guillaume de
Machaut, in his Remede de Fortune? where we are told that the
color signifies joy. A woman in white called Joye-sanz-fin
appears in a poem attributed to Deschamps,6 who was, it will be
remembered, a pupil of Machaut. Connected perhaps with this

1 1 emend Halliwell's bad punctuation.

2 It seems worthy of note, by the way, that these virgins sang "Most aungelyk with
hevenly armony" (p. 10). Cf. F. £., 131-33.
*F.L., 504, 515, 516, 519.

* Dits de Watriquet de Couvin, ed. Scheler (Bruxelles, 1868), pp. 311 ff.
^CEuvres choisies, ed. Tarb6 (Paris, 1849), pp. 83 ff.
6 CEuvres de Deschamps, ed Raynaud, Vol. X, p. Ixxxi.

144

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 25

interpretation are two references in Gaston Paris' collection of
Chansons du XVme sidcle.1 In chanson XLII the poet says
he is too sad to sing —

Quant le Vaudevire est jus
Qui souloit estre jouyeulx,

Et blanche livree porter,
Chascun ung blanc chapperon,2
Tout par bonne intencion
Noblement sans mal penser.

Somewhat similarly, in chanson LVI, Olivier Bachelin is
addressed in the following terms:

Vous soulli6s gaiment chanter
Et demener jouyeuse vie,
Et la blanche livre"e porter
Par la pais de Normandie.

This "blanche livreV' was apparently the sign of some organiza-
tion, but the editor of the Chansons gives no definite information
about it. As Bachelin was the fifteenth-century Norman poet who
wrote convivial songs called by the name of the valley (Vaudevire)
where he lived, it seems hardly likely that the wearing of white
livery in his time and by his merry companions has any relation
to the wearing of white by the followers of the Leaf, in spite of
the fact that 11. 11 and 12 of chanson XLII may reasonably be
taken to imply either purity or steadfastness, or both. These
chansons were probably later than F. L., however, so that they
interfere in no way with the conclusion that the use of white in
our poem was entirely in accord with traditions prevalent at the
time it was written.

There is abundant evidence that white was associated with the
amorous law and its festivities. Thus in G. Villani's Cronica*
there is mention of the appearance — in Florence, June, 1283 — of
"una compagnia .... di mille uomini o piu, tutti vestiti di robe

i Soci6t6 des Anciens Textes Francais, 1875.

2 In this connection may be mentioned Froissart's account of the "blans chaperons" of
Ghent, 1379 (Chroniques, chaps, cccxlviii ff.; Berners' translation). I see no reason for
suspecting any relation between these two kinds of " white hats," but they indicate how
much was made of details of livery or uniform, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.

3 Libro VII, cap. Ixxxix ; Biblioteca classica italiana, Secolo XIV, No. 21 (Trieste, 1857),
Vol. I, p. 148.

145

26 GEOKGE L. MARSH

bianche con uno signore detto dell' Amore." Similarly, in May,
1 1290, "more than a thousand persons, dressed in white, paraded
the streets [of Florence again], guided by the 'Lord of Love.' m
In Jean de Condi's Messe des Oisiaus2 white-clad canonesses pre-
sent a love suit before Venus; and in Gower's C. A? a company of
servants of love ride white horses and are clad in white and blue
(the latter the regular color of constancy). In a popular chanson4
"la belle au jardin d' amour" is in white. Moreover, in a number
of other cases, to be mentioned hereafter,5 white is associated with
green in connection with love observances of various kinds.

These love observances took place most commonly during the
month of May, in connection with more general celebrations of
the return of spring, with which also white was sometimes asso-
ciated, though, as will be seen shortly, far less frequently than
green. One of Gower's French ballades,6 for instance, contains
mention of the "blanche banere" of May. There is record of the
custom, in Provence, on the first of May, of choosing ude jolies
petites filles qu'on habille de blanc .... On 1'appelle le mai/o." 7
Mannhardt8 also mentions the wearing of white costumes at May
Day celebrations in various parts of Europe. The specific exam-
ples he gives are doubtless of a time much later than F. L., but
such customs are generally traditional and may be of very great
antiquity.

J As to the fundamental interpretation of green there is direct
' conflict : it means constancy and it means inconstancy. Deschamps,
in his Lay de Franchise and in two ballades, "L' Ascension est la
fSte des dames" and "!Eloge d'une dame du nom de Marguerite,"9
says green is the color of "fermete"" or of "seurte"." In two of
these cases, however, he is complimenting a woman represented
as a daisy, and naturally has to give a complimentary meaning to

i Gardner, Dante Primer, p. 13. 2Dits et contes, Vol. Ill, pp. 1 ff.

3 Book IV, 11. 1305 ff. See further discussion of the story of Rosiphele, p. 166 below.
* Romania, Vol. VII, p. 61. 5 pp. 152, 153 below.

6 Complete Works, ed. Macaulay, Vol. I, p. 367, ballade xxxvii.

7 DeNore, Coutumes, mythes et traditions des provinces de France (Paris, 1846) ; quoted
in deGubernatis, La mythologie des plantes (Paris, 1878-82), Vol. I, p. 227. See also Cham-
bers' Book of Days, Vol. I, p. 579.

&Der Baumkultus der Germanen und ihrer Nachbarstdmme (Berlin, 1875), p. 344.
9 (Euvrea, Vol. II, pp. 203 ff., 1. 35 ; Vol. Ill, pp. 307, 379.

146

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 27

the green stalk. In another ballade he writes more convention-
ally of blue as the color of "loyaute"."1 Yet there is evidence
that his idea was not exceptional. For example, in a Middle
English version of Le Chasteau d' Amour are the following lines:

The grene colour bi the ground that wil so wele laste (403)
Is the treuthe of oure ladye that ay was stedefast;2

in the Castle of Perseverance Truth is represented as wearing a
"sad-coloured green;"3 and in Lydgate's Edmund and Fremund*
we find the lines:

The wattry greene shewed in the Reynbowe
Off chastite disclosed his clennesse.

Moreover, Chaucer has Alceste, the type of faithfulness, "clad in
real habit grene,"5 and even Diana's statue in the Knight's Tale*
clothed "in gaude greene" — doubtless because she was a huntress.
The foregoing interpretation, however, is exceptional, and in
most cases can be accounted for, as intimated, by special reasons
governing each particular poem. By far the commoner meaning of
green was inconstancy. For example, Machaut has a ballade with
the refrain:

Au lieu de bleu se vestir de vert;7

and in his Remede de Fortune? "vers" is said to signify "nou-
vellete"." Chaucer makes similar use of the color in the Squire's
Tale;g and Lydgate in the following lines of the Falls of Princes :

Watchet-blewe of feyned stedfastnes, ....
Meint with light grene, for change and doublenes.10

i (Euvres, Vol. X, p. lix.

2 Robert Grosseteste's Chasteau d 'Amour (Castel of Love), ed. Hupe ; Anglia, Vol. XIV,
pp. 415 ff.

3 See Schick's note on 1. 299 of Lydgate's T. G.

*In Horstmann's Altenglische Legenden, Neue Folge (Heilbronn, 1891), pp. 376 ff.; part
III, 11. 115, 116.

5£. O. W., Prologue B, 1. 214. Alceste, it should be remembered, is a personification of
the daisy, and the green habit represents the green stalk of the flower. Similarly in the
Second Nun's Prologue (C. T., G, 90), "green of conscience" is to be explained by the com-
parison with a lily.

6 C. r., A, 1. 2079.

i QSuvres choisies, ed. Tarb6, pp. 55, 56. This poem is the original of Chaucer's Ballade
of Newe-Fangelnesse, with its refrain,

In stede of blew, thus may ye were al grene. (Oxford Chaucer, Vol. I, p. 409.)

»Tarb6, p. 84. 9 C. T., F, 11. 646, 647.

10 Quoted by Professor Skeat in his note on Chaucer's Anelida and Arcite, 1. 330 (Oxford
Chaucer, Vol. I, p. 538) ; and by Professor Schick in the note referred to above, n. 3.

147

28 GEORGE L. MARSH

In A. (r.,1 too, Fortune's gown

was of gawdy grene chamelet
Chaungeable of sondry dyuerse coloures
To the condycyone accordyng of hyr shoures.

The use of green as an unlucky color in some of the English
and Scottish Popular Ballads2 is in harmony with the foregoing
interpretation. The following lines, quoted by Child from Wil-
liam Black's Three Feathers, are of interest:

Oh green's forsaken,3

And yellow's forsworn,
And blue's the sweetest

Color that's worn.

A third meaning of green — not inconsistent with inconstancy,
however — is given in the following passage from Watriquet de
Couvin's Dit des .VIII. Couleurs:*

Car couleurs verde senefie (227)
Maniere cointe et envoisie:
Affaitiez, cortois et mignos
Et chantans comme uns roussignos,
Ne ne doit fais d'armes douter,
Que qu'il li doie au cors couster,
Mais qu'il puist sa force emploier
Par jouster et par tornoier,
Et criera ce joli cri:
"Verdure au riche roy joli!"

A similar interpretation is contained in the following lines from

Barclay :

Mine habite blacke accordeth not with grene,
Blacke betokeneth death as it is dayly sene;
The grene is pleasour, freshe lust and iolite;
These two in nature hath great diuersitie.6

lEd. Triggs (E. E. T. S., 1895), 11. 320-22.

2Ed. Child, Vol. II, pp. 181 ff., 512. It should be added, however, that in the great
majority of cases in which green is mentioned in the ballads, no ill luck is implied. Green
garments are very common — more common than any other kind. Some special uses of them
will be mentioned below, pp. 149-52. In numerous other instances not mentioned, the color
seems to be used simply because it is bright and pretty.

3 It may be mentioned that in Elizabethan times to "give a woman a green gown"
mplied loss of chastity. See the New English Dictionary, under " Green."
* Alre'ady referred to, p. 144 above, n. 4.
Prologue to Egloges, Spenser Society (1885) , p. 2.

148

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 29

This passage is, of course, considerably later than F. L.; but a
parallel contrast between black and green is implied by Lydgate's
representation of himself, on a pilgrimage, as

In a cope of blacke, and not of grene.1

In the ballads there is frequent mention of the "gay green,"2 and
the association of the color with the festivities of spring3 is in
harmony with this interpretation.

Another use of green is as the color of hope,4 in L'Amant
Rendu Cordelier a r Observance cT Amours5 — a meaning also
given (along with others) in a passage quoted by Schick from
Kindermann's Teutscher Wolredner* A similar idea seems to be
at the bottom of the following lines from La Panthere d> Amours,
by Nicole de Margival:7

Amans donques, qui Fesperance

De 1'esmeraude et la puissance

Veult avoir, il doit estre vers, (1310)

C'est a dire qu'il ait devers

Ceulz qui bien aimment bon corage,

Et si doit metre son usage

En ceulz ensuivir et congnoistre

Qui se peinent d'amors acroistre;

Car les vers choses tousjours croissent,

Et les seches tousjors descroissent;

Et cil qui en verdeur se tiennent

A grace si tres grant en viennent (1320)

Que des bons, des biaus et des gens

Sont k>6, et de toutes gens.

Such are the somewhat confusing interpretations of green that
I have found — constancy, inconstancy, pleasure, hope.8 In a far

1 Prologue to Thebes; text consulted, Chalmers' English Poets, Vol. I, p. 571.

2 See Child, ballads 64 A, stanza 19; 125, stanzas 23, 35; 132, stanzas 3, 4, etc.

3 See pp. 150-53 below.

4 White also appears as the color of hope in various Dutch poems. See Seelmann's
" Farbentracht," Jahrbuch des Vereins filr niederdeutsche Sprachforschung, Vol. XXVIII
(1902), pp. 118 ff.

5 Attributed to Martial d'Auvergne; ed. Montaiglon, Soci§t§ des Anciens Textes Fran-
cais, 1881. See note on p. Ill of this edition. The poem is also found in Les Arrets d 'Amours,
ed. Lenglet-Dufresnay (Amsterdam, 1731).

6 In the note already referred to, p. 147 above, n. 3.

7 Ed. Todd, Societ6 des Anciens Textes Frangais, 1883.

8 Professor Brandl (in Paul's Grundriss, Vol. II, p. 663) mentions yet another meaning,
in Gawain and the Green Knight— "die grflne Farbe des Friedens." This poem, however,
seems to have no possible relation to F. L.

149

30 GEORGE L. MARSH

greater number of cases no specific meaning is given, but the color
is associated with the light and frivolous pleasures of springtime
and courtly love.1 In astrology green was the color of Venus, and
Venus was generally connected, as in the Tannhauser legend, with
the baser sort of love. Naturally, also, green costumes were worn
at the festivities of May Day, in celebration of the renewal of
nature's green. The following list will indicate how thoroughly'
in accord with tradition were the green costumes of the company
of the Flower:

In R. R., Oiseuse ("Ydelnesse"), who conducts the lover to the gar-
den of Deduit, wears a dress of green; see 1. 573 of the English version
attributed to Chaucer.

The passage from La Panthere d 'Amours, quoted on p. 149 above,
associates the emerald and green with love.

A company of famous lovers in Froissart's Paradys d 'Amour (see
chap, iii below) are all clad in green.

In Deschamps' Lay de Franchise (ref. p. 143 above) a party of young
men cutting foliage in observance of May are likewise "vestus de vert."
See also ballade IV, p. 129 above, 1. 35.

A ballade of Christine de Pisan (CEuvres, Vol. I, p. 217), calling on
lovers to rise and be joyful on May Day, contains the following lines :

Vestir de vert pour joye parfurnir,
A f este aler se dame le mandoit.

A lean chevalier, reciting the pains and troubles of lovers in Alain
Charter's Debat des deux Fortunes d' Amours (CEuvres, ed. DuChesne
[Paris, 1617], p. 570), says that they often wear "cueur noircy .... soubz
robbe verte."

In the note already mentioned, on p. Ill of L'Amant Rendu Corde-
lier & V Observance d' Amours, the following lines from Charles d'Or-
leans and Bertrand des Marins are quoted:

Le verd je ne veux plus porter, [Charles d'Orleans]
Que est livre"e aux amoureux.

La couleur verde est demonstrant [Bertrand des Marins
Des femmes la plaisante face, de Masan in Rousier

Leur mine, aussi lour beau semblant, des Dames}
Dont maint estime estre en leur grace.

In the Prologue to Les Arrets d' Amours, by Martial d'Auvergne,
"les dresses, .... legistes, et clergesses qui sgavoient le decret par
cueur," are all clad in green. This singular volume of burlesque decrees

iThe signification of green in the Dutch poems studied by Seelmann (n. 4, p. 149 above)
is "Anfang de Ldebe."

150

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 31

contains many other allusions to garments and decorations of green; most
of them without significance, except as they show the great popularity of
the color and its common association with the affairs of love.

In chanson XLIX (Chansons du XVme siecle, ed. Paris); green is
said to be the livery of lovers.

Chaucer's Alceste, who, as we have noted (p. 147 above), is clad in
green, is led upon the scene by the King of Love, and represents in
appearance a daisy, the flower which the green-clad followers of the
Flower particularly worship. See L. G. W., text B, 11. 213, 242, 303, 341.

Isis, in A. 6r., (11. 332-34), wears a gown " grene as any gresse in the
somertyde."

Venus, in Henryson's Testament of Cresseid (1. 221 ; Chaucerian and
Other Pieces, p. 334), is dressed in green and black.

Malory describes a " maying of Arthur's knights, all clad in green."

Rosiall and Lust, in C. L. (11. 816, 1059; Chaucerian and Other Pieces,
pp. 431, 437), are clad in green.

In the May eclogue of Spenser's Shepherd's Calendar, "love-lads
.... girt in gawdy greene" are mentioned; and Lechery is given a
green gown in The Faerie Queene (I, iv, 25).

In Stubbes' Anatomie of Abuses (ed. Furnivall, New Shakspere
Society, 1877-79, p. 147) we are told of the followers of the Lord of
Misrule, clad in "liveries of greene, yellow, or some other light wanton
color."

Shakspere, in Love's Labour's Lost (I, ii, 90), mentions green as "the
colour of lovers."

Green also was frequently associated with fairies and other
supernatural creatures. In the ballad of Thomas Rhymer,1 for
instance, the queen of Elfland is attired in green. "The Wee
Wee Man"2 calls up a vision of twenty-four ladies in green, who
dance ujimp and sma." A mermaiden in green entices Clerk
Colvill away from his "gay ladie."3 And — to go somewhat afield
into folklore — Mannhardt4 writes at great length of " Waldgeister "
of various kinds clad in green.

Another extremely popular mediaeval use of green was in
connection with forestry and hunting.5 Robin Hood and his
men regularly wore suits of green, and other "merry men," out-

1 Child, ballad 37, Vol. I, pp. 323-26. 3 ibid., 42, Vol. I, pp. 387-89.

2 Ibid., 38, Vol. I, pp. 330-33. *Der Baumkultus, pp. Ill, 117, etc.

5 Explained in an interesting way in the following passage, quoted in the New English
Dictionary (under "Green") from Trevisa's translation of Bartholomew de Glanville's De
Proprietatibus Rerum: "Hunters clothe themself in grene for the beest louyth kyndely
grene colours."

151

32 GEOKGE L. MARSH

laws, and hunters in the ballads are similarly clad.1 Chaucer's
yeoman, too, "was clad in cote and hood of grene;"2 and Emily,
in the Knight's Tale* wears a green gown on the May morning
when she goes forth with Theseus and his company to hunt.
According to an old proverb,

The first of May

Is Robin Hood's day;

and at least as early as the fifteenth century Robin Hood and his
men were associated in England with the May games.4 Thus,
since it is undue love of hunting and hawking and playing in
meads that is specifically condemned in the followers of the
Flower, their green costumes may possibly be accounted for with-
out going away from England.

Thus far we have been examining cases of the use of white and
green separately, where a symbolic meaning is attached to the
colors or implied by the context. Many more examples might
doubtless be found,5 as mediaeval poetry is full of details about
costumes, and the colors in question were exceptionally popular.
But it seems sufficient to conclude with a few important instances
of the use of the two colors together.

At the ceremonies after the coronation of Charles VI of France,
in 1380, "ceux de la ville de Paris allerent au devant de luy bien
deux milles personnes vestus tout un, c'est a sgavoir de robbes
my-partis de vert et de blanc."6 Even though in this narrative
no specific significance is attached to the colors, the circumstance
is of interest. Much more important, however, is the use of the
colors in Christine de Pisan's Due des Vrais Amans? where on

1 See Child, " Robin Hood Ballads," passim, Vol. Ill ; also ballads 73 D, stanza 11 ; 107 A,
stanzas 25, 30, 76 ; 305 A, stanzas 19, 32. Of course, a very much longer list could be made, were
it necessary to be exhaustive. See, for instance, Ipomedon, ed. Kolbing, 1. 657.

2 C. T., A, 1. 103. 3 ibid., 1. 1686.

* See the accounts of May games in Strutt's Sport and Pastimes, Book IV, chap, iii,
sees, xv-xx; Strutt's romance, Queenhoo-Hall, sec. i; Hone's Every -Day Book, Vol. I, pp.
269 ff.; Vol. II, pp. 284 ff.; Hone's Table Book, pp. 271 ff.; Hone's Year Book, pp. 257 ff . ;
Brand's Popular Antiquities; Mannhardt's Baumkultus, pp. 160 ff. ; Chambers' Book of
Days, Vol. I, pp. 571 ff.

5 For instance, in the romances, which I have not examined with this matter especially
in view.

6 Quoted from Jean des Ursins, " Histoire de Charles VI," in Memoir* pour servir d, Vhis-
toire de la France, Vol. II, p. 342.

? (Euvres, Vol. Ill, pp. 59 ff. The poem will be analyzed somewhat in detail in chap,
iii, below.

152

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 33

one day knights clad in white joust before ladies in white, and on
the next day both knights and ladies are clad in green. Here
also no significance is attached to the colors, and the same persons
wear the different costumes on different days; yet there is enough
similarity in the attendant circumstances— the jousting ; the order
in which the colors appear; the attention to details about armor,
harness, precious stones, gold embroidery, and so forth — to
justify a strong suspicion that the author of F. L. knew the
French woman's poem. Christine de Pisan makes a good deal of
account of the "Ordre de la Dame Blanche a FEscu Verd," which
was formed by the famous Marechal Boucicault in 1399,1 for the
protection of women. The emblem of the order was "une targe
d'or esmaillie" de verd, & tout une dame blanche dedans." It
seems reasonable to believe that the "dame blanche" represented
the purity which the knights of the order were to protect; what
the green background signified is not so clear.

That white and green were sometimes associated together in
connection with the observances of May is shown by an account,
in Hall's Chronicle,2 of a "maying" of Henry VIII, in which the
company were clad in green on one occasion and in white on
another. In Machyn's Diary? too, there is mention of a white
and green May pole, around which danced a company of men
and women wearing "baldrykes" of white and green.

The conclusion, then, as to colors, is that the use of white and
green in F. L. is substantially in accordance with tradition.
White regularly signifies purity, and is associated with martial
prowess and joy; the wearers of white in our poem are famous
warriors, pure women, and steadfast lovers. Green is inconsist-
ently interpreted; but in actual use is most often associated with
pleasures of the lighter sort for which the followers of the Flower
are condemned.

OHAPLETS OF LEAVES AND OF FLOWERS

The wearing of chaplets, whether of leaves or flowers, was a
regular feature of the observance of May Day and other medi-

*See Memoirs pour servir d, Vhistoire de la France, Vol. II, pp. 209, 255; C. de Pisan 1s
CEuvres, Vol. I, pp. 208, 210, 220, 302, 303, etc.

21809 ed., pp. 515, 520; quoted by Mannhardt, p. 368.
3 Ed. Nichols (Camden Society, 1848), p. 20.

153

34 GEORGE L. MARSH

seval outdoor festivities of the spring and summer.1 In F. L. this
practice is used to distinguish the parties further by giving
chaplets of leaves to the company of the Leaf; of flowers, to the
company of the Flower.

Laurel wreaths, as it seems hardly necessary to say, were
frequently used from very early times as tokens of honor.
Apollo was often represented with a crown of laurel, "comme
dieu qui purifie, qui illumine, et qui triomphe."2 Chaucer
presents Theseus

With laurer crowned as a conquerour.3

Christine de Pisan has a ballade on men "digne d'estre de lorier
couronne".4 Lydgate represents St. Margaret as crowned with
laurel,5 and in A. 6r., 1. 791, Virtue is crowned with laurel. Thus
it is in accordance with a very common conventionality that in
F. L. laurel wreaths are given to the Nine Worthies, and those
that were "hardy" and "wan victorious name."6

Woodbine is worn by those that

never were (485)

To love untrew in word, ne thought, ne dede,
But ay stedfast.

A significance like this is attached by Lydgate to hawthorn;7
and both Chaucer and the author of F. L. mention woodbine
and hawthorn together.8 The latter especially was very popular
during the Middle Ages, and generally associated with the
festivities of May. Hawthorn branches were used in "planting
the May," and the hawthorn blossom was often called "the
May."9 The special appropriateness of hawthorn for the
adherents of the Leaf is indicated in the following passages:

i The examples cited of the different kinds of chaplets will furnish sufficient evidence
of the prevalence of the custom. Reference may be made, however, to R. R., ed. Michel,
Vol. I, pp. 247, 248, note; and to HinstorfF s dissertation on Kulturgeschichtliches im "Roman
de VEscoufle " und im " Roman de la Rose ou de Guillaume de Dole " (Darmstadt, 1896). See
also the authorities cited on p. 152 above, n. 4.

2Gubernatis, Mythologie desplantes, Vol. II, p. 193.

3 C. T., A, 1. 1027. * (Euvres, Vol. I, p. 2.

5" Life of St. Margarete," Horstmann's Altenglische Legenden, Neue Folge (Heilbronn,
1881), pp. 446 ff, 1.42.

6 LI. 240, 249, 479-81, 502-32. ? T. G., 11. 503-16 ; see p. 138 above. 8 c. T., A, 1. 1508 ; F. L., 1. 272.

9 See Chesnel, Dictionnaire des superstitions (Paris 1856), p. 101; Mannhardt, Der
Baumkultus, pp. 343, 365; Chambers, Book of Days, Vol. I, p. 571; Schick's notes on T. G.,
pp. 99, 100, 136; Rolland, Flore Populaire, Vol. V (1904), pp. 157 ff.

154

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 35

L'aube"pine, la fleur du printemps, e"tait ve"n6re"e dans nos campagnes.
On en faisait un embleme de purete", et on lui prStait des vertus merveil-
leuses; on en portait aussi une branche comme un pre"servatif contre le
tonnerre.1

Au temps de la chevalerie, 1'amant qui les circonstances condamnait
a subir une longue attente avant de voir couronner ses voeux, pre"sentait
a la dame que les avait fait naitre un rameau d'aub^pine, 116 d'un
ruban de velours incarnat, ce qui signifiait qu'il vivait de Pesperance
et demeurait fidele.2

The nightingale, singer for the Leaf, is frequently associated
with the hawthorn, as in C. N.9 where, after his defense of true
love against the scoffing cuckoo, he flies into a hawthorn bush.3
Similarly the nightingale sings from a "thorn" in Lydgate's
Night. II,4 and in C. L. he goes to matins "within a temple
shapen hawthorn-wise."5

Two other kinds of leaves remain for chaplets — "okes cereal,"
of which also Emily's crown was made when she appeared in
Diana's temple,6 and agnus castus, which was proverbially
believed to be a preservative of chastity.7

Chaplets of flowers are much more frequently mentioned than
chaplets of leaves, and were associated regularly with the festivi-
ties of light love. Venus and Cupid are generally represented as
crowned with roses.8 Oiseuse in R. R. likewise wore a chaplet of
roses.9 Chaucer gives Priapus garlands of flowers in P. F., 1. 259.

iTarb6, Romancero de Champagne (Reims, 1863), Vol. II, p. 50. Sir John Maundeville
also testifies to the potency of the white thorn or "albespine" against thunder (Travels,
chap. ii).

2Chesnel, Dictionnaire des superstitions, p. 101.
3 Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 347 ff., 1. 287.

*Two Nightingale Poems, ed. Glauning (E. E. T. S., 1900), 11. 10, 11, 61, 355, 356. See
Glauning's note on 1. 10.

5 Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 409 ff., 1. 1354.

6 C. T., A, 1. 2290.

^ See Professor Skeat's notes on both cereal oak and agnus castus, on F. L., 11. 160, 209.
The following may also be added from Gubernatis, Mythologie des plantes, Vol. II, p. 4 :
"Dans les f6tes ath6niennes des Thesmophores, les jeunes filles s'ornaient des fleurs de
1 ' agnus-castus et couchaient sur les feuilles de cette plante, pour garder leur puret6 et leur
etat de vierges."

8 See Schick's note on 1. 505 of Lydgate's T. G. The following additions may be made
to the passages there quoted : Cupid wears a garland of flowers in Fablel (ref. p. 162 below),
p. 23; in R. R., 1. 908, Chaucerian version ; in L. 6. W., A, 1. 160; B, 1. 228.

9L. 566, Chaucerian version.

155

36 GEORGE L. MARSH

The following passage from Kobert of Brunne's Handlyng Synne
(1303) is of decided interest:

3yf Pou euer yn felde, eyper in toune,
Dedyst floure-gerland or coroune
To make wommen to gadyr pere,
To se whych pat feyrer were;
I>ys ys a3ens pe commaundement,
And Pe halyday for Pe ys shent;
Hyt ys a gaderyng for lecherye,
And ful grete pryde, & herte hye.1

Mention of chaplets of flowers is particularly frequent in con-
nection with the observances of May. Thus Colin Muset2 says
that in May, when the nightingale sings, he must wear a chaplet
of flowers "por moi de*duire et de" porter;" and in another poem he
describes companies of young men and girls who

Chantent et font grant revel,
Chascuns a chapel de flor.

An Italian poem of the thirteenth century, attributed to Dino
Campagni,3 contains the following lines :

Ne bei mesi d' aprile e di maio,
La gente fa di fior le ghirlandette,
Donzelle e cavalieri d' alto paraio
Cantan d'amore novelle e canzonette.

Froissart tells in his Paradys d* Amours of meeting and loving
Bel Acueil,

Qui faisoit chapeaus de flourettes.4

She makes him a chaplet, and he in payment recites to her his
ballade of the marguerite.5 Deschamps mentions the making of
chaplets of flowers, in connection with the observance of May Day,
in both his Lay Amour eux and his Lay de Franchise? The
ladies whom the hero of C. O.1 meets are making garlands of
flowers. The poems of Christine de Pisan contain numerous

1 E. E. T. S., ed. Furnivall, Part I (1901), 11. 997 ff.

2 Chansonniers de Champagne, ed. Tarbe (Reims, 1850), pp. 87, 90, 92.
a Quoted by Gubernatis, Mythologie den plantes, Vol. I, p. 228.

* Poesies, ed. Scheler, Vol. I, pp. 1 ff., 1. 1473.
5 To be discussed below, p. 158.
«To be analyzed in chap, iii below.

7 In Latin Poems Commonly Attributed to Walter Mapes, ed. Wright (Camden Society,
1841), pp. 310 ff.

156

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 37

references to this custom;1 and — to conclude a list that might be
longer — the lovers in C. L. wear garlands of flowers.2

An interesting specific contrast of leaf and flower is in the
following passage from Gubernatis:

Dans le Tyrol italien, les jeunes filles portent sur leurs cheveux une
petite feuille verte, symbole de leur virginit6 . . . . ; le jour de leur
manage, elles perdent le droit de la porter et la remplacent par des
fleurs artificielles.3

This is a bit of undated folklore ; but the resemblance to part of
the symbolism of leaf and flower in F. L. is striking. On the
whole, it should be very clear that the use of the chaplets in our
poem is in accordance with well-defined tradition.

THE CULT OF THE DAISY

Though F. L. presents no such description of the daisy as may
be found in many another poem, the r6le of that flower is very
important, since it is the object worshiped by the green-clad
followers of the Flower. Such choice of a particular blossom is
not a feature of any other poem we have on the strife of the
Flower and the Leaf ; but it is not at all surprising, in view of
the widespread cult of the daisy during the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries.*

The earliest poem of importance on the subject is Machaut's V
Dit de la Marguerite? This is a complimentary poem and bears
no specific resemblance to F. L. The poet emphasizes the con-
nection of the daisy with the affairs of love, saying that its
scent produces love and its root cures the pains of love,6 and he
promises to serve and love this flower only.

Machaut's pupil, Deschamps, has a ballade complimentary to
"line dame du nom de Marguerite,"7 and virtually repeats the

iSee OSuvres, Vol. I, pp. 218, 236, 239; Vol. II, Dit de la Pastoure, 11. 634, 670, pp. 243, 244.

2 Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 409 if., 11. 440, 450. On the general subject of flowers
in connection with the observance of May Day, reference may be made to Gubernatis,
Mythologie des plantes, Vol. I, p. 153; Mannhardt, Der Baumkultus, p. 344, etc. ; and the
authorities cited in n. 4, p. 152 above.

3 Mythologie desplantes, Vol. I, p. 143.

* See Professor Lowes' article referred to above, p. 124, n. 1. I have limited my dis-
cussion to matters directly bearing on F. L.

5 (Euvres choisies, ed. Tarbe, pp. 123-29. » See Morley's English Writers, Vol. V, pp. 133 ff .

iQSuvres, Vol. Ill, p. 379; already referred to in connection with the significance of the
colors (p. 143 above).

157

38 GEORGE L. MABSH

contents of this ballade in his Lay de Franchise.1 In both these
places the flower is spoken of as "blanche et vermeille,"2 and the
lady is said to be endowed with admirable qualities which the
different parts of the flower symbolize. In the latter respect, as
already noted, there is inconsistency with the allegory of our poem,
and the bit of descriptive detail — "blanche et vermeille" — is
practically inevitable in writing of a "Wee, modest, crimson-
tipped flow'r." Hence the only thing especially worthy of note
about Deschamps' love of the daisy is that his tribute in the Lay
de Franchise occurs in a setting somewhat like that of F. L.s

Deschamps was primarily complimenting a lady named Mar-
guerite; Froissart the chronicler, though not guiltless of compli-
mentary intentions, seems really to have loved the flower somewhat
as Chaucer loved it. He mentions it nearly everywhere. His
best known poem on the subject is the ballade in Le Paradys
d' Amours,* with the refrain:

Sus toutes flours j'aime la margherite.
In La Prison Amoureuse5 Froissart used

une fleur petite
Que nous appellons margherite,

for the seal, or cachet, of the lover in an amorous correspondence.
He imitated Machaut, also, in devoting a whole poem to this
favorite flower — Le Diitie de la Flour de la Margherite,6 in
which the praise is similar to that by Chaucer in the Prologue to
L. G. W. And his seventeenth Pastourelle1 concludes each stanza
with the refrain:

La margherite a la plus belle —

that is, of the shepherdesses celebrated in the poem. It should
perhaps be noted especially that in the ballade above referred to
the daisy is praised for its enduring freshness (somewhat in con-
trast with its rOle in F. L.), but is associated with springtime and
conventional love.

1 (Euvres, Vol. II, pp. 203 ff., 11. 30 ff . 5 ibid., Vol. I, pp. 241 ff., 11. 898, 899.

2 Compare F. L., 333, and L. G. W., A, 42. 6 Ibid., Vol. II, pp. 209 ff .

3 See above, p. 135 ; below, chap. iii. ? Ibid., Vol. II, pp. 343 ff .
* Poteies, ed. Scheler, Vol. I, p. 49.

158

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 39

Whatever cult of the daisy there was in England seems to
have been due to the influence of Chaucer, and he doubtless was
familiar with some at least of the French poems just mentioned.1
His tribute in the Prologue to L. G. W.? in close connection as it is
with his reference to the strife of the Flower and the Leaf,3 must
have been in the mind of the author of our poem; even though
he seem inconsistent in making the frivolous company of the
Flower do homage to the daisy, whereas in Chaucer the faithful
Alcestis is transformed into that flower. It hardly need be
pointed out that this inconsistency resembles that between F. L.
and Deschamps, who makes the green of the stalk of the daisy
symbolize constancy. And it must be admitted that, in spite of
the association of this flower with springtime festivities and light
love, the exalted position given it by Chaucer and Deschamps is
more fully in accord with the common mediaeval belief in its
healing powers, emphasized in Machaut's Dit de la Marguerite*

Various references to Chaucer's happy bit of myth -making in
regard to Alcestis have been pointed out by Professors Skeat and
Schick.5 In one of these I find striking expression, heretofore
unnoticed, of a prominent thought of F. L. Lydgate's Poem
against Self-Love6 contains these lines:

Alcestis flower, with white, with red and greene,
Displaieth Mr crown geyn Phebus bemys brihte,

In stormys dreepithe, conseyve what I meene,
Look in thy myrour and deeme noon othir wihte.

The italicized words describe so exactly the state of the flower
and its followers after the storm that comes upon them7 as to
suggest that Lydgate was directly alluding to our poem.

Other notable English references to the daisy during the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries are as follows: In C. N., with its
discussion of love, the setting is a land of daisies, and healing
properties are attributed to the flower.8 The Compleynt which

1 See the articles by Kittredge and Lowes, cited above, p. 124, n. 1.

2 Text B, 11. 40-65. SB, 1. 72.

* See p. 157 above, and the passage from Morley there referred to.

5 See Schick's note'on 11. 70-74 of Lydgate's T. &., p. 74 of his edition, and the references
there given.

6 M. P., ed. Halliwell, pp. 156 ff. ; especially p. 161.

7 F. L., 11. 368-71. 8 LI. 63, 243 ff. ; ref. p. 155 above.

159

40 GEOKGE L. MARSH

Professor Schick prints as an appendix to his edition of T. G. pre-
sents an extended tribute to the daisy,1 in which most of the
elements found in the French poets and Chaucer are repeated.
If Lydgate wrote this poem (as is very doubtful, however) it is
especially interesting on account of his very frequent reference to
the flower.2 "A Ballad" beginning:

In the season of Feuerere whan it was full cold,

printed first with Stowe's Chaucer of 1561, but rejected by
Tyrwhitt and subsequent editors,3 is a tribute to the daisy, which
may allude to the worship of this flower by the Order of the
Flower. Lovers are addressed, and told that they

Owe for to worship the lusty floures alway,
And in especiall one is called see4 of the day,
The daisee, a floure white and rede,
And in French called La bele Margarete.

In two poems of some importance later than F. L. daisies form
part of the setting: in A. L., 11. 57 ff.,5 and in C. L., 11. 101 ff.

The refrain purporting to be quoted in F. L. from some French
original — "Si douce est la margarete"6 — I have not yet found
elsewhere. The fact that the spelling "margarete," to rime with
"swete," is not used in French — so far as I can learn — suggests
the possibility that the line may have been composed by the
English poet to suit the convenience of the rime.

On the whole, the use of the daisy in connection with May
Day festivities is more or less conventional, but was probably
directly suggested by Chaucer, with very likely a reference to
Machaut, Deschamps, or Froissart for the lighter signification
attached to the flower in F. L. It also seems probable that
Lydgate knew our poem and directly alludes to it.

THE NIGHTINGALE

The nightingale in F. L. flies to Diana, the lady of the Leaf;
the goldfinch, to Flora, the lady of the Flower. The former rep-
resents the more serious side of man's nature, shown in affairs of

i Ll. 394 ff . 2 See Schick 's note, p. 74.

3 See Skeat : Chaucerian and Other Pieces, p. xiii. Most easily accessible in Chalmers1
English Poets, Vol. I, p. 562.

* Apparently an error for "ee."

5 Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 380 ff . 6 F. £., 1. 350.

160

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 41

love by steadfastness; the latter, the more frivolous side, with a
suggestion of inconstancy in love. Here the conformity with lit-
erary tradition is not so strict as in relation to most of the other
matters discussed in this chapter.

The nightingale, with other birds, was an element of the con-
ventional springtime setting,1 and as such became inevitably asso-
ciated with the festivities of love, whether serious and steadfast,
or the lighter love with which we have found green garments and
garlands of flowers associated. The general popularity of the
nightingale in mediaeval poetry (or, for that matter, in the poetry
of all times and all nations where the bird is found) is too well
known to require comment.2 A very large number, perhaps even
a majority, of all the poems I have read which present the spring-
time setting give the nightingale a place of prominence — or the
place of most prominence — among the birds that rejoice the
poet's heart, or cheer the lover and remind him of his mistress.3

Along with this general association with love, however, there
is a tendency to exalt the character of the nightingale, to associ-
ate her4 with the better sort of love — with inspiration to brave
deeds and even with religion — and thus make it more appropriate
that she should be the singer for the brave and steadfast company
of the Leaf. Giving the nightingale a serious character is prob-
ably due, in part at least, to the bird's association with the clas-
sical story of Philomela, and to the mediaeval superstition that she

1 To be discussed in chap, iii below.

2 See Uhland, Abhandlung iiber die deutschen Volkslieder, passim.

3 On the association of the nightingale with the affairs of love see Neilson, Harvard
Studies, Vol. VI, pp. 217 ff. The following additions may be made to the examples there re-
ferred to: The nightingale cries on the green leaf for love (Mahn, Gedichte der Trouba-
dours, Vol. I, p. 173). The nightingale is sent with a message of love to the "jardin
d'amour" (Tarbe's Romancero de Champagne, Vol. II, p. 159). On the nightingale as a
messenger see also Appel, Provenzalische Chrestomathie, 2d ed., p. 97 ; Romania, Vol. Ill, pp.
97, 98; Vol. VII, pp. 55, 57; Chansons du XVme siecle, Nos. Ixxvii, civ, cxxxix, etc.; Holland,
Faune populaire de la France (Paris, 1879), Vol. II, pp. 275 ff. Christine de Pisan, in her
Dit de Poissy (OSuvres, Vol. II, pp. 164, 165), describes the singing of nightingales against
"le faulz jaloux." In Chaucer's T. C. (II, 11.918-24) a nightingale sings a love song that
lulls Criseyde to sleep. In Lydgate's B. K. (Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 245 ff.)—

" the nightingale (47)

With so gret mighte her voys gan out-wreste
Right as her herte for love wolde breste."

Cf . this with F. L., 11. 99-102, 447-49.

* Though it is in fact the male nightingale that sings, the medieeval poets generally
thought otherwise.

161

42 GEORGE L. MARSH

sang with her heart impaled upon a thorn.1 The following exam-
ples will illustrate the tendency:

The burden of the first part of FaUel (ed. Jubinal, Paris, 1834) is the
nightingale's complaint of the degeneracy of love.

In Venus (ed. Forster, Bonn, 1880) the nightingale writes a charter
containing a decree of love, in which loyal love is commanded.

Uhland cites examples of the inspiration of warriors by the nightin-
gale's song (Abhandlung, ed. Fischer, p. 87).

In Froissart's Loenge de May (Poesies, ed. Scheler, Vol. II, pp.
194 ff.) the song of the nightingale inspires the lover to ardent praise of
his mistress and resolutions of loyalty to her.

In C. O. and many of the Chansons (e. g., cvi, cix) the nightingale
sings to gladden the hearts of those in pain for love.2

The part of the bird is very prominent in the Chansons. She "praises
true lovers in her pretty song " (Ixvii). She is the messenger of a neglected
mistress to remind her lover of his duty (Ixxii, cxxiii).3 She is asked for
advice in a love affair (cxvii).

f The nightingale in C. N. speaks in defense of true love against the

scoffing cuckoo (see p. 155 above, and p. 163 below).

Lydgate's Two Nightingale Poems are mainly religious allegories,
in which the nightingale represents Christ; but in II, 11. 16, 17, the poet
says he " understood that she was asking Venus for vengeance on false
lovers." In 1. 68 she praises pure love.

In the Devotions of the Fowls, printed by Halliwell with Lydgate's
M. P. (pp. 78 ff.), but of doubtful authenticity, the nightingale sings of
Christ's resurrection.

In The Thrush and the Nightingale (Hazlitt's Popular Poetry, Vol.

I, pp. 50 ff.; and Reliquiae Antiques, Vol. I, p. 241) the nightingale de-
fends women against the attacks of the thrush, and is admitted by the
latter to win the victory.

In the Buke of the Howlat (Scottish Alliterative Poems, ed. Amours;
S. T. S., 1897) nightingales (with other birds) sing a hymn to the virgin
(U. 716 ff.).

Dunbar has the nightingale defend the thesis that " All luve is lost
bot vpon God allone" (Poems, S. T. S., Vol. II, pp. 174 ff.).4

So far as a relation of any of the above poems with F. L. is
concerned, the function of the nightingale is most important in

i See Chambers, Book of Days, Vol. I, p. 515; Schick's note on Kyd's Spanish Tragedy,

II, ii, 50.

2 She does not always rejoice the lover, however; see cxx, cxxi.

3 See other examples of use of the nightingale as a messenger, n. 3, p. 161 above. >

* The role of the bird in the Owl and the Nightingale is not exalted, but this poem is

considerably earlier than any but a very few of those here considered, and seems to have

little, if any, connection with any of them.

162

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 43

C. N. This bird's defense there is primarily of love and love
service in general, but the emphasis is distinctly on true service,
such as the lovers among the adherents of the Leaf would render.

THE GOLDFINCH

The goldfinch is not nearly so often mentioned as the night-
ingale, bat when he receives a character it is consistent with that
given him in F. L. Thus the "prentis" in Chaucer's Cook's Tale1
is described as "gaillard .... as goldfinch in the shawe." In
the pseudo-Chaucerian Pardonere and Tapstere I find the ex-
pression " as glad as any goldfynch." 2 And in C. L. the "goldfinch
fresh and gay" sings a psalm to the effect that "the god of Love
hath erth in governaunce."3 Professor Skeat's suggestion that
the goldfinch in F. L. is like the cuckoo in C. N. in representing
faithless love* is based upon an entirely unjustifiable interpreta-
tion of the latter poem. The cuckoo scoffs at love altogether and
refuses ever "in loves yok to drawe."5 He argues that lovers are
the worst off of all people on earth,6 because all sorts of evils come
from love.7 The cuckoo would agree with the chaste members of
the company of the Leaf rather than with the gay adherents of
the Flower.

THE LAUREL AND MEDLAR TREES

Whatever significance may be attached to the trees in which
the birds sing in F. L. has been partly indicated above (p. 154),
so far as the laurel is concerned. The laurel has leaves that last,8
and has been associated for centuries with noble deeds. In classi-
cal mythology Daphne was changed to a laurel to preserve her
virginity. The tree was sacred among the Greeks and Romans,9
and in mediaeval times was credited with power to protect against

i C. 2\, A, 1. 4367. 2 Chalmers' English Poets, Vol. I, p. 638. 3 L. 1371.

*Note at bottom of p. 530, Chaucerian Pieces. $ L . 140. 6 LI. 141-44. "> LI. 171-75.

8 As noted by Chaucer in P. F., 11. 173, 182, and by Lydgate in C. B. (M. P., p. 180). The
latter passage deserves quotation because of the mention of Flora, queen of the Flower in
our poem :

"And the laurealle of nature is ay grene,
Of flowres also Flora goddes and quene."

Further evidences of the popularity of the laurel are given in Glauning's note on Night.
L 1. 63.

9 On the laurel in general see Hehn, Kulturpflanzen u. Hausthiere, 7th ed. (Berlin, 1902),
pp. 220 ff .

163 ,

44 GEORGE L. MARSH

thunder,1 such as the hawthorn also was thought to have. The
bird sings from a laurel in Lydgate's O. B.? and the nightingale
from a laurel in Night. I, 1. 63.

The medlar tree, on the other hand, though not very frequently
mentioned in mediaeval poetry, is plainly associated with hastiness
and decay, or over-sudden ripeness, as in Chaucer's Reeve's Pro-
logue? Shakspere refers to the same characteristic in language
very similar to that of Chaucer,4 besides giving the name "rotten
medlar" to Mistress Overdone,5 and implying bad things of the
medlar in Romeo and Juliet* This tree is deciduous; its blos-
soms last but a short time, and its fruit ripens and rots quickly;
so that a certain fitness is manifest in connecting it with the idle,
faithless, luckless followers of the Flower.

THE DANCING AND JOUSTING

A few points remain as to the action of the allegory. The
singing and dancing of both companies are without special signifi-
cance. So also, probably, is the jousting among themselves by
the knights of the Leaf. Singing and dancing always accom-
panied the observance of May Day, and jousting was a common
feature of nearly every sort of celebration. The details of the
jousting in F. L. resemble in a general way familiar passages in
the Knight's Tale and in Lydgate's imitation of the latter, The
Story of Thebes.1 Two French accounts of jousts are also worth
mention: that in Christine de Pisan's Due des Vrais Amans,
because of the use of green and white costumes;8 and that in Des-
champs' Lay de Franchise? because the setting there and portions
of the action somewhat resemble those of F. L.

THE STORM

The, storm that was so uncomfortable for the followers of the
Flower seems significant only as to its result. In its combination
of wind and hail and rain it bears some resemblance to the

1 See Chesnel, Dictionnaire des superstitions, p. 539 ; Hone's Year Book, p. 776.

2 M. P., p. 181. 3 C. T., A. 11. 3871-73.

* A. Y. L. /., Ill, ii, 125-28. 5 M. M., IV, iii, 184. 6 H, i, 35, 36.

7 C. T., A, 11. 2599 ff.; Thebes, in Chalmers' English Poets, Vol. I, pp. 581, etc.

8 See p. 152, 153 above. 9 Ref . p. 143 above.

164

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 45

miraculous storm in Chrestian de Troyes' Yvain;1 but the resem-
blance is not strong enough to justify any assumption of relation-
ship. The most striking comments on a storm, so far as possible
relations with F. L. are concerned, are in Lydgate's Testament?
as follows:

Lych as in Ver men gretly them delite

To beholde the bewt6 sovereyne

Of thes blosmys, som blew, rede, and white,

To whos fresshnesse no colour may atteyne,

But than unwarly comyth a wynd sodeyne,

For no favour list nat for to spare

Fresshnesse of braunchys, for to make hem bare.

Whan Ver is fresshest of blosmys and of flourys,
An unwar storm his fresshnesse may apayre.

RELATION OF F. L. WITH THE LAY DU TROT

The bedraggled condition of the adherents of the Flower after
the storm is worthy of note chiefly because it has been compared
with the condition of a company of women in the Old French \
Lay du Trot. This comparison was first made by Sandras,3 and
has been repeated by others.4

Substantially the same story appears in several forms, of which
the Breton Lay du Trot is probably the earliest.5 In this poem
Lorois, a knight of Arthur's court, sees passing through the midst
of a forest two companies of ladies. The ladies of one company
ride on white palfreys, are splendidly arrayed, crowned with roses,
and accompanied by amis, all because of their graciousness in
matters of love. The ladies of the other company are mounted
on wretched nags, miserably dressed, and in torment because they
have cruelly refused to love.

In the Latin work of Andreas Capellanus, De Amore? there
are three companies of women led by the God of Love. Those in

lEd. W. Foerster (Halle, 1887), 11. 397-407, 432-50.

23f. P., ed. Halliwell, pp. 245, 246. 3 Etude sur Chaucer, pp. 104, 105.

* Notably by Morley, English Writers, Vol. V.

5 Lai d'Iguames, ed. Moumerqu6 and Michel (Paris, 1832). I have not had access to this
edition, and am therefore indebted to Sandras, and to notes kindly lent me by Professor W.
H. Schofield, of Harvard, for my brief analysis.

*Andreae Capellani Regii Francorum de Amore, ed. Trojel (Copenhagen, 1892). This
work is very important in relation to mediseval imitation of Ovid, B. #., the Court of Love
poems, etc., and has therefore been analyzed at length by Neilson, Mott, Langlois, and others,

165

46 GEORGE L. MARSH

the first company are gorgeously arrayed, well mounted, and
attended each by three knights. They are women who, while
alive, wisely bestowed their love. The second troop are in great
discomfort because of the number who wish to wait on them ;
they are women of loose virtue. The women of the third troop
are like those of the second in the Lay du Trot. One of their
number explains the significance of all three companies. The
whole vision is described by a knight to a lady whom he wishes
to frighten out of her coldness.

Grower's tale of Rosiphele, in the fourth book of the Confessio
Amantis,1 is in essentials only slightly different. The heroine

hadde o defalte of Slowthe
Towardes love,

and could not be prevailed upon to think of matrimony. While
walking in a park before sunrise one day in May, she saw a com-
pany of ladies richly clad in white and blue, and mounted on
great white horses well caparisoned. They were followed by a
woman with torn attire, who rode alone on a very sorry looking
horse and carried all the halters for the others. This woman,
when asked, explained that the ladies whom she attended were
"servantz to love" (1376), and that she was but their "horse
knave" (1399) because she "liste noght to love obeie" (1389).2

On the whole, it is difficult to see how these stories can have
been thought very similar to F. L. Even the miserable women
are miserable chiefly because of their lack of attendants and the
condition of their horses, and their plight is not due to any cause
even remotely resembling the storm in our poem. In Gower'&
version, indeed, the woman is

Fair .... of visage, (1361)

Freyssh, lusti, yong and of tendre age;

a very different person from one who has just been burned by sun
and drenched by rain and bruised by hail. The allegory, too, is

i Ll. 1245 ff.

2 In purpose Boccaccio's tale of Anastasio (Decamerone, V, 8) is similar to these; but
the details are different, as the cavalcade disappears, and we have instead a single lady
suffering great tortures after death for her hard-heartedness. On this whole matter of the
'•purgatory of cruel beauties," see an article by Professor Neilson in Romania, Vol. XXIX,
pp. 85 ff .

166

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 47

in most respects different; for the persons in F. L. that corre-
spond most nearly in character to the unfortunate women in these
stories are, not any of the adherents of the Flower, but the
strictly chaste members of the company of the Leaf (F. L., 477).
The only resemblance in the allegory is in the fact that the
adherents of the Flower are condemned for idleness, and Gower' s
serving woman is being punished for sloth (or idleness) in love.
This seems to be a superficial resemblance, not in harmony with
the spirit of our poem. Thus the real similarities are few and
nearly all general; namely: the fact that there are contrasted
companies, one of which is in sorry plight of some kind and for
some reason (for the kind and the reason are not similar) ; the fact
that in Gower the fortunate company are clad in white and blue,
in F. L. in white; and the fact that a member of one of the
companies explains who all the people are and what their action
means.1 It is probable that the author of our poem knew the story
in Gower, but there is no sufficient reason for assuming a knowledge
of the Lay du Trot or Andreas Capellanus.

GEORGE L. MARSH
UNIVERSITY OP CHICAGO

!The interpreter is common to all allegories; see chap, iii, below, passim, and Neilson,
Harvard Studies, Vol. VI, pp. 213 ff. The significance of the colors has been discussed
on pp. 143-46 above.

167

CHAUCER'S USE OF BOCCACCIO'S "FILOCOLO"

In the passage in Book III of Troilus and Criseyde1 recounting
the occurrences immediately preceding the first night together of
the young lovers, Chaucer departs widely from the account offered
him in II Filostrato.2

The passage in the Italian poem may be briefly sketched as
follows :

Through Pardaro's agency, Griseida has appointed a night for
Troilo's coming to her. Troilo goes secretly but boldly in1 the
dark to an obscure part of Griseida's house, and on his arrival she
coughs, as a sign to him that she is aware of his presence. After
sending her household to bed, Griseida, with a taper in her hand,
goes to Troilo, praying his pardon for having kept him hidden.
Troilo refuses to see the discourtesy, and after many embraces
they ascend the steps into Griseida's chamber, where with little
delay they betake themselves to bed, and "D' amor sentiron
1' ultimo valore."3

This is manifestly no adequate basis for the related passage in
Troilus and Criseyde, the general action of which may be
sketched as follows:

With the purpose of bringing Troilus and Criseyde together
at his house, Pandarus chooses a night that promises to be dark
and rainy, and invites Criseyde to supper. When she has been
assured that Troilus is in no way connected with the invitation,
and that she shall be secure from the gossip of "goosish peple,"4
she comes at evening to Pandarus' house, accompanied by a few
of her women. While Pandarus and Criseyde sup, sing, make
music, and tell tales, Troilus looks on through a little window of
an adjoining chamber. On account of the increased rain during
the evening, Pandarus has no difficulty at bedtime in persuading

!Book III, 11. 512-1190. Citations are made from The Complete Works of Geoffrey
Chaucer, edited by W. W. Skeat, Vol. II (Oxford, 1894).

2 Parte III, St. 24-32. Citations are made from Opere volgari di Giovanni Boccaccio,
Vol. XIII (Firenze [Per Ig. Moutier], 1831).

3 Ibid., Ill, 32, 8. * T. and C., Ill, 584.

169] 1 [MoDEEN PHILOLOGY, July, 1906

2 KAEL YOUNG

Criseyde to spend the night at his house. Pandarus conducts
his niece to her bed in an inner chamber, and provides for her
attendants in a passage outside her door; and, after making sure
that all are at the point of sleep, he goes to Troilus, scolds cour-
age into him, and draws him through a trap-door into Criseyde's
room, concealing him, we may assume, in a dark corner or behind
a curtain. Criseyde awakes, but Pandarus checks her attempted
outcry, and comforts her by the assurance that he alone is invad-
ing her chamber. Gradually and skilfully he reveals to her that
Troilus has entered the house by a secret way, and is at the point
of madness with jealousy of Orestes, who, according to report,
has supplanted him in Criseyde's heart. Criseyde protests that
she can never be untrue to Troilus, and offers to Pandarus her
ring with which to comfort the young lover. Pandarus scoffs1
at such comforting, and at last persuades Criseyde to remain in
bed while Troilus comes to her. Troilus is ready at hand, and
while Pandarus sits near by and pretends to read "an old
romaunce,"2 Criseyde upbraids Troilus so severely for his
unfounded jealousy and shows so poignant grief that Troilus falls
in a faint. Pandarus springs impatiently to Troilus, throws him
into the bed, and with Criseyde's aid brings him back to con-
sciousness. After taking from Troilus such oaths as she wishes,
Criseyde makes no objection to his remaining in bed with her,
and Pandarus withdraws, leaving them together for the night.
During their night together, in intervals of dallying, they
exchange rings, and Criseyde gives Troilus a brooch. At the
arrival of "cruel day"3 the lovers reluctantly separate, and Troilus
sorrowfully hastens to his palace.

Before estimating Chaucer's originality in thus changing
what lay before him in II Filostrato, we should note the resem-

1T. and C., 111,891,892:

.... "that ring moste ban a stoon
That mighte dede men alyve maken."
Cf. T. and C., Ill, 1368, 1369:

" And pleyinge entrechaungeden Mr ringes,

Of which I can nought tellen no scripture."

Is Chaucer alluding to such magical rings as are used in Filocolo (cf. Moutier, Vol. VII,
pp. 110, 111, 147, 148, 152, 170, 263, 352, 353; Vol. VIII, p. 199), in Guido delle Colonne (Historia
Troiana [Strassburg, 1489], sig. b 1, verso, cols. 1, 2), and in Roman de Troie (edited by L.
Constans, Tome I [Paris, 1904], 11. 1677-1702) ? Cf . below, p. 177, n. 2.

2 T. and C., Ill, 980. 3 T. and C., Ill, 1450.

170

CHAUCER'S USE OF BOCCACCIO'S "FILOCOLO" 3

blance between Chaucer's account and a passage in Boccaccio's
Filocolo,1 which may be outlined as follows:

The enamored Florio, under his new name, Filocolo, has fol-
lowed Biancofiore to Alexandria. Having ingratiated himself
with Sadoc, the guardian of the tower in which Biancofiore with
her attendant, Glorizia, is confined, Florio arranges to be con-
veyed into the tower by concealing himself in a basket of flowers
that the Ammiraglio is to send to Biancofiore on an approaching
gala-day. On the appointed day, Glorizia succeeds in conveying
Florio into the tower without his being discovered, and when she
has deposited him in one of Biancofiore's rooms and has locked
the door, the ardent young lover demands his inamorata. Glo-
rizia explains to him that in his immediate appearance to his
lady there is involved the twofold danger of scandal and of dis-
aster to Biancofiore from sudden joy. Therefore Glorizia ar-
ranges to conceal Florio in an adjoining chamber, from which he
can observe Biancofiore and her attendants in their merry-mak-
ing, and promises later to conduct him from the side-chamber and
conceal him behind the curtains of Biancofiore's bed, where he
must await his lady's going to sleep before revealing himself.
Glorizia warns him that Biancofiore will be severely frightened
when she awakes, but that her fear will soon give way to joy, and
Glorizia promises herself to be near at hand to prevent any mis-
carriage of her plan. Glorizia arouses the melancholy Bianco-
fiore to taking part in the festivities of the day, and comforts her
by recounting a dream in which she saw Florio appear in Bian-
cofiore's chamber. Biancofiore and her maids celebrate the day
with flowers and music, while Florio looks on through a little
hole from the adjoining chamber. At night Glorizia arranges
Biancofiore's bed and conceals Florio behind the curtains. While
Biancofiore prepares for bed, Glorizia arouses her feelings for
Florio, by suggesting now the possibility, and again the impos-
sibility, of his coming. Glorizia goes so far as to suggest to
Biancofiore that some other man might please her in Florio' s
absence; a suggestion that Biancofiore passionately repudiates,
while referring with sorrow to Florio' s groundless jealousy of

iLibro IV, Vol. VIII (Moutier, Firenze, 1829), pp. 165-83.

171

4 KARL YOUNG

Fileno, When Glorizia leaves her, Biancofiore lies down, but
only after she is exhausted by sighs for Florio does she give
herself up to sleep. Florio advances and caresses her as she
sleeps, and finally embraces her at the very moment when she
dreams of being in his arms. When she awakes in fright, she
attempts to call for Glorizia, but Florio prevents her, and at last
convinces her of the reality of his presence. She inquires by
what way he has reached her, and he, attributing all to the gods,
urges that they delay their delight no longer. Taking her ring
and calling Hymen, Juno, and Venus to witness, Florio is ready
for the espousal. At Biancofiore's suggestion they take vows be-
fore an image of Cupid in her room, after which Florio places the
ring upon her finger and the marriage is consummated. After
they have waked Glorizia to rejoice with them, the lovers retire
and spend the night together.

In spite of the divergent external circumstances of the two
accounts, one must admit at least that the passage in Filocolo
offers the general situation of the related passage in Troilus and
Criseyde. In both stories a third person is arranging for the
meeting of two lovers secretly, at night, in the bed-chamber of
the inamorata, the latter being unaware that her lover is con-
cealed near at hand. In one case the go-between resorts to con-
cealment in order to avert scandal and personal disaster to the
lady, in the other to avert scandal and to overcome the lady's
scruples. The fact that in one case the inamorata frankly desires
the meeting, while in the other she does not, happens not to affect
the general procedure. Criseyde's scruples do, however, demand
more delicate and persistent manipulation on the part of her uncle,
and thus we readily account for the more subtle and prominent
role of Pandarus in Chaucer's account.1 The fact that Chaucer's
go-between is a man and Boccaccio's a woman makes no percep-
tible change in the action, for Pandarus and Glorizia show their
respective charges precisely the same intimate personal attention.2

1 That the Glorizia of Boccaccio is quite capable of undertaking the more difficult rdle
of Pandarus is indicated by her own words : " Se altro forse avvenisse io vi sar6 vicina, e
lei caccerd col mio parlare d'ogni errore." (Moutier, Vol. VIII, p. 169.)

2 Moreover, Chaucer did not deliberately choose to give to a man, the r6le of go-between
in this episode ; he merely used the character already provided by his story of Troilus
and Criseyde.

1*72

CHAUCER'S USE OF BOCCACCIO'S " FILOCOLO" 5

Passing from the general situation to details, we are forced to
note that several significant minor circumstances of Chaucer's ac-
count occur also in Filocolo.

1. In each case the inamorata is led to believe that her lover
is out of town.

He swor hir, " nay, for he was out of towne." 1

Or ecco, disse Glorizia, tu nol puoi avere, egli non c' e, n& ci pub
venire.2

Come pub essere che tu qui sii ora ch' io ti credeva in Ispagna?3

2. In each case the lover, concealed in an adjoining chamber,
observes through a small orifice the merry-making in which his
lady takes part.

And she to souper com, whan it was eve,
With a certayn of hir owene men
And with hir faire nece Antigone,
And othere of hir wommen nyne or ten;
But who was glad now, who, as trowe ye,
But Troilus, that stood and mighte it see
Thurgh-out a litel windowe in a stewe,
Ther he bishet, sin midnight, was in mewe,
Unwist of every wight but of Pandare?
But to thepoynt; now whan she was y-come
With alle joye, and alle frendes fare,
Hir eem anoon in armes hath hir nome,
And after to the souper, alle and some,
Whan tyme was, ful softe they hem sette;
God wot, ther was no deyntee for to fette.
And after souper gonnen they to ryse,
At ese wel, with hertes fresshe and glade,
And wel was him that coude best devyse
To lyken hir, or that hir laughen made.
He song; she pleyde; he tolde tale of Wade.4

Io in una camera a questa contigua ti metterb, dalla quale tu potrai
cib che in questa camera si far£ vedere: quivi dimorando tacitamente, io
senza dire a Biancofiore alcuna cosa che tu qui sii, qua entro colle sue
compagne la farb venire, dove tu la potroi quanto ti piacerk vedere.5

Levossi adunque per li conforti di Glorizia Biancofiore, e coll' altre
comincib a far festa, secondo che usata era per addietro. Elle avevano

1 T. and C., Ill, 570. * T. and C., Ill, 595-614.

2 Mout., Vol. VIII, p. 175. a Mout., Vol. VIII, p. 168.

3 Ibid., p. 179.

173

6 KAKL YOUNG

gia tutte le rose prese . . . . e quale sonando con usata mano dolci
strurnenti, e altre presesi per mano danzando, e altre facendo diversi atti
di festa, e gittando F una all' altra rose insieme motteggiandosi, e Bianco-
fiore similmente no sapendo che da Filocolo veduta fosse .... Filocolo
che per piccolo pertugio vide nella bella camera entrar Biancofiore, di
pieta tale nel viso divenne, quale colui che morto a' fuochi e portato.1

3. In each case the go-between, while keeping the lover con-
cealed, prepares the mind of the inamorata for his coming by
vague suggestions of such a possibility.

Sone after this, to him she gan to rowne,

And asked him if Troilus were there?

He swor hir, " nay, for he was out of towne,"

And seyde, "nece, I pose that he were,

You thurf te never have the more fere,

For rather than men mighte him ther aspye,

Me were lever a thousand- fold to dye." 2

Certo, rispose Glorizia, e' mi parve vedere nella tua camera il tuo
Florio esser venuto, non so per che via ne per che modo.3

Glorizia disse: Biancofiore, se iddio ci6 che tu desideri ti conceda,
vorresti che Florio fosse qui teco ora indiritto?4

4. The jealousy of the lover figures prominently in both stories.
This motif, treated briefly at this point in Filocolo, is developed
by Chaucer into great lyric and dramatic importance.

"Horaste! alias! and falsen Troilus?

I knowe him not, god helpe me so," quod she.5

Egli non & nel mondo brevemente uomo, cui io desideri ne che mi
piaccia, se non egli : e poich' io lui non vidi, e' non mi parve uomo vedere,
non che alcuno me ne piacesse, avvegnache egli a torto ebbe gia opinione
che io amassi Fileno.6

5. In each story the lady takes oaths from her lover before
finally admitting him to her bed.

Sone after this, though it no nede were,
Whan she swich othes as hir list devyse
Hadde of him take, hir thoughte tho no fere,
Ne cause eek non, to bidde him thennes ryse.7

i Mout., Vol. VIII, p. 172. 2 T. and C., Ill, 568-74 ; cf. Ill, 771-84.

3 Mout., Vol. VIII, p. 171. 4 Ibid., p. 174.

5 T. and C., Ill, 806, 807 ; cf. Ill, 796-840, 987-1054.

6 Mout., Vol. VIII, p. 175 ; cf . Vol. VII, pp. 247-79. 1 T. and C., Ill, 1142-45.

174

CHAUCER'S USE OF BOCCACCIO'S "FILOCOLO" 7

Col tuo medesimo anello ti sposerd, alia qual cosa Imeneo, e la santa
Giunone e Venere nostra dea siano present!. Disse allora Biancofiore:
mai di ci6 che ora mi parli dubitai . . . . e davanti alia santa figura del
nostro iddio questo facciamo.1

6. In both stories the lovers make use of rings.

And pleyinge entrechaungeden hir ringes,
Of which I can nought tellen no scripture.2

E mentre in questa festa dimorano, Biancofiore dimanda che sia del
suo anello, il quale Florio nel suo dito gli le mostra .... col tuo mede-
simo anello ti sposerb.3

Perche Biancofiore .... disteso il dito recevette il matrimoniale
anello.4

7. Although there is in Chaucer's poem no formal ceremony
of marriage like that in Filocolo5 before the image of Cupid, the
English poem does furnish a parallel in the interchanging of
rings just mentioned, in the prayer of Troilus to Love and to
"Citherea the swete,"6 and in Criseyde's acceptance of his vows.

Than seyde he thus, " O, Love, O, Charitee,
Thy moder eek, Citherea the swete,
After thy-self next heried be she,
Venus mene I, the wel- willy planete;
And next that, Imeneus; I thee grete;
For never man was to yow goddes holde
As I, which ye han brought fro cares colde.7

And for thou me, that coude leest deserve
Of hem that nombred been un-to thy grace,
Hast holpen, ther I lykly was to sterve,
And me bistowed in so heygh a place
That thilke boundes may no blisse pace,
I can no more, but laude and reverence
Be to thy bounte and thyn excellence! "

And therwith-al Criseyde anoon he kiste,

Of which, certeyn, she felte no disese.

And thus seyde he, " now wolde god I wiste,

1 Mout., Vol. VIII, p. 181. ' 5/6id., pp. 181, 182.

2 T. and C., Ill, 1368, 1369. 6 T. and C., III., 1255.

3 Mout., Vol. VIII, pp. 180, 181. 7 Ibid., 1254-60.

., p. 182.

175

KAKL YOUNG
Myn herte swete, how I yow mighte plese!

And for the love of god, my lady dere,
Sin god hath wrought me for I shal yow serve,
As thus I mene, that ye wol be my stere,
To do me live, if that yow liste, or sterve, 2

For certes, fresshe wommanliche wyf,

This dar I seye, that throuthe and diligence,

That shal ye finden in me al my lyf ,

Ne I wol not, certeyn, breken your defence;

And if I do, present or in absence,

For love of god, lat slee me with the dede,

If that it lyke un-to your womanhede."

" Y-wis," quod she, " myn owne hertes list,

My ground of ese, and al my herte dere,

Graunt mercy, for on that is al my trist;

But late us falle awey fro this matere;

For it suffyseth, this that seyd is here.

And at o word, with-outen repentaunce,

Wei-come, my knight, my pees, my suffisaunce!"3

These words, with the interchanging of rings,4 may, perhaps,
be regarded as Chaucer's substitute for a more formal ceremony
like that in Filocolo.

Davanti alia bella immagine di Cupido se n'andarono . . . . e Florio
primamente cominci6 cosl a dire: o santo Iddio, signore delle nostre
menti, a cui noi della nostra puerizia abbiamo con intera fede servito,
riguarda con pietoso occhio alia presente opera. lo . . . . cereo quello
che tu ne' cuori de' tuoi subietti fai desiderare, e a questa giovane con
indissoluble matrimonio cerco di congiungermi ..... Tu sii nostro
Imeneo. Tu in luogo della santa Giunone guarda le nostre faccelline, e
sii testimonio del nostro maritaggio .... perche Biancofiore, che simile
orazione avea fatta, disteso il dito ricevette il matrimoniale anello; e leva-
tasi suso come sposa, vergognosamente dinanzi alia santa immagine
baci6 Florio, ed egli lei.5

Without pursuing details further,6 we may conclude that the
general and particular similarities between the English and

i T. and C., Ill, 1268-78. 2 ibid., 1289-92. 3 ibid., 1296-1309. *76id.,1368.

5 Moutier, Vol. VIII, pp. 181, 182.

6 It is hardly necessary to press the parallel between T. and C., Ill, 1247-53, and Filocolo
(Moutier), Vol. VIII, p. 179, 11. 1-8.

176

CHAUCER'S USE OF BOCCACCIO'S " FILOCOLO" 9

Italian stories1 compared above justify our inferring a literary
connection between this passage in Filocolo and the related pas-
sage in Troilus and Criseyde.2 The importance that anyone may
attach to such similarities as have been pointed out above will
decide for him the question as to whether Chaucer borrowed only
through general unconscious recollection or by direct use of the
Italian text.3

KARL YOUNG

HARVARD UNIVERSITY

1 It is to be noted that in the French romance Floire et Blanceflor (edited by E. Du
M6ril [Paris, 1866], 11. 2148-2269) there are no details like those brought out above in the
comparison of Troilus and Criseyde and Filocolo.

2 In connection with the passage in Troilus and Criseyde and in Filocolo dealt with
above, attention has not been called to an episode in the story of Jason and Medea as re-
counted in the Roman de Troie of Benoit de Sainte-More (L. Constans, Le Roman de Troie,
Tome I [Paris, 1904], 11. 1447-1702), and in the Historia Troiana of Guido delleColonne (His-
toria Troiana [Strassburg, 1489], sig. a 7 recto, col. 2-sig. b 1 verso, col. 2). The French poet
and his translator give the same account of this episode, with slight variations in detail,
Benoit being, in general, more vivid and less didactic. Following the French version, we
may outline the episode as follows :

Medea arranges directly with Jason to have him brought to her apartment at night, in
order that she may receive his vows of love and may instruct him concerning his approach-
ing adventures. She impatiently awaits the coming of night, and when the household have
retired, she orders her faithful servant to fetch Jason from a room near by. The servant ar-
ranges Medea in bed, and when she brings Jason to the room of her mistress, Medea pretends
to be asleep, feigning surprise when Jason wakes her. When the servant retires, Jason
vows faithfulness to Medea and offers to do her pleasure. After taking his oath before an
image of Jupiter, she admits him to her bed. Before they separate at break of day, Medea
gives him a ring of magic properties and presses upon him her parting advice.

Apparently this passage is at least faintly parallel to those in Troilus and Criseyde and
Filocolo already mentioned.

That Boccaccio in II Filostrato used other parts of the Roman de Troie than those
dealing directly with the episode of Troilus and Briseida is shown by Sovez-Lopez (Roma-
nia, Vol. XXVII [1898], pp. 451-53). A similar wider use of the Historia Troiana in Troilus
and Criseyde is indicated by G. L. Hamilton (Chaucer's Indebtedness to Guido delle Co-
lonne [New York, 1903], pp. 71-74).

3 Although I am already prepared to point out parallels between other parts of Filocolo
and Troilus and Criseyde, I postpone mentioning these parallels until I shall have made a
more complete study of the relations of these two works to each other.

177

CHAUCER AND PETRARCH: TWO NOTES ON THE
"CLERKES TALE"

I. THE ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INDEBTEDNESS TO PETRARCH

The words which Chaucer puts into the mouth of his Clerk,
expressing obligation to Petrarch for the story of Grriselda, have
hitherto figured in discussion chiefly in their bearing on a matter
of biographical detail — as evidence, accepted or rejected, for the
actual meeting of the two poets. In this aspect the passage has
been debated back and forth for nearly two centuries, and has be-
come stereotyped at length into one of those haunting problems
from which excessive treatment has banished all interest and
profit. In what I have to present concerning the form of Chau-
cer's acknowledgment, I wish that it were possible to avoid allu-
sion to this biographical question altogether, for I am truly not
concerned with it, but only with the explanation and illustration of
the artistic or literary technique employed. Still, since it is true
that my conclusions have a bearing upon the matter, not revolu-
tionary nor even novel — for they will only confirm the attitude
of conservative scholarship since Tyrwhitt, which is merely ag-
nostic— I shall not perhaps wholly escape some entanglement with
the literature of the controversy.

Among the arguments of those who have seen in the Clerics
Prologue satisfactory evidence for the actual meeting of Petrarch
and Chaucer, no stronger one has been found than the contention
that the form of Chaucer's acknowledgment is exceptional and
unique, and corresponds, therefore, to exceptional circumstances in
his relation to the author from whom he has drawn, viz., personal
acquaintance. To M. Jusserand1 in 1896, as to Godwin2 in 1803,

1 Jusserand, in the Nineteenth Century for June, 1896, p. 996 : " A statement of this sort is
of a very unusual kind. Chaucer derived the subjects of his tales and of many of his minor
poems from a variety of authors, living or dead, and he never went into so many particu-
lars. It seems prima facie obvious that this unusual way corresponds to an unusual inten-
tion, and that, instead of merely giving his authority, he wanted here to commemorate and
preserve the remembrance of an event the souvenir of which was dear to him."

2 Godwin, Life of Chaucer, Vol. II, p. 150 : " We may defy all the ingenuity o* criticism
to invent a different solution for the simple and decisive circumstance of Chaucer having
179] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, July, 1906

2 G. L. HENDKICKSON

this is one of the two considerations which seem to raise a possi-
bility of much imaginative appeal to the level of an historical
certainty. I have no biographical interest in challenging this
conclusion, but the premise upon which it is based affords me a
convenient foil against which to define my purpose in touching
upon this question: It is, to show that the acknowledgment
which Chaucer makes to Petrarch corresponds exactly to a gen-
eral method used in the citation of literary sources in a related
form of ancient literature, the Ciceronian dialogue.

The suggestion that the conclusions, drawn from a study of the
method of citing literary sources in the ancient dialogue might be
of service to students of modern literature, I owe to my colleague,
Professor Manly, who pointed out to me the similarity of Chau-
cer's expression of obligation in the Clerk's Tale to certain typi-
cal instances which I had adduced from ancient literature and
presented in a paper read1 before the Philological Society of our
university.

I there explained that the dialogue, as a dramatic reproduc-
tion of conversation, seeks to maintain the fiction that oral com-
munication is the normal method for the exchange of ideas
between contemporaries, and that therefore, so far as possible, it
avoids allusion to books even in acknowledgment of literary obli-
gations. When such acknowledgment is to be made, it places the
characters of the dialogue in some relation of personal communica-
tion with the sources of the ideas presented. This usage I illus-
trated in some detail from the dialogues of Cicero, which I
grouped into two classes: (1) dialogues the dramatic setting of
which lies wholly in the past; (2) dialogues contemporary with
the time of the writer, in which he himself participates ; here I dif-
ferentiated again between expressions of obligation (a) attributed

gone out of his way, in a manner which he has employed on no other occasion, to make the
clerk of Oxenford confess that he learned the story from Petrarca, and even assign the
exact place of Petrarca's residence in the concluding part of his life." M. Jusserand
(pp. 997 f.) also makes much of this last point, showing by new evidence that, contrary to the
usual belief, Petrarch was actually at Padua, and not at Arqua, just at the time of Chau-
cer's sojourn in Italy. But Petrarch whether at Arqua or Padua was still Petrarcha
Patavinus.

i At the second meeting of the winter quarter, 1906 : " Literary Sources of Cicero's Brutus
and the Technique of Citation in Dialogue." It is published in the American Journal of
Philology for July, 1906.

180

CHAUCER AND PETRARCH 3

to other interlocutors, and (6) those which the author himself, as
a speaker in the dialogue, makes.

Of the first type the De oratore affords a good illustration.
Here, in Book I, the scholastic discussion concerning the nature
of rhetoric and its relation to philosophy and statesmanship is set
forth. From other sources we know that this problem was dis-
cussed with special zeal in the second half of the second century
B. C. by Greek philosophers and rhetoricians in Athens and in
Rhodes. It is certain that from their writings Cicero had his
knowledge of this controversy and drew from them the materials
which he places in the mouths of his characters. They, however,
in the dramatic mechanism of the dialogue do not once refer to
these writings, but profess to have their knowledge of the subject
from actual conversations and debates with the philosophers or
rhetoricians in question. This is the consistent method of allusion
to sources contemporary with the dramatic date of the dialogue
employed throughout the treatise. Conspicuous writers of an
earlier time are cited freely enough ("Aristoteles, Isocrates,
Theophrastus ait, dicit," etc.), but wherever allusion or acknowl-
edgment is made to a contemporary or to some one of the imme-
diate past, it is through some dramatic device of personal asso-
ciation or communication.

Of the second class (2, a) the Academica prior a (Lucullus)
affords a conspicuous illustration. In this dialogue we have a
treatise drawn from a work of the Greek philosopher Antiochus,
which Cicero has, in fact, almost transcribed. This obligation,
however, he does not acknowledge directly, but through the means
of a dramatic situation, as follows: Lucullus is represented as hav-
ing come to Alexandria as proqusestor with Antiochus, where they
met one Heraclitus of Tyre, a friend of Antiochus and a fellow-
philosopher. They had just received a remarkable book of Philo,
the master of Antiochus, which was so revolutionary in its doc-
trine that for several days it afforded material for discussions
between Antiochus, Heraclitus, and other philosophers, to which
Lucullus listened with great interest and participation. As a
result he mastered the subject thoroughly and so explains his
ability to present the views of Antiochus in the dialogue, the

181

4 G. L. HENDRICKSON

scene of which is laid some years later at Rome. This case is one
of peculiar interest, because Cicero later became dissatisfied with
the setting he had given the matter, since the person of Lucullus
seemed on reflection inappropriate for a display of interest and
erudition in such matters. Accordingly, in a second edition of
the work (Academica posteriora) he allotted the principal role
to Varro. But Varro in turn does not acknowledge a literary
obligation to Antiochus, but professes to reproduce from memory
the lectures which he had heard in his youth.

The last type (2, 6), in which the writer himself as an inter-
locutor in the dialogue refers matter derived from a literary
source to oral communication or personal intercourse with the
author of the literary source in question, was, for the purposes of
my investigation into the sources of the Brutus, the most important
of all. Examples of this type were also found where it was pos-
sible'to show with reasonable certainty that the same method of
acknowledgment of literary sources was employed as in the former
cases. That is, as soon as the author himself steps into the scene
of the dialogue drama which he has created, he becomes subject
to the same rule as he applies to the other characters of the dia-
logue. For the purposes of our present inquiry it is not neces-
sary that I should illustrate this form by detailed examples. I
will only add that by recognition of the nature of this method
(which was yielded by a comparison of examples from Cicero's
philosophical dialogues) it was possible to recover important frag-
ments of pre- Ciceronian literature, which have hitherto passed for
narratives derived from Cicero's boyhood acquaintance with the
men from whom he professes to have heard them.

The principle of dialogue composition thus set forth is a natu-
ral one: it rests upon the universal psychology (so to speak) of
the situation, rather than upon any recognized rule or tradition
of art. It is not, so far as I am aware, alluded to in any ancient
discussions of the theory of dialogue, unless it be implied in the
suggestive phrase of Demetrius (De elocutions 224) : o 8id\oyo^
fitfjielTai avToa"xe$id£ovTa — "the dialogue reproduces the tone of
extempore or improvised speech." Neither has it been formulated
by any modern students of the ancient dialogue, though in practice

182

CHAUCER AND PETRARCH 5

it has sometimes been recognized by the investigators into the
sources of Cicero's philosophical works (Hirzel, Reid, and others).
There is no doubt, I think, that the dialogue or similar dramatic
literature of any language would reveal the same usage, and a
number of analogous examples I have noted from the English
dialogues of Bishop Hurd (who facilitates inquiry by the con-
siderate use of learned footnotes) . So, for instance, in the Dia-
logue on the Uses of Foreign Travel (between the Earl of
Shaftesbury and Locke) Hurd incorporates a story and an exact
quotation from Shaftesbury's Characteristics, which he places in
the mouth of Locke, and makes acknowledgment for this indebt-
edness by causing Locke to address Shaftesbury with the words:
"As I have heard you tell the story."

The application of these observations to the Canterbury Tales
and to Chaucer's expression of obligation to Petrarch will be seen
at once. The ancient dialogue, especially of the Ciceronian type,
has in all essential respects a mechanism and technique analogous
to the type of dramatic narrative which the Germans call pic-
turesquely the Rahmenerzahlung . In both the author introduces
the characters, sets them in relations of conversational intercourse
with one another, and out of such situations develops the longer
narratives or discussions which are the real purpose of the com-
position. In both the aim is to maintain in the interludes which
introduce or conclude the longer narratives an atmosphere of
natural conversational intercourse suitable to the character of the
interlocutors. If the author has acknowledgments of indebted-
ness for particular parts to make, they must be made through the
utterances of his speakers in a manner conformable to the unre-
strained and conversational nature of the whole situation. In the
ancient dialogue, as we have seen, the participants are placed in
a relation of oral communication with the sources from which
they profess to draw. The reasons for this are obvious: the
desire to avoid the appearance of pedantry which would result
from the actual citation of a written source; the further desire to
give to the communication an air of novelty, as of something
which, though derived from another, is now communicated to the
present audience for the first time. No one likes to confess that

183

6 G. L. HENDRICKSON

he got his joke from Punch; it suits his own and the listeners'
sense of effectiveness much better to attribute it to personal
experience,1 or to direct communication from someone either
named or nameless,2 or merely to remembrance.3 It is this uni-
versal feeling which the dialogue, or other similar literary forms,
aims to reproduce. The source indicated by the speaker may or
may not be the actual source from which the author drew.4 That
is a point which must be determined in each case for itself. The
essential thing is that the interlocutor will not, as a rule, make
acknowledgment to a literary source, except in referring to well-
known authors of an earlier time.5

With this preface we may now note the acknowledgment which
the Clerk makes to Petrarch:

I wol yow telle a tale which that I
Lerned at Padowe of a worthy clerk,

Fraunceys Petrark the laureat poete, etc.

The form of allusion to the source is, it will be seen, identical
with the examples which I have cited above for the ancient dia-
logue (under the heading 2, a), as when Cicero causes Lucullus
to confess obligation to Antiochus for matter which he heard at
Alexandria. The two examples are perfectly parallel — Chaucer,
the Clerk, and Petrarch, corresponding exactly to Cicero, Lucullus,
and Antiochus. In each case the author's source was a literary
one, but, in conformity with the demands of the underlying
dramatic fiction, in each case it is transformed into an oral one.
Professor Skeat, on the evidence of this passage, says (Vol. Ill,
p. 454) : " Chaucer himself tells us that he met Petrarch at Padua,"

i As, for example, in the Cooks Tale (A 4342) : " I wol yow telle as well as ever I can | A
litel jape that fll in our citee." So also the Friars Tale, D 1299. Cf . the Pardoner's Prologue,
C 460: "A moral tale .... which I am wont to preche."

2 The Clerkes Tale (source named). The Man of Laws Tale (source indicated): "a
marchaunt, gone is many a yere, | Me taughte a tale" (B 131).

3 Sir Thopas (B 1897) : " For other tale certes can T noon | But of a rhyme I lerned long
agoon." The Franklins prologue (F 713) : " And oon of hem have I in remembrance."

*So, for example, the Man of Laws Tale is attributed vaguely to a " marchaunt;" it
was derived by Chaucer from Nicholas Trivet.

5 For the Ciceronian dialogue I refer to such general allusions as " Plato* (Aristo teles)
ait," etc. Chaucer parades classical names sometimes ostentatiously, often in playful
satire of the pedantry of his time. See the end of the Wife's Tale and the protest of the
Friar (D 1276), " and lete auctoritees, on goddes name."

184

CHAUCER AND PETRARCH 7

and in a note he adds: "to which it is not unusual to object by
insisting that it was not Chaucer himself who met Petrarch, but
the Clerk who tells the tale. I doubt if this amounts to more
than a quibble." Resuming again in the text, he continues:
"Only let us suppose for a moment that Chaucer himself knew
best, that he is not intentionally and unnecessarily inventing his
statements, and all difficulty vanishes." But in the light of the
examples which have been adduced it will require no arguments
to show the complete misapprehension of the poet's technique
which these words contain. That Chaucer invents his statements
we shall not deny ; that he invents even intentionally is also true.
We shall not, however, concede that he invents unnecessarily,
though the necessity in this case is perhaps to be called rather an
artistic impulse, arising from the demands of the general dramatic
scene which the poet has created.

Indeed, one may go a step farther and raise Professor Skeat's
"quibble" to a higher power. One may safely contend that, even
if Chaucer himself had chosen to narrate the story of Griselda
(instead of Sir Thopas and Melibeus), and in his r6le as a
character in the dramatic situation explained that he had learned
the tale from Petrarch at Padua, we should still not be certain
that we were standing on historical ground in taking his assurance
literally. As in the third group of examples cited above for the
ancient dialogue (2, 6), it might still be merely the fiction of the
author moving his characters (including himself) in such a way
as to make the expression of obligation suitable to the conversa-
tional character of the whole setting. Much less ground is there
for identifying Chaucer with the Clerk. As well might we infer
that Cicero had been present at Alexandria and heard the dis-
cussions of Antiochus which he causes Lucullus to report.

But there remains yet another point which demands explana-
tion in this particular case. For why, it will be asked, if this is a
natural form of recognition of a literary indebtedness, which the
poet makes through the mouth of his character — why does the
Clerk go on and make further acknowledgment to the literary
source itself, the written tale of Petrarch ? Here again the
ancient dialogue furnishes us certain analogous examples which

185

8 G. L. HENDKICKSON

serve to illustrate the underlying psychology of the phenomenon,
though the decisive analogue will be derived from Chaucer him-
self. Although the dialogue is a fictitious reproduction of con-
versation, yet, since it is written to be read and not to be spoken,
the dramatic fiction upon which it is based falls away more easily
than in the case of real drama. The author therefore may at times
lapse inadvertently from the strict consistency of the situation
which he has created, and appeal directly to his audience as
readers, instead of as listeners to the conversation of his inter-
locutors.

Inconsistencies of this sort in the ancient dialogue are found,
but the instances are not numerous, or at all events have not often
been observed. Thus for instance in De legibus (I, 15) Atticus
addresses Cicero and says: "and yet if you ask what I expect (it
is this) : since you have written concerning the State, it seems
fitting for you next to write concerning Laws." The allusion
here is first to the earlier dialogue, that is conversation, De re
publica, and next to the very discussion which they were about
to take up in dialogue form, De legibus. Indeed, in the very
sentence which follows Cicero shifts back again to the conversa-
tional point of view of dialogue with the words: "visne igitur ut
. . . . quaer am us" and a moment later: "non enim id quaerimus
hoc sermone." The most conspicuous example of this sort to be
found in Chaucer occurs in the Seconde Nonnes Tale (Gr. 78 ft'.) :

Yet preye I you that reden what I wryte, etc.

The undramatic character of this tale as a whole has, of course,
long been recognized; yet the fact that such incongruities were
not eliminated when the story was given a place in the framework
of the Tales serves to illustrate how easily the shift from the atti-
tude of speaker into that of writer could take place and be over-
looked by the author.

It is such a lapse from the consistency of the dramatic situa-
tion which confronts us in the Prologue to the Clerkes Tale:

But forth to tellen of this worthy man,
That taughte me this tale, as I bigan,
I seye that first with heigh style he endyteth,
Er he the body of his tale wryteth, etc.
186

CHAUCER AND PETRARCH 9

That is, as in the presentation of the matter assigned to the char-
acters the dramatic fiction demands speak (or hear), and not
write (or read), so also in the acknowledgment of contemporary
sources the same rule holds, and wryteth is here a lapse from the
consistency of the pose, implied in the earlier words of the pro-
logue, analogous to the examples cited above. It may be urged
that such an inconsistency would scarcely occur in such close
proximity to the correct dramatic form taughte me this tale and
the preceding lerned at Padowe. The only answer that can be
made to this objection is to produce similar examples. One such
I have cited from Cicero above; another — and this, I think, is
decisive — is afforded by Chaucer at the end of the Prologue to
Melibeus :

Ye shul not finden muche difference

Fro the sentence of this tretis lyte

After the which this mery tale I wryte.

And therefor herkneth what that I shal seye,

And let me tellen al my tale, I preye.

Much has been made of the fact that Chaucer here uses a form
of acknowledgment such as he has not employed elsewhere in his
Canterbury Tales. But to this it must be replied that the cir-
cumstances of his indebtedness are unique. Is there another ex-
ample in the Tales of a story taken with such closeness of imitation
from a source contemporary and of anything like equal eminence ?
Surely, Boccaccio cannot be instanced for the Knight's Tale; and
indeed for any analogue at all one must fall back upon the story
of the Man of Law, derived from the Anglo-Norman chronicle of
Nicholas Trivet. But how different the circumstances of indebt-
edness: Trivet, a learned chronicler whose life barely, if at all,
overlapped that of Chaucer, whose personality can scarcely have
stood out for him in any sharpness of outline, whose work in gen-
eral was of a quasi-historical character that would be thought of
as merely recording the common possession of all mankind, and
whose story of Constance was but one version of a tale widely dif-
fused in the literature of the later Middle Ages. But these are
problems quite apart from my purpose, and I should abuse the
benevolence of the readers of Modern Philology if I ventured

187

10 G. L. HENDRICKSON

farther afield in a territory which has been hospitable enough to
receive me at all. To have shown that the form of acknowledg-
ment which is apparently unique in Chaucer conforms to a gen-
eral rule and to a type of technique found in a related form of
ancient literature is all that I have aimed to do.

II.

OF THE STORY OF

Concerning the date of the Clerk's Tale Professor Skeat, on
the confident assumption that Chaucer heard the story from
Petrarch and received from him a copy of it, places it very early
— that is, in 1373 or 1374. But no arguments of any validity —
for the stanza form can scarcely be reckoned as in any way con-
clusive— are advanced for this date, even conceding the correct-
ness of his fundamental assumption. Mr. Mather has reviewed
the matter carefully in his valuable discussion in Modern Lan-
guage Notes (Vol. XII, col. 15), and finds no reason why the com-
position should not be assigned to the general period of the
Canterbury Tales — that is, after 1385. The fact would seem to
be that the available material yields no certain chronological
indication whatever.

But one thing can be said with certainty, viz., that the Tale
was completely composed before the Prologue was written. The
evidence for this lies in the fact that the proemium of Petrarch,
descriptive of the scene of the story, is set forth twice with very
inartistic effect — once at the end of the Prologue, and again in the
first stanza of the Tale itself. That this is the case will appear
from a mere comparison of the two parts with Petrarch's original,
and the matter does not require detailed explanation. Professor
Skeat has apparently overlooked this fact and seems to assume
that the two descriptions follow Petrarch's introduction in orderly
sequence; for on line 57,

There is at the west syde of Itaille
Down at the rote of Vesaulus the cold,

he says: "Chaucer is not quite so close a translator here as usual;
the passage in Petrarch being, 'inter cetera ad radicem Vesuli, terra
Salutiarum, vicis et castellis satis frequens, Marchionum arbitrio

188

CHAUCEK AND PETRARCH 11

nobilium quorundam regitur virorum.' " His note is obviously a
hurried jotting (suggested perhaps by the single phrase common
to both passages, ad radicem Vesuli), for no one examining the
matter with any care can fail to observe that the whole of the first
stanza is a condensed and fine reproduction of Petrarch's whole
description down to the words which Professor Skeat cites, with
elimination of the geographical detail.

The preface of Petrarch — a rhetorical embellishment upon
Boccaccio's abrupt beginning — gives, in language of an elevation
and picturesqueness scarcely found elsewhere in the tale itself, a
sweeping survey of the whole Lombard plain from the sources of
the Po on the west to the lagoons of Venice on the east. It is
wrought out with conscious elaboration in the manner of the
ancient e/c<£/oa<rt9, with much richness of geographical color. It
is with reference to this that Chaucer says in the Prologue:

I seye that first with heigh style he endyteth,
Er he the body of his tale wryteth,
A proheme, in the which discry veth he
Pedmond, and of Saluces the contree, etc.

These words, I take it, mean that the proem is in "heigh style,"
with the implication that "the body of his tale" is in a style at
least less elevated. Indeed, though Petrarch's Latin is earnest
and aims at a certain classical dignity, yet it will not appear why
in any ordinary sense the tale as a whole should be characterized
as written in " heigh style." But this term Chaucer does in fact
attach to the whole composition, when at the end he reproduces
Petrarch's reflections on the significance and bearing of the story :

This storie is seyd, not for that wyves sholde
Folwen Grisilde as in humilitee,

But for that every wight in his degree,
Sholde be constant in adversitee
As was Grisilde; therefore Petrark wryteth
This storie, which with heigh style he endyteth.

As a student of the ancient classifications of style I was interested
to discern here, as I thought, a reminiscence of the xaPalcr^P
of Dionysius and Pseudo-Longinus, or of the Ciceronian

189

12 G, L. HENDBICKSON

altitude* orationis, which had been transmitted through the
mediaeval rhetoric. Although the matter has the appearance of a
comment on Petrarch's words, yet it seemed worth while to
refer to Petrarch to see if he gave any suggestion of the idea. I
found, of course, that the reflections were in fact Petrarch's, intro-
duced by these words: hanc historiam stylo nunc olio retexere
visum fuit, non tarn ideo, etc. The phrase stylo olio refers, of
course, to the Latin of Petrarch's version contrasted with the
Italian (stylo volgari) of Boccaccio's original. It was conceiv-
able that Chaucer should call Petrarch's Latin, in contrast with
Boccaccio's Italian, "heigh style,"1 but with the analogy of classi-
cal usage in mind I could not repress a suspicion that Chaucer
here either found stylo alto in his copy of Petrarch, or thus mis-
read the true reading stylo olio. For this conjecture I afterward
found unexpected confirmation in the extracts from Petrarch's
original which are entered upon the margins of the Ellesmere
and Hengwrt MSS,2 and are reproduced on p. 402 of the Six-
Text edition. There, against line 1142, are entered these words
from Petrarch: "hanc historiam stylo nunc alto retexere visum
fuit," etc.

It thus appears that the "heigh style" which Chaucer attrib-
utes to Petrarch's version as a whole is due in the first instance
to a textual error. But this does not explain the use of the same
description in the prologue. It would seem to me that the matter
can be explained naturally in some such way as this: Carrying
away from the first execution of the tale itself the memory of this
stylistic characterization, Chaucer, on reverting to the subject
when he incorporated the story into the Canterbury Tales, recog-
nized the special truth of the words in reference to Petrarch's
preface. Accordingly, when he added the prologue, he wrote:

I seye that with heigh style he endyteth,
Er he the body of his tale wryteth,
A proheme, etc.

1 So Hertzberg, ad loc. : " Der hohe Stil bedeutet hier, und wenn ich nicht irre auch
v. 7893, nur die lateinische Sprache im Gegensatz zum stilus vulgaris."

2 To which Professor Kittredge, to whom I had referred my conjecture, called my atten-
tion. He added a warning concerning the wisdom of verifying the text of these entries,
which I have to my regret not been able to heed.

190

CHAUCER AND PETRARCH 13

The desire, then, to illustrate the elevated tone of Petrarch's
proem was probably the motive which impelled him to duplicate
his first stanza by a version which should reveal more specifically
the "high style" of the Latin introduction. This he does with
duplication of the essential parts of the first stanza already
written, and with inclusion of the impressive geographical detail
which he had omitted from his earlier version.

One other observation I will add here in connection with this
example of the corruption of Chaucer's MS of Petrarch and the
results which grew out of it. It has been the pleasant fancy of
those who have insisted that Chaucer describes his own meeting
with Petrarch in the Clerkes Prologue, that he received from
Petrarch himself a copy of the Griselda: Professor Skeat would
add compulsion by saying: "It is difficult to see how he could
have got it otherwise" (Vol. Ill, p. 455, note). Mr. Hales, in the
Dictionary of National Biography, has varied the same theme
by urging that he most likely received it from Boccaccio in
Florence in September, 1373. Again avoiding entanglement
with the biographical question, I would point out that Chaucer's
MS of Petrarch was already seriously corrupt — which, to be sure,
might have been the case even with an author's presentation copy
— and contained variants which would point to some degrees of
removal from its origins. At line 420 Chaucer writes:

Thus Walter lowly, nay but royally,
Wedded with fortunat honestetee, etc.

The words of Petrarch, as edited in Originals and Analogues
from the Basel edition of 1581, are: "Sic Gualtherus humili
quidem sed insigni ac prospero matrimonio, honestatis," etc. The
text is obviously corrupt, and we should doubtless read: "humili
quidem sed insigni ac prospero matrimonio honestatus" etc. —
though it is not safe to suggest even so simple a correction with-
out a better knowledge of the actual condition of the evidence of
the MSS. But the same corruption is found in the marginal
entry of the Ellesmere MS, and it would therefore seem probable
that Chaucer found it and owed to it his use of the word hon-
estetee. For the words which follow,

191

14 G. L. HENDKICKSON

In goddes pees liveth ful esily

At hoom, and outward grace y-nogh had he,

the words of Petrarch are: "Summa domi in pace extra vero summa
cum gratia hominum vivebat." It would seem here that Chaucer
has added merely the word goddes. But the marginal entry of
the Ellesmere MS presents the interesting variant "Summa dei
in pace." It would seem, then, that Chaucer's copy must have
presented both readings dei and domi ("in goddes pees — at
hoom"), one in the text and the other in the margin or above the
line, though concerning their exact relation it is impossible to
speak. Of course, nothing can be done in problems of this sort
until we have a thorough collation of the Petrarch MSS contain-
ing the story, and I have touched upon this one point, somewhat
rashly I know, merely for the sake of indicating by a concrete
illustration a most imperative prerequisite to any intelligent
study of Chaucer's relation to Petrarch — a critical text of
Petrarch's tale.

G. L. HENDBICKSON

UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO

192

THE AUTHOKSHIP OF "THE BIRTH OF MERLIN"

Before its publication in 1662 no record exists of the play
bearing the following title-page inscription:1 "The Birth of
Merlin: Or, the Childe hath found his Father: As it hath been
several times acted with great Applause. Written by William
Shakespeare and William Rowley. London: Printed by Tho.
Johnson for Francis Kirkman and Henry Marsh, and are to be
sold at the Prince's Arms in Chancery Lane. 1662." Since
this ascription of its authorship to Shakespeare constitutes the
sole evidence of his connection with the play, the question of the
validity of this evidence is the first matter for investigation in an
attempt to determine the authorship. It is the question, first, of
the publisher's knowledge of the facts, and secondly, of his honesty
in setting them forth.

Francis Kirkman was born in 1632.2 According to his own testi-
mony, he had been an enthusiastic play-collector from boyhood,
and had gathered many curious particulars of the lives of the old
dramatists. If he had taken an early interest in this play, he
might possibly have acquainted himself with its real authorship;
but as the absence of all mention of it previous to its publica-
tion goes to indicate that it was not a popular production, he
probably had no particular incentive to investigate the ques-
tion closely, and, no doubt, by the time he had decided to print
it the means for such investigation would have become as inad-
equate for him as for us now. Even if, as Warnke and Proe-
scholdt guess, he followed an old copy in his possession, it is
still uncertain that he did not alter the title-page. And even if
the old title-page could be produced in evidence that he copied it
unchanged, that would not prove that Shakespeare had a hand in
the play; for both before and after the death of the master many
plays were ascribed to him of whose composition he was wholly
guiltless. All that can be said about Kirkman's knowledge of

1 Warnke and Proescholdt's edition.

2 See Dictionary of National Biography, Vol. XXXI.

193] 1 [MODEEN PHILOLOGY, July, 1906

2 FRED ALLISON HOWE

the authorship of the play is that he might possibly have ascer-
tained the facts, but that no special reason appears why he should
have investigated the question before 1662.

But if it was not that he believed Shakespeare to be the
author of the play, what possible motive, asks Tieck,1 can be
assigned to Kirkman for falsely ascribing it to the great dramatist,
since Shakespeare's name could not at that time help the sale of
the publication? In reply it may be said that, while the tide of
Shakespeare's popularity reached low ebb during the Restoration
period, it had by no means reached it by 1662, and a strong busi-
ness motive is not far to seek.2 With the reopening of the
theaters the traditions of Shakespeare's successes were revived,
and though it soon became a fad with the smart set to cry him
down as old-fashioned, his plays still drew crowds to the theaters.
For example, while Pepys in his trifling way criticises Shake-
speare severely, he yet records no less than thirty-six performances
of twelve different plays of Shakespeare that he attended between
October 11, 1660, and February 6, 1668.3 It must be remem-
bered, furthermore, that at the reopening of the theaters the
actors had no choice but to resort to the pieces that had been
on the stage before the civil war, since no new playwrights had
yet come forward to cater to the new tastes of the public. Three
of the older dramatists still retained the prominence that they
had enjoyed from the first — Shakespeare, Jonson, and Fletcher.4
Under these conditions it was surely not difficult for a keen and
not over-scrupulous bookseller to find a shrewd business reason
for assigning one of his published plays to Shakespeare. The
theaters had been closed for twenty years, a new generation had
since grown up, and in those uncritical days the danger of the
discovery of the fraud was not a great deterrent.

That Francis Kirkman was not over-scrupulous is a distinct
impression derived from the accounts of him that have survived.5
At least one of his contemporaries disputes his assertion concern-

1 Shakespeares Vorschule, Vol. II (Leipzig 1829).

2 See Lounsbury, Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist, pp. 257, 258.

3 Sidney Lee, A Life of William Shakespeare (New York, 1898), p. 329.
* Lounsbury, Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist, p. 262.
5 Dictionary of National Biography.

194

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "THE BIRTH OF MERLIN" 3

ing a point of fact about which there could be no difference of
mere opinion. Again, can we quite credit his declaration that he
had seen acted every one of the 806 plays he catalogued in 1671 ?
Symonds1 characterizes him as "a most untrustworthy caterer
and angler for the public." Ulrici2 makes a similar remark and
cites evidence of his unreliability. Upon the whole, the title-
page ascription to Shakespeare must be regarded with suspicion,
and as inconclusive respecting the real authorship of the play.

The opinions of the leading English and German critics who
have discussed the play may be classified as follows:

1. Shakespeare wrote most of the play: Home; see Knight, Pictorial
Edition of Shakespeare, pp. Sllff.

2. Shakespeare had a large share in it along with Rowley: Delius,
Pseudo- Shakespeare' sche Dramen, Preface; Tieck, Shakespeares Vor-
schule, Vol. II, Preface.

3. Shakespeare might have had a hand in a sketch that Rowley
worked over later: Symonds, Shakespeare's Predecessors, p. 373.

4. Shakespeare had nothing to do with the play: Ulrici, Shakespeare's
Dramatic Art, Vol. II, p. 401; Warnke and Proescholdt, Pseudo-
Shakesperian Plays ; Ward, History of English Dramatic Literature,
(1898), Vol. II, pp. 243ff; Knight, Pictorial Edition of Shakespeare;
Fleay, Life and Works of Shakespeare, p. 289; Morley, English Writers,
Vol. XI, p. 286; Daniel and Bullen also take this view.

5. Rowley wrote all of it: Ulrici, Ward, Bullen, Ellis (Mermaid
Edition, Middleton).

6. The comic parts were written by Rowley, the serious parts by
Middleton: Fleay, Daniel.

Since the second of the above propositions cannot be main-
tained, it is unnecessary to notice the first. There is no question
that Ulrici has effectively disposed of the arguments advanced
by Tieck and repeated by Delius in support of the opinion that
Shakespeare had a considerable share in the play along with
Rowley. Ward has produced further arguments against this
position based upon considerations of character portrayal,
while Warnke and Proescholdt have pointed out additional objec-
tions concerned with plot construction. All of these reasons

1 Shakespeare's Predecessors in the English Drama, p. 296.

2 Shakespeare1 s Dramatic Art, Vol. II, pp. 401, 366. See also Charles Knight, Shake-
speare: Doubtful Plays, p. 311 ; Nathan Drake, Shakespeare and His Times (London 1817),
Vol. II, p. 570; Dictionary of National Biography, Vol. XLIX, p. 363; remarks of Malone and
Steevens.

195

4 FEED ALLISON HOWE

taken together constitute convincing proof that Shakespeare had
no share of any importance in The Birth of Merlin. It is enough
to say of the third proposition that it is of too vague a character to
admit of any argument. Critics are generally agreed that Rowley
wrote the comic parts of the play; it is quite possible, also, that
he is responsible for the use of the supernatural element in it. At
all events Shakespeare never makes so crudely burlesque a use of
that element. Subtracting, therefore, the whole Merlin action,
we have left a fairly complete plot concerning the fortunes of
Aurelius and his Saxon foes, to which is subjoined the episode
of Modestia and Constantia. Now, this episode has absolutely
nothing to do with the main action; the two daughters of Dono-
bert are without the slightest excuse in the play. Now, while
Shakespeare makes use of double plots and episodes, he never
leaves the minor actions totally without organic connection with
the main plot. It is certain that he did not design the plot that
remains after cutting out Rowley's supposed parts. And if we
should still further dissect the action by dropping out the episode
of the two sisters, we should have left nothing that Rowley or
anyone else could not just as well have derived from Geoffrey of
Monmouth as from Shakespeare. There is not the slightest evi-
dence that Rowley worked over a draft of the story by Shake-
speare; no one would have ventured the suggestion, had it not
been for the highly questionable title-page ascription. The absurd
theory proposed by Tieck, that Shakespeare could assume at will
the manner of any other dramatist, and that here he adopts
Rowley's style, becomes still more ridiculous when it is asked how
Shakespeare knew, when writing his "youthful sketch," that it
was Rowley who was predestined to work it over.

On the whole, it appears quite probable that the fourth posi-
tion is the true one, namely, that Shakespeare had no part in
The Birth of Merlin. Practically the entire array of authoritative
critical opinion supports it. Still, considerations of character and
plot development are not quite sufficient in themselves to demon-
strate the proposition. For the more convincing proof resort
must be had to an examination of the language. Omitting the
"clown" parts, which are universally conceded to be Rowley's, the

196

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "THE BIRTH OF MERLIN" 5

results of a study of the versification of the remainder of the
drama may be compared with those tabulated by Dowden1 of an
examination of Shakespeare's versification at a period when, if at
all, he must have joined Rowley in The Birth of Merlin.

Shakespeare

Birthof Merlin

Run-on lines . ...

0.47

0.16

Rhyme

0.00

0.05

Feminine endings . .

0.33

0.47

This indicates conclusively that Shakespeare did not write the
serious parts of the play late in his career, for the versification is
not that of this period of the great dramatist's work; but it was
only at this period that he could have joined Rowley in writing a
play, considering the probable age of the latter, the date of his
first appearance as a dramatist, and other significant circumstances.
It is beyond question that Shakespeare did not co-operate with
Rowley in writing The Birth of Merlin.

As to the point raised by Tieck that the play contains a
number of Shakespearean touches, it may be noticed that these did
not appear to be so striking as to be worth pointing out. Fleay,2
however, notes two such passages, and a third may be added, viz.,
Birth of Merlin, IV, i, 194 (and cf. King Lear, III, iv, 69).
But a few real or fancied echoes of the Shakespearean manner
furnish no proof that Shakespeare participated in the authorship
of the play. Admitting such evidence, one might argue that the
master had a hand in many of the dramas written by his contem-
poraries and successors, who were impressed with his striking
phrases, for many of them consciously or unconsciously echo his
manner. A number of such echoes, for example, may be found
in Middleton, and, more pointedly for a later consideration, in
The Mayor of Queenborough.

There remain for discussion the last two propositions; the
fifth, being involved in the sixth, may be neglected. The

i Shakespeare Primer, pp. 40-44.

iLife and Works of Shakespeare p. 289. See Symonds, Shakespeare's Predecessors,
p. 373.

197

6 FRED ALLISON HOWE

suggestion advanced by Daniel and adopted by Fleay, that it was
Middleton who wrote the serious parts of The Birth of Merlin,
is worthy of attention. Neither critic gives any reason for the
opinion; such reasons, however, may be found. The suggestion
is based upon the assumption that Middleton is the author of
The Mayor of Queenborough,1 between which and The Birth of
Merlin may be traced a number of curious parallels, the latter
play bearing the relation of counterpart or sequel to the former.
Both plays are concerned with the same events. The charac-
ters Vortiger, Aurelius, and Uther Pendragon are common to
both. In the M. of Q. Constantius takes a part, but is killed
early in the action; in the B. of M. he is referred to as having
been murdered before the beginning of the action. Each play
closes with the death of Vortiger. The M. of Q. is concerned
chiefly with the fortunes of Vortiger; the B. of M. chiefly with
those of Aurelius. Each play introduces the central character of
the other in a minor part. In each play the principal scene is
the court of the British king. In each the action turns princi-
pally upon the struggle between Britons and Saxons.

Mayor of Queenborough Birth of Merlin

Koxena, a Saxon princess, at the Artesia, a Saxon princess, at the

instigation of the Saxon leaders, instigation of the Saxon generals,

ingratiates herself with Vortiger, entices the British King Aurelius

the British king, marries him, to marry her, deceives him, and

deceives him, and in large measure finally causes his death by poison,
becomes the cause of his death.

Roxena carries on an intrigue Artesia attempts an intrigue

with Horsus. Upon a sudden an- with Uther, who, when surprised

nouncement that she is to marry by the sudden news that she had

the king, Horsus is startled into a become the wife of the king, reveals

betrayal of the secret through some his relations with her in certain

inadvertent exclamations. involuntary exclamations.

Vortiger murders Constantius, Vortiger is defeated before his
brother of Aurelius and Uther. castle in Wales by one of the

1 Ellis, Preface to Mermaid edition of Middleton, raises doubts about the authorship,
remarking that the play was not published as Middleton's until 1661 ; that passages charac-
teristic of Middleton are difficult to find in it ; that the buffoonery is not his, but probably
Rowley's, as Bullen holds ; and that even the serious parts are as much in Rowley's manner
as Middleton's. He suggests a comparison with The Birth of Merlin, and appears to think
both plays entirely the work of Rowley.

198

THE AUTHOKSHIP OF "THE BIRTH OF MERLIN"

Mayor of Queenborough
This leads to his downfall and
death after he is surrounded in his
castle in Wales by the army of the
brothers of his victim.

V. ii, 1, etc. :

UTHEE : My lord, the castle is so fortified—
AUEELIUS: Let wild fire ruin it

I'll send my heart no peace till it be

consumed.

The Saxons, under Hengest, ob-
tain a large share in the kingdom
for a time, but are conquered by
Uther and Aurelius. They are
wily and deceitful, while Vortiger,
the British king, is easily deceived.

Roxena, the Saxon princess, kills
the king's son Vortimer by the use
of poison.

Constantius is a religious zealot,
devoted to a life of contemplation,
and bound by his monastic vows to
a state of celibacy.

Castiza, a lady of noble birth,
is induced by Vortiger to annoy
Constantius with the temptation of
earthly love; but in the attempt
she is converted to his ideals and
resolves upon a single life.

I, ii,U9, etc.:

CONSTANTITJS : Are you a Virgin?
CASTIZA: Never yet, my lord, known to

the will of man.
CONSTANTIUS : O blessed creature I ....

Keep still that holy and immaculate fire.

.... Disdain as much to let mortality

know you as stars to kiss the pavements.

.... They look but on corruption as

you do, but are stars still; be you a

virgin too.

Birth of Merlin

generals of Uther's army, and
takes refuge in the castle. The
murder of Constantius is the lead-
ing cause of his overthrow and
ruin.

IV, v, 9, etc. :

PEINCE: Proud Vortiger ... for safety's
fled unto a Castle, here standing on the

hill We'll send in wild fire to

dislodge him, hence, or burn them all
with flaming violence.

Under Ostorius the guileful
Saxons secure the kingdom, but
are defeated by Uther. The Brit-
ish King Aurelius becomes a ready
dupe of the Saxons.

Artesia, the Saxon princess,
makes use of poison to murder the
king.

Modestia is by nature a religious
zealot, meditative, and possessed
by a passion for a holy life. She
refuses to marry her favored suitor,
and pledges herself to the life of a
nun.

The Hermit also resembles Con-
stantius in many respects.

Constantia, a lady of the nobility,
is persuaded by Donobert to tempt
Modestia from her resolution to
become a nun; but Constantia is
herself converted to her sister's
views and adopts her resolution.

I, ii, 243, etc.:

HERMIT : Are you a Virgin?

MODESTIA : Yes, sir.

HEEMIT : Your name?

MODESTIA: Modestia.

HEEMIT: Your name and virtues meet, a
modest virgin: Live ever in the sancti-
monious way to Heaven and happiness.
.... Come, look up. Behold yon firma-
ment ; there sits a power whose footstool
is this earth. O learn this lesson and

199

FRED ALLISON HOWE

Mayor of Queenborough

CASTIZA : I'll never marry Forsak-
ing all the world I'll save it well and do
my faith no wrong.

Roxena, the unchaste and treach-
erous Saxon princess, is destroyed
by fire when the castle is burned
by the soldiers of Aurelius and
Uther.

V.ii,117, etc.:

Vortiger [of Roxena] : Burn, burn ! . . . .
dry up her strumpet blood, and hardly
parch her skin.

V. ii,84,etc.:
VORTIGER : Ha, ha, ha !
HORSUS: Dost laugh?
II, x, etc. :

CASTIZA [to Vortiger]: I'm bound, my
lord to marry none but you, .... and
you I'll never marry.
1, 11:

Name, character, sentiments, and
speeches about marriage, etc., of
Constantius.

Birth of Merlin

practise it: he that will climb so high
must leave no joy beneath to move his
eye.

MODESTIA: I apprehend you, sir; on
Heaven I fix my love. Earth gives us
grief, our joys are all above.

Artesia, the deceitful and licen-
tious Saxon princess, is threatened
with death by burning when cap-
tured by Uther's soldiers.

V. ii, 54, etc. :

DONOBERT [of Artesia] : Burn her to dust.
EDOL : Take her hence and stake her car-
cass in the burning sun, till it be parched
and dry ; then flay her wicked skin.
V. ii, 110, etc. :
ARTESIA: Ha, ha, ha!
EDOL : Dost laugh, Erictho?
I, i, 110, etc. :

MODESTIA: Noble and virtuous: Could
I dream of marriage, I should affect
thee, Edwin.
Ill, ii:

Name of Constantia, etc.

Each of these plays is entitled from the leading character of
the sub-plot. Each contains absurd anachronisms, one a Puritan
and the other a playwright along with Uther Pendragon and his
contemporaries. In one is a "play within the play," and in the
other something closely akin to it in the "show" element. Both
introduce dumb shows. Each has two slight sub-actions coupled
with the main action. Both contain rough, boisterous, clownish,
ignorant, and amusing characters. In one Raynulph acts as
Chorus to hasten the action ; in the other Merlin serves that pur-
pose, by means of his supernatural knowledge revealing distant
events. The revenge motive is the chief cause of Vortiger' s down-
fall in each of the plays.

All these parallelisms in plot, motive, situation, and character-
ization are so striking, the relations of the leading personages so
obviously analogous, the manner of the dialogue in corresponding
situations is so similar in the two plays, that to explain the resem-

200

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "THE BIRTH OF MERLIN" 9

blances as accidental is manifestly impossible. It is beyond a
doubt that the writer of the later play had the earlier one before
his mind and consciously adapted much of it to his own purposes.

But which is the earlier and which the later play? There
is no record of The Mayor of Queenborough previous to its pub-
lication in 1661, a year earlier than that of The Birth of Merlin.
Evidently the story of both dramas was drawn from some version
of Geoffrey of Monmouth's History. A comparison of the two
plays with each other and with Geoffrey's account shows that the
author of The Mayor of Queenborough has followed the history
far more faithfully than has the writer of its analogue. For
example, the story of Roxena (Rowena), daughter of Hengist,
her relations with Vortiger, the trickery of Hengist, and all the
other essential features of the main plot of The Mayor of Queen-
borough, are substantially identical with the details of Geoffrey's
narrative. On the other hand, all the Artesia story is a pure inven-
tion of the author of The Birth of Merlin, who in numerous other
particulars allows himself the greatest liberty in the handling of
his material.

Now, the significance of these considerations lies in the fact
that the departures in this play from the historical account are not
required by the play itself; in fact, the Artesia action is a close
analogy of the story of Rowena. Why, we may well inquire, did
the writer deem it necessary to invent an Artesia to serve the
same purpose in his play as that served by Rowena in Geoffrey's
story, and by Roxena in The Mayor of Queenborough, serving
that purpose, however, not in connection with Vortiger, but with
his enemy Aurelius? Why did he not rather prefer to use
Geoffrey's story, which would have appealed to his audiences as
history, unless it was that that story had already been employed
in a well-known play ? Why invent a Hermit to imitate the his-
torical Constantius unless for the same reason? And why, unless
for that reason, duplicate the historical Castiza in a fictitious
Modestia ? If we try to suppose the more truly historical story to
have been dramatized after the less truly historical one, the
improbability of that order becomes apparent. We must conclude
that The Birth of Merlin was written after The Mayor of

201

10 FEED ALLISON HOWE

Queenborough. It may not be significant, though it is sugges-
tive of this conclusion, that while the title-page of the latter play
bears the line, "Many times acted with great applause," that of
the latter runs, "Several times acted with great applause."

It is impossible to assign a positive date to The Mayor of
Queenborough, but such evidence as there is would seem to point
to some time after the year 1621 as the time of its composition.1
Since The Birth of Merlin undoubtedly followed The Mayor of
Queenborough, it is again evident that Shakespeare could have
had no hand in its authorship.

It is perhaps not quite so easy to show that Middleton did
have a part in The Birth of Merlin as that Shakespeare did not.
Ellis and others favor the view that Rowley is the sole author,
but the internal evidence does not seem to me to favor this
opinion. First, the versification tests do not support it. (I
make use of the results worked out by Miss Wiggin in her study
of the Middleton-Rowley plays.)

Rowley

B. of M.
Serious Parts

Run-on lines

0.25

0.16

Feminine endings

0.25

0.47

Verse

Rough

Smooth

Secondly, the general tone of the serious portions is unlike
the manner of Rowley in the dignity and restraint of the
dialogue, the absence of exaggeration, and the deeper insight
into character. Especially unlike Rowley's method is the
treatment of the character of Modestia; in quiet, meditative
strength and dignity, in noble and high-minded, though mistaken,
self-renunciation, in consistency and absence of exaggeration, she
is as far as possible from Rowley's characteristic method of
character portrayal.

But it may be objected that Earl Edoll is a violent, irascible
character, often stirred by ordinary, and sometimes by even
trivial, obstacles to extremes of passion. It must be admitted

i Fleay, Chronicle of the English Drama, Vol. II, p. 104; Bullcn's Middleton, I, introd.
xviii, ii, 86; Ward, Vol. II.

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "THE BIRTH OF MERLIN" 11

that the earl's outbursts of wrath are as violent and exaggerated
as are those of the prince in the parts accredited to Rowley; but
it should be observed that in the latter case we are given no
preparatory hint that the prince is subject to such tantrums, nor
are these fits explained, or reconciled with his power of calm
self-control elsewhere exhibited (II, i, 115-26; IV, ii, 18, etc.).
But in Edol's case we are furnished with a preparation for his
fits of violence (II, ii, 16, etc.). So also are we reconciled to
his habit of ranting by the comments of his companions (II, ii,
114, 115; IV, ii, 18). It is therefore clear that the dramatist
intended to make him an exaggeration in this particular. This
is quite a different thing from Rowley's unrestraint in depicting
his characters, for he is evidently unaware that they are not well-
balanced and natural. The objection above raised thus turns out
to be an argument against the idea that Rowley wrote the scenes
concerning Earl Edol.

But if the serious parts of The Birth of Merlin were not
written by Rowley, what is the evidence that they were written
by Middleton ? This evidence falls under two heads : the
characteristics of the versification, and the relations between this
play and The Mayor of Queenborough.

Middleton

B.ofM.
Serious Parts

Run-on lines . .

0.20

0.16

Rhyme .

(M. of Q.) TV

•h

0.50

0.47

The correspondence in the two cases is sufficiently close to
constitute confirmatory evidence that Middleton had a hand in
The Birth of Merlin. It should be noted that this play was
first printed entirely as prose and that critics have not altogether
agreed in their re-establishment of the verse-lines.1 This may in
some degree account for lack of a closer correspondence in the
foregoing comparison. Other particulars of corroborative evi-
dence may be noted:

1 E. g., see Warnke and Proescholdt's edition and notes.

203

12 FRED ALLISON HOWE

The exclamation "Pish" is used several times in the serious
parts of The Birth of Merlin. This is characteristic of Middleton
(Mayor of Queenborough, e. g.), but not of Rowley. (Wiggin.)

A large number of short broken lines occur in both B. of M.
and M. of Q., particularly lines of three feet.

The end-stopt effect of the verse in the serious parts of B. of
M. is strikingly like that of the verse of M. of Q. and of Middle-
ton generally,

The occurrence of a disorderly mixture of rhyme and blank
verse is frequently found in both plays.

In both a rhymed couplet is often thrown into the middle of a
speech in blank verse.

There is an appreciable percentage of double feminine endings
in B. of M. This is characteristic of Middleton.

In both plays the close of a speech is often an incomplete
verse that is not filled out at the beginning of the next following
speech.

Finally, alliteration is noticeable in several of the longer
speeches of both plays.

All this would seem to establish a fair presumption that the
two dramatists who produced so much in collaboration about
the time when this play is supposed to have been written, united
in the production of this one as well.

But would Middleton be likely to take part in two plays so
much alike in method of treatment of the same story ? Could he
be insensible to the certainty that his audiences would detect him
in the attempt to palm off upon them old work for new ? Whether
or not Fleay considered these questions in adopting the sugges-
tion of Daniel does not appear ; yet he dates the plays only a year
apart. But the questions require an answer, and it is not easy to
give a satisfactory answer to them.

While it is difficult to see how Middleton could participate in
these two strangely similar plays at so short an interval, it is still
more difficult to suppose that Rowley would join with some other
dramatist in the later of them so soon after the earlier had become
well known, or that any other dramatist would care to take part
with him in such a work. But while it is clear that The Birth of

204

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "THE BIRTH OF MERLIN" 13

Merlin followed The Mayor of Queenborough, it is quite unlikely
that it followed it so closely as Fleay supposes; for what incen-
tive could there be for a playwright to venture in competition
with a play that was holding the stage by writing another play
dealing with the same story in a similar way, though a far less
authentic way ? But unless the former play had been successful,
why imitate it at all? And if successful, why imitate it so soon?

If a guess may be added to those already made concerning this
play by others, we may suppose that The Mayor of Queenborough
had proved a popular work, and that Middleton, on the lookout
for subjects, wrote a sketch to be worked up at some future time
into a sequel and complement of The Mayor of Queenborough.
Perhaps he found it difficult, in handling the same story, to treat
it in a sufficiently different style from that of his first use of it,
and so laid it aside as unavailable. After the lapse of several
years — perhaps after Middleton's death — Kowley may have
revised the sketch, adding some parts, and possibly touching it up
here and there by means of suggestions derived from The Mayor
of Queenborough. Rowley's lack of constructive ability, together
with the very possible exigency of having to provide a play on
short notice would render such a guess not wholly improbable.

At all events, the theory that Middleton and Rowley wrote
The Birth of Merlin is far more respectable than the obsolete
belief that Shakespeare and Rowley wrote it, and is, on the whole,
the most probable theory respecting its authorship.

I would assign the various parts as follows :

I, i, 2, Middleton.

II, i, Rowley ; ii, iii, Middleton.

III, i, Rowley; ii, Middleton; iii, either might have written it;
iv, Rowley ; v, either ; vi, Middleton.

IV, i, first 135 lines, Rowley; remainder, Middleton; ii, iii, iv,
Middleton; v, Rowley.

V, i, Rowley ; ii, Middleton.

FRED ALLISON HOWE

STATE NORMAL SCHOOL
Los Angeles

205

Modern Philology

VOL. IV October, 1906 No. 2

THE GROWTH OP INTEREST IN THE EARLY
ITALIAN MASTERS

FROM TISCHBEIN TO RUSKIN

Interest has lately become keen in the rise and spread of the
study of "Christian art." Through the efforts of various men in
all countries — among the English-speaking nations primarily
through Ruskin — the world has long been made familiar with
the value of the pictorial art of the early Renaissance. It is
only within comparatively recent times, however, that the
historian has become aware that our present attitude toward the
earlier masters was a necessary corollary of the great emotional
upheaval which took its inception a century and a half ago.

Several treatises — to which I shall have occasion to refer in
the course of this investigation — have lately appeared, more or
less directly bearing on the subject here under discussion, and it
is the purpose of the present writing further to contribute to a
better understanding of one of the most interesting movements
in criticism, and especially to point to the importance of German
influence upon it.

To appreciate the originality implied in our modern attitude
toward the early painters of Italy, it will be necessary briefly to
familiarize ourselves with the canons prominent in the eighteenth
century. Let us remember that the age of Louis XIV, which
made current the f ormulse of art and of life in vogue during a
large part of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was

207] 1 [ MODERN PHILOLOGY, October, 1906

2 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

essentially aristocratic and intellectual. It insisted on dignity,
refinement, and control, and was impatient of any tendency to
break through the tenets of established creed. Emotion and
individuality were held in check, if not suppressed; "regularity"
and clearness were insisted upon. Hence antiquity influenced
that age. Not, however, in the sense in which it did the
Renaissance movement in Italy — as a thing of exuberance and
power, broadening the horizon and leading men back to nature.
It was merely an influence in the direction of dignity, exquisite-
ness, and technical perfection ; until refinement became weakness,
dignity coldness, control stiffness .

The uncritical admiration for antiquity prevalent in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries led to an infinitely narrow
interpretation of the past. Our modern belief — first pronounced
by Herder, and later more clearly defined by nineteenth century
critics like Taine — according to which every temperament has a
right to produce its own expression, was totally unknown. What-
ever did not fit the established formula was rejected.

The ideal painter to those generations was Raphael. His
work exhibited grace, technical skill, infinite refinement, and —
his later productions at least — a knowledge of the ancients. He
seemed satisfactory in every respect.

We can even today concur in this admiration, although partly
for different reasons; but what seems much less intelligible to
us is the fact that the Bolognese school — the Carracci, Albano,
Ghiido Reni, Guercino, etc. — were believed to have rivaled, even
distanced, the author of the "Transfiguration."

The Bolognese, such was the feeling, had freed art from
mannerism, and had firmly established le bon gout. In the
Carracci boldness and strength seemed coupled with dazzling
technical ability; Guido appeared "divinely" graceful; and even
Guercino, so disagreeable to us today on account of his violent
contrasts of light and shade and his unnatural flesh-tints, was
greatly beloved. Many writers agreed that the masters of
Bologna represented the highest attainment of the human genius
in the realm of pictorial art. Even Pietro da Cortona, to our

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GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 3

taste an empty rhetorician, was for a time regarded as a painter
of the first rank.1

Michel Angelo, on the other hand, the master-giant of the
Renaissance, very characteristically for the time, seemed powerful
but graceless, and hence essentially inartistic. Only after the
middle of the century, after the yearning for power in literature
had inspired Houdar de la Motte and Lessing with words of bitter-
ness or ridicule for the French tragedy, Michel Angelo and
Shakespeare together rose on the world. In 1772 Sir Joshua
Reynolds, in a "discourse" delivered before the Royal Academy
in London, declared that "the effect of the capital works of
Michel Angelo perfectly corresponds to what Bourchardon said
he felt from reading Homer; his whole frame appeared to him-
self to be enlarged, and all nature which surrounded him, dimin-
ished to atoms." The decline of Michel Angelo' s reputation, he
feels, was due to the decline of art.2

One might imagine that the admiration for strength which
increased as the eighteenth century waned would soon have freed
men from the polished Bolognese. Far from it; they exerted a
sort of spell far into the nineteenth century. Then at last depth
and sincerity of feeling, and naivete", became the watch-words of
art-criticism, and Guido and his associates were banished. Sic
transit gloria mundi.*

i Coulanges (a cousin of Madame de S6vigne) who was in Italy in 1657 and 1658, main-
tains (cf. Memoir es de M. de Coulanges, publics par M. de Monmerque [Paris, 1820], p. 18) :
the Italians think Pietro "emporte la palme sur tous les autres," and popes, cardinals, and
princes regard his paintings " avec un estime sans pareille." Lione Pascoli, in his Vite de1
pittori, scultori ed architetti moderni (Rome, 1730), says of Pietro (Vol. I, p. 3) : "Ed in vero
chi in maggior copia pin di lui, e con maggior facilita, e franchezza ha dipinto cose grand!
.... Aveva il fuoco ne' colori, la veemenza nolle muni, 1' impeto nel pennello." Even
Cochin — of whom more later — in his Lettres aunjeune artiste peintre, and in other works
shows a foible for him. Pietro's reputation waned, however, long before that of the
Bolognese. Heinrich Meyer, in his Entwurf einer Kunstgeschichte des 18ten Jahrhunderts
(1805), praises the latter, but attacks Pietro.

2Cf. The Literary Works of Sir Joshua Reynolds, with a Memoir by Beechy, Vol. I
(London, 1899), pp. 371f. It is interesting, in this connection, to note Diderot's attitude
toward Michel Angelo. In his "Pens6es detachers sur la peinture, la sculpture, Farchitec-
ture et la poesie," CEuvres completes de Diderot, ed. Assezat, Vol. XII (Paris, 1876), p. 118, he
says : "Qui est-ce qui a vu Dieu? c'est Raphael, c'est le Guide. Qui est-ce qui a vu Molse?
c'est Michel-Ange." And later (p. 132) : " II faut copier d'apres Michel-Ange, et corriger
son dessin d'apres Raphael."

3 The best representative of th is hybrid attitude is Diderot. In his ' ' Pens6es detachers ' '
(loc. cit., p. 118) he says: "La colere du Saint Michel du Guide est aussi noble, aussi belle
que la douleur du Laocoon." And in another place : "II n'y a, a proprement parler, qua

209

4 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Throughout the eighteenth century, however, besides Raphael
and the Bolognese, a few other masters of the High Renaissance
throned in the realm of art. Titian and Correggio were felt to
be the rivals of the greatest. Correggio charmed by his infinite
grace; Titian by his marvelous coloring. Paolo Veronese, too,
delighted because of the elegance of his figures, and Giulio by his
ability as a technician. Lionardo, Tintoretto, Andrea del Sarto
found favor, although in a lesser degree. Even Perugino and
Mantegna, the former as the teacher of the "divine" Raphael,
the latter as the instructor of Correggio, were deemed worthy of
study. Here and there a good-natured critic or traveler has a
kind word for Giorgione or for Fra Bartolomeo, or even for Bel-
lini. Giotto is often mentioned as the founder of modern pictorial
art, and occasionally someone has heard that Masaccio had some-
thing to do with the improvement of the technique of painting.
But nobody is so barbarous as to waste time on Fra Angelico,
Botticelli, the Lippis, Luca Signorelli, Ghirlandajo, Carpaccio —
not to speak of less prominent men like Gentile da Fabriano,
Cima, etc. To be sure, the names of these men occasionally
occur, and the ignorant, who praise everything, praise even them.
But those who know the bon gout are aware that almost all art
which antedates Raphael is "Gothic."1

trois grands peintres originaux, Raphael, le Dominiquin et le Poussin. Entre les autres,
qui forment pour ainsi dire leur 6cole, il y en a qui se sont distingues par quelque qualites
particulieres " (CEuvres, Vol. X, p. 374).

i This word has an interesting history. In the eighteenth century it was applied to the
painting, sculpture and architecture which developed in various parts of Europe after the
decay of the Roman Empire and before about 1500. The Goths, meaning the barbarians who
destroyed the Roman Empire, stood to the seventeenth and a large part of the eighteenth
century for everything that is brutal and savage. Hence "Gothic" was tantamount to
" crude, barbarous." Vasari (Le vite de1 piii eccellenti pittori, scultori ed architettori. Con
nuove annotazioni e comment! di Gaetano Milanesi [Firenze, 1878-81], Vol. I, pp. 138 ff.)
says : "Ecci un' altra specie di lavori che si chiamano tedeschi .... Questa maniera
fu trovata dai Goti, che .... fecero dopo coloro che rimasero le fabbriche di questa
maniera . . . . e riempierono tutta Italia di questa maledizione di fabbriche." For
generation after generation nobody dared to differ with the famous biographer. As late as
1778 J. G. Sulzer explains in his Allgemeine Theorie der schGnen Kilnste" (2d ed. Vol. II,
[Leipzig, 1792], pp. 433 ff.) : "Man bedienet sich dieses Bey worts [i. e., "gothisch"] in den
schOnen Kunsten vielfaltig, um dadurch einen barbarischen Geschmak anzudeuten ; wiewohl
der Sinn des Ausdruks selten genau bestimmt wird. Fttrnehmlich scheinet er eine Unschik-
lichkeit, den Mangel der SchOnheit und guter Verhaltnisse, in sichtbaren Formen anzuzeigen,
und ist daher entstanden, dass die Gothen, die sich in Italien niedergelassen, die Werke der
alten Baukunst auf eine ungeschikte Art nachgeahmt haben. Dieses wurde jedem noch
halb barbarischen Volke begegnen, das schnell zu Macht und Reichthum gelanget, eh' es
Zeit gehabt hat, an die Cultur des Geschmaks zu denken. Also ist der gothische Geschmak

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GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 5

Architecture was gaged by the same standard as painting.
Antiquity had established the norm in this department of artistic
activity, as it had in all others. Hence only those architects
who were influenced by the "regular" forms were respected.
The Byzantine, the Komanesque, the Gothic, the Moorish styles
were all branded "Gothic." The sovereign master of the regular
style was, however, Palladio, and his work was, therefore, perfect.1

den Gothen nicht eigen, sondern alien Volkern gemein, die sich mit Werken der zeichnenden
Kunste abgeben, ehe der Geschmak eine hinlftngliche Bildung bekommen hat ....
Darum nennt man nicht nur die von den Gothen aufgefuhrten plumpen, sondern auch die
abentheuerlichen und mit tausend unniltzen Zierrathen uberladenen Gebftude, wozu ver-
muthlich die in Europa sich niedergelassenen Saracenen die ersten Muster gegeben haben,
gothisch. Man findet auch Gebftude, wo diese beyde Arten des schlechten Geschmaks ver-
einiget sind. In der Mahlerey nennt man die Art zu zeichnen gothisch, die in Figuren
herrschte, ehe die Kunst durch das Studium der Natur und des Antiken am Ende des XV.
Jahrhunderts wieder hergestellt worden . . . . Es scheinet also uberhaupt, dass der
gothische Geschmak aus Mangel des Nachdenkens uber das, was man zu machen hat,
entstehe." For details on the history of the word, cf . G. Ludtke : " Gothisch im 18. und 19.
Jahrhundert," Zeitschrift fur Deutsche Wortforschung, Vol. IV, (1904), pp. 133 ff. In addi-
tion to the passages given by Ludtke, a few more which have come under my observation
may here find a place as further illustration of the Ignorance in regard to the history of art
on the part of the eighteenth-century public.

The most amusing proof of confusion is perhaps the following utterance by a Swedish
writer, C. A. Ehrensvard. He says, in his Resa til Jtalien, 1780, 1781, 1782: Skrifven 1782 i
Stralsund; ny uplaga (Stockholm, 1819), p. 29: "Uti arabesquerne i Pompeji och Hercu-
lanum ftr Gothiska architecturen malad ; man ser derigenom huru litet man har fog at kalla
den GOthisk." (" In the arabesques in Pompeii and Herculaneum are represented specimens
of Gothic architecture ; we perceive from this fact how little justification there is for call-
ing them Gothic.") Gray, the poet, cultured man though he was, calls the Doge's palace at
Venice "in the Arabesque manner," Works, ed. Ed. Gosse, Vol. II. (New York, 1890), p. 255.
Fr. von Stolberg, as late as 1791, claims: uaus Spanienkam die gothische Architektonik uber
Frankreich nach Deutschland ( Gesammelte Werke der Brilder Christianund Friedrich Graf en
zu Stolberg, Vol. VII [Hamburg, 1827], p. 72). Students of Diderot remember that the most
withering epithet of contempt he could hurl in his rage at his cowardly printer who had
emasculated some of D.'s most seditious articles in the Encyclopedia was "Ostro-Goth."
Ignorance concerning the nature of Gothic is further attested by Horace Mann, the corre-
spondent of Sir Horace Walpole, who innocently believed W.'s garden at Strawberry Hill to
be Gothic (cf. Letters of Horace Walpole, ed. Cunningham, Vol. II [London, 1891], p. 327).
Here the word is used without opprobrium. Walpole himself as early as 1753 implies admi-
ration in using the word. He writes to Bentley (Letters, Vol. II, p. 351) of the "charming
venerable Gothic scene " presented by the buildings at Oxford during a moonlight night.
A change of attitude toward the Middle Ages naturally spread the interpretation of the
word as used by Walpole. By way of contrast, let us remember that Ruskin, in the Stones
of Venice ("Torcello," §5; omitted in the Brantwood edition), uses "Gothic energy and
love of life" as a term of highest approbation.

iPalladio's influence was particularly powerful in England. Inigo Jones (1573-1652),
the creator of modern English architecture, was twice in Italy, where he enthusiastically
studied the works of Palladio. He later introduced the Palladian style into England, to
the almost total exclusion of national traditions. He was encouraged by the nobility,
although the middle classes compelled him at times to build more nearly in the spirit of
Gothic architecture. One of Jones's most remarkable classical buildings is the villa in
Chiswick, Middlesex, an imitation of the Villa Rotonda by Palladio. Sir Christopher
Wren (1632-1723), the architect of St. Paul's, rebuilt London, after the great fire of 1666,
largely in the spirit of Palladio. In the eighteenth century James Gibbs (1682-1754) and

211

6 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

In sculpture also antiquity was regarded as the only model.
To be sure, much confusion prevailed here, as in other depart-
ments of art-criticsm. Ghiberti, Donatello, even Michel Angelo,
were looked upon as barbarous or semi-barbarous, while the
sculptures on mediaeval churches appeared merely absurd or
disgusting. In the seventeenth century and during a part of
the eighteenth the hollow skill of Bernini charmed, but later a
new interpretation of antiquity, introduced mainly by Winckel-
mann, swept him aside and more firmly than ever established
the Greeks.

The first important and widely known book which helped to
promulgate the views of Italian art set forth above is Richardson's
An account of some of the statues, basreliefs, drawings, and
pictures in Italy, &c. With remarks (London, 1722). * The
tone throughout is chatty and yet lifeless, and the whole treatise
appears much like a catalogue. Let us take from it the pas-
Colin Campbell (died 1729) were exponents of the same taste. C. is the author of the famous
Vitruvius Britannicus (London, 1717-25), an important source for our knowledge of the archi-
tecture of the time. The title shows how familiar the name of Palladio's teacher and model
was to that generation. Campbell's Mereworth Castle in Kent (1723) and Goodwood House
(1724-31) strongly bear the imprint of Palladio (cf. Gurlitt, Geschichte des Barockstils, dot
Rococo und des Klassicismus, II. Abt., I. Toil, " Belgien, Holland, Frankreich, England "
[Stuttgart, 1888], pp. 313 ff.).

In 1776 appeared Le fabbriche, ed i disegni di Andrea Palladio^ " raccolti ed illustrati
da Ottavio Bertotti Scamozzi" — an enormous work in four folio volumes. A second edition
appeared as late as 1843-46, showing how powerful was Palladio's name even after a move-
ment in favor of Gothic had strongly asserted itself. The reaction against Palladio, violent
in proportion to the exaggerated estimate of him, found most adequate expression in
Ruskin's Stones of Venice (cf. especially his criticism of S. Giorgio Maggiore, in Brantwood
ed., Vol. II, pp. 242 f.). His most succinct characterization of Palladio occurs, however,
in Modern Painters (first American ed., Vol. IV [N. Y., 1857], p. 65) : "The architecture of
Palladio is wholly virtueless and despicable."

i Jonathan Richardson the Elder (1665-1745) was a famous painter and art-critic, the
friend of Pope, Prior, Gay, and other notables. Besides his book on art, he published verses
and a work on Milton which established his reputation among men of letters. His pupil,
Thomas Hudson, was the teacher of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Both Reynolds and Hogarth are
said to have owed R. valuable inspiration. Examples of his work as a portrait-painter
are to be seen in the National Portrait Gallery in London, and chalk-drawings by him in
the print-room of the National Gallery. In 1715 he issued his Essay on the Theory of Paint-
ing, and in 1719 An Essay on the whole Art of Criticism in Relation to Painting and An .
Argument in behalf of the Science of a Connoisseur. The Theory of Painting for many years
was the standard work on the subject. In 1722 appeared the Account of some of the statues,
etc., based on material compiled by R.'s son, but edited by the father. This work was for
a long time regarded as an important authority, and is referred to jby Lessing and Winckel-
mann. It was several times reprinted and in 1728 was translated into French. As the French
edition was " revue, corrig6e et considerablement augmentee .... par les auteurs," it is
more important than the original, and I shall quote from it only.

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GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 7

sages most important for our purposes. In Milan Richardson
admires Lionardo's "Last Supper" in frosty fashion. In Bologna
he gives expression to his admiration for all the Bolognese masters,
including Guercino. In Florence the bronze doors by Ghiberti
seem to him worthy of note, although "il y a un peu du gout
gothique dans les draperies." The door by Andrea Pisano is
"dans le gout gothique de son temps." In the Uffizi the works of
the early masters make no impression on him. Of "L' Adoration
des Mages," by Botticelli, he simply says: "Les anges, et plusieurs
autres choses, en sont rehauss^s d'or." Of Ghirlandajo's "La
Circoncision" we read, however: "Les airs et les attitudes en
sont nobles et naives" (a strong bit of praise for a critic of that
time). Yet all these pictures, for Richardson, serve only as a
foil for the works of Raphael. The "Concerto," by Giorgione,
Richardson describes in the following fashion : "Martin Luther ( ! )
qui touche un clavessin, sa femme est & son cot6 et Bucer (sic)
derriere lui." He tells us nothing of the Giottos in Sta. Croce, nor
does he mention Sta. Maria Novella nor S. Marco. He has much
admiration, however, for Andrea del Sarto and even for Michel
Angelo as a sculptor. On the description of Rome he bestows
500 pages, while 80 sufficed to exhaust a discussion of Florence.
He devotes much space to a description of the remnants of
antiquity in Rome, has great praise for Raphael and unbounded
admiration for the Carracci frescoes in the Palazzo Farnese. The
most striking artist, however, is Correggio. The paintings on
the side-walls of the Sistine Chapel receive no comment from
him, except that they are "fort gate*es." (All travelers of the
eighteenth century, including Goethe, share this indifference
toward those masterpieces.) Nor do the frescoes of the ceiling,
nor the "Last Judgment," satisfy him. Michel Angelo might
have been something altogether remarkable, we are told, but he
was gloomy and too much like his favorite poet Dante. He was
"ung^nie extravagant; .... il lui manquait une solidit6 d'esprit,
aussi-bien qu'une certaine politesse de jugement." Remarkably
enough, Richardson appreciates Pinturicchio (both the frescoes
in the Maria del Popolo and in Rome in the "library" of the Dome
of Siena) . Titian meets with his approval, as, of course, does

213

8 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Giulio Romano (especially for his frescoes in the Palazzo del T
in Mantua).1

Richardson's book was eclipsed about the middle of the century
by another, far more readable and brilliant, written by one of the
most influential art-critics of the last two centuries, Charles
Cochin. His Voyage tfltalie appeared in 1758, and very soon
took rank among the most important works on art of the time.
It was often reprinted, in 1776 was translated into German, and
altogether was the most powerful barrier, in France at least, to
the spread of interest in early Christian art.2

Let us select from it a few of the most significant passages.

In Ravenna the mosaics of S. Vitale appear to Cochin merely
"fort mauvaises." The early Florentine school he dismisses with
a few words, and the early Sienese masters escape his notice alto-
gether. He vouchsafes no discussion of Giotto and Orcagna, and

1 Richardson's intolerable pedantry appears best, perhaps, in the Theory of Painting.
Here he claims (in the subdivision entitled "Of Invention") that nothing absurd, indecent,
or mean ; nothing contrary to religion or morality, must be put into a picture, or even
hinted at. He further gives it as his opinion that, before a painter starts his picture, he
should write out the story of it ( 1). In the Essay on the Art of Criticism (in the subdivi-
sion entitled "Of the Goodness of a Picture") he supplements this utterance by another of
the same character ; for here he assures us that, if the story of a picture fill the mind with
noble and instructive ideas, he would not hesitate to pronounce it excellent, even if the
drawing be as faulty as that of Correggio, Titian, or Rubens. All this from one of the
leading art-critics of the time !

2 Charles Nicolas Cochin, descended from a family of well-known engravers, was born
in Paris in 1715 and died there in 1790. He followed his father's profession, and soon rose to
great eminence. In 1749 Madame de Pompadour chose several men, among them Cochin, to
go to Italy with her brother, the Marquis de Vandiere.s, who was later made directeur gene-
ral dea batiments. This was the beginning of a brilliant career for Cochin. In 1751 he was
made a member of the Academy, in 1752 was appointed garde des desseins du Roi, in 1755
historiographe et secretaire of the Academy, in 1757 he was ennobled, and soon after was
created chevalier de VOrdre de St. Michel. It now became Cochin's ambition to make
himself a power in art-criticism. For this reason he published his Voyage d'ltalie; ou,
Recueil de notes sur les ouvrages de peinture et de sculpture qu'on voit dans les principales
villes d'ltalie (Paris, 1758), based on notes collected during his trip in the South. The book
instantly gave him much prestige. Diderot said of it soon after its appearance: "line
faut pas aller en Italie sans avoir mis ce voyage dans son porte-manteau ". Other works of
a critical character helped to strengthen his position, so that at last he became the mon-
arch of French taste. In all his writings he pleaded for the grand gout as opposed to
Rococo. As an etcher, however, he stands as the most adequate interpreter of all the
graces and prettinesses, of the elegance and frivolity, characteristic of the court of
Louis XV. From 1741 on, his plates— and their name is legion— came to be regarded as
invaluable. Even D iderot granted him the very first place among French etchers. In course
of time the grand gout which he himself had helped to establish, crowded out Rococo, and
Cochin — the brilliant exponent of it with the stencil — lost his distinguished position among
artists. His influence in criticism, however, was felt in France until almost the middle of
the nineteenth century (cf. S. Rocheblave, Les Cochin [Paris, no date], and Edmond et
Jules de Goncourt, IS art du XVIIIme siecle, deuxieme serie [Paris, 1882] ; pp. 327 ff.).

214

GROWTH OP INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 9

deems it beneath his dignity to comment on Fra Angelico, the
Lippis, Botticelli, Ghirlandajo, etc. The frescoes in the Campo
Santo in Pisa, he tells us, are specimens of the old school, and
"par consequent mauvaises." The older Venetian masters are
hardly more to his liking. Carpaccio, he thinks, has merit, but
is dry. Of the Bellini in S. Zaccaria in Venice — that favorite
of Ruskin — he merely says "assez beau, d'une maniere tres-
douce et tres-fondue; on y trouve beaucoup de ve"rite"s, mais
froides." Even Giorgione is an object of but mediocre interest
to him.

The masters of the High Renaissance appear to Cochin vastly
more important. Andrea del Sarto, especially the Madonna del
Sacco, greatly attracts him. Much greater than Andrea is, of
course, Raphael. As the Voyage does not deal with Rome — on
the plea that a special work would be needed to do justice to that
metropolis of art — Cochin has comparatively little opportunity to
discuss him. In Bologna, however, the Sta. Cecilia, and in Florence
the Madonna della Sedia, delight him. More important than his
utterances on Raphael are his remarks on the later Venetians, as
no one had so greatly appreciated their artistic importance before.
Paolo is the greatest painter for "la composition raisonne"e d'un
tableau (a significant phrase)." Cochin has unstinted praise for
Titian, and Tintoretto fascinates him in spite of faults.1 Of
Correggio we read: "La nature seule Fa guide, et sa belle imagi-
nation a scu y de"couvrir ce qu'elle a de plus se"ducteur." Even
Pietro da Cortona attracts him. His favorites, however, are the
Bolognese. Through them, he claims, "la peinture est arrive"e au
plus haut degres de perfection." Cochin's view of architecture
implies as much contempt of the Middle Ages as does his view of
painting. Of the dome of Pisa he records "une grande Eglise
assez belle, l'exte"rieur en est gothique, tout bati de marbre, et
orne", sans gout, de colonnes de toutes sortes de marbres;" while
the dome of Milan is to him "le comble de la folie du travail des
Architectes Gothiques."

Cochin's powerful influence was in Germany supplemented,

1 Rocheblave has shown (op. cit., pp. 104 ff.) that throughout the pages of the Voyage
is scattered a doctrine of art recommending the imitation of the Venetians at the expense
of the " Roman school."

215

10 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

and soon supplanted, by that of Raphael Mengs.1 His essays on
art must be regarded, together with the works of Cochin, as the
most adequate expression of the art-tenets of the eighteenth cen-
tury. He voices the same principles as Cochin — with this modi-
fication, that here and there a broader attitude toward the art of
the early Renaissance is faintly foreshadowed. So he says of Giotto :
"Seine Umrisse sind trocken, die Falten seiner Gewander zu abge-
brochen, allein seine Farben ungemein lebhaft." Of Masaccio he
grants: "Sein Geschmack nahert sich Raphael mehr als der
tibrigen Maler jener Periode. Seine Draperien sind grosser und
nicht so abgebrochen, wie bei Giotto." Masaccio, furthermore,
had more expression than his predecessors and contemporaries.
Other early masters fare less well with Mengs. Verocchio was the
teacher of Lionardo, but, Mengs adds, "malte in einem sehr tro-
ckenen Geschmack." Lionardo had good points, but his works are
sometimes "etwas platt." "Seine Charaktere [sind] nicht immer
edel und die Falten der Gewander etwas abgebrochen." Mengs
has only partial admiration for Andrea, while he notes of Michel
Angelo: "Sein Colorit ist grau, sein Helldunkel zu gleichfcVrmig."
His men are excellent, but his women lack grace. Later artists
are far greater favorites with Mengs. Correggio, in contrast with
the "trockene Geschmack" of his teacher Mantegna, was con-
spicuous for charming, though often incorrect, drawing and for
"Rundung." In his own way, Correggio was one of the greatest
painters. He carried to consummation "was Lionardo da Vinci
nur andeutete. " In his oil-paintings he is to be compared only to
the "gottliche Raphael." The Venetians, however, find less abso-
lute favor with Mengs than they did with Cochin. Giorgione
"zeichnete in erhabenem Geschmack, aber nicht sehr correct,

i Mengs was born near Dresden in 1728, spent a large part of his life in Rome, and died
there in 1779. He was for many years regarded as the most distinguished painter in Europe,
and was often compared with Raphael. He was a friend of Winckelmann, and together
with him for a time established in Rome, and from there in all Europe, the superiority of
German influence. On Mengs cf. the article in the Allgemeine Deutsche Biographic; O. Har-
nack, Deutsches Kunstleben in Rom im Zeitalter der Klassik (Weimar, 1896), pp. 7 ff., 21 ff.,
et passim; Otto Harnack, Essays und Studien zur Literaturgeschichte (Braunschweig, 1899),
pp. 192 if. His works were first edited by G. N. d'Azara (2 vols. ; Parma, 1780) ; another
edition, with additions (Bassano, 1783) ; a new edition by C. Fea, corrected and enlarged,
appeared in Rome in 1787. The first German translation, by C. F. Prange, appeared in Halle
in 1786. I used A. R. Mengs's Sammtliche Schriften .... neu ubersetzt .... und herausge-
geben von Schilling, 2 vols. (Bonn, 1843-44).

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GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 11

beinahe in der Manier Michael Angelo's." Titian is remarkable
for his boldness of stroke. In his last period, however, his manner
became "grob." Yet Mengs admits "die Wirkung seiner Gemalde
ist wahr." He admires the color in Titian's best works, but modi-
fies this bit of praise by adding that the drawing is generally
incorrect. Mengs finds much to admire in Paolo Veronese, but
adds: "seine nackten Piguren sind sehr steif und die Gesichtsztige
der Kopfe abgeschmackt. " Critical as Mengs is, he finds it diffi-
cult to bestow unstinted praise even on the Bolognese, great
though his admiration is for them. Of Ludovico Carracci we
read: "Sein Geschmack in der Composition ist gross, schftn und
edel, seine Zeichnung ausserordentlich anmuthig. Er hatte den
herrlichen Geschmack, welchen wir an Correggio bewundern."
His color, however, is less admirable, and his draperies are a bit
monotonous. Augustino Carracci "besass ein ungemeines Talent,
componierte sehr, und zeichnete ausserst correct," but his color is
a bit too dark. Annibale Carracci's drawing is "grossartig und
ziemlich correct, nur etwas zu rund." Of Guercino he tells us:
"Sein Geschmack in der Composition ist frei und gut, seine Zeich-
nung grossartig, allein nicht sehr correct." His color and his
draperies are only partially satisfactory.

It is apparent, then, that throughout the century, in all parts
of Europe, art-criticism, in spite of slight deviations in detail,
agreed in regarding Raphael and the Bolognese as having reached
the supreme height of artistic achievement. Other masters of the
High Renaissance were ranked but little below them, while the
representatives of the earlier periods were deemed unworthy of
regard.

In order to understand how this fabric of art-criticism, appar-
ently so strong and brilliant, could crumble, and in the nineteenth
century be replaced by radically different views, we shall have to
recall several of the great revolutionary tendencies of the eight-
eenth century.

The whole so-called romantic movement flows, as has often
been pointed out, from a mighty reawakening of emotional life.
Even in the French literature of the seventeenth century emotion
here and there timidly comes to expression; as, for instance, in

217

12 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

the letters of Madame de Se"vign6 and in the choruses of Athalie.
At the threshhold of the eighteenth century we meet James Thomp-
son, whose works, however tame to the modern reader, were the
expression of a new impulse. Not long after the complete Seasons
appeared the first three cantos of Klopstock's Messias (1748) . Its
enthusiastic reception proved to what an extent Germany craved
emotional depth and seriousness. Somewhat later, emotional
power — sometimes even to an extent incompatible with self-con-
trol— determines most of Diderot's views of life and art, as
expressed in his Salons and elsewhere. Synchronous with Dide-
rot's most revolutionary works are those of Rousseau, in which
emotion ran riot, and which led to a complete subversion of the
old order.

Concomitant with this upheaval in literature was the desire for
a profounder and more genuine religious life than the seventeenth
century had known. The disciples of Spener as early as 1689
started that great spiritual movement within the Protestant church,
known as "Pietism," which gained such momentum upon the re-
moval of A. H. Francke to Halle in 1694. Pietism was succeeded
by the "Herrnhuter," who combined in 1727 for the purpose of
stimulating in one another brotherly love and a purer Christian
life. Some ten years later John Wesley started that powerful
movement in favor of religious fervor within the English church,
known as "Methodism." In 1762 Rousseau published his Jllmile,
in the fourth book of which appeared the " Profession de foi du
Vicaire Savoyard." Here all the pretenses of reason are rejected
as hollow, and intuition is declared infallible.

As emotional life deepened, a new interpretation of the past
forced itself upon the minds of men. A conviction arose that the
period so long despised as "Gothic" might contain elements of
deep inspiration. We need hardly concern ourselves with the
early sporadic efforts of individual enthusiasts to acquaint their
contemporaries with mediaeval records. Suffice it to call to mind
here that as early as 1734 Bodmer, the Swiss critic, published
Character Der Teutschen Gedichte, and in 1743 Von den vor-
trefflichen Umstdndenfiir die Poesie unter den Kaisern aus dem
schwdbischen Hause. A little later, between 1753 and 1759, he

213

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 13

put forth — in very uncritical garb, to be sure — Der Parcival,
parts of the Nibelungenlied, and the Minnesdnger. In 1755
Mallet gave to the world the first translation of the Edda, and
another Frenchman, Sainte Palaye, issued the first volume of a
large work Memoires sur Vancienne chevalerie (1759). In 1760
the appearance of Ossian strongly contributed to the confused
but genuine love for things mediaeval which was so rapidly widen-
ing European culture. Kurd's Letters on Chivalry and Romance,
which appeared soon after (1762), mark an important advance.
For the author aims to prove "the pre-eminence of the Gothic
manners and fictions, as adapted to the ends of poetry, above the
classic." He has the boldness to prefer the Gothic manner to the
heroic as found in Homer.1 At the same time, the first step was
taken in Germany toward a critical study of the national past.
Moser's Osnabriickische Geschichte, which appeared in 1768, may
be regarded as the first faint attempt at a historical study of the
Middle Ages.

In 1764 appeared the first important novel with mediaeval set-
ting, Walpole's Castle of Otranto, the forerunner of the works of
Mrs. Radcliffe and Sir Walter Scott. Simultaneously there was
created in Germany a form of poetry intended to reflect the spirit
of the German past. In 1766 Gerstenberg published his Gedicht
eines Skalden, which, though intensely crude, inspired works like
Klopstock's patriotic dramas, Hermannsschlacht (1769), later
followed by Hermann und die Fiirsten and Hermanns Tod.
Gleim, patriot-poet, four years after the appearance of the Her-
mannsschlacht issued poems in imitation of the minnesinger, and
in 1779 another volume in imitation of Walther von der Vogel-
weide.

At about the time when Klopstock was inflaming German
patriotism, an Englishman of culture called the attention of his
countrymen to older periods of English literature. Thomas War-
ton's History of English Poetry from the Twelfth to the Close of
the Sixteenth Century (Vol. I in 1774) marks a significant step
in the Gothic Revival.

!Cf. H. A. Beers, A History of English Romanticism in the Eighteenth, Century (New
York, 1899).

219

14 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Not one of these admirers of the Middle Ages, however,
betrayed any true conception of the character of the time. The
first to convey such insight was Herder. His Audi eine Phi-
losophie der Geschichte zur Bildung der Menschheit (1774)
reads like a prophecy of the views promulgated about a genera-
tion later by the German Romantic School. The Germanic
individuality and the tenets of Christianity, Herder claims,
together created a new epoch in the history of mankind, the
Middle Ages. "Wir wollens Gothischen Geist, Nordisches Rit-
terthum im weitesten Verstande nennen — grosses Phanomenon
so vieler Jahrhunderte, Lander und Situationen." With all their
faults, those times had the advantage over us moderns in point
of health and of simplicity. In conscious opposition to Vol-
taire's Essai sur les moeurs et I' esprit des nations, he con-
tinues: "Wie es auch sei, gebt uns in manchem Betracht eure
Andacht und Aberglauben, Finsterniss und Unwissenheit, Unord-
nung und Rohigkeit der Sitten, und nehmt unser Licht und
Unglaube, unsere entnervte Kalte und Feinheit." Later, in
his great historical work, Ideen zur Philosophic der Geschichte
der Menschheit (1784 ff.) — the first attempt on a large scale at
culture-history in the modern sense — Herder again does justice
to the importance of the Middle Ages, though in less rhetorical a
fashion, thus paving the way for a scientific appreciation of a
despised period.

Nor was the Romantic School slow to take up the hints thrown
off by Herder, and medievalism became a watchword of German
literature. The propaganda made by the Schlegels and Tieck for
the mediaeval, the historical works of Johannes Muller, and
especially the sound contributions of the Grimms and their asso-
ciates, ultimately led to a profound and critical understanding of
medieval culture.

The emotional element contained in the interest in the Middle
Ages was mightily strengthened by the blending with it of that
constantly growing religious enthusiasm which, as we saw, had
modified the character of the Protestant church in the eighteenth
century. When medievalism had become almost a universal pas-
sion, it was natural that the religiously inclined should feel an

220

GKOWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 15

increasing reverence for the church which so admirably embodied
the very essence of mediaeval civilization.

Two documents best reflect this mood, Novalis' essay Die
Christenheit oder Europa (written 1799) and Chateaubriand's
Le genie du Christianisme (1802). Novalis' remarkable work,
written by one who never joined the Church of Rome, is not a
plea for Catholic dogma, but exhibits, rather, a passionate apprecia-
tion of the sensuous beauty of Catholicism, and a Rousseau-like
love for simple-mindedness and faith :

Es waren schOne, glSnzende Zeiten, wo Europa ein christliches Land
war, wo eine Christenheit diesen menschlich gestalteten Welttheil

bewohnte Mit welcher Heiterkeit verliess man die sch5nen Ver-

sammlungen in den geheimnissvollen Kirchen, die mit ermunternden
Bildern geschmtickt, mit stissen Dtiften erftillt und von heiliger,

erhebender Musik belebt waren Mit Recht widersetzte sich das

weise Oberhaupt der Kirche f rechen Ausbildungen menschlicher Anlagen
auf Kosten des heiligen Sinns und unzeitigen, gef ahrlichen Entdeckung-
en im Gebiete des Wissens.

Similar in sentiment, but more scintillating in expression, is
the panegyric on Catholic Christianity by that most brilliant rep-
resentative of early French Romanticism, Chateaubriand. The
Genie du Christianisme aims to obliterate the influence of Vol-
taire, and to return to the interpretation of history as represented
by Bossuet's Discours sur I'histoire universelle. The claim is
here advanced that "de quelque cote" qu'on envisage le culte e*van-
gelique, on voit qu'il agrandit la pense"e, et qu'il est propre &
1' expansion des sentiments." Side by side with this fervid Catho-
lic fought for a time the versatile August Wilhelm Schlegel. In
his Vorlesungen Uber schone Litteratur und Kunst delivered in
Berlin 1801-4, in the lecture entitled "Malerei," he arraigns the
critical spirit of the Reformation and complains of the modern
lack of religious feeling and the sense for mysticism. The spirit of
chivalry he calls "eine mehr als glanzende, wahrhaft entzuckende,
und bisher in der Geschichte beyspiellose Erscheinung," and adds
"nicht bloss ansserliche Ehrerbietung vor der Religion, sondern
eine ungeschminkte innige FrOmmigkeit, gehtirte zu den Tugenden
der Ritter."

It was natural that in an atmosphere charged to such an extent

221

16 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

with love of the picturesque, the mystic, and everything mediaeval,
the architectural forms of the Middle Ages, especially the Gothic,
should exert a constantly growing fascination. In England the
Gothic traditions had never been altogether lost. Even Sir
Christopher Wren, of whom we heard above as the representative
of Palladianism, crudely imitated Gothic forms in the towers of
Westminster Abbey and in two churches in London, St. Mary
Aldermary and St. Dunstan's-in-the-East.1 In 1741 Batty Lang-
ley published Part I of his Ancient Architecture, restored and
improved by a great variety of Grand and Useful Designs, the
whole work being entitled Gothic Architecture, with a dissertation
"On the Ancient Buildings in this Kingdom." Its aim was to
remodel Gothic architecture by the invention of five orders for
that style, suggested by the styles of classical antiquity. However
absurd this attempt may appear, it was a significant step in an
important direction.

Stimulated, perhaps, by this new interest on the part of a pro-
fessional architect, Sir Horace Walpole, the son of Robert Wai-
pole and the friend of the poet Gray, about 1750 began to turn
his villa at Strawberry Hill on the Thames into a miniature Gothic
castle. He worked at this until 1770. Dilettante as the under-
taking must seem today, it added a strong impulse to the reintro-
duction of Gothic architecture. In the meantime another was
laboring more seriously in the same field. James Essex (1722-84)
is perhaps the first architect whose work shows a correct appre-
ciation of old English styles. He was engaged on a large book on
the history of ecclesiastical architecture at the time of his death.
James Wyatt (1746-1813) may be considered the real author
of the revival of interest in Gothic forms in England. His rebuild-
ing of the nave of Hereford Cathedral in 1786, and the erection
of Fonthill Abbey in 1795, are among his most important works.
About a generation after Wyatt's death (1821), Augustus Charles
Pugin (1762-1832) began to publish his Specimens of Gothic
Architecture. In this and in other works, such as drawings made
on a trip to Normandy (1825), by a careful study of Norman
architecture he swept aside the dilettantism in matters of Gothic

* Cf. Charles Eastlake, A History of the Gothic Revival (London, 1872), pp. 33 ff.

222

GROWTH OP INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 17

introduced by Walpole and his sympathizers. His great son,
Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin (1812-52), then established
the mediaeval throughout England.1

When Pugin was building his famous structures — i. e., during
the first decades of the nineteenth century — Germany also was
experiencing a mighty revival of the Gothic. Here the interest
in medieval architecture, though powerful at the start, was for a
time modified by the influence of Winckelmann, then burst into
renewed ardor, though imitation of the Greek never quite dis-
appeared. That the temper of the rising generation of Germany
at the time Essex and Wyatt were at the height of their activity
in England, was largely in the spirit of the Gothic forms, is best
attested by Goethe's youthful panegyric on the Strassburg cathe-
dral, entitled Von deutscher Baukunst (1772) :

Mit welcher unerwarteten Empfindung uberraschte mich der Anblick
als ich davor trat! Ein ganzer, grosser Eindruck fullte meine Seele,
den, weil er aus tausend harmonirenden Einzelheiten bestand, ich wohl
schmecken und geniessen, keineswegs aber erkennen und erklaren konnte.
Sie sagen, dass es also mit den Freuden des Himmels sei. Wie oft bin
ich zuriickgekehrt, diese himmlisch-irdische Freude zu geniessen, den
Riesengeist unserer altern Briider in ihren Werken zu umfassen! Wie
oft bin ich zuriickgekehrt, von alien Seiten, aus alien Entfernungen, in
jedem Lichte des Tags, zu schauen seine Wurde und Herrlichkeit ! 2

The author of Goiz von Berlichingen, then, sees in this structure a
monument of the national spirit of the glorious past. The enthu-
siasm voiced by this essay was bound again and again to assert
itself in spite of the authority of Winckelmann, so prevalent in the
last two decades of the eighteenth century. At the very time of
Goethe's strong reaction in favor of Greek ideals,3 Wilhelm Heinse,

1 For further references on Langley, Wyatt, Essex, and the Pugins see the respective
articles in Dictionary of National Biography.

2 Hempel ed., Vol. XXVIII, p. 343. In 1775 he supplemented this essay by another entitled
Dritte Wallfahrt nach Erwins Grabe, which is nothing more than a few pages of continued
enthusiasm on Erwin, the builder of the Strassburg cathedral. (Hempel, loc. cit., pp. 354 ff.)

Not even this early enthusiasm, however, implies on Goethe's part true understanding
of the inherent nature of the Gothic. The young " Sturmer und Dranger," the author of the
Prometheus and the Faust, admires the powerful personality which had conceived this
mighty structure, rather than the edifice itself. At no time of his life, then, did he show an
appreciation of the Gothic as a satisfactory art-form. (Cf. Goethe's Werke, ed. Heinemann
[Leipzig and Wien, no date], Vol. XXII, Introduction by Harnack, p. 8.)

3 How far the reaction against the Gothic could go is shown by Goethe's Bemerkungen
zu Meyers Aufsatz u Ueber Lehranstalten der bildenden Kunste " (cf . Weimar ed., Vol. XLVII,
p. 333) : " Wer fuhlte wobl je in einem barbarischen Gebaude, in den dustern Gangen einer
gothischen Kirche, eines Sfchlosses jener Zeit, sein Gemttth zu einer freien thatigen Heiterkeit
gestimmt 1 "

223

18 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

the author of the much-maligned Ardinghello, though himself an
ardent adherent of the principles of Winckelmann, cannot suppress
his genuine delight when viewing the same edifice that had in-
spired Goethe (1780):

Oben vor Sarburg erblickt man auf einmal noch zehn Stunden da-
von den Strassburger Thurm, der wie eine ungeheure Fichte, wunderbar
noch von dem Riesengeschlecht der ersten Welt, in dem kleinen, neuern
Wald, der davorliegt, entztickend frisch, und gesund und schlank zum

Himmel emporsteigt Der Mtinster hat die lebendigste Form, die

ich noch irgend je an einem Gebaude gesehen.1

Nor was Heinse's admiration roused solely for the mediaeval struc-
tures of his own country. Three years later, on his return from
Rome, at the time when his love for antiquity had reached its
zenith, he speaks with appreciation of S. Zeno in Verona, that
fascinating Romanesque church which the eighteenth century
(including Goethe) despised;2 moreover, he calls the dome of
Milan "das herrlichste Sinnbild der christlichen Religion."3

Even before Heinse, however, the painter J. H. Wilhelm
Tischbein had exhibited great originality of taste in praising the
dome of Milan, the building which Cochin regarded as the apex
of Gothic folly:

Das ist ein heiliger Wald, von der Kunst aufgestellt, von Gottes
Geiste bewohnt, .... Von magischer Wirkung in dieser grossen Kirche
ist die Dammerang, welche durch die hohen, gemalten Fenster auf die
Bildhauereien fallt.4

i On Wilhelm Heinse, whom we now regard as the most important art-critic between
Diderot and Friedrich Schlegel, cf. K. D. Jessen, Heinses Stellung zur bildenden Kunst und
ihrer Aesthetik (Berlin, 1901) ; for the passage referring to the Strassburg Cathedral, Jessen,
pp. 48 f. Cf. also Sulger-Gebing, Wilhelm Heinse (Munchen, 1903).

2Cf. Jessen, loc. cit., p. 138.

3 Ibid., p. 108. In the first volume of his Ardinghcllo, that panegyric on the art of the
High Renaissance, he again takes occasion to speak with praise of large Gothic churches.
(Cf. Jessen, loc. cit., p. 108.)

*Cf. A us meinem Leben, von J. H. Wilhelm Tischbein, hrsg. von Carl G. W. Schiller
(Braunschweig, 1861), Vol. II, pp. 3 ff. The originality of Tischbein and Heinse is thrown
into proper relief by Goethe's bitter onslaught on the architecture of this building. In the
Teutsche Merkur for October, 1788, pp. 38 ff., appeared his essay entitled " Zur Theorie der
bildenden Kunste— Baukunst" (cf . Hempel, Vol. XXIV, pp. 515 ff .) , in which he says : " Leider
suchten alle nordischen Kirchenverzierer ihre GrOsse nur in der multiplizirten Kleinheit.
Wenige verstanden diesen kleinlichen Formen unter sich ein Verhaltniss zu geben, und
dadurch wurden solche Ungeheuer wie der Dom zu Mailand, wo man einen ganzen Marmor-
berg mit ungeheuren Kosten versetzt und in die elendesten Formen gezwungen hat, ja noch
tftglich die armen Steine qu&lt, um ein Work fortzusetzen, das nie geendigt werden kanu,
indem der erfindungslose Unsinn, der es eingab, auch die Gewalt hatte, einen gleichsam

224

GBOWTH OF INTEREST IN EABLY ITALIAN MASTEBS 19

Others were soon to take up this note. Georg Forster, scholar
and traveler, in 1790 visited Cologne and spoke of the dome —
although at that time it was in a fragmentary and unsatisfactory
condition — as a glorious temple. He experiences there "die
Schauer des Erhabenen." He adds: "Die Pracht des himmelan
sich wolbenden Chors hat eine majestatische Einfalt, die alle
Vorstellung ubertrifft." A Greek temple is the very symbol of
harmony and refinement, but in a building like the great dome
"schwelgt der Sinn im Uebermuth des ktinstlerischen Beginnens."
Gothic churches, when compared with Greek structures, seem like
" Erscheinungen aus einer anderen Welt, wie Feenpalaste." He
deeply regrets the unfinished and dilapidated state of the dome:
"Wenn schon der Entwurf, in Gedanken erganzt, so machtig
erschtittern kann, wie hatte nicht die Wirklichkeit uns hinge-
rissen!"1

But the ones through whose works this enthusiasm was to
reach its culmination were the brilliant brothers, Friedrich and
August Wilhelm Schlegel. Their essays and lectures, soon so
widely disseminated throughout Germany, created a passion for
the architectural masterpieces of the Middle Ages which affected
high and low, and at last and forever established Romanesque and
Gothic forms as equal in every respect, if indeed not superior,
to the Greek. Friedrich, in his "Grundzuge der deutschen
Baukunst, auf einer Reise durch die Niederlande, Rheingegenden,
die Schweiz und einen Theil von Frankreich. In dem Jahre 1804
bis 1805,"2 says:

Ich habe eine grosse Vorliebe fiir die gothische Baukunst; wo ich
irgend ein Denkmahl, irgend ein Ueberbleibsel derselben fand, habe ich

unendlichen Plan zu bozeichnen." As late as 1830, long after he had been in contact with
the views of the Boisser6es, he called this structure "eine Marmorhechel," and significantly
adds: " Ich lasse nichts von der Art mehr gelten als den Chor zu Kdln; selbst den M (luster
nicht." (Cf. G.-J., Vol. Ill, p. 10.) Moreover, the Guide des etrangers dans Milan (Milan,
1786), a book intended to glorify the beauties of the city, says of the dome: "I/Eglise Me-
tropolitaine, quoiqu'elle ne soit certainement pas un monument du gout, ne merite pas moms
d'etre observee par un voyageur curieux." Also Val6ry, in his Voyages historiques et litte-
raires en Italic (Brussels, 1835), a favorite guidebook of the time, says of the same church:
"Le D6me, avec ses cent aiguilles et les trois mille statues que Ton y voit perchees, n'est
qu'un enorme colifichet, plus hardi, plus extraordinaire que beau" (p. 35).

!Cf. "Ansichten vom Niederrhein, von Brabant, Flandern, Holland, England und
Frankreich," Sammtliche Schriften (Leipzig, 1843), Vol. Ill, pp. 26 ff.

2 Werke (Wien, 1846), Vol. VI, pp. 179 ff.

225

20 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

es mit wiederhohltem Nachdenken betrachtet; denn es scheint mir als
hatte man ihren tiefen Sinn und die eigentliche Bedeutung derselben
noch gar nicht verstanden.

Greek architecture, he continues, has its advantages, but "die
altdeutsche Baukunst [meaning the Gothic] verdient es wenigstens
gewiss, dass man ihre noch unerforschte Tiefen zu ergrunden
strebe." Hence he speaks with deep veneration of Notre Dame,
of the city hall of Lou vain, and of the dome of Cologne.1

August Wilhelm Schlegel, in his "Vorlesungen tiber drama-
tische Kunst und Litteratur"2 (delivered in 1808 at Vienna) also
touches upon the subject of Gothic architecture.3 The Renais-
sance, he tells us, brought with it contempt for Gothic architec-
ture. The Italians might be pardoned for such a view; "wir
Nordlander aber wollen uns die machtigen ernsten Eindrticke
beim Eintritt in einen gothischen Dom nicht so leicht wegschwa-
tzen lassen." He adds very wisely: "Das Pantheon ist nicht ver-
schiedener von der Westminster- Abtei oder der Set. Stephan-
kirche in Wien, als der Bau einer TragSdie von Sophokles von
dem eines Schauspiels von Shakspeare." Each is admirable in
its way.

Stimulated by such utterances, Germany soon turned her atten-
tion to her mediaeval remains as she never had done before. Sul-
pitz and Melchior Boissere"e, partly through the encouragement of
Friedrich Schlegel, devoted their energy to the interpretation of
the older German art and architecture, and in 1810 even won
over Goethe.4 As a result of Sulpitz's labors, the most majestic
Gothic structure in Germany, the dome of Cologne, was completed
in the spirit of its original architect.

In France, too, after gropings in the eighteenth century, love
for the mediaeval was ultimately established. Viollet-le-Duc
(1814-79) labored for forty years with his pen and in his capa-
city as inspecteur g£n£ral to save mediaeval buildings from ruin

1 In his Geschichte der alten und neuen Litteratur (printed in 1815) he compares the
mediaeval epics with the great monuments of Gothic architecture.

2 First printed in 1809-11. Werke (Leipzig, 1846), Vol. V, pp. 11 ff.

3 As early as 1805 A. W. Schlegel wrote his sonnet " Der Dom zu Mailand,'1 in which he
expresses profound admiration for this building.

* On the brothers Boisser6e, see article in A. D. B. and Sulpitz Boisser6e (Stuttgart, 1862),
. Vols.

226

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 21

and neglect. At the same time, representatives of belles-lettres,
too, were seized with love for mediaeval architecture. So Prosper
Me'rime'e wrote articles calculated to stimulate love for the
antiquities of France, like his Essai sur I' architecture religieuse
du moyen age, particulierement en France (1837), and his
treatise entitled L'^glise de St. Savin (1845).

It is clear that the views of Kichardson, Cochin, and Mengs
could not long continue to nourish at a time when all things medi-
aeval were daily growing in intensity of fascination, and when
emotional life was marvelously increasing in inwardness. While
Cochin looked, in art, for technical mastery, intellectuality, and
an adequate expression of refined worldliness, by the end of the
eighteenth century an instinct had strongly asserted itself to turn
to art for the manifestation of that mysticism, of that genuine-
ness of feeling, of that spiritual depth, which had filled the author
of Parzival, Dante,1 and the builders of N6tre Dame and the
cathedral of Cologne. Hence Giotto, Fra Angelico, and even
later masters like Perugino2 were studied and revered as represent-
atives of a lingering mediaeval sentiment, not at all, as we should
feel today, as bold and gifted innovators, as the exponents of an
age constantly increasing in grasp of the phenomena of the vis-
ible world.3

The first feeble indications of such a change are found as far
back as the middle of the eighteenth century. Even before
Cochin and Mengs so forcibly formulated the grand gout, men

1 The growth of interest in Dante, as is well known, was concomitant with the general
growth of interest in medisevalism. Cf. Sulger-Gebing, " Dante in der deutschen Littera-
tur des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts," Zeitschrift fiir vergleichende Litteraturgeschichte,
Vol. IX (1896), pp. 457 if., and ibid., Vol.X (1896), pp. 31 ff ; also Hermann Oelsner, Dante in
Frankreich bis zum Endedes I8ten Jahr hunderts (Berlin, 1898), chap. 3; also Kuhns, Dante
and the English Poets (New York, 1904), chaps. 5-7.

2 Not the attitude toward the old Italian masters merely, but that toward the old Ger-
man painters as well, especially toward Durer, was affected by the new point of view.
This does not, however, concern us here. (For further information cf. Helene Stocker, Zur
Kunstanschauung des ISten Jahrhunderts [Berlin, 1904], pp. 100 ff.) It may be noted here
that Herder and his group were enthusiastic for Durer, and that later F. Schlegel and the
Boisser6es made a profounder understanding general.

3 Because of this peculiar and characteristic view of the early Renaissance masters on
the part of art-criticism of the first decades of the nineteenth century, it was necessary to
sketch, cursorily at least, as was done above, the growth of mediwvalism in the eighteenth
century. We are still in need of a systematic and exhaustive study on that subject, under-
taken from the comparative point of view.

227

22 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

appeared here and there in different countries who professed — or
confessed, if you please — respect or even love for early Italian
art. At the very time of Walpole's Gothic experiment, Gori, the
great Florentine antiquarian, spoke with admiration of paintings
on a background of gold, and Zanotti, the well-known Bolognese
mathematician and connoisseur, condemned the mannerism of
modern art and pointed to the simplicity of the older styles.1 These
feeble symptoms were soon followed by an admirable proof of true
appreciation. An English artist, Thomas Patch, made careful
drawings of the Masaccio frescoes in Sta. Maria del Carmine in
Florence. These he etched and published in twenty-six plates, with
the title The Life of the Celebrated Painter Masaccio ( 1770) .2 In
1772 he put out a series of etchings from the paintings of Giotto
in the same church.3

Wilhelm Heinse, whom we met above as one of the apprecia-
tors of mediaeval architecture, again appears among those who, in
spite of dependence on Cochin and Mengs, here and there betray
a genuine feeling for the art of the early Renaissance. During
his visit to Italy (1780—83) he shows a total inability to under-
stand Florentine painting. In his "Augenblickliche Anmerkun-
gen auf meiner sehr schnellen Reise von Rom aus, ferner von
Florenz nach Deutschland," he says (July 28, 1783): "Ihren [i.e.,
the Florentine] Mahlern fehlt es durchaus an schoner Gestalt und
Form, und uberhaupt an Verstand ein Ganzes schon und gross
hervorzubilden," etc., etc.4 This is quite in accordance with the
teaching of Winckelmann. Nevertheless Heinse is the first traveler
in Italy who speaks with admiration of the now famous Bellini in
S. Zaccaria in Venice:

Der Bellino von S. Zaccaria ist ein sehr interessantes Stuck fiir die
Geschichte. Die Venezianische Schule hat einen sehr braven Vorsteher
gehabt. In den Figuren ist eine ahnliche Art Stil, wie bey Peter von
Perugia, nur noch mehr Wahrheit und etwas Grosseres. Welch' ein

1 Cf. Rumohr, Drey Reisen nach Italien (Leipzig, 1832), pp. 25 ff. Unfortunately, I lack
the material to verify these statements made by Rumohr.

2 Cf. Diet. Nat. Biog., sub Patch ; and John Doran, "Mann" and Manners at the Court of
Florence 1740-86 (London. 1776), Vol. II, p. 220.

3 Modern criticism attributes these works to the school of Giotto rather than to the
master himself.

* Taken from the MS diary of Heinse as yet unpublished, to part of which I had access
through the kindness of Archivrat Schftddekopf, of Weimar.

228

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 23

Kopf 1st hier der Alte linker Hand! er wtirde Tizianen selbst Ehre
machen, so kraf tig ist er gemahlt und so warm und f eurig.1

To what an extent the interest in early art began to permeate
even those circles most deeply affected by Winckelmann and
Mengs appears in Goethe, who certainly, at the time of his Italian
journey, was the representative par excellence of the classical
spirit. To be sure, he, like Winckelmann, believed at all times in
an ideal of beauty independent of time or nationality, and best
represented by the Greeks. Among modern painters, Raphael
most nearly attained such perfection. To Goethe, the early ad-
vocate of evolution, Raphael's predecessors, also, became inter-
esting:

Um ihn [Raphael] zu erkennen, ihn recht zu schatzen, und ihn auch
wieder nicht als einen Gott zu preisen, der wie Melchisedech ohne Vater
und Mutter erschiene muss man seine Vorganger, seinen Meister an-
sehn. Diese haben auf dem festen Boden der Wahrheit Grund gefasst
sie haben die breiten Fundamente, emsig, ja angstl. gelegt, sie haben
mit einander wetteifernd die Pyramide stufenweisse in die Hdhe gebracht,
bis zu letzt er, von alien diesen Vortheilen unterstiitzt, von einem himm-
lischen Genius erleuchtet die Spitze der Pyramide, den letzten Stein
aufsetzte, liber dem kein andrer, neben dem kein andrer stehn kann.2

Among these earlier masters three especially arouse his ad-
miration: Mantegna, and in lesser degree Francia and Perugino.
Of Mantegna he says:

In der Kirche der Eremitaner habe ich Gemalde von Mantegna eines
der alteren Mahler gesehen vor denen ich erstaunt bin ! Was in den Bil-
dern fur eine scharfe sichre Gegenwart ist Iftsst sich nicht ausdrucken.
Von dieser ganzen, wahren (nicht scheinbaren, Effecktltigenden, zur
Imagination sprechenden), derben reinen, lichten, ausfuhrlichen gewis-
senhaften, zarten, umschriebenen Gegenwart, die zugleich etwas stren-
ges, emsiges, muhsames hatte gingen die folgenden aus wie ich gestern
Bilder von Titian sah und konnten durch die Lebhafftigkeit ihres Geistes,
die Energie ihrer Natur, erleuchtet von dem Geiste der Alten immer
hOher und hOher steigen sich von der Erde heben und himmlische aber
wahre Gestalten hervorbringen. Es ist das die Geschichte der Kunst
und jedes der einzelnen grossen ersten Kunstler nach der barbarischen
Zeit.3

1 Cf. Jessen, loc. cit., pp. 134 f.

2 "Tagebttcher und Briefe Goethes aus Italian an Frau von Stein und Herder," Schri
ten der Goethe-Oesellschaft (Weimar, 1886), p. 187. Cf., too Weimar ed. of Goethe. Brie
Vol. VIII, p. 371.

3 Loc. cit., pp. 114 f.

24 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Francia he calls "gar ein respecktabler Ktinstler," and of Peru-
gino he feels tempted to say "eine ehrliche deutsche Haut."1

It is less surprising that Herder, though at the time indifferent
to painting, should in 1789, in a letter from Italy, speak of "alte
heilige Anfange der Kunst," upon viewing, in the Campo Santo
in Pisa, the frescoes by Francesco da Volterra, erroneously attrib-
uted by him to Giotto.2 Had Herder been in a happier mood in
Italy, and had he been better prepared to understand Italian art,
he might have left us more important comments on the early
painters. By temperament he seemed destined to be a pathfinder
in this field, as he proved to be in so many others.

Even scholars in criticism, naturally more dependent on con-
vention, began, toward the end of the eighteenth century, to feel
the breath of that new spirit which was revolutionizing literature
and politics. So Lanzi, in his Storia pittorica della Italia. Dal
risorgimento delle belle arti fin pressso al fine del XVIII secolo*
has words of warm praise for Giotto, appreciates Masaccio as a
great influence in the history of art, notes the beauty of the
countenances of Fra . Angelico's figures, is not indifferent to
Giovanni Bellini's merits. All these men, however, are to him
merely the forerunners of the golden age of art. How completely
he is on a level with Cochin and Mengs in the essentials of art-
criticism comes to the surface in the introduction (p. iii). Here
he polemizes against former historians who went into minute
details in describing the lives of lesser artists. It is different, he
feels, with the "primi lumi dell' arte: in un Kaffaello, in un
Caracci par che anche le picciole cose prendan grandezza dal
soggetto."*

Deeply rooted belief in the superiority of the Bolognese

lioc. cit., p. 187. On this subject see also Heusler, Goethe und die italienische Kunst
(Basel, 1891).

2 Cf. Duntzer and F. G. Herder, Herders Reise nach Italien (Giessen, 1859), p. 379.

3 Edizione terza, Bassano, 1809.

*Rumohr, in his Drey Reisen, claims that Lanzi in the introduction of the first and
second editions (1792 and 1796) recommended to young painters the imitation of the older
schools. I cannot verify this statement, as these two editions were not accessible to me.
The introduction to the third edition contains no such passage.

Lanzi served as a model to Fiorillo, whose aim it was to describe every school of
European art. His Geschichte der zeichnenden Kiinste von ihrer Wiederauflebung bis auf
die neuesten Zeiten (Gottingen, 1798-1808) offers, however, nothing of sufficient originality to
warrant a detailed treatment.

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EABLY ITALIAN MASTERS 25

determines the views of another critic who, far better than even
Lanzi, reflects the period of transition. Heinrich Meyer, "Goethe's
prime minister in the Republic of Arts," is entirely unknown in
English-speaking countries and not yet fairly appreciated even
in his own.1

Meyer based his opinions on what was for the time a very
extensive acquaintance with art, ancient and modern. His every
word proves a desire for impartiality of judgment. This sense of
justice is, however, everywhere coupled with a certain pedantry
— his is a heavy flight — and an inability completely to break
away from the school in which he was trained. Yet, in spite of
faults, he manifests decided originality, and certainly more
objectivity than most of his brilliant successors. He makes an
effort to do justice to all schools. This ideal becomes manifest

1 Meyer was a Swiss. From 1778 to 1781 he took lessons in painting from Johann Caspar
Fuessli in Zurich, the same who had published Winckelmann's letters to his friends in
Switzerland and Mengs' Thoughts on Beauty and Taste in Painting. So, during the forma-
tive years of his life, he came altogether under the spell of the Winckelmann-Mengs influ-
ence, which he never quite cast off. In 1784 he went to Italy. When Goethe met him in
Rome (1786), Meyer had already made profound studies, and so impressed Goethe that the
latter procured him a professorship in the "Freie Zeichenschule " in Weimar (1791). After
another trip to Italy (1795-97), undertaken for the express purpose of further art studies, he
collaborated with Goethe in an attempt on a large scale to acquaint the German public
with all phases of art. Although, in continuance of the teachings of Winckelmann, the art
of the ancients furnished the canon of criticism, considerable attention was given to the
various phases of modern art. They labored at this task for many years, and in its spirit
founded the Propylaen. Later their work in modern art was complemented, though in a
very different sense, by that of the Schlegels. As Goethe and Meyer were in absolute
accord, Meyer's views may be regarded as those of Goethe also, who thus, working constantly
with Meyer, obtained a knowledge of Italian art infinitely greater than would appear from
a perusal merely of the Italienische Reise. Proof of his extraordinary breadth of informa-
tion on the subject is furnished first of all by the notes taken preparatory to his projected
second trip to Italy (cf. Weimar ed. Vol. XXXIV, 2, pp. 192 ff.) ; furthermore by the appendix
to Benvenuto Cellini. He here refers to Meyer's essay on Masaccio, and gives a "summa-
rische tJbersicht" of the predecessors of Cellini, in which men like Cimabue, Giotto, and
especially Masaccio, are praised — yet regarded always as merely the forerunners of the great
masters. In the Geschichte der Farbenlehre : GeschichtedesKoloritsseit Wiederherstellung
der Kunst he exhibited an astonishing acquaintance with even minute details of Italian
painting. Not one of his contemporaries, in fact, controlled a greater amount of material
than Goethe. Yet that he never outgrew Meyer's point of view is proved even in essays
showing such mature and delicate insight as the one on Lionardi da Vinci's "Last Supper"
(written 1818). Here Lionardi's predecessors and contemporaries are characterized as
artists who worked "trefflich aber unbewusst .... Wahrheit und Naturlichkeit hat jeder
im Auge, aber eine lebendige Einheit fehlt," etc. (cf. Hempel, Vol. XXVIII, pp. 503 f.). Even
in the article on Man tegna's "Triumph of Ceesar" (written in 1823)— that masterpiece of
interpretation— the epoch which produced M. is called one in which "eine sich entwickelnde
hochste Kunst fiber ihr Wollen und VermOgen sich noch nicht deutliche Rechenschaft
ablegen konnte " (cf. Hempel, iVol. XXVIII, p. 484). In 1826 he writes to Zelter, calling
Giotto a "sinnlich-bildlich bedeutend wirkende Genius" (cf. Brief wechsel zwischen Goethe
und Zelter, Vol. IV, p. 260).

231

26 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

even in an early essay, entitled Beitrdge zur Geschichte der
neueren bildenden Kunst.1 Here Meyer gives a short survey of
the growth of Italian painting, speaks of the importance of Giotto,
then touches upon Donatello, Ghiberti, Masaccio, and Brunel-
leschi — the most interesting representatives of what to him is
merely an epoch of transition. He next adds a very short state-
ment of the main facts of the history of Venetian painting —
Giovanni Bellini is to him the first important figure; and lastly
adds a few words on the "Roman" and "Lombard" schools. To
the latter, we are informed, the Carracci and their disciples gave
immortal luster. All these statements reflect, with slight modifi-
cations, the views of Meyer's contemporaries. He closes his
essay, however, with a more detailed discussion of three artists —
insignificant or even contemptible to the public of Cochin and
Mengs: Bellini, Perugino, and Mantegna. With these, he evi-
dently feels, his readers should be better acquainted. Bellini is
no great genius,

hingegen ist er gemassigt, stille, immer nuchtern, ein unbestechlicher
Freund der Natur und der Wahrheit .... Einfalt und Innigkeit
schmticken alle seine Bilder, und darum sind auch selbst die aus den
frtihern Jahren gefallig, ungeachtet sie noch in der alten trocknen
Manier gearbeitet sind.

He subjoins a description of several of Bellini's works, among
them the one in the sacristy of the Frari church and the one in
S. Zaccaria, both in Venice. In the latter we find "grftsseren
und edleren Geschmack," in spite of occasional traces of the old
style. Bellini's art reached its climax, however, in the "Christ
at Emmaus."2 Though Perugino, Meyer continues, remained
more faithful to the old style, he deserves appreciation for re-intro-
ducing into painting some of that beauty and grace which had so
long been absent from it. Raphael himself owed much of his
greatness to Perugino. Again Meyer adds a description of several
paintings. In Mantegna's style Meyer praises "ausserste Be-
stimmtheit." His earliest works are "hart, aber in einem hohen
Grade geistreich" (a characteristic adjective for the critic of a

1 Cf . Schiller's Horen for 1795, neuntes Stuck.

2 In S. Salvatore in Venice. It is doubtful to modern criticism whether this painting is
by Bellini.

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 27

time which knew Kunstverstand, but was but little acquainted
with Kunstgefuhl). Nevertheless, Mantegna never rose com-
pletely above the " Dtirf tigkeit und enge Beschrankung" of the
older period and into untrammeled imitation of beauty. To prove
his point, Meyer adds descriptions of some of Mantegna's charac-
teristic productions.

To one familiar with modern views a few dry chapters on early
masters must seem unsatisfactory indeed. Yet Meyer's essay is
epoch-making in the history of art-criticism as probably the ear-
liest systematic attempt on the part of a critic of the academic
school to arouse interest in neglected artists. In 1800 Meyer
complemented this essay by another, entitled "Mantua im Jahre
1795," l in which he takes occasion to speak in terms of praise of
various works of Mantegna.

In the same year (1800) he had published a more pretentious
treatise, entitled "Masaccio,"2 which aimed to explain the po-
sition of Masaccio in the history of painting, and in which he
therefore sketches the work of leading men before and after the
author of the Carmine frescoes. In Giotto's pictures

ging eine neue Welt auf, sie gefallen wegen der Einfalt in der Darstel-
lung, wegen der Naivitat ihrer Motive, obschon das Vermogen nachzu-
ahmen gering, der Ausdruck schwach ist, und wissenschaftliche Kennt-
nisse ganzlich fehlen.

He adds, however:

Ein uberall durchscheinendes grosses Talent gewinnt unsere Zunei-
gung, und vergtitet dasjenige reichlich was die strenge Kritik, gegen die
Unvollkommenheit der Ausfuhrung einzuwenden haben mochte.

Other masters, like Memmi, Gaddi, Orcagna, could not, Meyer
insists, in spite of their improvements, rise " bis zum SchOnen oder
auch nur bis zum Zierlichen der Form." To make clear Masac-
cio's superiority over his predecessors, Meyer gives an appreciative
description of some of Masaccio's frescoes. As, however, the full
value of that painter can be understood only by a knowledge of
his influence on the coming generation, Meyer next turns to a dis-
cussion of Fra Filippo Lippi, Botticelli and Ghirlandajo. The
two last-named — Meyer treats them together — aimed at the rep-

* Propyl&en, Vol. Ill, zweites Stttck. 2 ibid erstes Stftck.

233

28 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

resentation of "das Nattirliche." They were often " tiberschweng-
lich reich an Sachen," "doch macht die fromme Unschuld und
naive Anspruchlosigkeit in ihrem Wesen, dass sie . . . . durch
Einfalt gefallen." Ghirlandajo ist "ausserst wahrhaft." For
Perugino Meyer claims "keiner hat mehr Gemiith und Innigkeit
seinen Werken zu geben gewusst." All these artists learned from
Masaccio. After him art improved technically, but lost "von
Seiten des geistigen, bedeutenden Inhalts." He concludes with
comments on Mantegna, Giovanni Bellini, Lionardo, and several
masters of the High Renaissance.

We miss in this treatise the names of Fra Angelico and Luca
Signorelli, and therefore cannot claim for its author a mature
grasp on the evolution of Italian painting. Its peculiar signifi-
cance, however, lies in the degree of feeling shown for the charm
of simplicity — an appreciation prophetic of the tenets of a new
school of criticism, hostile in all respects to Cochin and Mengs.

How Janus-faced Meyer was in his views, how original, and
yet how dependent on the age of rationalism, shows most clearly
in his Entwurf einer Kunstgeschichte des 18. Jahrhunderts.1 In
it, by way of introduction, he sketches the history of art in the
seventeenth century. Here the Bolognese are praised as warmly
and as foolishly as ever they had been by former critics. Dome-
nichino is "der edelste Sprossling der Carraccischen Schule,"
Guercino is conspicuous for "grosse Wirkung und naive Wahr-
heit" ( ! ), and Guido for "die heitere Weise und wunderbare Mei-
sterschaft seiner Behandlung." But even Meyer cannot abide
Pietro da Cortona. In another place Meyer brands Giotto's works
as "kunstlos;" nevertheless, he admits one finds in them "Gedan-
ken, die ohne alle Schlacken sind, des grossten Kunstlers der ge-
bildeten Zeiten nicht unwerth." He even once speaks of "Giot-
tos und Gaddis Geist, Orcagnas Ernst und Tiefsinn, da Fiesoles
Frommigkeit, Ghirlandajos Wahrheit."2 Nowhere in Meyer's
essays is found any concession to the principle, which at the time
was being made popular by Wackenroder and Fr. Schlegel, accord-

1 It appeared together with Goethe's Winckelmann und sein Jahrhundert (Tftbingen,
1805).

2 In notes in MS dealing with " Geschichte der Kunst " (found in the Goethe-Schiller
Archiv in Weimar), Meyer remarks on Fra Angelico: " Andacht, Innigkeit und reine kind-
liche Einfalt sprechen wunderbar anmuthig aus seinen Werken."

234

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 29

ing to which only religious art can lay claim to true inspiration
and poetic worth. The child of rationalism could never have
conceived such a notion and later even turned against it with
severity,1 when it threatened to control all criticism. Yet even
Meyer himself once, at least, lapsed into a mood which strongly
flavors of the ideas of the Klosterbruder. In a contribution to
the PropylOen, entitled "Ueber Lehranstalten zu Gunsten der
bildenden Ktlnste," he says:

Wie giinstig der christlich-religiose Antrieb auf die bildenden Kiinste
gewirkt hat, erhellet ferner daraus, dass sobald derselbe anfing schwS-
cher zu werden, sie auch ihr hflchstes Ziel erreicht hatten. Von dieser
Zeit an suchten sie zu gefallen, oder eigentlich zu blenden und erhielten
sich nur noch durch den Hang zur Pracht und Verschwendung.2

This from the worshiper of Domenichino and Guercino ! Surely,
the generation was feeling the breath of a new Weltanschauung.
And yet to what an extent dependence on the old standards
prevailed far into the nineteenth century, and controlled persons
very much more fierce and revolutionary of temperament than
Meyer, is attested by certain essays by Stendhal.3 In his Histoire
de la peinture en Italie (1817) he reflects a point of view akin,
in spite of differences, to that of Meyer. For, like him, he con-
tinues the tradition of admiration for the Bolognese, but he ex-
hibits genuine and often intelligent interest in the men of the
early Renaissance. Thus, Cimabue's figures at times betray "une
expression e"tonnante." Giotto even went beyond his master, as
evidenced, for instance, by the frescoes in Assisi. Yet, on the
whole, "sea tableaux on t* Fair barbare." Masaccio appears to him
"homme de ge"nie, et qui a fait 6poque dans Fhistoire de Fart."
It is the virility of the man which appeals to this forerunner of
Nietzsche. Like Lanzi, he calls Fra Angelico, because of his

i In his essay Neu-deutsche religios-patriotische Kunst. Of all this more later.

tPropylden, 1799, zweites Stuck.

3 Henri Beyle, known in literature as Stendhal (1783-1842), lived in Milan from 1814-1821,
and later became French consul inTriest and in CivitaVecchia. He was passionately fond of
Italy, and even preferred the Italians to his own countrymen. His chief importance lies less in
his treatises on art than in his novels. For he is the forerunner of Balzac and Flaubert. I
used for the Histoire de la peinture enltalie the " seule 6dition complete, entierement revue
et corrig6e" (Paris, 1868) ; for the Melanges d'art et de literature, the edition Paris, 1867;
for Rome, Naples et Florence, the edition Paris, 1865; for Promenades dans Rome, the "seule
6dition complete, augmented de prefaces, et de fragments entierement in6dits " (Paris, 1873) .

235

30 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

sweetness, the "Guido Reni" of his time, but he is too "Giotto-
esque" to be the equal of Masaccio. Benozzo Gozzoli and Filippo
Lippi appeal to him much more forcibly ; nevertheless, the cen-
tury which they represent is to Stendhal, as it was to Lanzi,
merely a period of preparation. But he felt that toward its close
there were symptoms of an advance, as proved by the character
of some of the side-wall pictures of the Sistine Chapel. Thus
Stendhal became a leader in the revival of interest in those works
so unjustly overlooked by generations of critics and travelers.
Like Cochin, and even like Ruskin in his youth, Stendhal has
little enthusiasm for Botticelli. On the other hand, he finds
kindred souls in Ghirlandajo and Luca Signorelli because of their
realistic power. It must, therefore, be a subject of wonder that
the marrowless skill of the Bolognese should appeal to him, as is
apparent in his Rome, Naples and Florence (1817) . Less strange
is it that Cochin and his whole fabric of the bon gotit should cease
to be for Stendhal the last court of appeal, should even offer
elements of amusement.1

In Heinse, in Lanzi, in Meyer, and in Stendhal the rationalis-
tic instinct successfully represses the romantic, and all do homage
to the tradition which placed the Bolognese in the front rank of
artists. The first to protest against such veneration was one of
the most distinguished personalities in the art-life of England,
Sir Joshua Reynolds. This great portrait-painter, we saw, was
one of the path-finders in the appreciation of Michel Angelo's
greatness. Strength appealed to him, and mincing sentimentality
was foreign to him. Hence it happened that he became the first
among critics to deal a severe blow to that school whose exagger-
ated sweetness had delighted the age of Samuel Richardson and
of Gessner. In the fifteenth "discourse," delivered before the
Royal Academy in London as early as 1790 — in other words,
before Lanzi and Meyer had put themselves on record — he
declared :

The Caracci, it is acknowledged, adopted the mechanical part with
sufficient success. But the divine part which addresses itself to the
imagination, as possessed by Michael Angelo and Tibaldi ( ! ), was beyond

1 Cf . review, written in 1835, of Colomb's Journal d^un voyage en Italic en 1828, found
in the volume entitled Melanges d'art et de litterature.

236

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 31

their grasp; they formed, however, a most respectable school, a style
more on the level, and calculated for a greater number.1
This utterance furnishes proof that before the end of the eight-
eenth century the time was becoming ripe for a school of criti-
cism which would look for the "divine part" of painting far more
than for the mechanical.

Indeed, at the very time when Reynolds thus expressed his
dissatisfaction with the Carracci, a movement was being started
in another part of Europe which ultimately swept away the ration-
alistic formula and established altogether new ideals.

Heinrich Meyer, the writer who occupied us above, tells us in
his essay "Neu-deutsche, religios-patriotische Kunst,"2 that about
1790 a strong interest in the older, simpler, and more religious
masters arose among the German painters in Rome as a reaction
against Mengs. Meyer says:

Von unserm Tischbein,3 woferne wir nicht sehr irren, ist nun zu
allererst grossere Werthschatzung der altern, vor Raphaels Zeit bluhen-
den Maler ausgegangen. Dem Nattirlichen, dem Einfachen hold,
betrachtete er mit Vergniigen die wenigen in Rom vorhandenen Malereyen
des Perugino, Bellini und Mantegna, pries ihre Verdienste und spendete
vielleicht die Kunstgeschichte nicht gehorig beachtend, vielleicht nicht
hinreichend mit derselben bekannt, ein allzufreygebiges Lob dem weniger
geistreichen Pinturicchio der mit seinen Werken so manche Wand iiber-
deckt hat. Tischbein und seinen Freunden wurde bald auch die von
Masaccio ausgemalte Capelle in der Kirche St. Clemente bekannt. Zu
gleicher Zeit forschte der gelehrte Hirt die in Vergessenheit gerathenen
Malereyen des da Fiesole im Vatikan wieder aus, und Lips stach Umrisse
von zwey solchen Gemalden in Kupfer.4 Wiewohl nun das eben erzahlte

1 Cf . Works, Vol. II, p. 109.

2 First printed in Goethe's periodical Ueber Kunst und Alterthum in den Rhein- und
Mayn- Gegenden for 1817, Heft 2, pp. 5-62 and 133-62; reprinted in Seuffert's Neudrucke, Vol.
XXV, pp. 97 ff.

3 Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein (1751-1829), the same of whom we heard above as
one of the "discoverers" of the dome of Milan, belonged to a well-known family of painters.
He is the author of the famous portrait of Goethe in Italy. In Rome, where he resided for
many years, he became closely associated with Goethe. In 1787 he moved to Naples, and
from 1808 until his death he lived in Eutin. On Tischbein cf., too, Jul. Vogel, Aus Goethe*
Romiachen Tagen (Leipzig, 1905), pp. 98 ff.

* This statement is corroborated by a letter of Hirt to Goethe, written August 23, 1788
(cf. Schriften der Goethe-Gesellschaft, Band V [Weimar, 1890J, p. 53) : "Ich habe bereits alle
Artikel fur das erste Heft der periodischen Schrift fertig, die Herr Professor Moritz und ich
zusammen herausgeben wollen [i. e., Italien und Deutschland]. Lips hat auch schon eine
Platte hiezu gestochen, nemlich die Predigt aus der Kapelle des Fra Giovanni Angelico von
Fiesole, wovon ich die Beschreibung machte." Hirt means the chapel of Nicholas V in the

237

32 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

auf wachgewordenes Interesse fur die Werke des altern Styls hindeutet,
so batten dieselben doch damals noch keinen Einfluss auf die Austibung
der Kunst, niemand betrachtete sie als Muster, oder wahnte durch
Nachahmung derselben den wahren Geschmack zu er jagen.1 Ein beden-
ken erregendes Symptom aufkeimender Vorliebe ftir solche altere Art,
ausserte sich jedoch darin, dass gar viele Ktinstler, zumal unter den jtin-
geren, Raphaels nie unterbrochenes Fortschreiten in der Kunst ablaugne-
ten, die Gemalde von der sogenannten zweyten Manier dieses Meisters,
z. B. die Grablegung, die Dispute u. a. den spaterverfertigten vorziehen
wollten. Unter seinen Arbeiten im Vatikan wurde daher die genannte
Dispute am haufigsten von Studirenden nachgezeichnet, auch genossen
die Werke des da Vinci grossere Vereherung, als zuvor; .... Dessglei-
chen wuchs die Gunst ftir die Arbeiten des Garofalo; hingegen gerieth
die Achtung ftir Carraccische Werke ins Abnehmen, Guido Reni verlor
ebenfalls sein lange behauptetes Ansehen immer mehr.

So ungefahr war es zu Rom mit den Geschmacks-Neigungen der
Ktinstler und Kunstliebhaber, vornehmlich derer von deutscher Zunge,
bis um das Jahr 1790 beschaffen.2 .... Urn diese Zeit unternahm der
Maler Buri, von Rom aus, eine Reise nach Venedig und durch die Lorn-
bardie tiber Florenz wieder zurtick. Er hatte zu Venedig und Mantua
die Werke des Bellini und des Mantegna fleissig aufgesucht, betrachtet,
auch einige derselben nachgezeichnet, ein gleiches geschah von ihm zu
Florenz mit Gemalden des da Fiesole und anderer alten Meister. Bey
seiner Wiederkunft nach Rom gedachte er gegen Kunstverwandte der
geschauten Dinge mit grossem Lob und beglaubigte solches durch die
gefertigten Zeichnungen.3 Dieses bloss zufallige Ereigniss hat, nach

Vatican, in which are the famous frescoes by Fra Angelico ; one of these — and perhaps the
most beautiful — represents St. Stephen preaching. Many years later Hirt told Rumohr, the
art-critic, of his discovery; cf. Rumohr's Italieniache Forschungen (of which more later).
Vol. II, p. 255 and note. (On Hirt cf., too, J. Vogel, op. cit., pp. 243 ff., also p. 319; cf., too,
Goethe's letter to Wieland, Weimar ed. of Goethe, ibid., pp. 60 ff.

i Rumohr evidently exaggerates when he claims (Drey Reisen [1832], p. 26) that Lanzi
"hat vor etwa funfunddreissig Jahren [i. e., about 1797] bei den Deutschen, welche damals
in Rom studirten, zuerst fur die Kunst des Mittelalters diejenige Achtung, bald Verehrung
angeregt, welche die Kunstfreunde [i. e., Goethe and Meyer] unter die fruhesten Symptome
der bevorstehenden Umwftlzung versetzen." The first edition of Lanzi's book did not appear
until 1792, and wo just saw that as early as 1788 Hirt was calling attention to the artistic
importance of Fra Angelico. There is no reason for doubting, however, that Lanzi later
greatly encouraged the German artists in Rome in their predilection for the works of the
Early Renaissance, by his belief, mentioned above, that modern artists would profit by an
imitation of older models.

2 Meyer's date is slightly incorrect. There is no evidence that contempt for the Bolo-
gnese became manifest in this circle before 1790. It would seem more probable that such
heretical ideas were not entertained until after the return of Bury from Florence.

3 Bury (not Buri, as Meyer calls him) himself writes of his impressions in the North in
a letter to Goethe dated Florence, September 2, 1790 (cf. Schriften der Goethe-Gesellschaft,
Vol. V, pp. 208 f .) : " In der Gallerie 1st bis jetzo mein Aufenthalt gewesen, und eine hflbsche
Zeicbnung nach einem Gemahlde von Frate gemacht (sic), 6 Portraits nach der hiesigen
Kunstler-Sammlung und viele Ideen von verschiedenen Meistern, aber die Hauptsache

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 33

unserm Daftirhalten, vielen Einfluss auf den Gang des Geschmacks
gehabt; denn von derselben Zeit an sprach sich die Vorliebe fur alte
Meister, zumal fur die der florentinischen Schule, immer entschiedener
aus. Die vorerwahnten Freskogemalde des da Fiesole im Vatikan, wie
auch die des Masaccio in der Kirche St. Clemente erhielten classisches
Ansehen, das heisst : sie wurden nicht nur als ehrenwerthe Denkmale der
emporstrebenden Kunst betrachtet, sondern von den Kiinstlern nun als
musterhaft studirt und nachgezeichnet. Ferner wahlte man, in der
Absicht sich naher an Kunst und Geist der altern Schulen und Meister
anzuschliessen, ftir neu zu erzeugende Werke die Gegenstande schon
haufiger aus der Bibel.

Einer der vorziiglichsten der auf diesem Wege sich bemtihenden war
Wachter aus Stuttgard, welcher mit lieblichen Gemalden heiliger Fami-
lien, wobey ihm Garofalo schien zum Muster gedient zu haben, mit einem
Hiob u. a. m. grosses Lob bey Gleichgesinnten erwarb.1

In spite of tendencies to the contrary, "pflanzte sich die
Neigung zum Geschmack der altern Meister vor Raphael, immer
wachsend fort und erhielt durch die vom Calmucken Feodor in
Umrissen nach Lorenzo Ghiberti radirte bronzene Thure am
Battisterium zu Florenz neue Nahrung." Meyer next speaks of the
influence of Wackenroder's Herzensergiessungen, a book of which
we shall presently hear more, and then adds:

Es fiigte sich ferner dass, als nach den bekannten unruhigen Ereig-
nissen, Rom, im Jahre 1798, von den Franzosen besetzt wurde, viele
Ktinstler, um Beschwerlichkeiten und St5rungen auszuweichen, sich von
dort wegbegaben und, durch die Umstande genCthigt, Florenz zu ihrem
Aufenthalt wahlten, wo sie Gelegenheit fanden mit den altern und
altesten Meistern dieser beruhmten Kunstschule besser bekannt zu
werden als in Rom hatte geschehen kOnnen. Giotto, die Gaddi, Orgagna,

ist meia Mantegna ; ich kann Ihnen gar nicht sagen, wie mich der Mensch durch seine
Bestimmtheit an sich gezogeu ; kein alter Florentiner kommt ihm mit all seinem grandiosen
Wesen bei ; denn dieselben haben es Of ters mit ihren allzu grossen Falten ubertrieben ; es
sind hier drey 'Gemfthlde von Mantegna, ich glaube nicht, dass Sie dieselben wegen der
vielen Sachen in der Gallerie recht beobachtet haben, sonst hatten Sie mirin Mantua davon
gesprochen ; dieselben hab ich aufs aller bestimmteste gemacht, und Sie sollen sehen, wenn
Sie die Zeichnungen bekommen, dass man nicht weiter kann wegen der Ideen ; denn auch
alle andern Meister, welche dieselben Sujets gemacht, sind weit unter ihm ; ich fuhle, dass
mich Mantegna auf einen Weg geffthrt, welcher freilich im Anfang etwas muhsam ist, aber
unfehlbar etwas guts dabey herauskommen muss, und in Rom, welche ich fast nicht erwar-
ten kann, einige Proben geben will (sic)." Bury himself was interested in the Carracci (cf.
ibid., pp. 12, 222, 223). For Goethe's feelings in regard to Bury, cf. Weimar ed., Brief e^ Vol.
VIII, pp. 329 f., 356, 378 f. ; cf. also Jul. Vogel, op. cit., pp. 130 ff.).

1 Wachter was for a time the representative of German classicism in painting. He will
interest us later as the one who probably transmitted to Overbeck the theories of the
Tischbein-Bury group. On Wftchter cf. Allg. Dtsch. Biog.

239

34 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

selbst andere von geringerm Namen und Verdienst, wie Buffalmacco,
kamen dadurch, vielleicht in tibertriebenem Masse, zu Ehren und
manches ihrer noch iibrigen, lange nicht mehr beachteten Werke wurde
jetzt zum Studium und Muster von Kiinstlern erkohren, welche kurz
vorher noch den Coloss des Phidias vor Augen gehabt.1

In Tischbein and Bury, then, we have that preference for
simplicity and naivete* of spirit which in future years was in so
large a measure to control criticism in all countries. "The Spite
of the Proud," as Ruskin later put it, is carefully to be shunned,
and "simple and unlearned men," again to use one of Ruskin' s
telling phrases, are held superior to brilliant technicians and
magnificent men of the world. The new principle implied in the
views of the German artists — original as it is — is but a transla-
tion into the field of art of the gospel of the "simple life"
enunciated by Rousseau and by the Lyrical Ballads.

Nevertheless, let us remember that, outside of this small
circle, the old rationalistic formula — the rule of Kunstverstand
as opposed to Kunstgefuhl — still held almost paramount sway.
The tenacious adherence to the old tenets on the part of Meyer,
and especially of so rebellious a temperament as Stendhal, is the
best case in point. A new evangel, one absolutely subvertive of
all time-hallowed theories of criticism, was necessary finally and
forever to break the yoke of Cochin and Mengs. It was enunci-
ated in a little publication entitled Herzensergiessungen eines
kunstliebenden Klosterbruders (Berlin, 1797). 2 The author who,

1 There is no good reason for doubting the authenticity of Meyer's statements, though
here and there his memory may have failed him in detail. Contemporary evidence, as far
as I can judge with the material at hand, seems everywhere to corroborate him. According
to what we saw above, Meyer strains a point when he claims that a better appreciation of
the old masters started with Tischbein, although he doubtless was the first person whose
influence in this direction was felt in artistic circles. Tischbein himself, in the second
volume of his Aus meinem Leben, commenting on the greatness of Lionardo, maintains
that before the author of the "Ultima Cena" the art of painting "lag gefangen und konnte
nicht aufstreben." Lionardo freed it. After him came Michel Angelo, Titian, Raphael,
Correggio, the Carracci, Guido, etc. But he adds: "Ich will hiermit nicht sagen, dass vor
Leonardo nichts gutes gemalt sei;" only "die Kttnstler malten wie nach ausgeschnittenen
Mustern, die sie nur auflegten, umschrieben und ausfftllten, oder als ware es nach Schatten
an der Wand gezeichnet und dann colorirt; so flach sind die Figuren auf der Tafel ....
Doch findet man sehr scharf gezeichnete, schone Marienkopfe und Engel aus jener Zeit.
Selbst einige Mosaiken sind ihrer Einfachheit und Grosse, sowie ihres Contoures wegen
achtungswerth, obwohl trocken und armselig." All this hardly sounds like the talk of a
rebel. We shall presently see, however, that the suggestions thrown out by Tischbein were
to be carried farther than he himself intended, perhaps, by bolder minds than his.

2 Cf. article on Wackenroder, Allg. Dtech. Biog. (by Sulger-Gebing) ; also introduction
by K. D. Jessen to his reprint of the Herzensergiessungen (Leipzig, 1904); also Koldewey,

240

GBOWTH OF INTEREST IN EABLY ITALIAN MASTERS 35

in his r6le of a monk, pretends to give nothing more than the
outpourings of his heart, views art essentially from the religious
point of view:

Ich vergleiche den Genuss der edleren Kunstwerke dem Gebet ....
Eben so nun, meyne ich, miisse man mit den Meisterstiicken der Kunst
umgehen, um sie wiirdiglich zum Heil seiner Seele zu nutzen. Es ist
frevelhaft zu nennen, wenn jemand in einer irdischen Stunde, von dem
schallenden Gelachter seiner Freunde hinwegtaumelt, um in einer nahen
Kirche, aus Gewohnheit, einige Minuten mit Gott zu reden. Ein Shn-
licher Frevel ist es, in einer solchen Stunde die Schwelle des Hauses zu
betreten, wo die bewundernswtirdigsten Schopf ungen, die von Menschen-
handen hervorgebracht werden konnten, als eine stille Kundschaft
ftir die Wlirde dieses Geschlechtes ftir die Ewigkeit aufbewahret werden.
Harret, wie beym Gebet, auf die seligen Stunden, da die Gunst des
Himmels euer Inneres mit hoherer Offenbarung erleuchtet; nur dann
wird eure Seele sich mit den Werken der Kunstler zu Einem Ganzen
vereinigen. Ihre Zaubergestalten sind stumm und verschlossen, wenn
ihr sie kalt anseht; euer Herz muss sie zuerst mSchtiglich anreden, wenn
sie sollen zu euch sprechen, und ihre ganze Gewalt an euch versuchen
kOnnen.

Kunstwerke passen in ihrer Art so wenig, als der Gedanke an Gott
in den gemeinen Fortfluss des Lebens; sie gehen uber das Ordentliche
und Gewohnliche hinaus, und wir miissen uns mit vollem Herzen zu
ihnen erheben, um sie in unsern, von den Nebeln der Atmosphare
allzuof t getrtibten Augen, zu dem zu machen, was sie, ihrem hohen Wesen

nach, sind Es ist mir ein heiliger Feyertag, an welchem ich mit

Ernst und mit vorbereitetem Gemtith an die Betrachtung edler Kunst-
werke gehe; ich kehre oft und unaufhorlich zu ihnen zurlick, sie bleiben
meinem Sinne fest eingepr^gt, und ich trage sie, so lange ich auf Erden
wandle, in meiner Einbildungskraft, zum Trost und zur Erweckung
meiner Seele, gleichsam als geistige Amulete mit mir herum, und werde
sie mit ins Grab nehmen.1

As a result of this attitude, he points to the old Italian masters
as praiseworthy examples:

Sie machten die Mahlerkunst zur treuen Dienerinn der Religion, und
wussten nichts von dem eitlen Farbenprunk der heutigen Kunstler: ihre
Bilder, in Kapellen und an Altaren, gaben dem, der davor kniete und
betete, die heiligsten Gesinnungen ein Ein andrer, Fra Giovanni

Wackenroder und sein Einfluss auf Tieck (Leipzig, 1904) ; also Helene Stocker Zur Kunstan-
schauung des isten Jahrhunderts, pp. 86 ff. Cf., too, R. Muther, The History of Modern
Painting (London, 1895), Vol. I, pp. 209 ff.
i Jessen's reprint, pp. 100 ff.

241

36 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Angelico da Fiesole, Mahler und DominikanermOnch zu Florenz, war
wegen seines strengen und gottesfiirchtigen Lebens besonders beruhmt.
Er kiimmerte sich gar nicht um die Welt, schlug sogar die Wurde eines
Erzbischoffs aus, die der Pabst ihm antrug, und lebte immer still, ruhig,
demiithig und einsam. Jedesmal, bevor er zu mahlen anfing, pflegte er
zu beten; dann ging er ans Werk, und ftihrte es aus wie der Himmel es
ihm eingegeben hatte, ohne weiter dariiber zu kltigeln oder zu kritisiren.
Das Mahlen war ihm eine heilige Bussiibung; und manchmal, wenn er
Christi Leiden am Kreuze mahlte, sah man wahrend der Arbeit grosse
Thranen liber sein Gesicht fliessen. — Das alles ist nicht ein schOnes
Mahrchen, sondern die reine Wahrheit.1

Here at last we find Kunstgefuhl as opposed to Kunstver stand.
In fact, it may be proved that Wackenroder's knowledge of the
old masters was slender indeed. This book, which was soon to
make a deep impression — upon Germany at least — marks the
entrance into art-criticism of the principle, later so potent in
Schlegel, Rio, and Ruskin, which claims that true art can never
be divorced from religion. This principle, though at the time
productive of important results in criticism, was, because of its
essential unsoundness, later to lead — as, for instance, in Ruskin —
to confusion and narrowness.

Wackenroder, retiring, hypersensitive, but meagerly acquainted
with Italian painting, was ill equipped for the task of compelling
a generation trained by Mengs and Meyer to accept principles so
new, so perplexing, so uncomfortable. A different personality was
needed to perform this task — one aggressive, turbulent, with a
wider range of acquaintance in art, yet Wackenroder's equal in
capacity of feeling: Friedrich Schlegel. In 1802, the very year
in which Chateaubriand published the G6nie du Christianisme,
Friedrich Schlegel went to Paris. Napoleon had made of his capital
the greatest art center of the world by carrying thither the spoils
of Italy. In this fashion Schlegel came in contact with much of
the best pictorial work of the world. As a result of this visit, he
published his "Nachricht von den Gemahlden in Paris,"2 con-

1 Loc. ci£., pp. 141 f. In Tieck and Wackenroder's Phantasieen iiber die Kunst we find
the same views, derived this time from a study of Durer's art. " Aus solchen Beispielen wird
man ersehen, dass wo Kunst und Religion sich vereinigen, aus ihren zusammenniessenden
Stromen der schftnste Lebensstrom sich ergiesst" (cf. "Tieck u. Wackenroder," Kflrschner's
Deutsche National-Litter atur, Vol. CXLV, p. 13).

2 Europa, Vol. I (Frankfurt a. M., 1803), erstes Stfick, pp. 108-57

242

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 37

tinued under the title " Vom Raphael,"1 and furthermore under the
title "Nachtrag italianischer Gemahlde;"2 and further continued
under the title "Zweiter Nachtrag alter Gemahlde;"3 and again as
"Dritter Nachtrag alter Gemahlde."4 Here Schlegel roundly
declares :

Ich habe durchaus nur Sinn fur die alte Mahlerei, nur diese verstehe
ich und begreife ich, und nur liber diese kann ich reden .... Und
doch gesteh ichs, dass die kalte Grazie des Guido nicht viel Anziehendes
fur mich hat, und dass mich das Rosen- und Milch-glanzende Fleisch

des Dominichino mit nichten bezaubert Gewander und Costume,

die mit zu den Menschen zu gehoren scheinen, so schlicht und naiv als
diese; in den Gesichtern (der Stelle, wo das Lichtdes gottlichen Mahler-
geistes am hellsten durchscheint) aber, bei aller Mannichfaltigkeit des
Ausdrucks oder Individualitat der Ztige durchaus und uberall jene kind-
liche, gutmtithige Einfalt und Beschranktheit, die ich geneigt bin, fiir
den urspriinglichen Charakter der Menschen zu halten; das ist der Styl
der alten Mahlerei, der Styl, der mir, ich bekenne hierin meine Einseitig-
keit, ausschliessend gefallt, wenn nicht irgend ein grosses Princip, wie
beim Corregio oder Raphael, die Ausnahme rechtfertigt.5

Friedrich's famous "gftttliche Grobheit" never made a deeper
impression than by some of these utterances which slapped all tra
ditional criticism in the face. But Friedrich was not satisfied with
attacking, he wished to teach. He writes: .... "die stille, stisse
Schonheit des Johannes Bellin oder des Perugino geht mir tiber
alles." And then he proceeds to discuss works by these artists
and their contemporaries, as for instance Mantegna.6 But this
great admiration does not in Schlegel stifle appreciation of Ra-
phael, nor of Correggio and Titian. Not even Giulio Romano, the
pet aversion of Rio and Ruskin, altogether meets with his censure.

i Europa, Vol. I, zweites Stflck, pp. 3-19.

2 Ibid., Vol. II (1803) , pp. 96-116. 3 ibid., zweites Stack, pp. 1-41.

*ioc. cit., pp. 109-45. These essays were reprinted with modifications of wording and
with additions, with the title " Gemahldebeschreibungen aus Paris und den Niederlanden,
in den Jahren 1802-1804," in the Sammtliche Werke, Vol. VI (Wien, 1823), pp. 1-220. For fur-
ther reference cf. Sulger-Gebing, Die Brilder A. W. und F. Schlegel in ihrem Verhdltnisse zur
bildenden Kunst (Munchen, 1897).

5 Europa, Vol. 1, 1, pp. 113 f . It is not unworthy of note that this essay, together with
those on "Gothic Architecture," one on " Schloss Karlstein bey Prag," and one on "Die
heilige Cacilia von Ludwig Schnorr," contained in Vol. VI of the Werke, appear under the
collective title " Ansichten und Ideen von der christlichen Kunst." Rio, and after him Rus-
kin, were later to make the world familiar with the appellation " Christian art," so new in
this large application to eighteenth century readers.
. cit., p. 115.

243

38 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Schlegel's plea for the less pretentious artists of the older
school corresponds to the principles enunciated a few years before
him by the German artists in Rome. Even stronger deviations
from the views of Meyer appear in passages which more clearly
reflect the influence of Wackenroder. For what in Wackenroder
was merely a childlike outpouring of feeling became, in the case
of the Schlegels, the very corner-stone of their system of criticism.
Their brilliant championship made them the true founders of that
school which held sway until comparatively recent years. Friedrich
Schlegel maintains:

Die Kunst aber, und die Religion von der sie nie getrennt werden
kann ohne sich selbst zu verlieren, sollen dem Menschen nicht allein das
Gflttliche andeuten, wie er es rein von alien Verhaltnissen und im heitern
Frieden sich denken und ahnden kann, sondern auch in seinem be-
schrankten Verhaltniss wie das Gftttliche selbst im irdischen Daseyn
noch durchbricht und auch da erscheint; .... eigentlich fodern sollte
man aber von einem Kunstwerke nicht Reiz und Schonheit, sondern nur
die hohe, ja gottliche Bedeutung, weil es ohne diese gar kein Kunstwerk
zu heissen verdient, und mit dieser die Anmuth als Bliithe und Lohn der
gOttlichen Liebe sich oftmals von selbst einstellt. Dieser hohen, tiefen
Bedeutung aber sind die Martyria gewiss in einem ganz eminenten
Grade ffihig; wann der Mahler das Ekelhafte zu vermeiden weiss, so
wird es ihm leicht werden, in diesem Gemisch von reinen und liebevollen
Charakteren . . . . ein nur allzuwahres Bild von dem Trauerspiel des
wirklichen Lebens zu entwerfen, und dem Geschick, was die reinere
Natur im menschlichen Verhaltnisse meistentheils erwartet; wobei er,
wenn er sonst will, immer noch Gelegenheit genug finden wird, uns an
die hOchste SchOnheit und Liebe zu erinnern.1

In every respect, then, the older painters, meaning the fore-
runners of Raphael, should be regarded as furnishing the proper
models. In them is found what we lack : " das religiose Geftihl,
Andacht und Liebe, und die innigste stille Begeistrung derselben
war es, was den alten Mahlern die Hand fuhrte;" and, signifi-
cantly for a German romanticist to whom philosophy was tanta-
mount to religion, he adds:

und nur bei einigen wenigen ist auch das hinzugekommen oder an die
Stelle getreten, was allein das religiose Gefiihl in der Kunst einiger-
massen ersetzen kann; das tiefe Nachsinnen, das Streben nach einer

i Europe Vol. II, 2, pp. 16 f .

244

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 39

ernsten und wiirdigen Philosophic, die in den Werken des Leonardo und
des Diirer sich freilich nach Kiinstlerweise, doch ganz deutlich meldet.1

Is ever a great painter to arise in modern times ? It is improbable,
but not impossible. If so, religious feeling must again enter into
art. "Vergebens sucht ihr die Mahlerkunst wieder hervorzu-
rufen, wenn nicht erst Religion oder philosophische Mystik we-
nigstens die Idee derselben wieder hervorgerufen hat."2 In lieu of
religion, a few of the poets, supposedly tinged with mysticism —
for to a Schlegel, even Shakespeare comes under this head — may
become the inspiration of painters.

Weniger die griechische Dichtkunst, die sie doch nur ins Fremde
und Gelehrte verleitet, und die sie nur in Uebersetzungen lesen, wo vor
dem holzernen Daktylengeklapper die alte Anmuth weit entflohen ist,
als die romantische. Die besten Poeten der Italianer, ja der Spanier,
nebst dem Shakespear, ja die altdeutschen Gedichte, welche sie haben
kOnnen, und dann die Neueren, die am meisten in jenem romantischen
Geiste gedichtet sind; das seyen die bestandigen Begleiter eines jungen
Mahlers, die ihn allmahlig zuriickf uhren konnten in das alte romantische
Land und den prosaischen Nebel antikischer Nachahmerei und unge-
sunden Kunstgeschwatzes von seinen Augen hinwegnehmen.3

Soon afterward, Friedrich's brother, August Wilhelm Schlegel,
proved that he shared the same ideas. In his "Schreiben an
Goethe uber einige Arbeiten in Rom lebender Ktinstler,"4 in 1805,
he discusses the works of the painter Schick, and praises his pic-
ture representing Noah's first sacrifice. He claims:

Ich kann nicht umhin, an diesem Beispiele die Vortrefflichkeit der
biblischen und tiberhaupt der christlichen Gegenstande im Vorbeigehen
zu beriihren, die mir fur die Malerei ebenso ewig und unerschOpflich
scheinen, als die der klassischen Mythologie es fur die Skulptur sind; ja
in ihrer geheimnissvollen Heiligkeit noch unergrtindlicher.5

A little later he praises the painter Koch for imitating the older
masters :

Ein besonderes Studium der alteren Meister, eines Fiesole, Masaccio,
Pisani, Buffalmacco und Giotto, verbindet er mit dem des Michelangelo,
welches fur den Dante, denke ich, immer die rechte Verbindung sein
wird.6

i Europa, Vol. II, 2, p. 143. 2 ibid., p. 143. 3 Ibid., pp. 143 f.

* First published in the Intelligenzblatt der Jenaer Allgemeinen Litteraturzeitung, Nos.
120 and 121. I quote from Werke, hsg. von Booking, Vol. IX (Leipzig, 1846), pp. 231 ff.
5 Loc. cit. p. 254. 6 Ibid., p. 257.

245

40 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

In 1817 he again expressed himself with undiminished enthusiasm
in favor of early Italian art, in an essay entitled " Johann von
Fiesole: Nachricht von seinem Leben, und Beschreibung seines
Gemaldes Maria Kronung und die Wunder des heil. Dominikus." l
He tries to define the position of the famous monk of S. Marco
in the history of art. He describes his life, and, following
Vasari and every writer on art since Vasari's day, lays stress on
Angelico's piety. His genius, he tells us, is marked by "Stissig-
keit, Zartheit und. Anmuth," as contrasted with "der gefalligen
und oberflachlichen Manier des Guido.2 In the course of this
essay he attacks Winckelmann's unfair condemnation of the
harshness of Florentine art.3 Modern art, he concludes, fails
from lack of religious inspiration; for

die Kunst als ein Wiederschein des Gottlichen in der sichtbaren Welt, ist
eine Angelegenheit und ein Bedtirfniss der Menschheit, an welche, nach
dem Ausdruck Dantes von seinem Gedicht:

— il poema sacro,

Al quale ha posto mano e cielo e terra —
Himmel und Erde Hand anlegen mtissen, wenn sie gedeihen soil.4

As a consequence of the teachings of Wackenroder, and more
especially of F. Schlegel, a group of German artists, under the
leadership of Overbeck and Cornelius, settled in Rome for the
purpose of putting into effect the new ideas. At first they lived
in a monastery, St. Isidoro, and were known as "Die Kloster-
brtlder von St. Isidoro." This group dissolved in 1813, and
after 1815 a new circle formed about Overbeck, generally known
by their nickname "Die Nazarener." Wackenroder and the
Schlegels had taught these young artists that simplicity and self-
severity and a deep spiritual life, are necessary for the production
of true art. Their attitude toward early Italian art was essen-

i Werke, loc. cit., Vol. IX, pp. 321 ff. *Ibid., pp. 352 f.

3Cf. Winckelmann, Oeschichte der Kunst des Alterthums, Vol. Ill, chap. 3, § 15. Even
more severe are his strictures on Florentine art as expressed in the letter to Riedesel, dated
Rome, March 18, 1763; cf. Werke, ed. Eiselein, Vol. IX, pp. 616 f.

*Loc. cit., p. 355. In the third part of Geschichte der Romantischen Litteratur, in the
chapter "Ueber das Mittelalter" and further in "Der Bund der Kirche mit den KOnsten"—
a. long poem in ottave rime written about 1800— Schlegel foresees a new art born of the
religious spirit. Painting is to abandon the world of sense and deal with "geistliche
Geshichten." Haym (Romantiache Schule, p. 458) justly doubts the genuineness of the religious
.sentiment here exhibited.

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 41

tially that of Bury and of the other associates of Tischbein.1
They recognized only the artists between Giotto and Raphael,
and even Raphael's later manner, after he abandoned the teach-
ing of Perugino, seemed to them an aberration. Giulio Romano
was intolerable to them.2 These views are singularly important
for us, as they later controlled Rio, Ruskin's inspirer. The
result of the labors, which occupied them many years, must seem
to us moderns essentially unsatisfactory. In the history of art,
however, they mark an admirable reaction against the shallow
glamour of the eighteenth century.3 Their dependence on F.
Schlegel becomes the clearer by the fact that one of their most
prominent members was Schlegel's stepson, Philip Veit.

So, then, the new criticism seemed established, and even the
protest of Goethe and Meyer against the union of art and religion
apparently could not destroy the influence of the brilliant brothers.
And, indeed, these two had greatly enriched the intellectual life
of their generation ; their very faults had proved fruitful of impor-
tant results.

iThe connection between the Tischbein group and the Nazarener was, it seems,
established by Eberhard Wftchter, of whom, as we saw, Meyer, in his Neu-deutsche religios-
patriotische Kunst, spoke as one of the Tischbein circle, and as one who among the first
produced works in the spirit of the older masters. In 1806, before Overbeck came to Rome,
Wachter met him in Vienna, and seems to have communicated to him the views and preju-
dices of the German painters in Rome (cf. Gurlitt, loc. cit., p. 213).

2Cf. Gurlitt, loc. cit., p. 215.

3Cf. Herman Riegel, Geschichte des Wiederauflebens der deutschen Kunst zu Ende des
18. und Anfang des 19. Jahrhunderts (Hannover, 1876), pp. 319 ff.; also Gurlitt, Die deutsche
Kunst. loc. cit., pp. 58 ff., 212 ff., 233 ff. ; moreover, Muther, History of Modern Painting, loc.
cit.; also Howitt, Friedrich Overbeck (Freiburg i. B., 1886); also essays on Overbeck and
Cornelius in Allg. Dtsch. Biog.

In 1817 Goethe and Meyer, frightened by the success of Schlegel's criticism and the
works of the k' Nazarener," published their essay, Neu-deutsche, religios-patriotische Kunst,
from which we have already quoted several passages. It aimed a blow at the new ideas,
but it showed beyond peradventure that neither Goethe nor his friend was capable of
piercing the crude shell of the new principles and of understanding that Schlegel's message
was vital for his time, and that Overbeck and Cornelius, with all their shortcomings, were
establishing, in contrast to Mengs, a national art. It was, in fact, the example of this
school which, forty years later, helped to free from the trammels of academic pedantry a
group of young English artists who became known as "The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood."
The hyphen between German and English Pre-Raphaelitism was William Dyce, who had
learned from Overbeck (cf. Gurlitt, Die deutsche Kunst, loc. cit., p. 303; also Diet, of Nat.
Biog. under Dyce). Howitt (Overbeck, Part II, p. 115) claims that Pugin, too, strongly
recommended Overbeck as a model to English artists.

For interesting material on the lives of the Overbeck group in Rome, cf. Brief e aus
Italien von Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, geschrieben in den Jahren 1817 bts 1827: Ein
Beitrag zur Oeshichte seines Lebens und der Kunstbestrebungen seiner Zeit (Gotha, 1886).
For a French estimate of the "Nazarener" cf. H. Fortoul, De Vart en Allemagne (Paris,
1842), Vol. I, pp. 263 ff.

247

42 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Yet it would have been far from fortunate for their country,
had their ideas prevailed unmodified, and Germany must there-
fore be congratulated for having produced a scholar and critic
who took from the teaching of the Schlegels all that was valuable,
and left untouched all that was misleading and unsound. This
remarkable man was Rumohr.1 His Italienische Forschungen,
based on the studies of many years, aimed to do for Christian art
what Winckelmann's Geschichte der Kunst des Altertums had
done for the art of antiquity. Vasari, Rumohr felt, was unreli-
able, because, being influenced by the technique of the Italian
novelists of his day, he was entertaining, but lacked method. Even
Lanzi, despite his great merit, was not sufficiently thorough.
Besides, Rumohr, having become acquainted with the work of the
Schlegels and of Overbeck, felt vastly more attracted by the
earlier periods, and less by the seventeenth century, than did
even Lanzi.

Rumohr's great work is characterized, considering the time in
which it was written, by accuracy and care, his statements being
always based on intimate study of the Italian archives. The notes
reveal a large range of reading and the desire to reach the truth
by an objective sifting of arguments.

In the theoretical part of the book, entitled "Zur Theorie und
Geschichte neuerer Kunstbestrebungen : Haushalt der Kunst,"
he emphasizes the fact that Lessing and Winckelmann derived

1 Karl Friedrich von Rumohr was bora in 1785 in Reinhardsgrimma, near Dresden, and
died in Dresden in 1843. While a student at Gottingen, he took lessons in drawing of
Domenico Fiorillo, the author of the Geschichte der zeichnenden Kilnste von ihrer Wieder-
auflebung bis auf die neuesten Zeiten. Fiorillo was a pupil of Batoni, and ranged against
Mengs in the quarrel between the two. Rumohr at the death of his father inherited a large
fortune, became a gentleman of leisure, and devoted himself to literature and art. Early in
his life he turned Catholic, but this change of religion no more affected his inner life than a
similar step had affected Winckelmann. He went to Italy several times. During a stay in
Rome in 1816 he came in contact with the work of Overbeck and his associates, and thus
deepened his interest in early Italian art. He published a large number of essays and
studies on art and architecture. His greatest work is his Italienische Forschungen (Berlin
and Stettin, 1827-31), in which several of these earlier publications were embodied. Besides
works bearing on art or history, he put out historical novels, like Der letzte Savello (1834).
More than that, being a great Sybarite in matters of food, he issued a cookbook, Der Geist
der Kochkunst (1822). His large culture procured him the friendship of men like Friedrich
Schlegel, Tieck, Wilhelm von Humboldt, Platen, and others. He was also highly esteemed
by Louis I of Bavaria and Frederick William IV of Prussia. His eccentric temperament,
however, was apt to estrange even great admirers. On Rumohr see his own Drey Reisen
nach Italien (Leipzig, 1832) ; also H. W. Schulz, Karl Friedrich von Rumohr, sein Leben und
seine Schriften (Leipzig, 1844); also Gurlitt, Die deutsche Kunst, pp. 157 ff.; also Allg.
Deutsch. Biog.

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 43

their ideas from a knowledge merely of antiquity. He adds the
sentence, significant for his whole method of work: "Denn nur,
wer von einer beschrankenden Vorliebe fur eigenthumliche Rich-
tungen, Schulen und Formlichkeiten der Kunst unabhangig ist,
vermag das Wesen der Kunst rein aufzufassen." Rumohr's criti-
cisms of the great exponents of antique art are, however, altogether
free from that violence which affects us unpleasantly in Fr.
Schlegel's comments on Winckelmann. For it is most impor-
tant, Rumohr feels, that we learn to understand the true nature
of art. As a contemporary of Tieck and Fr. Schlegel, he is
inclined "die Kunst weit entschiedener, als jemals vor uns ge-
schehen, recht in das innerste Heiligthum alles geistigen Wirkens
und Lebens zu verse tzen."

In the chapter entitled "Betrachtungen tiber den Ursprung
der neueren Kunst" he expounds the value of the beginnings of
Christian art. Though technically deficient, these earliest works
are characterized by the "Macht einer neuenBegeisterung," which
was to determine Christian art for all time to come. In the dis-
cussions which follow, Rumohr traces the influence of pagan on
Christian art, and betrays a keen appreciation of evolution by
proving how early suggestions flowered full-blown in the works
of the greatest masters of later centuries. Even in these chapters
Rumohr never teaches the theory that art becomes important and
inspiring in proportion as it reflects devotion to Christian dogma,
and loses value in proportion as such devotion ebbs from it. In
the remaining chapters of this volume — "Ueber den Einfluss der
gothischen und longobardischen Einwanderungen auf die Fort-
pflanzung ro'misch-altchristlicher Kunstfertigkeiten in der ganzen
Ausdehnung Italiens," "Zustand der bildenden Kunste von Karl
des Grossen Regierung bis auf Friedrich I ....," "Z wolf tea
Jahrhundert: Regungen des Geistes, technische Fortschritte bey
namhaften Ktinstlern," "Dreyzehntes Jahrhundert: Aufschwung
ies Geistes der italienischen Kunst; rascher Fortschritt in
Vortheilen der Darstellung . . . . ' —the author describes the
growth of various branches of art in Italy down to Cimabue. In
no part of the whole work is one more impressed with Rumohr' s
infinite care and intellectual honesty than in these studies on

249

44 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

perhaps the most difficult periods of modern art. No wonder he
constantly feels compelled to polemize against Vasari, and even
against Lanzi and Fiorillo.

In the second volume the initial chapter treats of the earliest
Sienese masters and Cimabue. In the next chapter, which is
devoted to Giotto, Rumohr makes a great effort to disprove the
validity of the general admiration for that artist. In the epitome
of this discussion he comes to the conclusion that, though Giotto's
merit was great, he helped to bring about "jene allmahlich fort-
schreitende und immer zunehmende Entfremdung von den Ideen
des christlichen Alter thumes" which marks the Florentine school,
"etwa mit Ausnahme des Fiesole und des Masaccio." This chapter
is perhaps the least satisfactory of the book. Here Rumohr loses
his objectivity, and even lapses, as the sentence just quoted illus-
trates, into some of that phraseology about the inferiority of
realistic to religious art which is generally so foreign to him.
Next Rumohr adds a careful treatment of the disciples of Giotto.

Among the chapters which now follow, the one which we may
call the core and kernel of the entire work, and which made the
deepest impression on the contemporaries, is the one entitled
"Entwurf einer Geschichte der umbrisch toscanischen Kunst-
schulen fur das funfzehnte Jahrhundert." Here all those men of
the early Renaissance are passed in review who through Ruskin
have become the favorites of the English-speaking world. Again
Rumohr at every turn goes beyond Vasari and Lanzi, and brings
to light important new material. He was not the first to be
attracted by these artists, as we have seen, but he became — to use
the words of his biographer Schulz — "der wissenschaftliche
Vertreter und Begrtinder der neuen Kunstansichten und Bestre-
bungen." The imitators of Giotto — such isRumohr's thesis — had
induced artists to treat the human side of religion, and had thus
introduced so much "menschlich Wichtiges" that, on the whole,
their innovations must be regarded as a "wesentliche Berei-
cherung." Yet these methods and theories did not arise from any
desire "den Ideen des Christen thumes ihre ganze Tiefe, ihre
ernstere Seite abzugewinnen." Masaccio and Fra Angelico repre-
sent two currents of the new art. Masaccio "ubernahm die Erfor-

250

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 45

schung des Helldunkels, der Rundung und Auseinandersetzung
zusammengeordneter Gestalten;" Fra Angelico "hingegen die
Ergrtindung des inneren Zusammenhanges, der einwohnenden
Bedeutung menschlicher Gesichtsztige, deren Fundgruben er
zuerst der Malerey erftffnet." Then Rumohr enters with acumen
into the individualities and the historical position of both artists.
Masaccio's strength and virility, and his importance for art down
to Lionardo, had never before been so well understood ; at the same
time, Fra Angelico' s peculiar depth was never more sympathetic-
ally felt, not even by Schlegel. In his best works "erschopfte
sich dieser Ktlnstler in den mannigfaltigsten Andeutungen einer
mehr als irdischen Freudigkeit." Fra Angelico influenced Be-
nozzo Gozzoli, for whom Rumohr has evident understanding.

The career of Cosimo Roselli and other minor painters proves
that "nach allgemeinem Erloschen der Begeisterung fur die vor-
waltenden Kunstaufgaben" only one way was left for the Flor-
entine school to escape becoming mechanical, viz., "ein frohliches
(freylich nicht ein pedantisches) sich Hingeben in den Reiz
naturlicher Erscheinungen." Fortunately, the city in which these
artists lived was fine, the country lovely, the dress of men and
women picturesque. Hence painters derived from the new method
"den mannigfaltigsten Gewinn." This inroad of the realistic
spirit was encouraged, he explains, by the influence of antiquity.

Filippo Lippi, whom Vasari without proof calls dissolute, was
one of the " bedeutenderen Maler" of the Florentine group. His
easel pictures are often "schwach, bisweilen derb und gemein;"
but in his frescoes, where the subject called for action, "erwachte
seine Seele." Botticelli and Filippino fare less well with our
critic. He admires the history of Moses in the Sistine Chapel,
but has little to say in praise of any other works of Botticelli
which charm us today. Filippino is uneven; some of his paint-
ings fairly disgust Rumohr. Ghirlandajo, on the other hand,
attracts him. He greatly contributed to a better understanding
of the human figure. Rumohr has great praise for many of
Ghirlandajo's frescoes, especially those in the Santa Maria Novella
in Florence, for their adequate interpretation "wirklichen Seyns."
The thrift of Florence, Rumohr points out, helped realism in art.

251

46 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

When " Religiositat der Gesinnung" had left the Florentine
church and a sectarian spirit had grown up (proved, among other
things, by the career of Savonarola), "war es sicher nur ein
Gewinn, dass bey den malerischen Unternehmungen jener Zeit
eine neue Begeisterung (die burgerliche) die eingetretene Lucke
erftlllte." It is this "Begeisterung" which gives the Novella
frescoes their peculiar value. To be sure, Ghirlandajo was too
"derb" altogether to grasp the "Zartheit der neuchristlichen Idee
der Madonna."

In Lionardo — always admired, but heretofore not sufficiently
appreciated — we venerate " den Begrtlnder eines bestimmteren
anatomischen Wissens," who combines with this great technical
knowledge a "reinere, ernstlicher gemeinte Auffassung der obwal-
tenden kirchlichen Kunstaufgaben."

The school of Perugia, which perhaps affected Lionardo through
Perugino, always had the advantage of other schools in possessing
an irresistible "geheime Reiz" derived from a wonderful blending
of " halbdeutliche Reminiscenzen" of the oldest Christian art with
the "mildere Vorstellungen" of younger schools. Perugino became
famous largely on account of his influence on Raphael. His own
merit has so far generally been underrated. In his later years,
he, like many others, became mechanical, "vom Handwerke hin-
gerissen;" but in his best work — the frescoes in Santa Maria
Maddalena de' Pazzi — he combines severe study with a "damals
ganz ungewohnliche Klarheit der Anschauung seines ideellen
Gegenstandes." A certain sameness runs through all he painted
—the result not so much of his "Manier" as of his subjects and
his "Gemuthsstimmung."

Raphael, the "vollendete Meister" of the art of painting, owes
his "keusche Sinn," his respect for tradition, his religious feel-
ing, probably mostly to Perugino; his "feine Natursinn" he
derived from Florentine influence.

In the last chapter of this volume, entitled " Die unumgangliche
Vielseitigkeit in den Beziehungen, die Hindernisse der Entwicke-
lung, die Ursachen des vorzeitigen Verfalles," Rumohr first intro-
duces a sympathetic discussion of Sodoma, maligned, he claims, by
Vasari. Then follows a very interesting treatise on the effect of

252

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 47

antiquity on Italian art from early times. He shows how the
widening of the province of art, caused by the influence of
antiquity, came about from the "Steigerung eines Verlangens"
which gleams even in the works of the Middle Ages, and asserts
itself clear and strong in the fifteenth century. The antique
world furnished Raphael with a mass of heterogeneous material,
such as myth, fable, allegory, etc., which he used with great
liberty and interpreted with the verve of Apule jus and Ovid ; cor-
rectly feeling that it should not be treated with severity and in
the spirit of religion, but in worldly and poetical fashion. It is
only within recent times that the theory has arisen that such
treatment is idle and inartistic. This last remark is leveled,
of course, against the Schlegel-Overbeck school of criticism.
Rumohr is evidently more nearly in harmony with Meyer and
Goethe than would appear from his bitter polemics against them.

The ancients, Rumohr continues, correctly felt that the appear-
ance of things about us have a "sinnliche Reiz an und fur sich,"
apart from any "Bedeutung." Among moderns the Dutch were
the most successful in giving us this "Schwelgerey des Auges."
To furnish such delight is perfectly legitimate. For it is an
artist's duty to satisfy any honest demand of his time.

The premature decay of Italian art Rumohr explains by the
exaggerated " Zunf tgeist ; " also by the tendency in the sixteenth
century to hire artists to furnish work in the shortest possible
time. These theories, however insufficient they may appear to
modern students of culture-history, are noteworthy as marking
Rumohr's freedom from the principle so dear to Wackenroder and
Schlegel: the dependence of art on religion.

The third volume deals mostly with Raphael. It rather disap-
pointed the public. Yet Herman Grimm in his treatise on
Raphael claims that Rumohr's chapters on Raphael contained
material of the first importance.

Of particular interest to us, however, is the fact that Rumohr
nowhere condemns any of Raphael's later works on the ground of
worldliness, as had done Tischbein and all his followers, and that
even the "Transfiguration" meets with his unstinted praise.

The Bolognese masters, whose good points Rumohr seems to

253

48 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

recognize — he speaks of them as "technisch hochst gewandte
Manner" — evidently do not satisfy him. He mentions them only
casually, and in one place blames them for not understanding that
eclecticism such as they aimed at was absurd.

The volume closes with interesting chapters on the evolution
of Christian architecture, and a short essay on "Arabische Bau-
kunst."

We miss most in Rumohr's book any study of the Venetian
school. His principle was, however, to treat exclusively of those
works which he knew from intimate personal observation; hence
his omission, too, of artists like Francia.

We have transcribed merely what seemed to us most character-
istic in Rumohr's volumes — we omitted even his comments on
the great Italian sculptors — but what has been given may suffice
to enable the reader to appreciate the nature of Rumohr's contri-
bution. He was the first to devote critical study to the earliest
periods and, what is more important, to the artists of the fifteenth
century; thus laying the scientific foundation for the modern
criticism of Italian art, and utterly destroying the influence of
Cochin and Mengs. Like Tischbein, Wackenroder, and Schlegel,
he was deeply interested in the simplicity and naivet6 of the
religious painters. Yet the criticism, which Goethe and Meyer
best represented, against the vagaries of Schlegel and Overbeck
acted on him as an admirable corrective.1

Rumohr, today almost forgotten, attracted wide attention dur-
ing his lifetime, and affected not merely his own countrymen, but
even foreigners. The person who was to profit from the Italienische
Forschungen beyond anyone else was not a German, but one of
those Frenchmen — and every generation has produced them — for
whom German civilization has strong fascination — A.-F. Rio.2

1 The next scholar of importance to carry on Rumohr's work was Franz Kugler. In his
Handbuch der Geschichte der Malerei von Constantin dem Grossen bis auf die neuere Zeit
(Berlin, 1837) we find the evolution of painting described in its entirety. In 1842 followed
his Handbuch der Kunstgeschichte, which became basic for all modern works in the field of
art-history.

2 Alexis-Francois Rio was born in ^ormandy in 1798 and died in 1874. From his earliest
childhood he showed a strong religious bent. This instinct in him was fed by the reaction
against the contempt for religion preached by the French Revolution and implied by

254

GBOWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 49

To Rio, as to many men and women of his time, Catholic doctrine
was not merely sacred and final, but the carrier of superhuman
bliss and serenity. He was, moreover, one of those souls on fire
who, in protest against the rationalism of the eighteenth century,
were making inevitable in every part of Europe the creation of a
new art and a new philosophy. No wonder, then, that early in
life he felt dissatisfied with the eighteenth-century interpretation
of Italian art. In France the aesthetic tradition represented by
Cochin was still potent, he tells us, in his youth. Admiration for
the Carracci — which, we saw, Stendall himself could not shake
off — was "une sorte de maladie" among Frenchmen.1 For even
the distinguished author of the G6nie du Christianisme in Rome
and in Bologna adored the works of the Carracci and, more curious
still, in Rome despised the aesthetic standards of Overbeck and his
disciples;2 he regarded merely as "blasphemes" their estimate of

Napoleon's treatment of the Pope — the reaction so brilliantly voiced by Chateaubriand.
During the "Cent Jours " he fought " pour Dieu et pour le Roi." For a time he taught,
then occupied a government position. After his marriage he seems to have devoted himself
to his studies. He made many trips to Germany — those of 1831, 1832, and 1833 proving the
most fruitful. Here he came under the influence of Schelling, and especially of the philoso-
pher Baader. The former impressed him particularly by his doctrine of the importance of
the artist as a cultural and spiritualizing force. Even stronger was the influence upon him
of Baader's views, deeply tinged as they were with mysticism. Rio's veneration for orthodox
Catholicism grew more and more profound with time, and even led to a rupture with his
friend, the famous Lamennais. In Munich Dollinger called his attention to Rumohr's
Italienische Forschungen, which had just appeared. The book gave direction to his groping,
but intense interest in Christian art. German thought further influenced him through the
writings of men like Hamann, Jean Paul, and others, who intensified his temperamental
dislike for the rationalistic Weltanschauung. In Italy, which he visited several times, he
became acquainted in 1832 with several representatives of the German school of painting
who, years before, had fanned Rumohr's interest in the older masters. In 1833 he met Sulpiz
Boisseree in Coblenz and Ph. Veit in Frankfort on the Main ; in 1842 he made the acquaintance
of Cornelius in Berlin. In 1836 came out the first volume of the work in which he aimed to
give to the world a new interpretation of Italian art. He gave it the infelicitous title : De
la poesie chretienne dans son principe, dans sa matiere et dans ses formes. Forme de V art.
Peinture (Paris, 1836). It was to appear in two volumes, but the ill success of the first
volume for a time discouraged him. From 1836 on he frequently visited England. At last
he published the second volume in 1851, with the title De V art Chretien (Paris). Among his
other publications should be named : Essai sur Vhistoire de Vesprit humain dans Vantiqu itt
(1828-30); Leonard di Vinci et son ecole (1855); Quatre martyrs (1856); Shatcspeare (1864) —
an attempt at proving the Catholicism of Shakespeare. The second and greatly changed
edition of his work on Italian painting appeared from 1861 to 1867, under the title : De Vart
Chretien. Nouvelle edition, entierement refondue et considerablement augmentee. The chief
source of information on Rio's life is his autobiography, Epilogue a Vart Chretien (Fribourg-
en-Brisgau, 1870). The biographical dictionaries give but scant and partly incorrect
information.

1 Epilogue a Vart Chretien, Vol. I, p. 337.

2 He speaks of this group of artists in Part III, Book XII, of his Memoires d'Outre
Tombe (cf. ed. by Edmond Eire [Paris, no date], Vol. V, pp. 31 f.).

255

50 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Perugino and their preference for the first manner of Raphael
over the second. He, "qui avait presque entrevu les conditions
de I'esth^tique chr^tienne," could not understand that these Ger-
man painters under his very eyes " accomplissaient instinctivement
une ceuvre analogue & la sienne."1

When Rio went to Italy for the first time in 1830, French
travelers were never taken to the chapel of Nicholas V in the
Vatican — containing the frescoes by Fra Angelico which, as we
saw, were discovered by Hirt for German criticism as early as
about 1790 — and in the Sistine Chapel never had their attention
called to the frescoes by Fra Angelico, Botticelli, and Ghirlandajo.
The "Disputk" and the "School of Athens" were regarded merely
"comme des acheminements & de plus grandes choses, et les trans-
ports d'enthousiasme ne commencaient que quand on rencon trait
la collaboration ne~faste de Jules Remain."2

Though burdened with this tradition, Rio even on this first
visit to Rome instinctively made himself independent by studying
the catacombs and certain early Madonnas. He now decided to
go to Munich. On his way there he visited Venice — this "r6pub-
lique h&roiquement chre"tienne" — which made an indelible im-
pression on him. Now it was that in Munich he read for the
first time the Italienische Forschungen* — a book which he says
started "une ere nouvelle dans cette branche de litt^rature qui
forme la base et 1' aliment de la science esthe"tique."4 Italian art
suddenly appeared to him in a new light. He read everything
he could to further a plan, as yet vague, of bringing about in
France a revolution in the interpretation of Christian art.5 " Je
puis dire," he declares in another place,6 "que Rumohr fut mon
veritable initiateur, et qu'& lui seul revient le me'rite de ce qu'il
peut y [in Rio's book] avoir d'original dans certaines appr^cia-
tions qui, sans lui avoir e"t6 directement emprunte"es, me furent ou
inspire" es ou facilities par ses ouvrages," Rumohr, whom Rio
praises as "& la fois arch Eclogue, poe'te, helle"niste, graveur, peintre,
musicien,"7 omitted to do for Venetian what he so successfully

., Vol.1, pp. 337, 338. ±Ibid., p. 336. *Ibid., Vol. II, p. 121.

2 Ibid., p. 339. 5/ftid., p. 367. ? Ibid., p. 121.

3/6id., p. 367.

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GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 51

performed for Florentine art. It became Rio's aim among other
things to fill this gap.1

In 1831 he was back in Venice to finish those studies which
had suggested themselves to him in Munich. In order to under-
stand the art of Venice as the expression of national character, he
plunged into a study of the Venetian chronicles, archives, and
legends, until the individuality of the city and its people became
familiar to him as they probably had never been to anyone before.
His main difficulty here, and in other parts of Italy where he
studied now and later, was the indifference of the persons he met
toward his ideas. For he had elective affinity only with the older
painters and could not understand even Titian.

After all we have heard, we may hazard the belief — even before
turning to the book itself — that Rio's interpretation of Italian art
must be based in large part on material furnished by Rumohr,
and is likely to agree in striking fashion with the Tischbein-
Wackenroder-Schlegel-Overbeck point of view. This premonition
finds corroboration in a study of the facts.

At the very outset Rio declares his hostility to traditional atti-
tude in matters of art. "Ce qu'on est convenu d'appeler un
chef-d'oeuvre"2 cannot appeal to him. On the other hand, in the
earliest attempts of Christian artists, as found in the catacombs, "au
sein des inspirations les plus grandes qui furent jamais,"3 he dis-
covers the records of a "pense"e naive, attendrissante ou he"roique."4
This early art, so much despised by the "connaisseurs," deeply
thrills him. After passing in review the age of Constantine, the
effect of the Germanic invasions, the age of Charlemain, and the
influence of Byzantine art, he turns to the school of Siena. Vasari
hardly deigns to mention it, Rio informs us with contempt, but
he, Rio, takes great delight in some of the work of men like
Duccio and Simone Memmi.5

The Madonna by Cimabue in Sta. Maria Novella is conspicuous
for "le charme tout h fait nouveau du coloris" and "la dignite"
imposante."6 Giotto he rates much higher than Rumohr had done
and praises particularly the originality of the "Coronation of the

1 Epil., Vol. I, p. 123. 3 p. 3. 5 Pp. 46 ff .

2 Poteie chrttienne, p. 2. * P. 5. & p. 61.

257

52 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Virgin" in Sta. Croce. He bestows similar praise on the followers
of Giotto, notably on Orcagna, "le Michel-Ange de son siecle."1

During this first period, Florentine art made steady progress.
In the second we miss unity and find less purity. Through the
revival of interest in pagan civilizations an element of decadence
almost imperceptibly grows and corrupts painters, sculptors, and
poets. Ucello marks this decay : he signifies an advance in matters
of technique, but he lacks inspiration.2 Dangerous tendencies in
the direction of naturalism now arise, such as the habit of intro-
ducing the portraits of donors in sacred pictures. Three schools
now appear in Florence. One continued the old traditions left
by the disciples of Giotto, another was influenced by the technique
of the jeweler's trade, and the third took its models from among
persons who lived and died in monasteries in the odor of sanctity.8

Among the prominent artists of this period, Masaccio deserves
praise for deriving valuable elements from antiquity. So much
Rio grants, yet he evidently believes that the growing realistic
tendency of Florentine art, best exhibited by Masaccio's work,
marks no real advance.4 .Filippo Lippi's type of Madonnas
and saints is intolerably vulgar. In his works "1'oubli du^ but
auquel 1'art chre"tien doit tendre est port6 si loin, qu' il est impos-
sible de lui pardonner ses profanations."5 He was a libertine.
Hence he could not rise "k la hauteur de ces peintres religieux,
qui, dans le siecle pr6c6dent, avaient donn6 & 1'art une si grande
destination."6 Lippi's inferiority shows particularly in his angels:
"nul rayon de beatitude celeste n'illumine leurs visages."7 He
helped the Florentine school by improving the best elements of
naturalism, yet he put there "un gernie de decadence."8 Botticelli
was influenced by Lippi. He even adopted Lippi's "types vul-
gaires." His Madonnas, however, are better and uont presque
toujours le visage voil6 par la tristesse."9 In his estimate of
Ghirlandajo, Rio becomes inconsistent. He praises his "f^condite"
et maturity,"10 and because of their grandeur is willing to condone
the realism of the Novella frescoes.

1 P. 81. * Pp. 108 ff . 7 P. 117. 9 P. 128.

2 Pp. 90 ff. 5 p. 115. 8 p. us. 10 p. 130.

3 Pp. 90 ff. 6 P. 116.

258

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 53

During the fifteenth century, then, Florentine art made great
progress, but through the influx of paganism, which emanated as
a bad influence from the court of the Medici, painting ceased for
many artists to be "une des formes de la poe"sie chretienne." l
Only one school in this period offers a "spectacle consolant" by
being "sup^rieure & toutes les autres par le charactere ^minemment
mystique de ses produits, et par I'inalt^rable purete" de ses inspira-
tions."2 Rio continues: "Ici s'arrete la competence de ce qu'on
appelle vulgairement les connaisseursS" For mysticism is to
painting "ce que 1'extase est & la psychologie, ce qui dit assez
combien sont delicats les mate'riaux qu'il s'agit de mettre en ceuvre
dans cette partie de notre histoire."* Rio now subjoins a long dis-
cussion of mediaeval mysticism and points out its profound
influence on former generations. Nowhere does he betray greater
glow of conviction and depth of feeling than in dealing with this
subject, so foreign to most of his contemporaries.

Fra Angelico, who had "mfiri et sanctifie" son talent dans le
silence du cloitre,"5 ignorant of the great revolution beginning in
his day in Florentine art, became the finest exponent of this
school, "& la fois si mystique et si lyrique."6 He has certain
defects in the treatment of the body, but to notice them one would
have to be "bien inaccessible h tout ce que Fart chre"tien peut
faire naitre demotions plus delicieuses dans une ame convenable-
ment pre"pare"e." 7 They arise, not from inability, but from indiffer-
ence to everything foreign ' ' au but transcendental qui occupait sa
pieuse imagination."8 A close examination of certain paintings
which at first may seem tiresome reveals "une varie"te" prodigieuse
qui embrasse tous les degre"s de poe"sie que peut exprimer la
physiognomie humaine."8 Rio then interprets with warmth sev-
eral of Angelico's works, among them the frescoes in the chapel
of St. Nicholas in the Vatican.

Fra Angelico's favorite pupil was Benozzo Gozzoli. Rio speaks
of several of his paintings with praise and puts the frescoes in
the Campo Santo in Pisa among the "plus e"tonnantes merveilles

IP. 158. 4 P. 160. 7 p. 192.

2 P. 159. 5 p. 173. 8 p. 192.

3 P. 160. 6 P. 190. 9 P. 193.

54 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

de 1'art." "II fallait pour y re*ussir un melange de grandeur et de
naivete ou l'e*cole naturaliste de Florence ne pouvait de"j& plus
atteindre." Benozzo was the best representative of the "style
patriarchal" — the most difficult of all.1

Among those who painted in a similar spirit the most important
are Gentile da Fabriano, and especially Perugino. For the latter
our critic has a great predilection and places him higher than even
Rumohr was willing to do. When Perugino came to Florence, he
was still free from "toutes les profanations contemporaines,"2 for
he had painted only religious subjects. His best period was about
1500. What he did after that is senile. The frescoes in Sta.
Maria Maddalena in Florence are among his best. From his
school sprang he who may fairly be called "le prince de Part
chre"tien, du moins pendant la plus belle partie de sa vie."3 The
school of Perugia dealt with fewer subjects than did others, and
omitted the study of the antique. Hence Perugino was accused
of sterility of imagination by his contemporaries, who did not
understand that an artist "qui cherche ses inspirations en dehors
de la sphere des objects sensibles" will strive beyond all things to
develop types which "se sont imposes comme une tftche longue
et religieuse & son pinceau." "La gloire de l'6cole ombrienne est
d'avoir poursuivi sans relftche ce but transcendental de 1'art
chre"tien."* The inspiring influence of Perugino and his group
spread to Bologna and affected artists like Francia. Pinturicchio
may or may not have been a disciple of Perugino; he certainly
painted in much the same spirit (e. g., in the frescoes of Sta.
Maria del Popolo in Rome). In the Appartamenti Borgia in
Rome he was humiliated by being compelled to introduce the por-
traits of Alexander VI and his relatives in sacred pictures. It
gives one satisfaction to see the inferiority of this "ceuvre pure-
ment mercenaire."5 Luca Signorelli must have been influenced
by Perugino in his beautiful frescoes in the Sistine Chapel. In
other works he shows no "influences d' inspirations e"galement
heureuses."6 He wished to become popular and to rival contem-
porary artists. Hence he began to study the nude, and even

iPp. 203 f. 3 p. 234. 5 p. 265.

2 P. 220. * Pp. 235 f. 6 P. 273.

260

GKOWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 55

"rechercha les bonnes graces de Laurent de Medici."1 Now his
style gained in force what it lost in purity. Hence the general
admiration for his ' ' Last Judgment " in Orvieto. With all its good
points this painting "ne prouve qu'un progres purement externe
dans Luca Signorelli." 2 He had so exclusively devoted himself to
the study of anatomy that he "avait fini par ne plus voir autre
chose dans 1'art et meme dans Fhomme."3

We now come to him "qui fait h la fois le couronnement et la
clOture de Pe"cole ombrienne, et qui a eu la gloire de porter Part
chr^tien h son plus haut point de perfection," * viz., Raphael. When
Raphael first went to Florence, "le naturalisme 6tait encore dans
tout Porgueil du triomphe obtenu sur Savonarole et ses partisans,"5
but Raphael chose his associates — men like Ridolfo Ghirlandajo
and Fra Bartolomeo — "dans le parti vaincu."6 As Raphael went
several times to Perugia between 1505 and 1508, he had oppor-
tunity to continue his early method. Rio then adds an apprecia-
tion of the Madonnas of the early period. The " Vierge au balda-
quin" is the most beautiful: it is the triumph of Christian art.
Later on, changes almost imperceptibly came over Raphael. Yet,
ule paganisme, de plus en plus en vogue parmi les graveurs et les
artistes florentins, n'arriva pas jusqu' & lui et ne souilla pas une
seule fois la purete" de son pinceau." "Cette noble repugnance
pour tout ce qui tendait & d6grader Fart chr^tien"7 explains why
Raphael found few illustrious protectors.

Among the tasks put before Raphael when he was called to
paint the walls of the "Camera della Segnatura" was one subject
which may be regarded as "une bonne fortune sans pareille" to a
painter trained in the atmosphere of the Umbrian school — the
"Disputk" The painting which treats this subject is therefore a
masterpiece "sans rivale dans Fhistoire de la peinture." Soon
after finishing this wonder of art, Raphael showed symptoms of
decay.8 Hence the admirers of his first style look upon his
second "avec une sorte de repugnance ou au moins avec froideur."
Rio feels compelled to polemize against Rumohr's explanation of
this revolution in the great painter.9

1P.273. 3 p. 274 5 Pp. 277 f. 7Pp.291f. »Pp.298ff.

2 P. 274. * Pp. 274 f. 6 P. 278. 8 p. 294.

261

56 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Now Kio introduces a long chapter on Savonarola. As lovers
"de Fart et de la poe"sie chre"tienne" we must remember, in order
to understand the famous monk, that he found everything in
Florence — art, manners, customs — polluted with paganism.1 He
saw that "la decadence des beaux-arts tenait principalement & la
decadence du culte parmi les chre"tiens."2 His influence became
tremendous, and the enthusiasm for his doctrines went so far that
many voluptuous works of art, among them several antique
statues, were destroyed. "Fra Bartolomeo apporta scrupuleuse-
ment tous les desseins qu'il avait faits comme eludes du nu, et son
exemple fut suivi par Lorenzo di Credi et par plusieurs autres
peintres qui avaient compris le besoin d'une prompte re"ge"ne*ra-
tion pour leur art." ''

The following chapter deals with the men who, according to
Kio, in their art carried out Savonarola's teaching, especially
Lorenzo di Credi, Fra Bartolomeo, and Ridolfo Grhirlandajo. He
calls this "l'6cole religieuse pure."4 Fra Bartolomeo is a great
favorite of Rio, who delights in his " repugnance pour toute espece
de sujets profanes."5 Ridolfo left the path of his father and
became "le dernier repre"sentant de Fe"cole mystique."*

Many interesting works of the sixteenth century belong to
"naturalisme." Though we find in them "conceptions beaucoup
moins sublimes" than are those of the Umbrian school, they
nevertheless stand in the front rank in the history of painting
"quand on est venu k la pe"riode de de"croissance."7 Rio cannot
by any means place as high an estimate as does Cochin in his
Voyage d ^Halie on the artists who imitate nature on the side of
color. Yet "nous leur devons une sorte de reconnaissance pour
avoir donn6 & cet element subalterne tout le d^velopement dont il
e"tait susceptible."8 To the glory of the artists of Florence be it
said that even in the period of decadence "ils ne se sont pas
laisse"s se~duire par la vogue scandaleuse" — in matters of color-
ing— "qu' obtenaient les productions cyniques du Titien et de
Jules Romain."9

IP. 305. * P. 364. 7 p. 3%.

2 P. 328. 5 p. 371. 8 P. 396.

3 P. 352. 6 p. 395. » P. 397.

262

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 57

Andrea del Sarto had much talent, but lacked the highest
inspiration. His disgraceful passion for Lucrezia del Fede made
him put her into several of his paintings as the Virgin. Some of
his Madonnas, like the one in the Annunziata in Florence, the
Madonna del Sacco, and the Madonna of St. Francis in the Tri-
buna, are admirable; others belong to a "type vulgaire."1

Mantegna absorbed much from antiquity with wonderful
powers of assimilation. Such skill makes one "regretter d'au-
tant plus la perte d'un temps si pre"cieux qu'il aurait pu consacrer
exclusivement & la composition d'oeuvres plus vitales."2 Later —
much to his advantage — he was somewhat influenced by Giovanni
Bellini. The Madonna in S. Zeno in Verona, however, calls out
Rio's enthusiastic approval. Mantegna had no great disciples —
not even his two sons accomplished anything important. "Ce
triste re~sultat prouve plus invinciblement qu'aucune the"orie, la
funeste influence exerce"e par l'e*le"ment paien sur les arts d' imagi-
nation, toutes les fois qu'il n'a pas e"te" rigoureusement subordinne"
& 1' element religieux, le seul qui contienne le germe de tradi-
tions ve"ritablement vivaces."3 Mantua, "cette pauvre ville," was
haunted by a sort of fatality. No sooner did the "e"cole de"fec-
tueuse" of Mantegna expire there than she hailed with delight ule
cynique Jules Remain" whose brush, void of poetry, "e"tait tou-
jours incomparable quand il s'agissait de distiller le poison."*

Venice did not go to Mantua nor to Padua — where at one
time Lippi found favor — for inspiration. She preferred to com-
municate with the "6cole pure et mystique" of Umbria.5 The
influence of Umbrian ideals continued in Venice until came "la
grande invasion du naturalisme et du paganisme" at the end of
the fifteenth century. Gentile da Fabriano established the con-
nection between Venice and Umbria. He was in a sense the
founder of the school of the Bellinis. German and Dutch art also
influenced painting in Venice.6

Of the two Bellinis, Gentile had a leaning toward the principles
of the school of Mantegna. Giovanni never did. He painted
much better later in life than he had done earlier in his career.

1 Pp. 406 ff. 3 p. 454. 5 p. 457.

2 P. 446. * P. 455. <* Pp. 457 ff.

263

58 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

But his type of Christ was always the same. He never spoiled
his works by making them merely graceful. The Virgin on his
canvasses is always "toute entiere au pressentiment de ses souf-
f ranees." This type of Madonna is not as beautiful as that of the
Umbrian school, "mais il est plus prophe"tique. " ] After Anto-
nello da Messina had taught him the art of painting in oil, he
began to produce his greatest chefs-d'oeuvre. Among these the
Madonna in the Frari church in Venice is a masterpiece compar-
able to the greatest of the Umbrian school. The artist seems to
have had an "avant-gout de la beatitude celeste"2 when he painted
it. The Madonna in S. Zaccaria in Venice is the "chef-d'oeuvre
de l'e"cole ve"nitienne pour tout ce qui tient & la poe"sie et & la pro-
fondeur des caracteres." We find in it "grace naive" and "sim-
plicit6 touchante" — the "attribus exclusifs des productions de
cette e"poque, qui fut comme 1'age d'or de la peinture chre"tienne."3

Among the other masters of the older period of Venetian art,
Carpaccio is to him the most delightful. The Ursula series he
calls "ce monument colossal de 1'art chre"tien."4

Among Giovanni Bellini's pupils occurred a schism. Some
"s'engagerent dans les voies du perfectionnement exte"rieur, & la
suite du Giorgion, re"formateur non moins impe"tueux ni moms
hardi que son contemporain Luther." Others continued the
principles of mystic art. They were "amplement doomage's par
le suffrage populaire de la pitie" qu'ils inspiraient aux nova-
teurs" (!).5 Among those faithful to these sacred tenets, Vicenzo
Catena was "Fun des plus grands peintres de l'e"cole venitienne."6

Giovanni Bellini influenced artists in different parts of the
Veneto, especially in Bergamo ; these pure traditions in the little
town explain the appearance of Palma Vecchio and Lorenzo
Lotto.7

On the remaining pages of his book Rio speaks of the relation
of painting to music, has praise for Paolo Veronese's "magnifique
tableau des noces de Cana"8 in the Louvre, shows how much
longer the Venetian school retained religious feeling in painting

1P.474. 2 p. 478. 3 p. 481. *P.498. 5 P. 504.

6 P. 506. Catena is now forgotten. Never does the danger of the Schlegel-Rio method
become more apparent than by such praise bestowed on mediocrity.

7 P. 517. 8P, 524.

GKOWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 59

than did other schools; furthermore, how intense the Christian
spirit was in Venetian life, and how corruption ultimately over-
whelmed Venice in the eighteenth century.1

Was ever interpretation more subjective, capricious, one-sided,
placed upon the works of the great artists of Italy? Not only
does Rio neglect or despise nearly everything which to Cochin
and Mengs seemed vital, but he goes so far in his reaction against
the rationalism of the eighteenth century that he might fairly, by
way of motto, have placed on the fly -leaf of his book the words of
Friedrich Schlegel, quoted above: "Ich habe vorztiglich Sinn fur
den alten Styl in der christlichen Mahlerei, nur diese verstehe
und begreife ich, und nur fiber diese kann ich reden." For with
Rio, as with Schlegel, the supreme test of a work of art is: "Does
it breathe the religious spirit?" not at all: "Is it well painted?"
or, "Does it reflect a great artistic individuality?" That ill-
starred confusion between art and religion, implied as early as
1790 in the principles of Tischbein's associates, which appeared
for the first time in a printed work in Wackenroder's Herzens-
ergiessungen, which gives to Fr. Schlegel's essays their glamor
of originality, and which guided the brush of the artists grouped
about Overbeck — informs every line of the Poesie chr£tienne.
What Wackenroder had preached with subdued sweetness here
sounds in clarion notes. The Po6sie chr£tienne may be called the
great manifesto of the Wackenroder-Schlegel school of criti-

1 When the second volume appeared in 1855, Lindsay and Ruskin had begun to publish.
It therefore does not interest us here, although it represents the same point of view as the
first.

2 That Rio was directly influenced by the writings of Fr. Schlegel is proved by a passage
in the Po&sie (p. 450) in which he quotes from the essay in the Europa, entitled "Gemalde-
beschreibungen aus Paris und den Niederlanden," and calls Schlegel "1'homme qui a le
plus vivement senti 1'art chretien dans les temps modernes et qui portait dans ses jugements
esth6tiques toute la candour d'une belle ame jointe aux lumieres d'un beau genie." The
title of Rio's work, apparently so far-fetched, seems inspired by a passage in Schlegel's
Europa (Vol. II, erstes Stack, pp. 113 ff.). Schlegel here discusses the two elements which
are essential to good painting: technique and inspiration, " Geist und Buchstabe, Erfindung
und Ausfflhrung." Of the latter he says: "Auch ist die Erfindung so zu verstehen, dass,
was man Anordnung und Composition nennt, mit darunter verstanden ist ; mit einem Worte,
die Poesie in dem Gemfthlde .... Geist und Buchstabe also, das Mechanische und die
Poesie, das sind Bestandtheile der Mahlerei .... Einer moglichen Misdeutung mussen wir
noch vorbeugen, was die Forderung der Poesie betrifft. Der Mahler soil ein Dichter seyn,
das ist keine Frage ; aber nicht eben ein Dichter in Worten, sondern in Farben. Mag er
doch seine Poesie uberall anders herhaben, als aus der Poesie selbst, weun es nur Poesie ist.
Das Beispiel der alten Mahler wird uns auch hier am besten orientiren Aber wir

265

60 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

It is interesting to note the difference between Rio and Rumohr,
the scholar to whom he avowedly owed so much. No one could
be more deeply interested in the naive religious painters of Italy
than the great German critic. But Rumohr, checked by a
thoroughly artistic temperament, never forgets that pictorially to
interpret life in its multitudinous forms is as great a contribution
to the spiritual development of the race as exclusively to study
the manifestations of the religious spirit; is, in fact, in a broad
sense, a form of worship. More than that, he never overlooks the
tremendous importance of technique, and he is fully aware that
to be a religious painter need by no means necessarily imply
being a great artist.

But let us not be unjust. Rio, like Schlegel, is certainly not
conspicuous for soundness. Yet, as Schlegel, by dint of those
very exaggerations which offend us, freed Germany from Mengs,
so Rio, by his profound love for the poetry of religion, freed
France from the worldly and unsatisfactory critical dogma of
Cochin. The Frenchman did even more than the German toward
establishing in the eyes of the world the importance of those early
masters who had so long been contemned, and who are so dear
to us now. He did more, I say; for his book was destined to
make a deep impression in various parts of Europe.

In France, to be sure, it was at first entirely unsuccessful. The
publisher sold only twelve copies during the first five months
after its appearance, and as late as 1838 Delacluse, the oracle in
matters of art on the Journal des D6bats, asked Rio's friend Mon-
talembert whether Rio actually was in earnest with his peculiar
views on painting. He even wrote articles which were meant
to warn young artists against those ideas. A sort of despair fell

meinen darunter nur die poetische Ansicht der Dinge, und diese batten die Alten naher aus
der Quelle. Die Poesie der alten Mahler war theils die Religion, wie beim Perugino, Fra
Bartbolomeo und vielen andern Alten ; theils Philosophie, wie beim tief sinnigen Leonardo,
Oder aber beides, wie in dem unergrftndlichen Barer." He continues to explain that the
poetry of the Middle Ages was religion and mystic philosophy. Therefore in our scientific
age, in which religion has virtually passed out of life, the painter's only recourse is " die
universellste Kunst aller Kftnste .... die Poesie, wo er, wenn er sie grttndlich studirt,
beides vereinigt finden wird, sowohl die Religion als die Philosophie der alten Zeit. Dass
nun eine solche poetische Absicht in den Gemfthlden der alten, sowohl italiftnischen als deut-
schen Schule durchaus vorhanden, ja der eigentliche Zweck der Mahlerei sey, das liesse sich
durch vollstandige Induktion beweisen." (Loc. cit., p. 114.) Rio'a whole work appears like
an attempt to furnish this Induktion.

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 61

on Rio.1 Only in later years did the book become more influential
in its own country.

In England, on the contrary, Rio was soon to make a profound
impression. He had married an English woman, and from 1836
on he repeatedly visited Great Britain and there became acquainted
with many prominent men, like Lord Stanhope, Lord Houghton,
Carlyle, Gladstone, Manning, Wordsworth, and especially Samuel
Rogers. Gladstone became deeply interested in the Po&sie chr6-
tienne, and took it with him on a trip to Italy in 1838.2 The dis-
ciples of the new art-criticism after a time became so numerous
in England that during the "season" of 1840 Rio's position was
much like that of the chief of a sect.3

There was good reason why Rio at precisely this time should
make so profound an impression in England, when his own country
refused to understand him. For several years before his arrival
the English cultured had been stirred by a religious upheaval
which in intensity far surpassed any other that had ever reached
this class. The Oxford Movement had been started by Keble in
1833. Pusey, enthusiastic and learned, had greatly added to its
strength. In 1836 John Henry Newman began his investigations
of Catholicism (cf. his Romanism and Popular Protestanism)
which, starting in a spirit of hostility to Rome, were later to end
in espousal of the Catholic Weltanschauung. In February, 1841,
about the time when Rio was impressing London circles, appeared
Newman's famous Tract No. 90, in which he tried to refute the
allegation that the Thirty-nine Articles were irreconcilable with

^Epilogue, Vol. II, pp. 274, 275, 399, 400. 2 ibid., pp. 325-60.

SIbid., pp. 406 fE. In 1854 there appeared in London a translation of the Poesie, en-
titled: The Poetry of Christian Art, Translated from the French of A. F. Rio (cf. Epi-
logue, Vol. II, pp. 412 ff.). Among those who helped to spread Rio's doctrines one of
the most enthusiastic was \Mrs. Jameson (Epil., loc. cit., p. 412). In 1841 she met Rio in
Paris. She calls this meeting "the great event of my life here" fcf. Memoirs of the Life
of Anna Jameson, by her Niece Gerardine Macpherson [Boston, 1878], p. 176), and further
mentions visiting the Louvre in his company. Mrs. Jameson's books, written before this
meeting (e. g., The Diary of an Ennuyee, 1826; Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad,
1834), betray no interest in the early artists. In 1841 she began to devote her life to the inter-
pretation of sacred art. The most important product of her new studies is her Memoirs of
the Early Italian Painters (1845) and especially her Sacred and Legendary Art (1848 ff.).
About this time the Po6sie was taken up with enthusiasm even in Italy. Manzoni and
Cesare Cantu admired it, and, Rio states, an Italian translation with notes by Rumohr
appeared (I know nothing more of this translation). (Cf. Epilogue, Vol. II, pp. 400, 419, 423.)
Germany, the country of Rumohr, was naturally less impressed with the Po6sie. Yet Cor-
nelius read it and gave it to Frederick William IV (ibid., p. 416).

267

62 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

Roman Catholic teaching. Sinister significance was given to this
publication by the fact that a strong current was beginning to set
toward Rome. Many superior minds felt that in the English
Church might be found modest types of goodness, but that the
Roman produced the heroic. There was a strong rebound in
Anglican England from insular ignorance and prejudice in matters
Catholic. English travelers had come in contact with high-minded
French priests of great originality and eloquence, like Lamennais
and Montalembert, the friends of Rio.

These convictions took a strong hold of W. G. Ward, remark-
able for great controversial gifts. In his writings he constantly
compared the English church with the Roman, to the disadvantage
of the former (cf. his Ideal of a Christian Church, 1844). New-
man's apostasy in 1845 marked the culmination of these Roman
tendencies, but broke the Oxford Movement.1

So then Rio, coming to England while the movement was reach-
ing white heat, found what he missed at home : an atmosphere sur-
charged with religious sentiment and spirituality. What wonder
his teaching was taken up with an avidity, a violence, to which
many a page in Ruskin bears eloquent witness! This atmosphere
was identical in essentials with that which, two generations earlier,
among German artists had produced the reaction against Mengs,
and a little later had given birth to German pre-Raphaelitism.

Because of these favorable conditions, Rio's message was des-
tined indirectly to become a great factor in the present culture of
the English-speaking nations,

In 1847 Lord Lindsay put out in London his Sketches of
the History of Christian Art.2 This work, written in letters to a
young friend, aims to call attention to the importance of Christian
art, and is based, for material, chiefly on Rumohr ; for interpreta-
tion, on Rio. Lanzi, Forster, Kugler, and others are also quoted;

iCf. K. W. Church, The Oxford Movement (London, 1900).

2 Alex. Will. Crawford Lindsay, twenty-fifth Earl of Crawford (1812-80), was profoundly
religious throughout his life and directed his last years to the study of religious history.
His sympathy with its artistic side resulted in his best work, the book mentioned above.
The second edition of it appeared in 1882. (Cf. Dictionary of National Biography sub " Lind-
say.") This edition, according to the introductory notice, offers no changes from the first,
I used the American reprint of it (New York, 1886).

GROWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 63

nevertheless, Kumohr and Rio are the author's guides, and he
constantly refers to them. He calls the Poesie chretienne "a work
graceful, eloquent and appreciative, and calculated to make enthu-
siasts in the cause of the Ecole mystique, exclusively of all other
excellence."

The very first pages reveal Lindsay's view-point. We read
there :

But the Sculpture of Greece is the voice of Intellect and Thought,
communing with itself in solitude, feeding on beauty and yearning after
truth. While the Painting of Christendom — (and we must remember
that the glories of Christianity in the full extent of the term, are yet to
come) — is that of an immortal spirit, conversing with its God.1

He disclaims indifference toward Greek art ("do not for a moment
suppose me insensible to classical art"), and pretends to take great
pleasure in the Elgin marbles. Yet he continues: "But none of
these completely satisfy us. The highest element of truth and
beauty, the Spiritual, was beyond the soar of Phidias and Praxi-
teles." Consequently the Christian Weltanschauung is far superior
to the Greek. Hence the "vantage" of the Bible over the Iliad.2
The fine arts are a sort of Trinity of Unity. Architecture sym-
bolizes the Father, Sculpture the Son, and Painting the Holy
Spirit, the Smile of God illuminating creation.3

The work contains first a treatise on "The Ideal, and the
Character and Dignity of Christian Art;" then one entitled
"Table of Symbols: The Hierogryphical language of the Uni-
versal Church during the Early Ages." Then come (among
other things) "Sketches of the History of Christian Art," dealing
with Christian painting, sculpture, and architecture down to the
fifteenth century. The author stopped here, but hoped some time
to continue.

Lindsay's Sketches in themselves have no great importance.
They are of interest because symptomatic of a new current, and
furthermore because they helped to inspire him in whom the
whole movement in favor of Christian art culminated.

Ruskin, by temperament and training as religious as Rio and
Lindsay, very early in life exhibited a strong affection for the pic-

i Sketches, Vol. I, p. 3. 2 ibid., p. 4. 3 ibid., pp. 5, 6.

64 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

turesque in architecture.1 This predilection was perhaps encour-
aged in him by the presumption in favor of Gothic architecture
started, as we saw, by Englishmen and Germans in the eighteenth
century, and in the nineteenth most powerfully furthered in Eng-
land by Pugin.

For early Italian painting, we know, there was little feeling in
England before the appearance of the Poesie chretienne. Hence
it was possible for Ruskin to go to Italy as a young man without
appreciating the merit of the older school. He even could pub-
lish a treatise on art (Modern Painters, Vol. I, 1843) in which
appears none of that explosive enthusiasm for Christian painting
which fills many of his later publications. In the autumn and
winter of 1844-45 he claims to have studied Rio and Lindsay.2
He could now say of himself: "perceiving thus, what a blind bat
and puppy I had been, all through Italy, determined that at least
I must see Pisa and Florence again before writing another word
of Modern Painters"3

From now on it became one of the chief labors of his life to
spread the gospel that art can be inspiring and uplifting, can be
an ennobling force, only as long as it is the expression of the
religious spirit. This spirit, however, he found exclusively in the
early masters. The wordliness and learning of the Renaissance
killed it.4

His attitude is perhaps most clearly and forcibly expressed in
his essay on "Pre-Raphaelitism," originally delivered in Novem-
ber, 1853, as Lecture IV of the "Lectures on Architecture and
Painting."' Here he tells us:

1 See his Poetry of Architecture, etc., written when he was nineteen, and published over
the nom-de-plume " Kata Phusin" (cf. Collingwood, The Life and Work of John Ruskin
[Boston and New York, 1893], Vol. I, pp. 81 ff.).

2 Cf. Praeterita, 2d ed. (New York, no date), Vol. II, p. 186. He probably read and studied
Bio at this time, but his memory must have played him false in regard to Lindsay, for the
latter's book did not appear until 1847. Ruskin wrote a review of the Sketches in the year of
their appearance, and published it in the Quarterly Review for June, 1847. It is reprinted
in On the Old Road. Collingwood (op. cit., Vol. I, p. 139) uncritically copies Praeterita.

% Praeterita, Vol. II, p. 186. In consequence he inserted in the third edition of Vol. I of
Modern Painters the passages on the drawing of flowers by Cima da Conegliano, Fra Ange-
lico, etc.

* Fortunately, Ruskin is not always consistent. We should hardly expect dithyrambic
enthusiasm for Tintoretto from the greatest follower of Rio.

*Cf. the "Brantwood edition" of Ruskin's TForfc«(New York, 1892), pp. 187 ff.

270

GBOWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 65

Now the division of time which the Pre-Raphaelites [meaning, of
course, Rossetti and his friends] have adopted, in choosing Raphael as
the man whose works mark the separation between Medievalism and
Modernism, is perfectly accurate. It has been accepted as such by all
their opponents. You have, then, the three periods: Classicalism, extend-
ing to the fall of the Roman empire; Medievalism, extending from that
fall to the close of the fifteenth century; and Modernism thenceforward
to our days. Classicism began with Pagan Faith. Medievalism began
and continued, wherever civilisation began and continued to confess
Christ.

About the time of Raphael began the denial of religious belief.
Modernism is characterized by indifference to God and his word.
The consequence is that all ancient art was religious, and all
modern art is profane ;

.... that art is the impurer for not being in the service of Christianity,
is indisputable, and that is the main point I have now to do with ....
just as classical art was greatest in building to its gods, so medieval art
was great in building to its gods, and modern art is not great, because it
builds to no God.

No one could claim:

.... that Angelico painting the life of Christ, Benozzo painting the
life of Abraham, Ghirlandajo painting the life of the Virgin, Giotto
painting the life of St. Francis, were worse employed, or likely to pro-
duce a less healthy art, than Titian painting the loves of Venus and
Adonis, than Correggio painting the naked Antiope, than Salvator paint-
ing the slaughters of the thirty years' war. If you will not let me call
the one kind of labour Christian, and the other unchristian, at least you
will let me call the one moral, and the other immoral, and that is all I
ask you to admit When the entire pupose of art was moral teach-
ing, it naturally took truth for its first object, and beauty, and the
pleasure resulting from beauty, only for its second. But when it lost all
purpose of moral teaching, it as naturally took beauty for its first object,
and truth for its second.

Raphael, Ruskin goes on to explain, was responsible for "the
great change which clouds the career of mediaeval art." For in
his twenty-fifth year he decorated the chambers of the Vatican,
where he wrote

the Mene, Tekel, Upharsin of the Arts of Christianity And he wrote

it thus : On one wall of that chamber he placed a picture of the World or
Kingdom of Theology, presided over by Christ. And on the side wall of

271

66 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

that same chamber he placed the World or Kingdom of Poetry, presided
over by Apollo. And from that spot, and from that hour, the intellect
and the art of Italy date their degradation.

If Bury had put in writing the views which left such an impress
on his fellow-painters in Rome, and which later irritated Meyer,
he might have expressed himself much as does Ruskin here,
though doubtless less violently. Certainly Ruskin' s statement
sounds like an expansion and exaggeration of certain passages in
Fr. Schlegel's Gremahldebeschreibungen aus Paris und den Nie-
derlanden, and some sentences in it strike one like modified tran-
scriptions from Rio.1 His passionate preference for the early
masters is attested again and again throughout his work. We are
all familiar with the praise of Cimabue, Giotto, Orcagna, Fra
Angelico, etc., found in the various volumes of Modern Painters
and in other works. We remember, too, that Lippi and Botti-
celli rose on his horizon comparatively late in life — and the fact
is not without significance for one who had read Rio. We further
call to mind Ruskin' s contempt for the Bolognese, especially for
Cochin's favorite, Guercino, and also, in spite of appreciation for
his technical ability, for that other darling of the eighteenth cen-
tury, Correggio. "Sensuality and impurity" soiled the brush of
both. The Renaissance, readers of Ruskin are well aware, was to
the great prose-poet merely an age of decay. As Wackenroder
fifty years before had pleaded for a simple spirit in art, and had
professed contempt for technique, so his famous English successor
never tires of lauding "simple and unlearned men" like Giotto,
Orcagna, Angelico, Memmi, Pisano, and of attacking "the learned
men that followed them." 2 For knowledge and science (especially
the science of words) are a burden. They have a pestilent effect.
They lead to the pride of science which killeth; "the one main
purpose of the Renaissance artists, in all their work, was to show
how much they knew." This is "Renaissance Pride."3 The
interest in paganism, so strong during the Renaissance, is deplor-
able. There followed from this interest that "all the most exalted
faculties of man, which, up to that period, had been employed in

1 Cf . above, p. 55.

^Stones of Venice, "The Spite of the Proud," sec. 23 (Brantwood edition).

3 Ibid., sec. 32.

272

GBOWTH OF INTEREST IN EARLY ITALIAN MASTERS 67

the service of Faith, were now transferred to the service of Fic-
tion."1 The inevitable corollary of such self-conceit was decay.
This is the great "Mene" to be derived from the study of Vene-
tian history.2

Ruskin goes beyond Rio, and the Germans from whom Rio
borrowed, in more persistently emphasizing the purely moral
aspect of art. This attitude frequently comes to the surface in
Ruskin's writings, and is perhaps most tersely expressed in "The
Relation of Art to Morals," the third of the "Lectures on Art":
"You must have the right moral state first, or you cannot have
the art. But when the art is once obtained, its reflected action
enhances and completes the moral state out of which it arose. "a

This inability to recognize the essential difference between the
moral and the artistic instinct was common in the literary and the
art criticism of all countries in the eighteenth century. In Ger-
many the cultured had become accustomed to a clearer method of
thinking through Geothe's and Schiller's illuminating contribu-
tions to criticism. In England and America, mainly through
Ruskin's influence, absence of mature insight to this day charac-
terizes discussions of the subject.

It is not my purpose, however, to show how much harm Rus-
kin has done. Quite the contrary. Certainly his method is
viciously unscientific. To quote a felicitous word of Professor
Norton: "Today he rides with Sir Galahad, pure, inspired, stead-
fast as he; tomorrow with Don Quixote, generous, deluded, extrav-
agant as he."4 Yet it was he who by dint of an unequaled genius
for prose and an irresistible enthusiasm made love for beauty a
strong factor in English culture, and thus gave it a degree of
mellowness which, without his influence, it might lack. Surely,
to have accomplished that is as much as any mortal need aspire
to attain. His very lack of balance helped him, as lack of balance
had helped Rousseau, with whom he has so much in common.
And his insistence on the identity of religion and true art was

1 Loc. cit., sec. 102.

2 See the concluding chapters of The Stones of Venice.

3 Cf . Brantwood edition, p. 80.

*Brantwood edition, volume containing the "Lectures on Architecture and Paint-
ing," p. v.

273

68 CAMILLO VON KLENZE

the very channel through which his message found ready access
to the hearts of thousands of his countrymen. For, while the
German public had been disciplined through the influence of
Goethe, Meyer, and Rumohr, the English had remained indiffer-
ent to art in spite of Reynolds and Fuseli,1 and hence could best
be reached through its veneration for Christian dogma.

Ruskin's influence, though still strong, is no longer as over-
whelming as it was even twenty years ago. The author of The
Gentle Art of Making Enemies has done his share toward miti-
gating it. Let us not lapse into the tone of bitterness or ridicule
which marks much of the estimate of Ruskin on the part of
Whistler's school. Still, let us not forget that what was pardon-
able, even admirable, in Bury, Wackenroder, and Schlegel, as a
protest against a view of art chill with intellectuality, need no
longer control us who have been freed.2

CAMILLO VON KLENZE

BROWN UNIVERSITY

i This indifference had evidently not been greatly mitigated by Thomas Phillips' Lec-
tures on the History and Principles of Painting (London, 1833). In the first of these deliv-
ered in 1827, he introduced an appreciative estimate of Giotto. In the second, delivered in
the same year, he shows fair understanding of Masaccio and rather remarkable insight into
the genius of Signorelli. But he evidently has no understanding of Lippi, Botticelli or
Ghirlandajo. Besides, Phillips' style was hardly adapted to arouse a whole nation.

2 1 owe grateful ackowledgment to Geheimrat Professor Suphan and Archivrat Dr.
Schftddekopf, of Weimar; to Professor C. E. Norton, of Cambridge, Mass. ; as well as to the
libraries of Harvard, Cornell, and the University of Chicago, for their generosity in grant-
ing me access to valuable material.

274

A VENETIAN FOLK-SONG

It may be that D'Ancona is right in assuming the following
song1 to be welded together of three separate fragments.2 But
when he says it is badly welded he oversteps the mark.3 The
joints of a ballad may be visible after the people are done with
their soldering, but it is often an ill thing to denominate what
they have joined mere casual patchwork ; because reasons for such
assembling of parts may exist, although the critic beneath his
lamp behold them not. The volkslied is herewith divided, how-
ever as D'Ancona suggests:

O morte dispietata

Tu m' hai fatto gran torto:
Tu m' hai tolto mia donna,

Ch' era lo mio conforto,
5 La notte con lo die,

Fino all' alba del giorno.
Giammai non vidi donna

Di cotanto valore,
Quanto era la Caterina
Che mi don6 il suo amore.

La mi tenne la staff a,
Ed io montai in arcione;

La mi pCrse la lancia,
Ed io imbracciai la targa;

La mi pCrse la spada,
La mi calz6 lo sprone;

La mi misse 1' elmetto.

Io gli parlai d' amore:

Addio, bella sora,
Ch' io me ne v6 a' Vignone,

Ad Avignone in Francia,
Per acquistare onore.

S' io fo colpo di lancia,
Far6 per vostro amore;

S' io moro alia battaglia, 25
Morr6 per vostro amore.

Diran le maritate:
Morto & il nostro amadore;

Diran le pulzellette:
Morto & per nostro amore; 30

Diran le vedovelle:
Vuolsegli fare onore.

Dove il sotterreremo?
'N Santa Maria del Fiore.

Di che lo copriremo? 35

Di rose e di viole.

i Widter-Wolf , Volkslieder aus Venetien (1864), no. 139.

2 In his Lapoesia popolare italiana (1878), p. 87, D'Ancona says: "Nella seguente ci
sembrano accozzati, e mal saldati insieme, pifr frammenti di diverse canzoni: 1'uno del
quali va a tutto il decimo verso ; poi un altro da questo al diciassettesimo, e dal diciasset-
tesimo fino alia fine, 1'ultimo. Cosl, come vedremo accadere assai spesso nella poesia can-
tata e raccomandata soltanto alia memoria, si sarebbero fusi e confusi insieme pezzi appar-
tenenti a diversi componimenti."

8 Such purely subjective statement is happily passing out of fashion among Italian
folklorists. It is the old school as represented by Pitrfe (Studi di poesia popolare, 1872) and
Eubieri (Storia della poesia popolare italiana, 1877) which cannot deal with facts without
coloring them.

275] 1 [MODEBN PHILOLOGY .October, 1906

2 PHILIP S. ALLEN

It has long been the favorite play of leisure moments to hunt
through odd volumes of German schnaderhiipfel or of Italian
ballate for the as yet undiscovered sources of certain songs of
Wilhelm Muller's.1 There are many still to be added to the
already long list of his appropriations.2 In one sense this delib-
erate search for models partakes somewhat of the pettiness inher-
ent in all source-hunting — in so far at least as its underlying
motive may at times be nothing more than to fasten the stigma of
plagiarism upon a half -forgotten poet. But, viewed from another
standpoint, it is important to know as fully as we may the very
last detail of Muller's gleanings from the vernacular verse of
earlier generations. For he had an almost unparalleled success in
melting foreign themes and forms into the liquid simplicity of his
own German verses, afterwards to pass them on to Eichendorff and
Heine — not even Ruckert escaped the contagion of Muller's boy-
ish enthusiasm. Of course, it was Goethe's great confession in
the form of lyric and ballad poetry which made up the bible of
Romantic rhyming (with its Old Testament of Klopstock and
Herder — its New Testament of the Master in Weimar) ; but, had
it not been for Burger, we should have been spared the schauerro-
manze at which every adolescent contemporary tried his hand.
Had it not been for Muller, late Romanticism would have lost that
je ne sais quoi of transparent sweetness, that certain something
of lyric simplicity and directness which so lives in its musical
quatrains.

Arnold has shown Muller's pre-eminent ability in adapting
Greek prototypes, and commented upon that deftness of touch

i Cf. Modern Language Notes, Vol. XIV (1899), pp. 165, 166, 213, 214 ; ibid., Vol. XVI (1901),
pp. 37, 38; Journal of Germanic Philology, Vol. Ill (1901), pp. 35-91, 431-91.

2 1 have not been able to ascertain what were the printed anthologies of Italian folk-
songs which Muller made the basis of the collection that he began in 1818 ; only part of which
was in the manuscript turned over by his heirs to Wolff ten years later. One has but to be
familiar with the method of Muller's copying from Meinert (Alte teutsche Volkslieder, 1817),
Ziska and Schottky (Oesterreichische Volkslieder, 1819), and Fauriel (TPAFOYAIA POMAIKA,
1824) to be sure that it was printed and not oral material which furnished the groundwork of
the songs which we know he adapted from the Italian. Further proof of this fact, if such
be needed, meets one on almost every page of his Egeria. The long ballads and chapbook
histories which occur in this book, the difficult and various dialectic verses, the villanelles,
chansonnettes, and dialogues couched in impeccable literary diction, inform us sufficiently
that exactor means than those of oral transmission were everywhere used. When these
printed sources of Muller's songs are found — the songs which were later printed in Egeria,
as well as those which the poet for obvious reasons suppressed— models for certain other
poems of Muller's will come to light.

276

A VENETIAN FOLK-SONG 3

which Goethe and Chamisso rarely equaled;1 and likewise the
poet's demonstrable aptitude for rendering Italian snatches and
south-German doggerel is little short of marvelous. In these
fields no other Romanticist approached him.2

For the reasons above given, then, it seems worth recording
that I recently came upon the source of Mtiller's Altitalienisches
Volkslied while reading D'Ancona's familiar collection of Italian
popular songs. The translation, as so often in Mtiller, is
extremely close to its original.3 Two verses are omitted (13, 14)
as offering perhaps but a tiring repetition, a phrase or two is
added (as amore = Lieb') und Leiden), but the sure and German
reworking has all the lilt and color of the model. For the sake
of convenient reference Mtiller's song is here given :

O Tod, du mitleidloser, Lebwohl, mein holdes MSdchen!

Was tat ich dir zu Leide? Nach Avignon ich reite,

Du raubtest mir mein Madchen, Von Avignon nach Franken,4

Sie, alle meine Freude! Mir Ehren zu erstreiten;

Bei Nacht und auch bei Tage, Und wenn ich Lanzen breche,

Beim roten Morgenscheine, Ist's nur fur deine Liebe;

Noch nie hab' ich ein Madchen Und wenn ich fall' im Kampfe,

Gesehn von solchem Preise Fall' ich zu deinem Preise.

Wie meine Katharina, Dann sprechen alle Frauen:

Sie, alle meine Freude! Da liegt er, den wir meinen;

Sie hielt mir meinen Btigel, Dann sprechen alle Madchen:

Wollt' ich zu Rosse steigen, Fur uns fiel er im Streite;

Sie schnallte mir die Sporen, Dann sprechen alle Witwen:

Sie tat das Schwert mir rei- Wie ehren wir die Leiche?

chen, Wo soll'n wir ihn begraben? ,
Sie setzte mir den Helm auf. Im Dom zu Sankt-Mareien.

Ich sprach von Lieb' und Lei- Womit soll'n wir ihn decken?
den: Mit Rosen und mit Veilchen.

*Der deutsche Philhellenismus (1896), passim.

2 Even the graceful Eichendorff , despite his Zerbrochenes Ringlein, had but ill success in
his more concrete copying of popular lyric balladry ; testimony of which are his Zigeunerin,
Soldat 1 und 2, Gliicksritter, Schreckenberger, Lied mit Thranen, Die Kleine. A detailed
investigation in the popular sources and technique of Eichendorff undertaken by Mr. J. H.
Heinzelman, of the University of Chicago, will elucidate this point.

3 Compare with Mftller's adaptation Rttckert's translation of the Venetian barcarola
(" La biondina in gondoletta ") which I find in Egeria, edd. Mtiller and Wolff (1829) , p. 205 ; or
Ruckert's Roman ritornelles which he had from Muller (Rom, ROmer und ROmerinnen (1820) ,
Vol. I, pp. 52 ff. ; Egeria, pp. 1, 2). Compare Kopisch's renderings in Agrumi (1838), or
Blessig's in ROmische Ritornelle (1860), or even Heyse's in Italienisches Liederbuch (1860).
However the comparative artistic worth of these different reproductions be adjudged, none
of them vies with Mtiller's in fidelity to its original, in the unexampled ease of transference.

* Mflller's original had evidently E da Vignone, etc., in line 21.

277

4: PHILIP S. ALLEN

Now, who will say, after reading this translation from Italian
folk-song, that Muller's appraisal of his original is not more
justifiable than D'Ancona's? If there be really seams in the
fabric of the Venetian ballata, they mark but the sewing-together
of a harmonious whole, None who studies popular balladry that
does not know with what an intuitive sympathy the humble
artist often knits together new songs out of scarce-remembered
remnants. And Wilhelm Muller was ever content to put full
faith in the musicality of his ingenuous model. Like ourselves
he had doubtless heard his canzone sung from some unseen gon-
dola across the canal, before he met with it in print.1 He knew
it, that is, before it was stripped of its quavering tenor note of
intensity, before it was prepared for division into three parts by
D'Ancona.

PHILIP S. ALLEN

UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO

i In comparing Mailer's original with its translation and noting the greater metrical
smoothness of the latter, it must be remembered that in the one the syllables have been
fitted to the song, in the other the song to the syllables. In the ballata, that is, a line with
deficiency of syllables means a sostenuto note in the air, whereas an excess of syllables
presumably marks a staccato bar. Cf. Busk, Folksongs of Italy (1887), pp. 19 f.

278

GALICIAN G

Although Galicia has long been politically a part of Spain, its
language is not, as Castilian writers often say, a dialect of
Spanish. Its real affinities are readily made clear by a compari-
son of almost any of the earlier phonetic developments that differ
in the two official tongues of the peninsula.

Latin

Spanish

Portuguese

Galician

caelu

cielo

c6u

ceo

bona

buena

boa

plenu

lleno

cheio

cheo

hodie

hoy

hoje

hoxe

januariu

enero

Janeiro

xaneiro

folia

hoja

folha

folia

basiavit

bes6

beijou

beixou

factu

hecho

feito

ilia anima

el alma

a(i) alma

ay alma

In its later history Galician has followed sometimes one
language, sometimes the other. Thus x still retains, as in Portu-
guese and Catalan, the sound of English sh, Slavonic s (ZM), while
Spanish has altered it to a velar fricative similar to Russian x in
nacxa "Easter." On the other hand ch, reduced to a simple
fricative in Portuguese (as in modern French), represents the
same sound-group in Galician as in Spanish and English. The
distinction of open and close stressed o seems almost entirely lost,
probably through the influence of Spanish ; but unstressed o has
taken the sound of u, as it has in Portuguese.

In one case Galician has undergone a peculiar change unknown
in the sister-tongues: a surd fricative similar to Andalusianj, inter-
mediate to Castilian j and English h, has developed out of non-
palatalized 0, as in xogo "game," chaga "wound," seguer "follow,"
longo "long," algun "some," negro "black." This remarkable
change, apparently contrary to the usual Romance laws of pho-
netics, reminds one of the High German shifting of sonant occlu-
sives to surd fricatives, as in wissen corresponding to Slovenian

279] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, October, 1906

2 E. H. TUTTLE

videti, Italian vedere; but its development was presumably some-
thing quite different.

In Spanish the surd fricatives Q ss x were formerly distin-
guished from the sonants z s j, as they still are in Portuguese.
The loss of these sonants Galician shared with Spanish, in which
they became surd some centuries ago; and this change was prob-
ably connected with that of Galician g into its present /i-like
sound. In the peninsular tongues there has always been a tend-
ency to weaken the originally occlusive sounds of b d g to frica-
tives ; and supposing this tendency to have been especially strong
in the case of early Galician g, it is perfectly natural that this
sonant fricative should have become surd when the others did.

Against this proposed solution of the question, the objection
might be made that of the three consonants 6 d g, the one that
has the least tendency to become fricative, in modern Spanish and
Portuguese, is g. But this objection is by no means fatal, for it
is not uncommon to find in a language opposite tendencies during
different periods of its history or in different portions of its sound-
system. French has gradually gotten rid of all its falling diph-
thongs, some being changed to rising ones (ie oi ui) and others
contracted to simple vowels (ai ei au eu ou) ; but the modern
language seems to be on the point of forming new ones with the
help of vowelized palatal I. In English the tongue is generally
drawn back from the teeth ; in French there is just the opposite
tendency. Notwithstanding this, English keeps unaltered the
two dentilingual fricatives written th (Icelandic d and p), while
French lost these sounds long ago. The theory of an early Gali-
cian fricative g therefore seems an entirely safe assumption ; and
it is moreover apparently the only one that will account for the

modern sound.

E. H. TUTTLE

YALE UNIVERSITY

280

SOURCES AND ANALOGUES OF "THE FLOWER AND
THE LEAF." PART II1

CHAPTER III. THE GENERAL SETTING AND MACHINERY

Besides the central allegory and its symbolic accessories, the
general setting and machinery of F. Li? deserve consideration.
Most 61 the elements of the setting, making up the whole frame-
work of the poem, are conventional. Yet even those that are
most conventional require some attention, because many of them
have been cited as evidences of indebtedness of the author of
F. Li. to particular poems. •

THE ASTKONOMICAL BEFEBENCE

The first point to be noted is the fixing of the time of the
poem by reference to the sun's position in the zodiac:

When that Phebus his chaire of gold so hy (1)
Had whirled up the sterry sky aloft,
And in the Bole was entred certainly.

This passage calls to mind at once a similar reference near the
beginning of the prologue to C. T., in which Chaucer may have
been imitating either his Italian models or Boethius and earlier
Latin writers. Whatever the source for Chaucer, the French
poets do not seem to have cared for this device, as I do not find
it in any French poem otherwise resembling F. L. Chaucer,
however, used it a great deal, as the following passages show:

In the Knight's Tale, on the May morning when Arcite is to
"doon his observaunce,"

fyry Phebus ryseth up so brighte,
That al the orient laugheth of the lighte.3

1 For valuable suggestions and assistance, in ways too numerous to mention, I should
acknowledge indebtedness to Professor W. E. Mead, of Wesleyan University ; Professor W.
H. Schofield, of Harvard University ; and the following members of the faculties of the
University of Chicago : Professors Karl Pietsch, T. A. Jenkins, Philip S. Allen, John M.
Manly, F. I. Carpenter, A. H. Tolman, and Dr. Eleanor P. Hammond. My obligation to
Professor Manly is particularly great, for he suggested the subject, pointed out much of the
material, and assisted with comment and criticism from the beginning to the end of my
investigation.

2 For a list of abbreviations used, see Part I of this study, Modern Philology, Vol. IV,
p. 122, n. 2.

3C. T., A, 11. 1483, 1494.
281] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, October, 1906

2 GEORGE L. MARSH

In the Merchant's Tale,

Phebus of gold his stremes doun hath sent,
To gladen every flour with his warmnesse.1

In the Franklin's Tale, "Phebus"

Shoon as the burned gold with stremes brighte.2
In T. C. we have the same time as that of F. L. indicated in the

same way:

Whan Phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede
Eight in the whyte Bole.3

And at the very end of the fragmentary Squirds Tale is precisely
the figure used in F. L. :

Appollo whirleth up his char so hye.4

Lydgate also makes striking use of the astronomical reference.
In his B. K.,5 which bears many other resemblances to F. L., all
the essential elements of our first three lines are combined:
"Phebus" and his "chaire of gold," his rapid movement, and his
position in the "Bole" on May Day.

In May, whan Flora, the fresshe lusty quene, (1)
The soile hath clad in grene, rede, and whyte,
And Phebus gan to shede his stremes shene
Amid the Bole, with al the bemes brighte,

the action of the poem begins; and later the sun's "char of golde
his cours so swiftly ran" (1. 595), that twilight came and gave the
poet a chance to write about what he had seen. Lydgate nearly
always called the sun "Phebus," and often mentioned his chariot
of gold.6 Other imitators of Chaucer began occasionally with
astronomical references, as, for example, the Scottish poets; but
none with any such frequency as Lydgate.

THE SPRING SETTING

After fixing the time as indicated, our poet proceeds with a
description of the joys and the beauties of spring. Such details,
it is well known, are extremely common in mediaeval poetry. The

i C. T., E, U. 2220, 2221. 2 c. T., F, 1. 1247. 3 T. C., II, 11. 54, 55. * C. T., F, 1. 671.

5 Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 245 ff. See analysis, p. 306 below.

6 See Chaucerian Pieces, XIII, 1. 26 ; XXII, 1. 30 ; M . P., pp. 2, 6, 8, 24 (" the golden chayre
of Phebus"), 96, 118, 138 ("Phebus goldene chare"), 151, 153, 156, 160, 161, 182, 194, 195, 213, 215,
216, 218, 242, 245; Night. I, 11. 26, 92; T. G., 11. 5, 272, note p. 69; R. S., 11. 450, 3766, 4606 ("the
chare of Phebus"); Thebes, Chalmers, Vol. I, pp. 570, 588, 603; Isopus, Herrig's Archiv,
Vol. LXXXV, pp. 1 ff., 11. 86, 390; Anglia, Vol. IX, pp. 3, 1. 30; 18, 1. 33; 22, 11. 10, 15.

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 3

spring setting is almost always found in love lyrics and love
allegories, on account of the natural and universal association of
the springtime with love. Accordingly it would be futile, even
if it were desirable, to attempt here an exhaustive treatment of
mediaeval "spring poetry." Only works that present, along with
the conventional setting, details and circumstances resembling in
some way those of F. L. can be examined. Accounts of such
works, nearly all poetical, and arranged approximately in chrono-
logical order, will make up the remainder of this chapter.

PASTODBELLES — PROVENCAL AND FRENCH

From very early times the pastourelle was a popular form of
Romance poetry, with a perfectly conventional setting and situa-
tion that suggests the germ of F. L. In spring, when the birds
sing and flowers bloom, a knight or the poet, riding through a
meadow or a forest, finds a pretty shepherdess guarding her flocks
and weaving garlands, sometimes of leaves, more often of flowers.
Examples are so numerous that no exhaustive list can be made
here.1 The following by an unknown Provencal poet will
illustrate the type:

Eu'm levei un bon mati, (5)

enans de 1'albeta;
anei m'en en un vergier
per cuillir violeta;
et auzi un chan
bel, de luenh; gardan
trobei gaia pastorela
sos anhels gardan.2

Li FABLEL DOU DIEU D' AMOURS

The first long French poem to be considered is the Fdblel?
of the latter part of the twelfth century — one of the earliest
allegories based in part on Ovid's Ars Amatoria and preparing

iSee Malm, Oedichte der Troubadours, Vol. II, pp. 160, 171, 177, 211; Vol. Ill, p. 36;
Tarbe, Les chansonniers de Champagne aux Xlle et XIHe siecles (Reims, 1850), pp. 2, 13, 18,
21, 23, 122, 123, 124; Scheler, Trouveres beiges du Xlle au XlVe siecles (Bruxelles, 1876),
p. 68; Trouveres beiges (nouvelle s6rie; Louvain, 1879), p. Ill; Paris, Chansons du XVe.
siecle, pp. 6, 32, 114 ; Poesies de Froissart, Vol. II, pp. 306 ff . ; CEuvres poetiques de Christine
de Pisan, Vol. II, pp. 223 ff .

2 Quoted from Appel, Provenzalische Chrestomathie (Zweite Auflage, 1902), p. 88. The
same poem is found in Mahn, Vol. II, p. 171; and in Diez, Altromanische Sprachdenkmale,
p. 119.

» Ed. A. Jubinal (Paris, 1834).

283

4 GEORGE L. MABSH

the way for R. It. As such it has been analyzed in several recent
monographs,1 but some details require attention here. After
lying in bed one morning with no delight but in amorous thought,
the poet fell asleep and dreamed, in part as follows:

Je me levoie par .j. matin en may, (13)
For la douchor des oysiaus et del glai,
Del loussignot, del malvis et dou gai.
Qant fui Iev6s en .j. pr6 m'en entrai.
Je vos dirai com faite estoit la praere"e;
I/erbe i fu grande par desous la rouse"e.

Through the meadow ran a clear, beautiful brook that would make
young any old man who should bathe in it. The poet continues:

Parmi le pree m'alai esbanoient, (33)
Lfcs le riviere tout dale's .j. pendant;
Gardai amont deviers soleil luisant:
. J. vergi6 vie; cdle part vine errant.

This garden was surrounded by a ditch and a high wall; but the
poet, being "courtois," was allowed to enter.

Qant jou ol [he says] des oisyllons le crit, (78)

D'autre canchon en che liu ne de dit,

N'eusse cure, che saci6s tout de fit.

Sous ciel n'a home, s'il les oist canter,2

Tant fust vilains ne 1'esteut amer;

Illuec m'asis por mon cors deporter,

Desous une ente ki mult fait a loer.

Elle est en 1'an .iij. fois de tel nature:

Elle flourist, espanist et meure;

De tous mehains garist qui li honeure,

Fors de la mort vers cui riens n'a segure.

Qant desous 1'ente, el vergi6 fui assis,

Et jou oi des oysillons les cris,

De joie fu si mes cuers raemplis,

Moi fu avis que fuisse en paradis.3

Then the poet heard the nightingale call the other birds about
him and complain of the degeneracy of love. In the remainder
of the poem we have no present interest.

1 Langlois, Origines et sources du Roman de la Rose (Paris, 1890) ; Mott, The System of
Courtly Love (Boston, 1896); Neilson, Harvard Studies, Vol. VI (1899). Professor Neilson
has dealt with a large number of the works discussed in this chapter, but for a different
purpose than mine. I shall not usually make specific reference to his valuable study.

2 Cf . F. L., 11. 37, 38. 3 Cf. F. L., 11. 113-15.

284

'THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 5

DE VENUS LA DEESSE D'AMOR

The main ideas of the Fablel are repeated and somewhat
amplified in Venus,1 in which, to quote from Gaston Paris, "est
de"crit le 'Champ Fleuri,' jardin ou 'paradis' ou regne le dieu
d' amour, dont la cour est composed d'oiseaux !" Here we do not
find the dream setting of the Fablel — a lover has been awake all
night because of love; but the springtime setting is there, pre-
sented in terms so similar that quotation is needless. In this
poem a lover by chance saw Venus and three damsels of her train,
somewhat as the author of F. L. saw the companies there described.

LE ROMAN DE LA ROSE

Much more important than the Fablel or Venus is that portion
of R. R. written by Guillaume de Lorris.3 Not only does it
present more points of resemblance to F. L. than any other poem
written before the latter half of the fourteenth century,4 but it
set the fashion in allegory for more than two hundred years, and
was thus in a way the literary parent of nearly all the other
works to which our author may have been indebted.

The poet dreams that on a beautiful May morning (described in
great detail)5 he rose early and went forth until he came to a river,
along which he wandered through a "medewe softe, swote, and
grene" (1. 128), until he came to a garden (vergier) inclosed
with high walls on which were portraits of the deadly sins. The
noble damsel Ydelnesse (Oiseuse) opened a little wicket that let
him into the garden, which he found to be like paradise (1. 648).
Many birds sang there — including the nightingale and the gold-
finch— as beautifully as "sirens of the sea." After listening to
the birds a while, the poet followed a little path,

Of mentes ful, and fenel grene, (731)

till he reached a retreat where he found Myrthe (De"duit) with
his company, beautiful as winged angels. These people were

lEd. W. Foerster (Bonn, 1880).

2 La litUrature francaise au moyen dge, par. 104.

3 Examined in the edition of Michel, 2 vols., Paris, 1864. References, however, will be
to the Chaucerian version.

* With the possible exception of Les Echecs Amoureux, which I have not seen. See the
account of Lydgate's R. S., p. 310, below.

& Not quoted because the English version is easily accessible in editions of Chaucer.
See especially 11. 49-89.

285

6 GEORGE L. MARSH

dancing while Dame Gladnes (Leesce) sang pleasantly to the
accompaniment of flutes and other instruments. Here also
appeared the God of Love; and after a long description of him
and of various ladies in his train, the poet tells of wandering
into another garden, followed by Love and some of his company.

The gardin was, by mesuring, (1349)
Right evene and squar in compassing;
It was as long as it was large;

and within it were set trees of various kinds, including medlars,
laurels, and oaks. Moreover:

These trees were set, that I devyse, (1391)

Oon from another, in assyse,

Five fadome or sixe, I trowe so,

But they were hye and grete also;1

And for to kepe out wel the sonne,

The croppes were so thikke y-ronne,

And every braunch in other knet,

And ful of grene leves set,

That sonne mighte noon descende,

Lest (it) the tendre grasses shende.

These tender grasses were

thikke y-set
And softe as any veluSt; (1420)

and there were many flowers in the garden. The poet sat down
to rest beneath a pine tree beside the fountain of Narcissus.
Reflected in the mirror at the bottom of this fountain he saw the
beautiful rosebush, surrounded by a hedge, which was the inspira-
tion of all his later efforts. The scent of the roses particularly
attracted him, for it had healing powers.2 With the wounds
which the God of Love inflicted upon the poet and his prolonged
efforts to win for his own the most perfect rose on the bush, we
are not concerned.

THE DE CONDES, FATHER AND SON

La Voie de Paradis, of Baudouin de Conde",3 begins with a
description of springtime, which, as M. Scheler points out,*

i Cf. F. L., 11. 29-32. 2 Michel ed., 11. 1824, 4096, etc.

3 Dits el contes de Baudouin de Conde et de son fils Jean de Conde, ed. A. Scheler
(Bruxelles, 1866, 1867), Vol. I, pp. 205 ff.
* Note, p. 484.

"THE FLOWEB AND THE LEAF" 7

bears a very strong resemblance to the corresponding description
near the beginning of R. R. Special attention may be called to
the following fragments of detail:

Lors est chel jour grans joie n6e, (16)
Quar toute riens vivans s'esjoie.

Sour 1'ierbe qui est arousSe, (22)
Dont la terre s'est revestue,1

Et cil bois dont teus m'estoie, (30)

Qui en yver sont desnuS,2

Ont tout leur poure abit mu6,

Pour le temps dont cascuns s'orgueille.

Quant tout bois et vergier et pre" (42)
Sont tel, n'est nus ne s'esjolsse,8
Conbien que de son cuer joie isse.

Jean de Conde", like his father, Baudouin, was especially
interested in pointing a moral to adorn his tale ; but he was also
fond of the conventional setting. An interesting little Debat de
VAmant Hardi et de TAmant Cremeteus* begins with a brief but

rather comprehensive description of spring, at the conclusion of
which the poet tells of his entering a "moult biel vregier." Here
he encounters two ladies, who are arguing a question in love
casuistry which they ask him to answer.

La Messe des Oisiaus of Jean de Conde"5 is particularly im-
portant in relation to the part taken by birds in mediaeval love
allegory; but a number of features should be considered here.
The poet says he went to bed

une nuit de may (3)
Tout sans pesance et sans esmay;6

and dreamed that he sat under a pine tree listening to the birds
sing just before dawn. Of them he says:

Ains nus n'en vit tant en sa vie, (17)
Qu'il sembloit bien que par envie

i Cf. F. L., 11. 7, 8. * Dits et conies, Vol. II, pp. 297 ff.

a Cf. F. L., 11. 11, 12. 5 Ibid., Ill, pp. 1 ff.

3Cf. F. L., 11. 13, 14. 6Cf. F. L., 1. 21.

287

8 GEORGE L. MARSH

Li uns pour 1 'autre s 'efforchast; '

A F oir m ' orent tost embl6 (24)
Mon cuer et en joie ravi .2

Altogether the place seemed like a "drois paradis." Farther on
the poet continues:

Leveis ert en haut li soliaus, (91)

Si ert li tans et clers et biaus,

Li ore douche et atempre'e;

Si ert revestie la pre"e

De verte herbe et de flours diverses,

Blanches, jaunes, rouges et perses;

As6s y ot d'arbres divers,

De fueille viestis et couviers,

Et fuison y ot de floris.

Soon the nightingale sang mass before Venus, and other birds
joined in a beautiful service:

Ki chanter les ot, bien li samble (126)
Qu'oncques nul jour chose n'oist
De coi ses cuers tant s'es joist.

Among the other birds the goldfinch is mentioned (1. 173) as
joining in a second "alleluye." After the service love suits were
presented to the goddess. A sick man in a litter was healed by
the sweet odor of leaves plucked from a rose (11. 348 ff.) A com-
pany of canonesses in white, accompanied by many knights, com-
plained of the action of certain gray-clad nuns in enticing their
lovers away. With the ensuing debate we are not here concerned.

NICOLE DE MABGIVAL

In La Panth&re d* Amours, by Nicole de Margival,3 the spring
setting is not presented ; but the action in some respects resembles
that of F. L. The poet dreams that the birds carry him to a
forest full of beasts, all of which, except the dragon, follow one
particularly beautiful panther, with a sweet breath that can cure
all imaginable ills. After a time the beasts all disappear, and
the poet, left alone, hears the sound of music and sees a great
company of richly attired people approaching him, singing and

1 Cf. F. L., 11. 447, 448. 2 Cf. F. L., 11. 101-3.

3 Ed. H. A. Todd, Soci6t6 des Anciens Textes Frangais (Paris, 1883).

288

"THE FLO WEB AND THE LEAF" 9

dancing. Among them is the God of Love, their king ; and under
his direction the poet undertakes a search for the beautiful
panther which symbolizes his lady. She is finally found in a
valley surrounded by a thorny hedge. Her breath is curative
like the smell of the rose in R. _R, the laurel and the eglantine
in F. L., etc. The God of Love explains to the poet all this
symbolism, very much as the lady in white explains the allegory
of F. L.

WATBIQUET DE COUVIN

Several of the poems of Watriquet de Couvin, a diligent dis-
ciple of Guillaume de Lorris during the first half of the four-
teenth century, contain details similar to those of F. L. Most
of these poems may be summarized rapidly.

In Li Dis de VArbre Royal* an elaborate compliment to the
descendants of Philippe le Bel, the poet dreams that he is

En . i . bel vergier verdoiant, (20)
Loing de la ville, en .i. destour,
Enclos d'un haut mur tout entour.

He wanders, listening to the birds, till he comes to a wonder-
ful tree — such a tree as was never seen before "en terre ne en
mer."2 Some lines farther on he continues:

Atant souz Farbre errant m'assis, (118)
Que je ne voil plus atargier,
S'esgardai aval le vergier
Que de biaus iert suppelatis,

Ou douz mois qu'arbres rapareille
Flors et f ueilles pour lui couvrir.

The scene of the Tournois des Dames* is the "haute forest de
Bouloigne," which is

plains de si grant melodie (33)
En avril quant li bois verdie,
Que nulz croire ne le porroit,
Qui li douz rousignol orroit
Chanter en icelle saison.

iDits de Watriquet de Couvin, ed. A. Scheler (Bruxelles, 1868), pp. 83 ff.

2 Cf. the description of the laurel and medlar trees in F. L., 11. 86-88, 109-12.

3 Dits, pp. 251 ff.

289

10 GEORGE L. MARSH

Then after further description of the birds' song, the poet remarks:

Je ne sai d'autrui, mais a mi (52)
Semble de Tostel et de 1'estre
Ce soit fins paradis terrestre,1
Tant est de melodie plains.
And again:

Et puis i refont si grant noise (64)
Gil autres oisele"s menus,
Qu'il n'est hons joenes ne chanus
Grant deduit n'i polst avoir.

The goldfinch is mentioned among other birds.

Li Dis de VEscharbote2 also begins with a spring setting. The
poet enters a garden, falls asleep, and dreams that he encounters
a "sergent," very noble and courteous, in whose company he
journeys through a valley to a beautiful city that seems like an
"earthly paradise." This city is the world, in which blind
Fortune reigns as mistress; and its inhabitants, following her
lead in caring for nothing but pleasure, are precipitated into the
bottom of the valley. They are like the "escharbote,"

Qui vole par les haus vergiez (211)
De fleurs et de feuilles chargiez,
Ou li roussignols chante et crie.3

Of all the poems of Watriquet de Couvin, however, Li Dis de
la Fontaine d* Amours* presents the most details worth citation.
One morning in spring the poet says he found

Un vergier de lone temps plant6 (7)
Ou d'arbres avoit grant plente",
Qui fait avoient couverture
Et de couleur de maint tainture.
Lors entrai dedenz sanz esmai
En ce jolif termine en mai,
Qu'oisele"s de chanter s'esforce
Au miex qu'il puet selonc sa force;
En pluseurs Hex, par divers chans,
Mainent joie a ville et a champs,

1 Cf . F. L., 1. 115. 2 Dits, pp. 397 ff .

3 In contrast with the usual signification of the colors, as noted in chap, ii above, the
members of this company, with their slight resemblance to the green-clad followers of the
Flower, are clad in white. No specific significance is attached to the color, however.

*Dits, pp. 101 ff.

290

"THE FLOWEB AND THE LEAP" 11

Et toute riens iert en delis.

Tant iert plains de grant melodie (23)
Cis vergiers, n'est hons qui vous die
Ne fame, de sa biaute" nombre.
Pour reposer visai .i. ombre
Par desouz une ente florie,
Soutilment par compas norrie,
Et tainte en diverse couleur;
N'est hons, tant eiist de douleur,1
Qu'a 1'oudeur ne fust alegiez.

In this delightful place is the beautiful fountain of love, the
subject of the poem.2

GUILLAUME DE MACHAUT

The poets and poems heretofore discussed, except R. J?., are
of value in this investigation rather as showing how conventional
certain elements of setting and machinery became, than as very
likely to have had any direct influence upon the author of F. L.
The case is different with a group of French poets now to be
considered.

Oldest of these, and in many ways the master of the school,
was Ghiillaume de Machaut. The opening lines of his DU du
Vergier were among the first French sources specifically suggested
for F. L.? and deserve citation here:

Quant la douce saison repaire*
D'este", qui maint amant esclaire,
Que prez et bois sont en verdour
Et li oisillon par baudour
Chantent, et par envoiseure,
Chascuns le chant de sa nature,
Pour la douceur du temps f 6ri,5
Ou doulz mois d'avril le joli,
Me levay par un matinet,

1 Cf. F. L., 11. 81-84.

2 Other poems by Watriquet with the spring setting are (1) "Li Mireoirs as Dames"
(Di*s,pp.lff.); (2)"LiZ>t*de'Irai0nee£dttCra;po£"(pp.65ff.): (3) " Li Disdes .1/11. Sieges"
(pp. 163 ff.); (4) "Li Dis des .VIII. Couleurs" (pp. 311 ff). In (2) and (3) the scene is a
" vergier;" in all the song of the birds is prominent; in (2) the poet falls asleep beneath a
" buisson" and dreams. The nightingale and the hawthorn are several times mentioned.

3 By Sandras, fitude sur Chaucer, p. 98. I quote from CEuvres choisies de Machanlt, ed.
Tarb6 (Paris, 1849), pp. 11 ff. The text differs in some details from that given by Sandras.

* Cf . F. L., 1. 15. 5 Sandras, seri.

291

12 GEORGE L. MARSH

Et entray en un jardinet
Ou il havoit arbres pluseurs,
Flori de diverses couleurs.
Si trouvay une sentelette1
Plainne de rouse"e et d'erbette,
Par ou j'alai sans atargier;
Tant qu'a l'entre"e d'un vergier
Me fist adventure apporter.2
S'entray pour moy de"porter
Pleins d'amoureuse maladie,
Et pour oir le melodie
Des oisillons qui ens estoient,3
Qui si tres doucement chantoient
Que bouche ne le porroit dire:
N'onqs home vivans n'ot tant d'ire
Que s'il peust leur chant oir
Qu'il ne s'en deust resjoir,
[En son cuer, et que sans sejour
N'entroubliast toute dolour,]4
Tant avoit en eulx de deliz.

When the poet heard the songs of the birds, especially of the
nightingale, which sounded above all others, he went into the most
beautiful garden he had ever seen, all sown with flowers of diverse
colors, and planted with green and flowering trees.

S'ot en milieu un arbrissel
De fleurs et de feuilles si bel,
Si bel, si gent, si aggre"able
Si tres plaisant, si delitable
Et plein de si tres bonne odour,
Que nulz n'en auroit la savour,
Tout fust ses cuers de"confortez 5
Qu'il ne fust tout re"confortez.

Je ne scay que ce pooit estre
Fors que le paradis terrestre.

From this place the poet passed into a meadow, where he had a
vision, as follows:

Car il m'est vis que je veoie

Au joli prael ou j'estoie

La plus tres belle compaignie

1 Cf . F. L., 11. 43-45. 3F.L., 11. 37, 38. 5 Cf . F. L., 11. 81-84.

2 Sandras aporcer. * Not in Tarb6.

292

"THE FLOWEB AND THE LEAF" 13

Qu'oncques fust veue ne ole :
La avoit-il vi Damoisiaus
Juenes, jolis, gentils et biaus ;
Et si avoit vi Damoiselles
Qui & merveilles estoient belles.
Et dessus le bel arbrissel,
Qui estoit en mi le praiel,
Se s6oit une creature
De trop merveilleuse figure.

This was the God of Love. He wore on his head a

chappelet de rosettes,
De muguet et de violettes.

At the poet's request the god explained the vision.

Machaut's Dit dou Lyon1 also has the spring setting. The
poet is roused by the song of the birds, goes into the country,
and is conveyed in a magic boat to an island where he finds a
beautiful garden which no one can enter who has not been faithful
in love. As Sandras points out,2 there are in this poem trees of
uniform height and planted at equal intervals, as in F, L. — " genre
de paysage d&jh de"crit par G> de Lorris et qui charmait les anciens
Bretons."

Le Dit de la Rose 3 begins with a rather brief description of a
scene in May. Early one morning the poet wanders through a
green meadow till he sees a "jardinet,"

Qui estoit de les un vergier.

He enters and comes to —

un buisson d'espines
Plein de rouses et de racines,
Et de toutes herbes poingnans,
Qu'au buisson estoient joingnans.

Et si estoit par tel maistrie
Hayes, qu'onque jour de ma vie
Je ne vi haye ne haiette *
Si bien ne si proprement faitte.

1 Extracts are found in CEuvres choisies, ed. Tarbe, pp. 40 ff ., but I have not seen the
whole poem.

2 fitude sur Chaucer, p. 104. 3 Tarbe, (Euvres choisies, pp. 65 ff.
*Cf. F.JD., 11. 61-63.

14 GEORGE L. MARSH

Within the inclosure surrounded by this hedge there is a very
beautiful rose, the sweetness of which cures all the ills of love.
Manifestly the poem is an imitation of E. R.

JEAN FBOISSABT

Certain poems by the chronicler Froissart were early suggested
as possible sources of parts of F. L.

Le Paradys $ Amour? believed to be one of his earliest pro-
ductions, is the account of a dream in which the poet is admitted
within the "clos" of the God of Love, and then within a delight-
ful garden where he finds his lady. The setting presents the
usual elements : fresh grass, flowers, trees ; songs of birds, includ-
ing the nightingale ; all the beauties of a day in May. Near the
end of the conventional description the poet says :

Pour mieuls olr les oisel6s, (59)
M'assis dessous deux rainsselSs 2
D'aube espine toute florie.

A long complaint follows, after which two ladies, Plaisance and
Esperance, appear and ultimately conduct the poet to a place
where, he says :

Lors regardai en une lande, (957)

Si vi une compagne grande

De dames et de damoiselles

Friches et jolies et belles,

Et grant foison de damoiseaus

Jolis et amoureus et beaus,

Qui estoient 1& arrest^

Et de treschier tout aprestS.

Tout estoient de vert vesti,

N'i avoit ceste ne cesti.

Les dames furent orfrisies,

Drut perl6es et bien croisies,

Et li signeur avoient cor

D'ivoire bend6 de fin or.3

The poet asks who all these people are, and receives in answer a
long list of names of famous lovers. A little farther on he comes

iPo£*ies, ed. Scheler; 3 vols., Paris, 1870-72; Vol. I, pp. 1 ff.
3Cf.F.i.,11.117-19.

3 Cf . F. L., 11. 324 ff . A portion of this passage is quoted by Saudras, fitude 8ur Cftemcer,
p. 101 ; but is erroneously said to be from Le Temple d1 Honour.

294

"THE FLOWEB AND THE LEAF" 15

to the tent of the God of Love, to whom he sings a lay that is
favorably- received. After this interruption, the poet and his
guides go on through a shady forest, singing and dancing, till
they come to a meadow,

Ou vert faisoit, plaisant et bel, (1456)

Tout enclos de vermaus rosiers,

D'anqueliers et de lisiers,

Et la chantoit li rosignols

En son chant qui fu moult mignos.

Si tretos que son chant oi

Moult grandement me resjol.1

Here he finds his lady and sings to her his ballade in praise of the
marguerite.2

L? Espinette amoureuse* is in general an account of Froissart's
youth; but in one episode presents details of interest here, as

follows :

Ce fu ou joli mois de may; (351)
Je n'oc doubtance ne esmai,4
Quant j'entrai en un gardinet;
II estoit ass6s matinet,5
Un peu apr&s 1'aube crevant;
Nulle riens ne m'aloit grevant,
Mes toute chose me plaisoit,
Pour le joli temps qu'il faisoit
Et estoit apparant dou faire.
Gil oizellon, en leur afaire,
Chantoient si com par estri. 6

Je me tenoie en un moment, (380)

Et pensoie au chant des oiseauls,

En regardant les arbriseaus

Dont il y avoit grant foison,

Et estoie sous un buisson

Que nous appellons aube espine.

At this time and place three ladies, Juno, Venus, and Pallas, and
a youth, Mercury, appear to the poet and present the story of the
apple of discord.7

1 Cf. F. £., 11. 102, 103. 3 Patsies, ed. Scheler; Vol. I, pp. 87 S. *Cf. F. £., 1. 21.

2 Mentioned in chap, ii, above, p. 158. 5 Cf . F. L., 1. 25. « Cf. F. £., 11. 447, 448.
7 A version of this story is also found in Lydgate's R. S. (see p. 310 below) introduced

very much as by Froissart. Apparently the latter was imitating Lydgate's French original,
Les Echecs Amoureux.

16 GEORGE L. MARSH

Un Treitie Amourous a la Loenge dou Jolis Mois de May1 pre-
sents several points of interest. One day in May the poet,

Pensans a Pamoureuse vie, (1)

enters an inclosure made of rosebushes, osiers, etc., where the
nightingale is singing. There, he continues:

Au regarder pris le vregie", (25)
Que tout authour on ot vregie",

De rainselSs

Espessement et dur margiet2
Et ouniement arrengie";

Au veoir les

Ce sambloit des arbrissele"s
Qu'on les eulst au compas fais

Et entailltes.
D'oXr chanter les oisele"s,
Leur divers chans et leur mote's,

J'oc le coer lie*.

There is mention of the sweet odor of leaves and flowers, and of
the song of the nightingale, which like an "amorous dart" reminds
the poet of his love.3

EUSTACHE DESCHAMPS

The eleven volumes in which the work of Machaut's friend and
pupil, Eustache Deschamps, is now published4 contain, amid a
great mass of didactic and satirical work, a number of references
to May Day customs and several rather elaborate settings similar
to that of F. L. The most noteworthy of these are found in Le
Lay Amoureux and Le Lay de Franchise.

The former5 begins with a very elaborate description of spring.
There is mention of the nightingale and other birds, with their
songs ; the renewal of meadows, fields, leaves, and flowers ; of

L'aubespine que nous querons, (29)
L'esglantier que nous odorons;

i Po6sies, ed. Scheler, Vol. II, pp. 194 S.

2Cf. F. L., 11. 57, 58.

3 One other poem by Froissart, Ledit dou bleu chevalier, will be mentioned in connec-
tion with Lydgate's B. K. below.

*Soci6t6 des Anciens Textes Francais, ed. De Queux de Saint-Hilaire (Vols. I- VI) and
Raynaud (Vols. VII-XI), Paris, 1878-1903.

5 (Euvres de Deschamps, Vol. II, pp. 193 ff.

296

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 17

of "chapeaulx, qui en veult enquerre," and of

La marguerite nette et pure. (47)

Then follows an interesting description of May Day customs,
telling how prmceg et Royg (61)

Le premier jour de ce doulz mois,

Chevaliers, dames, pucellettes,

Escuiers, clers, lays et bourgois,

go to the woods to pick flowers, make garlands, sing songs, listen
to the nightingale, and hold jousts, feasts, dances — merry-makings
of all kinds — in honor of springtime and love. On such a morn-
ing as this the poet dreamed that when he was walking in a beau-
tiful meadow, he saw, beneath a tall, green pine tree beside a
brook, "un seigneur tressouverain," near whom were many people
praying. In order better to see what should happen, the poet hid
behind a hawthorn, and soon the God of Love appeared. The
company beneath the tree was composed of the famous lovers of
history and legend, as well as various allegorical characters. Some
of the latter began a discussion, the burden of which proved to
be that youth ought to love ; and then after a time the company
departed. The poet, in great fear, was discovered eavesdropping ;
but awoke unharmed immediately after he heard some of Love's
company speak well of him.

Desch amps' Lay de Franchise1 is of special importance because,
as already noted, it has been singled out as a model for F. L.2
The formal presentation of the setting in this poem is brief:

C'est qu'en doulz mois que toute fleur s'avance, (8)

Arbres, buissons, que terre devenir

Veult toute vert et ses flours espanir,

Du mois de may me vint la souvenance

Dont maintes gens ont la coustume en France

En ce doulz temps d'aler le may cueillir.

Le premier jour de ce mois de plaisance,

the poet goes forth at break of day thinking of his lady, who is
described as a flower, the daisy.3 After a long tribute to her he
continues :

1 (Euvres, Vol. II, pp. 203 S. See Vol. XI, p. 46, as to the occasion for this poem.

2 By Professor C. F. McClumpha in Modern Language Notes, Vol. IV, cols. 402 ff. See
p. 135 above.

3 See discussion of the cult of the daisy, chap, ii above.

297

18 GEORGE L. MARSH

Ainsis pensans vins par une bruiere (66)
En un grant pare d'arbres et de fouchiere
Qui fut fermS de merveilleus pouoir,

by means of various fortifications, elaborately described.
The poet, nevertheless, continues his pilgrimage:

Mais, en passant, vy ja dessus 1'erbage (93)

De damoiseaulx tresnoble compaignie

Vestus de vert; autre gent de parage

Qui portoient sarpes pour faire ouvrage

Et se mistrent a couper le fueillie.

Oultre passay qu'ilz ne me virent mie;

En un busson me mis en tapinage

Pour regarder de celle gent la vie

Et pour oir la douce melodie

Des rossignolz crians ou jardinage:

"Occiiccy."

Other birds also sang, including the goldfinch. Moreover:

Parmi ce bois dames et damoiseaulx (118)
Qui chantoient notes et sons nouveaulx
Pour la douyour du temps qui fut jolis,
Cueillans les fleurs, 1'erbe, les arbressaulx,
Dont ilz firent saintures et chappeaulx ;
De verdure furent touz revestis.
Cilz jours estoit uns mondains paradis;
Car maint firent des arbres chalemeaulx
Et flajolez dont fleustoient toubis.

The grass was covered with sweet dew, which, besides being beau-
tiful to look at, was of material assistance in renewing the growth
of grass and flowers.

After a time, during which the poet listened to various private
conversations about love, he heard a great noise

yssant d'une vale"e (145)
Ou il ot gens qui venoient jouster.

Of course they were on horseback, and among them was a king of
wonderful prowess;

Sur un coursier fut de vert appareil, (157)
Accompaigniez de son frere pareil;
Contes et dus, chevaliers et barons,
Dames y ot, dont pas ne me merveil,

UTHE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 19

Haultes, nobles, plaines de doulz acueil
Qui de chapeaulx et branches firent dons.

In the joust that follows,

L'un sur 1'autre font des lances tronsons (165)
Et se portent sur terre et sur buissons.
A 1'assembler n'avoit pas grant conseil,
Aincois queroit chascuns jouste a son vueil
Sanz espargnier chevaulx, bras ne talons.

Then the noise ceases, and they all kneel humbly before the king,
who directs them to do honor to May. Various persons speak on
subjects pertaining to love, and after a time the whole company
adjourns to a "plaisant hosts," with a beautiful garden beside the
Marne. This house is furnished in green and gold.

The poet comes out of his hiding-place, sees the feast spread
before the king and his company, and then proceeds on his journey
till he finds Robin and Marion (conventional pastoral characters)
sitting under a beech tree and talking about the comforts of their
life in contrast with the lives of kings. The latter part of the
poem has no possible relation with F. L.

CHAUCER

Since the passages from Chaucer that resemble portions of
F. L. have nearly all been pointed out by others,1 it will not be
necessary to deal with his work at such length as its importance
in this connection would otherwise justify. As I have said, the
author of F. L. was first of all an imitator of Chaucer, and detailed
resemblances to the master are too numerous to mention. Only
the more important parallels in plan and setting need be
considered.

• In B. D. we find the sleepless poet, who, moreover, as in F. L.,
knows not why he cannot sleep.2* Reading makes him drowsy at
last, however, and he dreams that on a May morning he was
wakened at dawn by the songs of "smale foules a gret hepe,"
which sang a solemn service about the roof of his chamber.

Was never y-herd so swete a steven, (307)
But hit had be a thing of heven.3

1 Especially by Professor Skeat, iu Chaucerian and Other Pieces.

2 Cf. B. D., 1. 34, with F. L., 1. 19. 3 Cf. F. L., 11. 129-33.

299

20 GEORGE L. MABSH

After a time the poet rises to go hunting. While on the chase he
follows one of the dogs

Doun by a floury grene wente (398)
Ful thikke of gras, ful softe and swete,1
With floures fele, faire under fete,
And litel used, hit seemed thus.

In the forest,

every tree stood by him-selve, (419)
Fro other wel ten foot or twelve.2

With the later events of the poem we are not here concerned.

P. F. also has the dream setting. The time is St. Valentine's
Day, instead of May, but the surroundings are those of spring.
Wherever the poet casts his eye he sees "trees clad with leves
that ay shal laste" (1. 173), including the oak and the laurel.
Continuing, he says:

A garden saw I, ful of blosmy bowes, (183)

Upon a river, in a grene mede,

Ther as that swetnesse evermore y-now is.

On every bough the briddes herde I singe (190)
With voys of aungel in hir armonye;3

Of instruments of strenges in accord (197)
Herde I so pleye a ravisshing swetnesse,
That god, that maker is of al and lorcj,
Ne herde never beter, as I gesse;
Therwith a wind, unnethe hit might be lesse,
Made in the leves grene a noise softe,
Acordant to the foules songe on-lofte.4
The air of that place so attempre was
That never was grevaunce of hoot ne cold ;
Ther wex eek every holsom spyce and gras.

Under a tree beside a well the poet saw Cupid forge his arrows,
while women danced about. In the sweet green garden he
saw a queen, Nature, fairer than any other creature, in whose
presence the birds held their parliament.

1 Cf. F. L., 11. 43-45. 3 Cf. F. L., 1. 133.

2 Cf. F. L., 11. 31, 32. * Cf . F. L., 1. 112.

300

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 21

In T. C., just before the passage quoted in relation to the
fixing of time by reference to the sun's position in the zodiac,1
are the following interesting lines:

In May, that moder is of monthes glade,
That fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede,
Ben quike agayn, that winter dede made,2
And ful of bawme is fletinge every mede.

The familiar beginning of the Prologue to C. T. presents
many details similar to those of the first two stanzas of F. L. :
the astronomical reference already discussed; "Aprille with his
shoures sote;" the springing-up of flowers; the wholesomeness
of the air, and so forth. In other parts of C. T. there are only a
few passages to which attention need be called.

It is on a May morning that Palamon and Arcite first see
Emily. She has risen before dawn,

For May wol have no slogardye a-night. (A, 1042)
The sesoun priketh every gentil herte
And maketh him out of his sleep to sterte,
And seith, ' Arys, and do thyn observaunce.'

So she walks up and down the garden, gathering flowers

To make a sotil gerland for hir hede, (1054)
And as an aungel hevenly she song.3

Again, it is when Arcite, on another May morning, has gone into
the woods to "doon his observaunce" and to make himself a gar-
land of woodbine or hawthorn leaves (A, 1. 1508), that he finds
Palamon in hiding.

More important than either of the passages from the Knight's

Tale, however, is the description of May Day festivities in the

^•Franklin's Tale. These took place on the "sixte morwe of

May"4-

Which May had peynted with his softe shoures5
This gardin ful of leves and of floures;
And craft of mannes hand so curiously
Arrayed hadde this gardin, trewely,
That never was ther gardin of swich prys,
But-if it were the verray paradys.6

i P. 281 above. T. C., II, 11. 50-53. 3Cf. F. L., 1. 133. 5 Cf . F. L., 1. 4.

2Cf. F. L., 11. 11,12. * C. T., F, 11. 901 ff . eCf.F.L., 1.115.

301

22 GEOBGE L. MARSH

TVodour of floures and the fresshe sighte
Wolde han maad any herte for to lighte1
That ever was born, but-if to gret siknesse,
Or to gret sorwe helde it in distresse;
So ful it was of beautee with plesaunce.

Of all Chaucer's poems, however, the Prologue to L. G. W. 1
is most important in relation to F. L. Its mention of the Orders
of the Flower and the Leaf has been discussed.2 The action of
the Prologue begins with the rising of the poet before daybreak,
on the first of May, in order to see his favorite flower, the daisy
(B, 11. 104-8). In greeting it he kneels

Upon the smale softe swote gras,3 (118)

which is "embrouded" with fragrant flowers. The earth has for-
gotten his "pore estat of wintir"4 (11. 125, 126), and is newly
clad in green. The birds, rejoicing in the season (1. 130), sing
welcome to summer their lord, among the blossoming branches of
the trees. All is so delightful that the poet thinks he might

Dwellen alwey, the joly month of May, (176)
Withouten sleep, withouten mete or drinke.5

Amid such surroundings he sinks down among the daisies. Then
after his second mention of the strife of the Flower and the Leaf
(in text B) he continues:

And, in a litel herber that I have,6 (203)
That benched was on turves fresshe y-grave,
I bad men sholde me my couche make.

When he had gone to sleep in this "herber," he dreamed that as
he lay in a meadow gazing at his beloved flower, he saw come
walking toward him,

The god of love, and in his hande a quene, (213)
And she was clad in real habit grene.

She wore a "fret of gold" on her head, surmounted by a white
crown decorated with flowers; so that, with her green robe and
her gold and white headdress, she resembled a daisy, stalk and )
flower. Behind the God of Love came a company of ladies who
knelt in homage to the flower.

1 Cf . F. L., 11. 38, 81-84. 3 Of . p. L., 1. 52. 5 Cf . F. L., 11. 120, 121.

2 Chap, i above. *Cf. F. L., 11. 11,12. ecf. F. L., 11. 49-52.

302

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 23

JOHN GOWEB

The machinery of Gower's voluminous C. A. is in part of the
kind under consideration. After wandering in a wood for a time
one day in May, the poet finds himself in a "swote grene pleine,"1
where he bewails his misfortunes in love. The King and Queen
of Love appear, and after some talk Venus bids the poet confess
to Genius, her clerk. Then follows a long discourse by Genius
on the seven deadly sins, with stories illustrating all of them,
which constitute the main body of the poem. In these stories
there are allusions to May Day customs,2 but no striking similari-
ties to F. L. Finally the poet prevails upon Genius to take a
letter for him to Venus and Cupid; but the deities do not look
with favor upon so old a would-be lover. He swoons at the rebuff,
and has a vision of a great company of lovers wearing garlands of
leaves, flowers, and pearls.8 There is a sound of music, such

That it was half a mannes hele (2484)
So glad a noise for to Mere;

and members of the company dance and sing joyfully. The
remainder of the action is of no present consequence.

THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE

C. N.j already mentioned a number of times,4 presents addi-
tional points of interest. The poet first describes the power of
love, which is felt most strongly in May, when the songs of the
birds and the springing of leaves and flowers cause great longing
to burn in the heart. Such love-sickness, even in so "old and
unlusty" a person as this poet, has made him sleepless during
"al this May." At last, during one wakeful night, he recalls a
saying among lovers:

That it were good to here the nightingale (49)
Rather than the lewde cukkow singe.

And then I thoghte, anon as it was day,
I wolde go som whider to assay 5

iBook I, 1. 113. References are to G. C. Macaulay's ed. of Gower's Complete Works,
Vols. II, III (Clarendon Press, 1901).

2 See Books 1, 11. 2026 if. ; VI, 11. 1833 ff.
3 Book VIII, 11. 2457 ff . Discussed in chap, i above.
* Pp. 155, 159, 163, above. Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 347 ff.
Cf. F. L., 11. 39-42.

303

24 GEORGE L. MARSH

If that I might a nightingale here;
For yet had I non herd of al this yere,
And hit was tho the thridde night of May.

Accordingly at daybreak he went alone into a wood "fast by,"
and wandered along a brook till he came to the fairest land he
had ever seen.

The ground was grene, y-poudred with daisye, (63)

The floures and the gras y-lyke hye,

Al grene and whyte; was nothing elles sene.

He sat down among the flowers and saw the birds come forth

from their nests,

so joyful of the dayes light (69)
That they begonne of May to don hir houres !

The stream also made a noise

Accordaunt with the briddes armonye (83)

such that

Me thoughte, it was the bestfe] melodye (84)
That mighte been y-herd of any mon.1

Delighted with all these sights and sounds, the poet fell in a
M "slomber and a swow" (1. 87), in which he heard a debat
between the cuckoo and the nightingale.

CHRISTINE DE PISAN

A number of the poems of Christine de Pisan present inter-
esting settings or machinery.2 For example, in Le Dit de la Rose,
which has been mentioned3 in connection with symbolic orders,
the poet represents that one day when a noble company saw
assembled at the palace of the Duke of Orleans, the lady Loyaute"
appeared, surrounded by a company

De nymphes et de pucelletes (99)
Atout chappelles de fleurettes,

who seemed to have just come from paradise. They were mes-
sengers of the God of Love, sent to form the Order of the Rose.
They sang so sweetly

Que il sembloit a leur doulz chant (246)
Qu'angelz feussent ou droit enchant

1 Cf. F. L., H. 130, 131.

2 For brief descriptions of spring see CEuvres po£tiques, ed. Roy, Soci6t6 des Anciena
Textes Francais (Paris, 1886-96), Vol. I, pp. 35, 112, 236, 239, etc.

3 Chap, i above, pp. 138, 139, CEuvres poGtiquea, Vol. II, pp. 29 ff.

304

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 25

Le Debat de deux Amans1 tells of a joyfu) company that
gathered in May to dance and make merry in one of the parks
of the Duke of Orleans. Alone and sad, however, the poet sat
on a bench at one side watching the assembly, till two gentle-
men, one a woe-begone knight and the other a happy young
squire, agreed to discuss the advantages and disadvantages of
love. In company with these men and some other ladies, the poet
proceeds to a "bel vergier" where the debate takes place.

Le Livre du Dit de Poissy2 presents a very elaborate spring-
time setting. In gay April, when the woods grow green again,
the poet rides forth to see her daughter at the convent of Poissy.
In company with her are many ladies and gentlemen, enjoying
to the full the beauties of the morning. Vegetation has been
freshened by the dew; nothing on earth is ugly. Marguerites
and other flowers are mentioned,

dont amant et amie (107)
Font chappellez.

Birds sing in the trees and bushes under the leadership of the
nightingale. All these delights could not fail to banish grief.
On their journey, the company enter a pleasant forest,

Et la forest espesse que moult pris (185)
Reverdissoit si qu'en hault furent pris
L'un a 1'autre les arbres qui repris

Sont, et plante"

Moult pr&s a pr&s li chaine a grant plants
Hault, grant et bel, non mie en orphantS,
Ce scevent ceulz qui le lieu ont hant6,

Si que soleil

Ne peut ferir a terre a nul recueil.
Et 1'erbe vert, fresche et belle a mon vueil,
Est par dessoubz, n'eon ne peut veoir d'ueil

Plus belle place.

At the convent where the poet's daughter lives they find it like a
"droit paradis terrestre" (1. 382). The latter part of the poem
presents a "debat amoureux" with which we have no present
concern.

1 (Euvres pottiques, Vol. II, pp. 49 ff. 2 ibid., pp. 159 ff .

305

26 GEOBGE L. MARSH

In Christine's Livre du Due des Vrais Amans? the hero, a
young duke ripe for love, while out hunting one day, enters on a
paved road that leads to a castle where a great company of people
are disporting about their princess. As the duke and his com-
panions draw near the castle, they are met by a "grant route" of
ladies (1. 134) , who welcome them most hospitably. The princess
accompanies them to uun prael verdoyant" (1. 179), where she
and the duke sit and talk beneath a willow beside a little stream.
He falls in love with her, and henceforth his chief occupation is
planning means of seeing her often. He invites her to a feast
and joust, to be held in a "praerie cointe" where there are "her-
barges" and "eschauffaulz" and "paveillons" (11. 649, 653-55).
In the evening the lady arrives with a noble company, including
Menestrelz, trompes, naquaires, (665)

Qui si haultement cournoyent
Que mons et vaulz resonnoyent.

The festivities held in her honor last several days and are very
elaborately described. The jousts held are of special interest,
because of the use of white and green costumes.2 The remainder
of the poem deals with the way in which this lady and the duke
deceived her "jaloux" for a number of years.

JOHN LYDGATE

The work of Lydgate is of the utmost importance in relation
to F. Z/., not only because he was the most important imitator of
Chaucer during the period when our poem was probably written,
but also because a number of his early works, whether original or
translated, contain passages strikingly similar to portions of F. L.
Discussion of his works will be approximately in chronological
order.3

The main part of C. J5.* begins with a description of the
"chorle's" garden. It was

Hegged and dyked to make it sure and strong;

The benches turned5 with newe turvis grene;

i (Euvres pottiques. Vol. Ill, pp. 59 ff . 2 Pp. 152, 153, 164, above.

3 Following §11, chap, viii, of Schick's Introduction to T. G. ; E. E. T. S., 1891.
* M. P., ed. Halliwell, pp. 179 ff. Citations are from pp. 181, 182.
5 This should be " turved."

306

"THE FLOWEB AND THE LEAF" 27

and there were "sote herbers." Further:

Amyddis the gardeyn stode a fressh lawrer,

Theron a bird syngyng bothe day and nyghte,

With shynnyng fedres brightar than the golde weere,

Whiche with hir song made hevy hertes lighte,

That to beholde it was an hevenly sighte,

How toward evyn and in the dawnyng,

She ded her payne most amourously to synge.

It was a verray hevenly melodye,

Evyne and morowe to here the byrddis songe,

And the soote sugred armonye.

Lydgate's B. K. has already been mentioned.1 After fixing
the time very much as it is fixed in F. _L., the poet tells us that
he awoke early and went, in the hope of finding solace for his
sorrow,

Into the wode, to here the briddes singe,2 (23)

Whan that the misty vapour was agoon

And clere and faire was the morowning.

On the leaves and flowers he found dew sweet as balm. Passing
along a clear stream he came to

a litel wey3 (38)

Toward a park, enclosed with a wal
In compas rounde, and by a gate smal
Who-so that wolde frely mighte goon
Into this park, walled with grene stoon.

He went into the park and there heard the birds sing

So loude .... that al the wode rong* (45)
Lyke as it shulde shiver in peces smale;
And, as me thoughte, that the nightingale
With so gret mighte her voys gan out-wreste
Right as her herte for love wolde breste.

The soil was playn, smothe, and wonder softe
Al oversprad with tapites that Nature
Had mad her-selve, celured eek alofte
With bowes grene, the floures for to cure,
That in hir beaute they may longe endure
From al assaut of Phebus fervent fere,
Whiche in his spere so hote shoon and clere.

1 Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 245 ff.

2 Cf. F. £., 1. 37. 3 Cf. F. £., 1. 43. * Cf. F. L., 11. 99, 100.

307

28 GEORGE L. MARSH

The air was " attempre," and gentle zephyrs blew, so wholesomely
that buds and blossoms delighted in the hope of bringing forth
fruit. Among the trees in the park were "grene laurer,"

the fresshe hawSthorn (71)
In whyte motl&, that so swote doth smelle;

the oak, and many others. In the midst was a spring surrounded
by young grass "softe as veluet." Its waters had magic power to

aswage1 (100)

Bollen hertes, and the venim perce
Of pensifheed.

The poet took a long draught of this water, and forthwith was so
much refreshed and eased of his pain that he started out to see
more of the park. As he went through a glade he came to
a d&itable place (122)

Amidde of whiche stood an herber grene2
That benched was, with colours newe and clene.

This arbor was full of flowers, among which, between a holly and
a woodbine, lay a black-clad knight. To his complaint, which
forms the burden of the poem, the poet listened from a hiding-
place among some bushes.3

The time of T. 6r.* is December, not spring; but the poem
begins with an astronomical reference. After a long period of
restlessness, the poet suddenly falls asleep and is

Rauysshid in spirit in [a] temple of glas. (16)

The place is "circulere in compaswise" (11. 36, 37), and there is
a wicket by which to enter. Within the poet sees pictures of
many famous lovers. Before a statue of Venus kneels the most
beauteous of ladies,

al clad in grene and white (299)

Enbrouded al with stones & perre.

i Cf, F. L., 11. 81-84. 2 Cf. F. L., 11. 49-51.

3 Sandras (Mude sur Chaucer, p. 80) declared that B. K. is an imitation of Froiesart's
Dit dou bleu chevalier (Poesies, ed. Scheler, Vol. I, pp. 348 ff.). In general plan, it is true,
the poems are similar, both to each other and to Chaucer's B. D. In details, however, B. K.
is much more like F. L. than is Froissart's poem.

* Ed. Schick, E. E. T. S.

308

"THE FLO WEB AND THE LEAF" 29

She presents a "litel bil" to the goddess, and vows service in
return for the latter 's favor. She is given white and green
branches of hawthorn for a chaplet and advised to be "unchan-
ging like these leaves."1 Finally,

with Pe noise and heuenli melodie (1362)
Which Pat Pei [the birds] made in her armonye,

the author awoke, and resolved for love of his lady to write his
" litel rude boke."

Lydgate' s Thebes2 is frankly on the model of Chaucer's
Knighfs Tale, and therefore can have no close resemblance to
F. L. in plan; yet in many details it repays examination. Its
Prologue begins with a rather elaborate astronomical reference :

Whan bright Phebus passed was the Ram
Midde of Aprill, and into the Bull came,

Whan that Flora the noble mighty queene
The soile hath clad in new tender greene.

At this time Lydgate says he encountered a company of Canter-
bury pilgrims and agreed to tell them a tale. The tale does not
concern us, but at the beginning of its second part there is an-
other bit of description of spring, including the following line:

And right attempre was the holsome aire.3

Later, as Tideus, returning from Thebes, wounded after a combat
with fifty knights, comes into "Ligurgus lond," he enters a
garden "by a gate small,"

And there he found, for to reken all,
A lusty erber, vnto his deuise,
Sweet and fresh, like a paradise.

Here he lay down on the grass and slept till awakened by the lark
when " Phebus" rose the next day. And "Ligurgus" daughter,
who every morning came to the garden "for holesomnes of aire,"
found him and had his wounds cared for. In Part III, as Tideus
and Campaneus ride about looking for water during a terrible
drought, they enter by chance "an herbere,"

1 As already noted, p. 138 above.

2 Examined in Chalmers' English Poets, Vol. I, pp. 570 ff. This poem was written later
than R. 8., but is mentioned out of chronological order that the discussion of Lydgate may
end with R. 8.

3Cf..F. £., 1. 6.

309

30 GEORGE L. MARSH

With trees shadowed fro the Sunne shene,
Ful of floures, and of hearbes grene,
Wonder holsome of sight and aire,
Therein a lady, that passingly was faire,
Sitting as tho vnder a laurer tree.

She leads them to a river where they quench their thirst.

The most important of Lydgate's poems in connection with
F. L., however, is R. $., "compyled" from the French Echecs
Amoureux, a voluminous fourteenth-century imitation of R. R}
After an address to the reader, the poet presents an elaborate
description of spring2 in which we find nearly all the oft-repeated
details. Spring clothes all the earth "with newe apparayle;"
causes "herbes white and rede" to blossom in the meadows;
makes the air "attempre," and rejoices all hearts. On such a
spring morning the poet lies awake, "ententyf for to here" the
birds' songs, when suddenly Dame Nature appears to him (1. 20Q).
She reproves him for wasting time in bed,

Whan Phebus with his bemys bryght (450)
Ys reysed vp so hygh alofte,3

and the birds are "syngyng ther hourys." She advises him to
go out into the world "and see if anywhere her work fails in
beauty."4 In response to his inquiry as to the way he should take,
she suggests the eastern way of Reason rather than the western way
of Sensuality.5 After her sermon Dame Nature leaves him, and he
rises. When he is "clad and redy eke in [his] array" (11. 910,
911), he goes forth into a "felde ful large and pleyn,"

Couered with flour[e]s fressh and grene (919)
By vertu of the lusty quene,
Callyd Flora, the goddesse.

It is so delightful that he forgets past events.

After a time he sees a path in which walk a company of four —
Pallas, Juno, Venus, and Mercury. He is reminded of the history
of each, and describes each at great length. Juno's clothing is

i R. S., ed. E. Sieper, E. E. T. S., 1901, 1903. See also Sieper's " Lea Echecs Amoureux,
eine altfranzOsische Nachahmung des Rosenromans und ihre englische Uebertragung ;" Lit-
terarhistorische Forschungen, IX. Heft (Weimar, 1898).

2L1.87S. 3Cf.F.£.,ll. 1, 2.

* Quoted from the marginal summary in Sieper's edition, Part I, p. 15.

5 A resemblance to the allegory of F. L. has been noted, chap, i above.

310

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 31

Fret f ul of ryche stonys ynde l (1400)

Venus, as already noticed,2 wears a chaplet of roses. Mercury
carries a flute, of which "the sugred armonye" has more effect
than sirens' songs. Seeing them come toward him the author

Ful humblely gan hem salewe.3 (1838)

Mercury tells him of the golden apple and asks him to award it.
He gives it to Venus and agrees to be her " lyge man" (1. 2352).
She tells him of her sons — Deduit, expert in music, dancing, and
games; and Cupid, the God of Love — and of the "erber grene"
(1. 2538) of Deduit, the beauty of which may be compared to
that of paradise. In this garden he will find a lovely maiden,
but he must first know Ydelnesse, the porter.4

Finally Venus departs and the author enters a great forest
"ryght as a lyne,"

Ful of trees, .... (2729)
Massiffe and grete and evene vpryght
As any lyne vp to the toppys,5
As compas rounde the fresshe croppis,
That yaf good air with gret suetnesse
Whos fressh beaute and grenesse
Ne fade neuer in hoote ne colde,
Nouther Sere, nor waxen olde,

The levis be so perdurable.

The plain about the forest is "tapited" with herbs and flowers.
In the forest under an ebony tree he finds Diana, who makes
clear to him her rivalry with Venus.6 But in spite of Diana's
long account of the dangers that lurk in the garden of Deduit,
and her eagerness to have the poet remain in her "forest of

chaste te," where

the tren in ech seson (4372)

Geyn al assaut of stormes kene
Of fruyt and lefe ben al-way grene,

he prefers to see the beauty of the world and keep his vow to
Venus.

After a time he comes to the "herber" he is seeking. On the
walls are pictures resembling those described in R. R. He is

iCf. F. £.,11. 152, 153. * As in R. R. See above.

2 Chap, ii above. 5 Cf . F. L., 11. 29, 30.

3 Cf . F. L., 11. 460, 461. 6 Discussed in chap, ii, p. 141, above.

311

32 GEORGE L. MARSH

admitted by Ydelnesse and kindly greeted by Curtesye, who tells
him the garden is intended only for sport and play and whatever
may be "to hertys ese." He is "ravisshed" by the beauty, the
"holsom ayr," the sweetness. There are herbs that would cure
every malady, "freshe welle springis," nightingales singing
"aungelyke" in the trees — everything, in fact, is so beautiful

That there is no man in hys wyt (5217)

The which koude ha levyd yt

Nor demyd yt in his entent,

But yif he had[de] be present.

Looking about the place he sees

Deduit and Cupide (5232)
With her folkys a gret Route,

By hem self[e] tweyn and tweyn,
Ful besely to don her peyn
Hem to play and to solace.

In karol wise I saugh hem goon, (5245)
Aiid formhest of hem euerychoon
I saugh Deduit, and on his honde,
Confedred by a maner bonde,
Ther went a lady in sothnesse,
And hir name was gladnesse.

Next comes a long description of Cupid, with his two bows and
ten arrows. He and his train go

Euerych vpon others honde, (5534)

Ay to gedre tweyn and tweyn,1

They have all sorts of musical instruments and dance and sing
beautifully. After a time the poet plays a game of chess with
the beautiful maiden whom he seeks. In the midst of a long,
allegorical, satirical description of the pieces, the translation
breaks off at line 7042.

On the whole the resemblances between ~R. S. and F. L. are
so varied and so striking, in both thought and form, that it seems
impossible to doubt that Lydgate's poem or its original (and of
course more likely the former) was familiar to our author.2

iCf.-F.i., 1.295.

2 In other poems of Lydgate, especially in M. P., there are details resembling various
parts of F. L. ; but I have indicated the most important parallels.

312

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 33

ALAIN CHABTIEB

Le Livre des quatre Dames,1 "compile par Maistre Alain
Chartier," apparently not long after the battle of Agincourt,
begins with a very elaborate description of the conventional
spring setting. On the pleasant morning of the first day of
spring the poet goes forth into the fields in the hope of banish-
ing his melancholy. He says:

Merchai Fherbe poignant menue,
Qui mit mon cueur hors de soucy,
Lequel auoit est6 transsy
Long temps par liesse perdue.

Tout autour oiseaulx voletoient,
Et si tres-doulcement chantoient,
Qu'il n'est cueur qui n'en fust ioyeulx.2

He stopped in a "pourpris" of trees, thinking about his miser-
able fortune in love and watching a brook that ran beside a

pr6 gracieux, ou nature
Sema les fleurs sur la verdure,
Blanches, iaunes, rouges & perses.
D'arbes flouriz fut la ceinture.

Near by was a mountain with a very beautiful grove on its slope.
The poet aimlessly took a path,

Longue & estroite, ou 1'herbe tendre
Croissoit tres-drue, & vng pou mendre 3
Que celle qui fut tout autour.

With the people whom he met along this path we have here no
concern.

Chartier's La Belle Dame sans Mercy may be examined most
conveniently in the English version once attributed to Chaucer,
but in reality by Sir Richard Ros.4 The translator represents
that, "half in a dreme" and burdened with his task of translation,
he rose and made his way to a "lusty green valey ful of floures,"
where he managed to accomplish his work. The original poet
tells of riding a long time, until he hears music in a garden and
is welcomed by a party of banqueters. Among them is a woe-

i (Euvres, ed. Du Chesne, Paris, 1617, pp. 594 ff .

2Cf. F. £., 1. 38. 3 Cf. F. L., 1. 52.

* Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 299 ff .

313

34 GEORGE L. MABSH

begone knight who has eyes for but one lady. After dinner there
is dancing; but the poet has no heart for it and sits alone,

behynd a trayle (184)
Ful of leves, to see, a greet mervayle,
With grene withies y-bounden wonderly;
The leves were so thik, withouten fayle,
That thorough-out might no man me espy.1

Prom this hiding-place he sees the sorrowful knight dance with
his lady and then withdraw to "an herber made ful pleasauntly,"
where follows a long discussion of no interest in this study.

CHARLES D'ORLEANS AND OTHER LYRIC POETS

Among the works of Charles d' Orleans, whose ballades on the
Orders of the Flower and the Leaf have been cited,2 there is no
long poem presenting a setting or machinery similar to that of
F. L.; but scattered here and there with considerable frequency
are allusions to such common topics as the sleeplessness of lovers,3
the joy that comes in spring, especially to lovers,4 the revival of
plant life,5 the songs of the birds,6 and May Day customs in
general.7

The same is true of such collections of lyric poetry as Gaston
Paris' Chansons du XVe siecle.* Often the poets represent
themselves as rising before dawn — sometimes owing to sleepless-
ness caused by love — and entering some beautiful garden or
meadow, in which they find their ladies, or pluck flowers, or listen
to the birds. Some of these poems are pastourelles of the type
already described.9 Others worth special mention are numbers
xlix and Ixx. Scheler's collection from the Trouveres beiges10 and
Tarbe°s from the Chansonniers de Champagne11 include similar
poems; as, indeed, do other collections of lyric poetry.

i Cf . F. L., 11. 67-70. 2 chap, i above.

3P<x*«ie«, ed d'Hericault, Vols. I, p. 21; II, p. 5, etc.

*Ibid., I, pp. 31, 65, 148, 218; II, pp. 10, 114, etc.

5 Ibid., II, pp. 48, 114, etc. 6 ibid., I, p. 65 ; II, p. 115, etc.

Ubid., I, pp. 65, 79; II, pp. 94, 122, 214, etc.

8 Soci6t6 des Anciens Textes Francais, 1875. » P. 283 above.

10 Pp. 35, 147; nouvelle serie, p. 4.

11 Pp. 26, 92.

314

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 35

LE DEBAT DU CUEB ET DE L'OEIL

In the fifteenth -century French amplification of the Latin Dis-
putatio inter cor et oculum,1 there is a good deal of machinery
corresponding in an interesting way to that of F. L. One May
Day the poet goes out to hunt. Hearing feminine voices, he dis-
mounts and is soon graciously greeted by a number of ladies who
come from the forest, wearing chaplets of flowers, and singing
with such sweetness that their song would have given new life to
a heart immeasurably troubled. This company soon withdraw,
but the knight is moved to search especially for one of them, who
seemed to him like an angel. During his search he sees, under a
pine beside a fountain, a great number of women, accompanied
by gentlemen well arrayed. Two of these gentlemen invite him
to join the ladies ; but, unable to find his beloved in the company,
he falls asleep beneath the tree, and dreams of a debate between
his heart and his eye. After fruitless argument, it is agreed that
the controversy shall be settled by single combat before Amours.
Very rich preparations are made, with lavish use of precious
stones. The company of Eye are clad in green "pervenche."2
Heart has a seat of eglantine in his pavilion. Certain "escoutes,"
armed with marguerites, are to give the champions

De vert lorier lanches petites.
Further details are of no consequence in this place.

THE KING'S QUAIB

The much-admired poem long attributed to King James I
of Scotland3 begins with a fixing of the time by astronomical
reference. After passing a sleepless night — "can I noght say
quharfore" — the poet decides to tell in verse his own story. He
hurries rapidly over his voyage, his shipwreck, his imprisonment
by the English, till one spring day when, as he looks out of his
prison window, he sees —

1 Latin Poems Commonly Attributed to Walter Mapes, ed. T. Wright (Camden Society,
1841); Appendix, pp. 310 ff. The English version mentioned by Warton (History of English
Poetry, ed. Hazlitt, Vol. Ill, p. 167) and by Wright (note, pp. xxiii, xxiv, in edition of Mapes),
I have not seen. I understand it is soon to be printed by Dr. Eleanor P. Hammond. The
Latin original is of no consequence in this study, because it does not present the setting and
machinery of the French debat.

2 A fact which should have been noted in chap, ii above, p. 150.

3 The Kingis Quair, ed. Skeat; S. T. S., 1884.

315

GEOBGE L. MARSH

maid fast by the touris wall (stanza 31)
A gardyn faire, and in the corneris set
Ane herbere grene, with wandis long and small
Railit about; and so with treis set
Was all the place, and hawthorn hegis knet,
That lyf was non walking there forby,
That myght within scarse ony wight aspye.1

And on the small(e) grene twistis sat (33)

The lytill suete nyghtingale, and song
So loud and clere, the ympnis consecrat

Off lufis vse.

After listening to the bird's songs awhile and meditating on them,
the poet sees walking in the garden (very much as Palamon and
Arcite saw Emily)

The fairest or the freschest song(e) floure (40)
That euer I sawe.

He at once vows service to Venus, and bewails his plight when
the lady leaves the garden. Finally, after

Phebus endit had his bemes bryght, (72)
And bad go farewele euery lef and floure,

he falls asleep, and is carried in dreams to the palace of Venus.
Here he sees "a warld of folk." A voice explains who they are —

the folke that neuer change wold (83)
. In lufe;2 ....
.... the princis, faucht the grete batailis; (85)

and others who served love in any way. Cupid is there, and
Venus, wearing a chaplet of roses. Venus agrees to help the
poet in his suit. Her tears cause the flowers to grow,

That preyen men .... (117)

Be trewe of lufe^ and worschip my seruise.

Hence it is that,

Quhen flouris springis, and freschest bene of he we, (119)

And that the birdis on the twistis sing,
At thilke tyme ay gynnen folk renewe
That semis vnto loue.

i Cf. F. L., 11. 67-70. 2 cf. F, L., 11. 485-87.

316

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 37

The further wanderings of the poet are of no consequence in
relation to F. L.1

LATER POEMS — ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH

Thus far we have been examining works which were, either
certainly or possibly, early enough to have influenced the author
of our poem. It now seems desirable to add very brief mention
of several later works that present similar features — that belong,
in a sense, to the school of F. L.

Professor Skeat has made much of such resemblances as there
are between F. L. and A. L.;2 but in reality they are not very
numerous or striking, being mostly in the commonplaces of
Chaucerian imitation. A. L. belongs much more definitely than
F. L. to the Court of Love group.3 The time is September, not
spring; but there is an "herber" of the usual sort, and a company
of ladies. The action in no way resembles that of F. L.

Chaucer* s Dream, or The Isle of Ladies, as Professor Skeat
prefers to call it,4 is also in part a Court of Love poem. A "world
of ladies" appear with their knights before the Lord of Love, who
is "all in floures." A good many details are reminiscent of F. L.

Various points of resemblance between F. L. and C. L.5 have
been pointed out in chap, ii above. Still more might be added,
if minute attention were paid to details in imitation of Chaucer ;
but there is no important similarity between the two poems in the
matter of setting and machinery.

The Scottish Lancelot of the Laik6 is of some interest as
showing how the conventional setting of love allegory was some-
times taken over into other kinds of poetry. The poet tells of
coming, one spring day, to a garden, which was

1 The resemblances noted above, and in Mr. Henry Wood's article on " Chaucer's Influ-
ence on James I," Anglia, Vol. Ill, pp. 223 ff ., seem to indicate that the author of The King's
Quair knew F. L., and was directly alluding to it. If this is true, and James I was the
author of the Scottish poem (an undecided question), F. L. must be dated earlier than Pro-
fessor Skeat inclines to date it.

2 Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 380-404 (text),lxix,lxx (Introduction), 535-38 (notes).

3 As stated by Neilson, Harvard Studies, Vol. VI, p. 150.

* Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. xiv, xv. Text consulted, Chalmers' English Poets,
Vol. I, pp. 378 ff .

5 Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. 409 ff .

6 Ed. Skeat, E. E. T. S. (1865).

317

38 GEORGE L. MARSH

al about enweronyt and Iclosit (53)
One sich o wyss, that none within supposit
Fore to be sen with ony vicht thare owt;1
So dide the levis clos it all about.

There he falls asleep, and has a dream that causes him to write
the story of Lancelot. Other details besides those about the
garden indicate that the author knew F. L.z

Several of Dunbar's poems present interesting features. The
Goldyn Targe* has the spring setting, with a vision of a hundred
ladies in green kirtles, including Venus and Flora, followed by
"ane othir court," headed by Cupid and also arrayed in green.
In The Thistle and the Rose* the poet is awakened early by May,
"in brycht atteir of flouris," and follows her to a garden where
there is an assembly of beasts and birds and flowers.5 The Merle
and the Nightingale6 is a debat somewhat resembling C. N.9 with
a similar May setting. The Tua Mariit Wemen and the Wedo1
is also worth mention for its descriptions of spring.

Gavin Douglas, like the others of the Scottish school of Chau-
cer, seems to have known F. L. as well as the genuine works of
his master.8 The Police of Honour* begins with the rising of
the poet one day in May, and his entrance into a beautiful gar-
den, where he sees a great company of ladies and gentlemen on
their way to the palace of Honour. They are soon followed by
the courts of Diana and Venus, the latter in a car drawn by horses
in green trappings. She is accompanied by her son dressed in
green.10

Sir David Lyndesay, in his Testament and Complaynt of our
Soverane Lordis Papyngo,11 tells of entering his "garth" to repose

1 Cf. F. L., 11. 66-70.

2 See especially 11. 335-42, 2088-93, 2471-87. There are also apparent allusions to L. G. W.,
as in 1. 57.

3 Poems of William Dunbar, ed. J. Small, S. T. S. (1893) ; Vol. II, pp. 1 ff.
< Ibid., Vol. II, pp. 183 ff.

5 Obviously in part an imitation of Chaucer's P. F.

6 Poems, Vol. II, pp. 174 ff. 7 ibid., pp. 30 ff .

8 See P. Lange, "Chaucer's Einfluss auf Douglas," Anglia, Vol. VI, pp. 46 ff.

9 Poetical Works of Douglas, ed. J. Small (Edinburgh, 1874), Vol. I, pp. 1 ff.

10 This example of the use of green, together with that given above from Dunbar's Goldyn
Targe, may be added to the list in chap, ii above, pp. 150, 151.

"Poetical Works (E. E. T. S.), pp. 223 ff.

318

"THE FLOWEB AND THE LEAF" 39

among the flowers. There is the usual astronomical reference and
the usual description of a spring landscape. From under

ane hauthorne grene,
Quhare I mycht heir and se, and be unsene,

the poet hears the complaint which is the burden of his work.
Ane Dialog betuix Experience and ane Courteour of the Misera-
byll Estait of the World1 has a Prologue telling how the sleepless
poet fared forth into a park one May morning before sunrise, in
the hope of banishing his melancholy by hearing the birds sing.
He met an old man who made a long recital of history. The
setting of The Dreme of Schir David Lyndesay 2 is also of some
interest.3

SUMMAKY

It should now be clear that most of the elements of the setting
and most of the machinery of F. L. were decidedly conventional
before the first half of the fifteenth century. The spring setting,
with almost infinite repetition of details, is found in the earliest
lyrics, in nearly all the poems of the Court of Love group,* occa-
sionally in other allegorical poems,5 in religious poems,6 in chan-
sons de geste and metrical romances,7 in political poems,8 and even
in prose romances and treatises.9 The description of springtime

i Poetical Works (E. E. T. S.), pp. 1 ff. ^Ibid., pp. 263 ff.

3 " The Justes of the Month of May " (Hazlitt, Popular Poetry, Vol. II, pp. 209 ff.), of the
latter part of the reign of Henry VII, contains several passages suggesting influence by F. L.
"* * See Professor Neilson's dissertation, passim, Harvard Studies, Vol. VI.

5 As in Piers the Plowman, which begins on a May morning with a Vision of a " faire
felde ful of folke" (B, 1. 17). See also Le chemin de vaillance, as analyzed in Romania,
Vol. XXVII, pp. 584 ff . ; de Guileville's Pelerinage de la vie humaine, as translated by
Lydgate (ed. Furnivall, E. E. T. S., 1899-1904).

6E. g., a macaronic French and Latin Hymn to the Virgin in Reliquice Antiquce,
ed. Wright and Halliwell, Vol. I, p. 200; Hoccleve's Minor Poems, ed. Furnivall (E.E.T.S.,
1892), Vol. I, p. 67; Lydgate's Edmund, in Horstmann's Altenglische Legenden (Neue Folge,
1881), p. 443,11. 233 ff.

TE. g., Aye d' Avignon, ed. Guessard and Meyer (Paris, 1861), 11. 2576-81; The Bruce,
ed. Skeat (S. T. S., 1894), beginning of Book V; the Sowdone of Babylone, ed. Hausknecht
(E. E. T. S., 1881), 11. 963 ff.; The Squyr of Low Degre, ed. Mead (Athenaeum Press, 1904),
11. 27 ff., 43 ff., 57, etc.

8 See Political Songs of England, ed. Wright (Camden Society, 1839), pp. 3, 63.

9 See, for example, a passage quoted from Guerin de Montglave in Dunlop's History of
Prose Fiction, ed. Wilson (Bohn Library, 1888), Vol. I, p. 311 ; Le lime desfaits de Boucicault
(perhaps by Christine de Pisan), in. Memoirs pour servir a I'historie de la France, Vol. II,
p. 226 ; the Prologue to The Book of the Knight of la Tour-Landry, ed. T. Wright (E. E. T. S.,
1868). Of course other examples could be found. I have made no exhaustive search in
works of this kind.

319

40 GEOKGE L. MARSH

phenomena in F. L. most closely resembles passages in Chaucer
and Lydgate.1 The sleepless poet is a familiar figure in mediaeval
literature.2 Because of his pretended ignorance of the cause of
his sleeplessness in both F. L. and B. Z>.,3 indebtedness of the
former to Chaucer seems extremely probable. Rising before
dawn, or about dawn, and going into a pleasant meadow or grove
or garden was clearly a common pleasure of poets. The most
notable passages in this connection are in Machaut, Froissart,
Deschamps, Chaucer, and Lydgate. The regularity of the grove
in F. L. appears to have been suggested by either Lydgate's

E. S., or Chaucer's B. D., with a line of indebtedness probably
running back to R. R. One of the main objects of the poet's
early rising is usually to hear the birds sing, especially the night-
ingale. The most striking parallelism in this respect appears to
be, as Professor Skeat points out, between F. L. and C. N* The
"path of litel brede," overgrown with grass and weeds,5 was found
by other poets on other morning walks. In Machaut and Chartier
the poet took this path aimlessly; yet here, as in so many other
places, the closest resemblance is to Chaucer (B. D.), in the obser-
vation that the path is "litel used." The "herber" to which the
path leads is found almost everywhere. In French it is usually a
"vergier;" in English the form is nearly always "herber." In
Chaucer's L. G. W., Lydgate's C. B. and B. K., in F. L. and A.
L. this arbor is said to be "benched;" in L. G. W., C. B., and

F. L., "benched with turves" — a similarity in minute detail that
indicates indebtedness of all the later poems to L. G. W. Usually
the arbor or garden is inclosed by a hedge or a wall, and in a
number of instances the poets represent themselves as in hiding.
Attributing healing power to the odor of the eglantine of which
the hedge is made is but one example of a very common device.
The passage in F. L. on this subject seems most like passages in

1 Owing to the number of specific comparisons already suggested between passages in
F. L. and in works analyzed above, I shall not usually make direct reference to previous
pages of this chapter.

2 See Neilson in Harvard Studies, Vol. VI, pp. 183, 185, 186, 190, 206, 216 ; Mott, The Sys-
tem of Courtly Love, p. 33 ; besides the instances given in this chapter.

3 Repeated also in The King's Quair.

* Chaucerian and Other Pieces, note p. 530.
5 jr. L., 11. 43-45.

320

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 41

Couvin's Fontaine d* Amours, Machaut's Dit du Vergier, and
Chaucer's Franklirfs Tale.

After the poet reached his "vergier" or "herber," it was his
usual custom to sit down beneath a bush or a tree, and there
either fall asleep and dream, or see visions without the aid of
sleep. Of such visions a company like our poet's "world of
ladies" and "rout of men at arms"1 was a very common feature.
Often such a company is connected with the Court of Love con-
vention.2 Sometimes there may be reference to stories of the
singing and dancing of companies of fairies.3 But probably in
many cases the vision was suggested by the fact that on May
Day and other popular holidays such companies actually did
gather to sing and dance and engage in sports of various kinds.
The vogue of R. R. seems to have been in part responsible for the
commonness of such companies in later poetry ; but on account of
details as to the costumes,4 the author of F. L. appears most
likely to owe direct debts in this matter to Froissart's Paradys
d* Amours, Deschamp's Lay de Franchise, Christine de Pisan's
Due des Vrais Amans, Chaucer's L. Gr. W., Gower's C. A., and
Lydgate's R. S.

On the whole, then, only one conclusion is possible : that what-
ever merits of combination and expression F. L. may possess, its
setting and machinery are a tissue of conventionalities owing
most to Chaucer and his earlier imitators (a group to which our
author belonged), and much — no doubt partly through Chaucer
and perhaps Lydgate — to R. R. and the French works influenced
by that poem.

CHAPTER IV. GENERAL CONCLUSION AS TO SOURCES

Before endeavoring to decide, in the light of the foregoing
evidence, what were the actual sources of F. L., it is desirable to
examine briefly the suggestions previously made on this subject.

IF. L., 11. 137, 196.

2 See Neilson's dissertation, Harvard Studies, Vol. VI, passim.

3 This theory as to the origin of the companies in F. L. was suggested to me by Profes-
sor Schofield, of Harvard. In view of the frequent occurrence of such companies, however,
in poems containing no clear reference to fairy lore, and in view, further, of the common
mediaeval pageantry in connection with all sorts of celebrations, it seems improper to assume
any conscious use of fairy lore on the part of the author of F. L.

* Discussed especially in chap, ii above.

321

42 GEORGE L. MARSH

Many of these have been mentioned already and may be dismissed
rather summarily.

Dryden, in the Preface to Fables (1700), says F. L. is of
Chaucer's own invention, "after the manner of the Provencals."
The quoted phrase can apply only to the setting and spirit of the
poem. I have found no close parallel to it in Provencal; but in
I certain ways it is an outgrowth of the influence of the Provencal
idea of courtly love upon the French poets of the north, who in
turn influenced Chaucer in his earlier work.

In Urry's edition of Chaucer (1721), the reference to the
strife of the Flower and the Leaf in the Prologue to L. G. W. is
first pointed out, and assumed to be a direct allusion to our poem.
The indebtedness, however, was on the other side; L. G. W. is
probably the most important direct source of F. L.

Tyrwhitt's comments on F. L. are only incidental, in the
Appendix to the Preface to his edition of C. T. (1775). He
doubts the accuracy of Dryden's statement that our poem is "after
the manner of the Provencals," and suggests that the worship of
the daisy may have been inspired by Machaut's Dit de la Fleur de
Lis et de la Marguerite or Froissart's Dittie de la Flour de la
Margherite.1 Apparently, however, it is unnecessary to go
farther than to Chaucer for suggestion of the part the daisy plays
in F. L.; except in search of the "bargaret" sung by the follow-
ers of the Flower,2 and of the reason for giving these followers so
frivolous a character. Nevertheless it is not at all unlikely that
both Machaut's and Froissart's poems on the daisy, as well as
Deschamps' compliments to that flower, were known to our
author, as they probably were to Chaucer.3

In Warton's History of English Poetry (completed 1781)
there is considerable comment on F. L., a large part of it in
elaboration or criticism of Tyrwhitt. Thus in a footnote4 Warton
combats Tyrwhitt's assertion that Chaucer did not directly imi-
tate the Provencal poets. F. L., he says, "is framed in the old
allegorizing spirit of the Provengal writers, refined and disfigured

i See chap, ii above, pp. 157, 158. 2 p. £., n. 348-50.

3 See Professor Lowes' article previously referred to, p. 124, n. 1, above.
* History of English Poetry, ed. Hazlitt (1871), Vol. II, p. 298.

322

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 43

by the fopperies of the French poets in the fourteenth century."
Farther on he analyzes our poem with some care,1 and refers to
the panegyric on the daisy in L. G. W.; to Machaut's and Frois-
sart's poems on the daisy; to Margaret of Navarre's collection
of poems called Marguerites de la Marguerite des Princesses;
and to the fact that "it was common in France to give the title
of Marguerites to studied panegyrics and literary compositions of
every kind both in prose and verse." Then he proceeds to the
suggestion that the fancies of our poet "seem more immediately
to have taken their rise from the Floral Games instituted in
France in the year 1324, which filled the French poetry with
images of this sort." Some description of these games follows.
Later, in his discussion of Gower,2 Warton suggests that the tale
of Rosiphele,3 of which he quotes a large part, is imitative of F.
L. For "farther proof that the Floure and Leafe preceded the
Confessio Amantis" he cites the lines from Book VIII of the
latter, referring to garlands —

Some of the lef , some of the flour.4

One remaining reference to F. L. is in relation to its influence
upon Dunbar's Golden Targe?

Clearly the new matter brought forth by Warton is not of
great importance. His additions in relation to the cult of the
daisy show only something of its vogue long after the date of our
poem, for the verses of Margaret of Navarre were not collected
till 1547. His paragraph about the Jeux Floraux is full of errors;
for he seems to have thought the whole of France participated in
these festivities, and thus greatly exaggerates their influence in
the north. I have not found any reason for believing that F. L.
was directly influenced by the Jeux Floraux.6 Finally, Warton's
comment on our author's relations with Gower must of course be
reversed, for beyond reasonable doubt F. L. is later than C. A.
Resemblances between parts of the two poems have, as I have
shown,7 been exaggerated.

i History of English Poetry, ed. Hazlitt, Vol. Ill, pp. 8 ff. 2 Ibid., pp. 29 ff.

3 C. A., Book IV, 11. 1245 ff. See chap, ii above, pp. 166, 167.
* See chap, i, above, p. 134.

5 History of English Poetry, ed. Hazlitt, Vol. Ill, p. 209.

6 See chap, i above, p. 139. i pp. 134, 135, 166, 167 above.

323

44 GEORGE L. MABSH

Godwin, in his Life of Chaucer (1801), analyzes F. L. at con-
siderable length and praises it very highly, especially as it appears
in Dryden's version, but adds very little as to sources. He com-
bats the idea that the worship of the daisy came from Machaut or
Froissart, on the ground that Chaucer himself had already origi-
nated it in C. L., which he wrote in 1346! Since the best schol-
ars are now convinced that this poem can hardly be earlier than
1500, comment is unnecessary. Godwin thinks F. L. "has the
air of a translation," and that the original author was a woman —
suggestions which are not intrinsically unreasonable, though
entirely unproved.

Todd, in his Illustrations of Grower and Chaucer (1810), col-
lects and elaborates the suggestions of his predecessors, but adds
nothing of consequence.

Sandras, the next important commentator,1 pursues a very dif-
ferent method. Practically all his suggestions are new, and most of
them — although somewhat too dogmatically stated — are valuable.
The introduction of F. L., he says, is indebted to Machaut's Dit
du Vergier, from which he quotes most of the portion to be found
on pp. 291-93 above. He also observes that in Machaut's Dit du
Lyon there are trees of uniform height, planted at equal intervals,
as in our poem. In nearly all the diiies of Machaut and Froissart
he finds scenes analogous to that of the appearance of the com-
pany of ladies of the Leaf led by Diana. To two of these scenes
he makes reference: in Machaut's Dit du Vergier and in Froissart's
Temple d> Honour.2 His most important contribution, however, is
mention of Deschamps' three ballades on the Orders of the Flower
and the Leaf.3 The text of these, with an invitation to write on
the same subject, he believes Chaucer may have received from
Philippa of Lancaster, to whom one of the ballades is addressed.4
Finally Sandras suggests that the end of our poem recalls the
Lai du Trot.

His chief error — except, of course, in the matter of Chaucerian
authorship — consists in assuming too much from resemblances of

1 £tude ftur Chaucer (Paris, 1859).

2 An error for Paradys d' Amour, as noted above. 3 Discussed in chap, i above.

* Professor Kittredge makes a similar suggestion in Modern Philology, Vol, I, pp. 5, 6,
without noting Sandras' previous comment.

324

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 45

F. L. to single works. Machaut's Dit du Vergier unquestionably
does resemble the English poem in its setting and part of its
action; but so do Deschamps' Lay de Franchise and Froissart's
Paradys d' Amour — to select only two of the most notable French
examples. Hence it is impossible to say dogmatically that the
highly conventional introduction of F. L. is from one particular
source. The conclusions reached in chap, iii above show the
inadequacy of all Sandras' comments except in relation to the
ballades of Deschamps. Some of the works he mentions may
have influenced our author, but they can not be singled out to the
exclusion of others. The ballades of Deschamps, however, must
have had influence in the writing of F. L. I have already said
that it seems unnecessary to assume a knowledge of the Lai du
Trot.1

Ten Brink, in his Chaucer Studien (1870), presented the ear-
liest comprehensive and adequate proof that F. L. was not by
Chaucer,2 but added nothing in relation to sources.

Professor C. F. McClumpha, in 1889,3 suggested that Des-
champs' Lay de Franchise was a poetic model for F. L. Practi-
cally all the resemblances pointed out with emphasis in his article
are shown in the analysis of Deschamps' poem in chap, iii above,
from which it should be clear that the Lay de Franchise is hardly
more like F. L. than a number of other works.4 To be sure,
Deschamps' young men gathering flowers are clad in green ; but
I have pointed out several examples of like companies similarly
clad. And even the description of the jousting, which is the
most significant feature of Deschamps' poem in relation to F. L.,
seems hardly so important as a similar description in Christine de
Pisan's Due des Vrais Amans, because of the specific contrast of
white and green costumes in the latter. These errors are akin to
those of Sandras — of a negative rather than a positive sort; but
in his zeal to make out a good case Professor McClumpha falls
into a positive blunder of interpretation, when he says that
Deschamps "attaches a brief comparison of the flower and the

i End of chap, ii above. 2 Pp. 156 ff.

» Modern Language Notes, Vol, IV, cols. 402 ff.
* Most notably those first mentioned by Sandras.

325

46 GEORGE L. MARSH

leaf." He does do this in his ballades, but not in the Lay de
Franchise. On the whole, it is quite impossible to agree that "the
similarity of these two poems is so apparent that one must have
suggested the other, if, indeed, a nearer relationship may not be
assumed." The Lay de Franchise unquestionably belongs to a
group of poems, any one or all of which, either directly or through
Chaucer and Lydgate, may have influenced our author; but we
cannot say dogmatically that it or any other one of them, particu-
larly, was the model for F. L.1

Professor Skeat, in his various comments on our poem, has
made no important addition to our knowledge of its sources — has,
in fact, ignored the most important suggestions previously made
(by Sandras). He has, however, pointed out numerous similari-
ties between passages of F. L. and of other English poems, espe-
cially those of Chaucer. Such verbal resemblances as he men-
tions usually indicate nothing but close imitation of Chaucer;
the important resemblances in idea I have already discussed.

It must be admitted that a majority of the works most likely
to have influenced our author had been pointed out before this
investigation was begun. Chaucer's and Deschamps' references
to the Orders of the Flower and the Leaf were known ; .but the
latter had not been examined for specific resemblances to F. L.
Discussion of Charles d'Orleans' ballades in this connection is
new; and most of the material in the latter part of chap, i and the
whole of chap, ii is here put together for the first time. No ade-
quate idea had been given of the conventionality of the setting
and machinery of our poem, and therefore too much was assumed
from resemblances between F. L. and two poems of Machaut and
Deschamps. I have pointed out almost infinite repetition of
nearly all the details of the setting, and several poems which, in
their combination of many such details, seem as likely to have
influenced our author as Machaut's Dit du Vergier or Deschamps'
Lay de Franchise. Among these are R. _R, the fundamental
importance of which in this connection had not been recognized;
Froissart's Paradys d* Amour; and poems by Christine de Pisan

*As an illustration of the sort of misrepresentation to which such study of sources
leads, it is interesting to note that Mr. Gosse, in his Short History of English Literature
41898), says F. L. "begins as a translation of Machault's Dit du Vergier."

326

"THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 47

and Lydgate (primary indebtedness to Chaucer being, of course,
taken for granted). The especially interesting material from
Lydgate's E. S. is new, as that work was not generally accessible
until after this study was begun.

The conclusion as to sources must be that F. L. is decidedly
an eclectic composition. Beyond doubt the author's first model
was Chaucer; especially in the Prologue to L. G. W., but also at
least in C. T., B. D., and P. F. Next in importance is Lydgate, ,£M
whose R. S., especially, presents more different points of resem-
blance to F. Z/., in both diction and idea, than any other one pro-
duction I have examined. Gower's C. A. and later poems of the
Chaucerian school, notably C. N., our author probably knew.
As to direct French influence there is more uncertainty, since */
most of the features that were French in origin had been fairly
well domesticated in England before F. L. was written. Thus
the setting and the main action of the poem are paralleled in both
Chaucer and Lydgate, and the most influential French allegories
in which similar setting and action are found had been translated
into English. It seems practically certain, however, that our
author knew Deschamps' ballades on the Orders of the Flower
and the Leaf, and extremely probable that he knew other poems
by Deschamps, as well as by Machaut, Froissart, and Christine de
Pisan. And behind all other French influence, directly or indi-
rectly, is R. J£., which the author of F. L. must have known in
the version attributed to Chaucer, and perhaps in the original.

GEORGE L. MARSH

UNIVERSITY OP CHICAGO

327

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH

In one of the most charming of the Old Norse sagas there
are related the wanderings of the skald Gunnlaug Snake-Tongue,
his visits to the princes and chiefs of Norway, Sweden, Ireland,
the Scottish Isles, and England. He sailed to London and sought
out King JEthelred the Unready, going, as the old tale says,
"straight before the king," and telling him that he had come a
long distance to see him. He then asked the king's permission to
recite a lay which he had composed in his honor. This was gra-
ciously granted and the song was sung. "The king thanked him
for the lay and gave him as a reward for his skaldship a mantle
of scarlet, richly trimmed with costly fur and adorned with gold
from top to bottom, and made him his retainer, and Gunnlaug
remained with the king through the winter."

There is a striking similarity between the travels of Gunnlaug,
one of the later singers of the Heroic Age, and those of Widsith,
told in the earliest account of the life of a Germanic minstrel
which has come down to us. According to what is professedly his
own narrative, Widsith, like his Scandinavian brother of some five
centuries later, wandered from court to court, exhibiting his art
for the diversion of kings and princes, taking part in their for-
tunes, and receiving from them rich gifts in recompense for his
services and his skill. The element of love, indeed, is not present
in the story — there is no Anglo-Saxon counterpart to the beautiful
Helga, nor did Widsith engage in combats of the sort which add
so much picturesqueness to the career of Gunnlaug. But the tra-
ditions of the minstrel profession appear to have been much the
same, and there is in the earlier narrative something of the same
independence and pride in being a member of that profession
which is so conspicuous in the later tale.

It is furthermore interesting to note that the only extant manu-
script copy of the poem which has been given Widsith's name was
written in England at about the same time that ^thelred was
entertaining Gunnlaug. This copy, while probably greatly altered

329] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, October, 1906

2 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

from the original form of the piece, is nevertheless of inestimable
value as testimony to a particularly attractive side of early Ger-
manic life. For whether the adventures of Widsith are wholly
fictitious, or in part real, they are at least a faithful reflection of
the careers of the men who kept the art of song and entertainment
alive through the dark period before the Germanic peoples attained
to the fuller culture of the Middle Ages. If not authentic, they
are certainly typical.1 The value of the piece to the historian of
early literature, then, is obvious.2 Indeed, the importance of what
Jen Brink has called the "earliest monument of English poetry
that remains to us"3 need hardly be emphasized.

If Widsith is inferior in poetic quality to other pieces of lyric
character in Anglo-Saxon, it is by no means wholly lacking in
this respect. The passage describing the singer's relations with
his lord Eadgils and with Queen Ealhhild (11. 88 ff.) serves to
indicate what the general tone of the poem in an earlier form may
have been. For, as will be seen, closer study shows that it has
been much overlaid and defaced by the addition of inferior mate-
rial, like a Gothic building rudely modernized with bricks and
mortar. Unfortunately the reminiscences of heroic poetry in its
best estate are all too few. It must be admitted that the chief
interest of the poem lies in other directions. Perhaps its greatest
value to the student of early European civilization is in just these
passages of inferior poetic quality, which convey so much infor-
mation in regard to the peoples and potentates of history and saga-
The very features which diminish its aesthetic merit, the long cat-
alogues of nations and rulers whom the singer is supposed to have
visited, are valuable testimony to historical conditions during a
period the scantiest records of which are priceless. Interesting
glimpses of heroic saga are also revealed. Gifica (1. 19) and
Guthhere (1. 65) are apparently conceived of at a period earlier
than the joining of the historical Burgundian elements to the

1 Cf. Rajna, Le origini dell' epopea francese, pp. 39 f. : "Con tutto ci6 il fondo risponde
certamente a una condizione reale di cose, e se il Vidsidh non sarfi, forse andato ad Erman-
rico accompagnando Ealhhild, moglie del re E6dgil, suo signore, nessun poeta avrebbe flnto
1'andata, se fatti consimili non occorresser davvero nella vita dei poeti di corte."

2 The figure of Widsith is not without significance for the history of the early drama ;
cf . Chambers, The Mediaeval Stage, Vol. I, pp. 28 f .

3 History of English Literature, trans. Kennedy, Vol. I, p. 11.

330

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 3

mythical features of the Nibelungen story. The passage relating
how the pride of the Heathobards was humbled at Heorot, and
how Ingeld was slain, forms a tragic sequel to the hopes of Hroth-
gar to secure peace by the marriage of his daughter Freawaru, as
told in Beowulf.1 It is unnecessary, however, to comment on the
significance of the list of heroes of the Dark Ages, real and ficti-
tious, who make their appearance in Widsith's narrative.

The fascination of the poem is not lessened by the obscurity
which surrounds its origin and growth. Its date, its value as a
record of actual experience, the processes by which it has reached
its present form, the interpretation of various obscure passages —
all these questions and many others have been discussed with con-
siderable fervor for upwards of fifty years. No consensus of
opinion, however, has followed the disagreements of the past. The
criticisms of ten Brink, Moller, Mtillenhoff, Leo, Ettmuller, and
others in Germany, and of Sweet, Thorpe, Wright, Brooke, and
Earle in England, to mention no other names, are greatly at
variance.2 At the present day, one may well be excused for a feel-
ing of perplexed indecision as to a safe middle course between
conflicting theories. A more careful examination of the evidence
is likely to involve one still deeper in the briars of criticism. The
easiest way out, perhaps, is to call the question insoluble.
Korting gives up the problem of date as " unbestimmbar." 3 Profes-
sor Saintsbury, after a procession of "ifs," and a thrust of scorn
at the critical methods of those who dissect early poetry, holds
that the evidence is insufficient to arrive at a conclusion, and
refuses to express an opinion.4 The argument for autobiographical
value as against the hypothesis that the story is pure fic-
tion is another important point still undetermined. Dr. Grar-
nett recently returned to the older view that the narrative
may be substantially genuine, despite interpolations.5 Such a
cautious statement as Mr. Chambers makes, that Widsith was "an
actual or ideal scop," would perhaps find greater favor nowadays.

1 Cf. Beow., 11. 2025 ff. and 2064 ff. with Wids., 11. 45 ff.

2 For bibliography to 1885, cf . Walker, Grundriss , pp. 318 ff.

3 Grundriss der Gesch. derengl. Lift. (1905), p. 27, note.
*A Short History of English Literature, pp. 1 f.

5 Garnett and Gosse, History ofEng. Lit., Vol. I, p. 7.

331

4 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

The inquirer is certainly quite in the dark as to a conservative
view of the processes by which the poem reached its pres-
ent form. The elaborate patchwork theory of ten Brink,1 who
distinguishes in the piece four separate lays, not including intro-
ductory and connecting material, has never been adequately criti-
cised and refuted, although the general weakness of his method is
apparently coming more and more to be recognized. One feels
that the truth must lie somewhere between this and the view of
Dr. Guest,2 for example, who accepted practically the whole poem
as the work of one man, "soon after the age of eighty," the ref-
erence to Alexander the Great being "the only instance in which
he has referred to one not a contemporary." But a careful exam-
ination of the problem from the point of view of construction is
still lacking. Few men have thrown as much light upon these
perplexing problems as Heinzel has done, both directly and indi-
rectly, yet we have no detailed study of the poem from his pen,
while much of his most illuminating criticism is to be found in
articles dealing with other subjects, which may be overlooked in
collecting bibliography especially with reference to Widsith. In
short, some of the most important questions in regard to the piece
as a whole, not to mention many details, must be regarded as still
awaiting solution.

It is, indeed, too much to hope to gain the whole truth in
regard to the baffling old poem. Many matters connected with
it must remain undetermined. The illusion that analytic criticism
can find out almost everything worth knowing is rather less com-
mon nowadays than it used to be. Yet it seems unwise to go too
far in the direction of the caution that takes refuge in the impos-
sibility of gaining further knowledge. At all events, the need of
a thorough re-examination of Widsith, in the light of modern
knowledge of ethnology and saga, and of a careful review and com-
parison of earlier theories, is perhaps sufficient excuse for rushing
in where angels have feared to tread, or have trodden unsuccess-
fully. A good deal has been written which may safely be pro-
nounced untenable, as, for example, M6ller's attempt to force the

1 Paul's Grundrias, Vol. II, pp. 538 ff. References to the Grundriss in this paper are to
the earlier edition.

2 History of English Rhythms, ed. Skeat, pp. 371 ff.

332

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 5

entire poem into the Procrustean bed of the strophic form,1 or
Michel's notion that it reflects the mediaeval conception of the
seventy-two peoples inhabiting the earth.2 Apart from articles
exploiting special hypotheses, however, there are various sugges-
tive criticisms of detailed points which must be taken into con-
sideration, some of which have a most important bearing upon the
interpretation of the poem as a whole. Any consistent interpreta-
tion must, indeed, rest to a very large extent upon these details.
The difficulty of securing critical unanimity as to their significance
is one of the stumbling-blocks to the acceptance of even the most
conservative view as to the evolution of the poem. But the effort
to clear up these matters is certainly worth while, in view of the
importance of the piece, even if the only result were to stimulate
renewed discussion.

The principal object of the present investigation, then, is, as
the title indicates, to study the various processes in the evolution
of the poem, and the interpretation of certain significant portions,
which may lead to a decision as to the approximate date and
provenience of the material, rather than to enter minutely into
questions of ethnology, history, and saga.

Upon a hasty reading, the poem makes the impression of a
jumble of heterogeneous material. A more careful examination
shows that it falls into certain rather definite groups, and that the
interest of the main narrative seems to be of two kinds, the details
of personal experience, and the enumeration of peoples and rulers,
with some historical, or avowedly historical, information added.

The whole is introduced by a short prologue:

MABOLADE, wordhord onleac,
se pe monna msest msegpa ofer eorpan,

1 Das altenglische Volksepos in der ursprilnglichen strophischen Form, pp. 1 ff. In cer-
tain parts of the poem it is quite possible that strophic structure is to be assumed, as for
instance 11. 15 ft'., but to extend the principle as far as Moller wished to do, and reprint the
whole with stanzaic divisions, cannot be regarded as otherwise than highly dangerous —
indeed, the wide application which Moller made of his general theory to AS. heroic verse is
generally discredited today. Cf. Heinzel, Anz. /. d. Alt., Vol. X, and note how little such
strophic manipulations are likely to produce unanimity ; ten Brink, Paul's Grundriss, Vol.
II, p. 542, thinks that Moller's four-line strophes would form six-line divisions equally well.

2Paul-Braune, Beitrtige, Vol. XV, p. 377 ; refuted by Bojunga, Beitr&ge, Vol. XVI, p. 545.

333

6 WILLIAM WITHEBLE LAWRENCE

folca geondferde: oft he on flette gepah

mynelicne mapjmm. Him from Myrgingum

sepelo onwocon. He mid Ealhhilde, 5

fselre freopuwebban, forman slpe

Hre9cyninges ham gesohte,

eastan of Ongle, Eormanrices,

wrapes wserlogan. Ongon pa worn sprecan:1

Autobiographical matter does not follow, however. The con-
ventional formula ic . . . . gefrcegn (1. 10), which, so far as it
implies anything, means that the poet got his information by hear-
say, introduces, after the valuable observation that virtue is neces-
sary to a successful monarch, a long list of peoples and princes.
Obviously, however, there is no personal note here — these are not
the ones that Widsith visited, or supposedly visited. The infor-
mation is not even conveyed in the first person, but in the third.

JStla weold Hunum, Eormanric Gotum; 18
Becca Baningum, Burgendum Gifica.

This forms a contrast to the names introduced by the phrase ic
wees mid, later on. The mention of Eormanric seems rather
superfluous, after the prologue. Offa, king of the Angles, and
Hrothwulf and Hrothgar get a longer mention, closing the some-
what incongruous collection beginning with Alexander. The whole
passage (11. 10-49) is a kind of rhymed summary of historical
information. It constitutes a division of the poem by itself, the
basis of it perhaps being, as ten Brink suggested, the "uralte
versus memoriales" (11. 18-34) .2

iThe text follows that in the Grein-Wtilker Bibliothek der ags. Poesie, Vol. I, p. 1, with
the addition of marking the quantity of the vowels. The punctuation has in some cases been
changed. Elsewhere than in quotations, the spelling of the word Wldsld has, for the sake
of convenience, been modernized, and the marks of length omitted.

2 Ten Brink was no doubt right in setting this down as a mnemonic catalogue, and one
of considerable antiquity. He looked upon 11. 35-44 as a later addition made among the
Angles ; 11. 45-49 as having been added in Mercia, while 11. 10-13 was assigned still a different
origin. Into these details it does not seem possible to venture with any certainty. If, as is
likely, it constitutes one of the oldest portions of the poem, we may have to take the changes
of oral transmission into account. It represents a collection of facts and traditions thought
worthy of perpetuation, and so committed to verse to assist the memory. The process out-
lined by ten Brink is not unreasonable, but it is improbable that it is correct, since there
is but such slender evidence upon which to base it.

It is worth noting that there are some interesting parallels in Old Norse. The editors
of the Corpus Poeticum Boreale call attention to the opening lines of the Lay of Hlod and

334

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 1

The singer then takes a fresh start, this time in the first

person :

Swa 1 ic geondferde fela fremdra londa 50

geond ginne grund; godes and yfles

peer ic cunnade cnosle bidseled,

freomsegum feor, folgade wide.

Forpon ic maeg singan and secgan spell,

msenan fore mengo in meoduhealle, 55

hu me cynegode cystum dohten.

Here, in place of the formal ic gefrcegn stand the direct and
personal ic geondferde, and ic cunnade. More cataloguing fol-
lows, but up to the end of the narrative (1. 134) it is sustained
in the first person, whether the phrase ic wees mid or ic sohte be
the one used. It is noticeable that in the passage immediately
following this second introduction, certain lines, and those the

Angantheow, remarking that they "look like a bit of a separate song, parallel to the English
Traveller's Lay, 11. 15-35." (C. P. B., Vol. I, p. 565.)

"A"r kv6fto Humla Hunom ra5a,
Gitzor Grytingom, Gotom Anganty,,
Valdar Daonom, enn Vao lorn Kiar,
Alrekr inn froe kni Enski pi68o."

The short enumerative pieces which the editors call "Heroic Muster Rolls" (Vol. I, p. 353)
are stated to be " manifestly the echoes of genuine older verse, and may probably contain
passages borrowed from them " — which suggests a process not unlike what we may believe
to have taken place in parts of Widsith. Manifestly, the lines in Widsith are similar to such

verse as this :

" Alfr ok Atli, Eymundr trani,
Gitzurr glama, GoBvarOr starri,
Steinkell stikill, St6rolfr vlfill:
Hraf n ok Helgi, Hloefiver Igull,
Steinn ok Kari, Styrr ok Ali" (etc., etc.).

iThis statement "So I traversed many foreign lands," etc., following a passage which
has no personal element in it, has given pause to various commentators. Mulleuhoff
remarks (Haupt's Zeitschrift, Vol. XI, p. 285): "Der zweite abschnitt wird mit vv. 50-56
eingeleitet. nach hrn Greins und dor fruhern herausgeber interpunction, wenn man abth^ilt

Svft ic geondfSrde fela fremdra londa
geond ginne grund ; g6des and yfles
J)ser ic cunnade u. s. w.,

muss man den ersten satz und das 'sva' auf das was vorhergeht beziehen ; es wttrde daraus

folgen dass der sanger auch alle die fursten die er eben aufgezahlt besucht habe (In

11. 18-49) zeigt der vielgereiste sanger seine erfahrung und sagenkunde ; hatte er aber dort
alle von ihm genannten kOnige besucht und selbst gesehen, was in aller welt sollte da noch
das zweite, ziemlich abweichende verzeichniss von v. 57 an von volkern und zum theil auch
von konigen mit der ausdrftcklichen bemerkung dass er bei diesen war? v.51 muss darnach
anders interpungiert und das semicolon in ein komma verwandelt werden. wir wurden
jetzt die unterordnung oder das verhaltnis der gedanken schftrfer ausdrftcken als fs zu
einer zeit geschah wo de» satzbau noch wesentlich parataktisch war. aber die folge der
gedanken ist doch ganz deutlich : ice habe so— wie f olgt— viele f remde lander durchreist, gutes
und ftbles erfuhr ich da, deswegen kann ich singen und sagen u. s. w." Moller notes (Vol. I,
p. 34) that this interpretation of stva is supported by Beow., 1. 2144, although he is inclined
to think that there is contamination in the Beowulf passage itself. He regards the swa as
an interpolation here, saying that it is "ein beliebtes interpolatorenwort." Ten Brink,
too, changes swa to Hwcet. It seems well to remember that if 11. 18-49 or 11. 14-49 is an

335

8 WILLIAM WITHEKLE LAWRENCE

ones which contain the baldest enumerations, stand out promi-
nently as awkward and hypermetric,1 while others which introduce
additional detail, mainly that of matters which have affected the
singer personally, are of the normal length. Contrast, for
instance,

Mid Froncum ic wses and mid Frysum and mid Frumtingum.
Mid Rugum ic wses and mid Glommum and mid Rumwalum.

with the lines immediately following,

Swylce ic wses on Eatule mid ^Elfwine, 70

se hsefde moncynnes mine gefreege
leohteste hond lofes to wyrcenne,
heortan unhneaweste hringa gedales,
beorhtra beaga, beam Eadwiues.

This distinction is perhaps not without significance in the evo-
lution of the poem, as will be seen later. The mention of
Guthhere, or Gunther, king of the Burgundians (11. 65 ff.) is also
of especial interest. Earlier in the poem (1. 19) Gifica is repre-
sented as ruling the Burgundians. The curious combination of
the Greeks and the Finns and Csesar, already found in 1. 20, is
repeated in 1. 76. The strangest collection of all is the passage
11. 79-87. The Picts and Scots, the Israelites and the Assyrians
and the Egyptians jostle the Medes and Persians, the "Mofdings"
and the "Amothings." Surprising, too, is the statement that
Widsith has been with the Myrgings, his own people, and
"ongend Myrgingum," after all these travels!

The mention of Eormanric introduces a section of very
different character. Here at last something the sort of tale
promised by the prologue is realized. In striking contrast to

insertion, something may very well have been cut out to make room for it, which would
have made the usual meaning of swa quite in place here. But the adherents of the ballad
theory were always loth to admit losses in practice, however willing they may have been to
do so in principle. In the second place, the logical connection of the particle swa appears
to have been less close than we are inclined to suppose nowadays. MullenhofP s comment
points in this direction. In an earlier article, I have shown this in regard to the adverb
forpon (Jour. Germ. Philol., Vol. IV, pp. 463ff.). If swa is " einbeliebtes interpolatorenwort,"
it is certainly also a favorite word for introducing a new sentence in poetry where no con-
tamination can be held to be present, and is sometimes used, like modern English "so," or
German "also," as a loose connective in narrative, not necessarily denoting a close logical
connection between what precedes and what follows. In short, then, there seems to be
no need to regard it with suspicion here, even if no interpolation exists,
i Cf. ten Brink, Grundriss, Vol. II, pp. 540, 541.

336

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION' OF WIDSITH 9

what precedes, it consists of vivid and picturesque narrative, full
of the color of real experience, and telling a connected story.

And ic wees mid Eormanrice ealle prage,

Peer me Gotena cyning gode dohte,

se me beag forgeaf, burgwarena fruma, 90

on pam siexhund wses smsetes goldes

gescyred sceatta scillingrime,

pone ic Eadgilse on seht sealde,

mmum hleodryhtne, pa ic to ham bicwom,

leofum to leane, paes pe he me lond forgeaf, 95

mines f seder epel, frea Myrginga;

and me pa Ealhhild operne forgeaf,

dryhtcwen dugupe, dohtor Eadwines.

Hyre lof lengde geond londa fela,

ponne ic be songe secgan sceolde, 100

hwser ic under swegle selast wisse

goldhrodene cwen giefe bryttian.

©onne wit Scilling sciran reorde

for uncrum sigedryhtne song ahofan,

hliide bi hearpan hleopor swinsade: 105

Ponne monige men modum wlonce

wordum sprecan, pa pe wel cupan,

paet hi nsefre song sellan ne hyrdon.1

This is perhaps the most important division of the poem in
connection with the questions of origin and evolution, and a very
careful examination of it will presently be necessary.

The last rough division of the story (11. 110 ff.) appears to be an
enumeration of the "innweorud Earmanrices," following the state-
ment that the singer traversed all the country of the Goths. It is
hardly necessary to say that the list is an imaginary "omnium
gatherum" of names, arranged, in many cases, in alliterative pairs
— Secca and Becca, the latter the Bikki of the tragic story of the
death of Swanhild ; Eadwine and Elsa, Lombard monarchs of widely
different periods ; RaBdhere and Rondhere, perhaps mere decorative
names; so also Wulfhere and Wyrmhere. Wudga and Hama, the
Wittich and Heime of Middle High German legend, are praised
by the poet as "not the worst of comrades, though I name them
last." There is a little glimpse of early contests against the Huns,

lCf. the admirable English rendering by Professor Gummere in Mod. Lang. Notes, 1889,
p. 419.

337

10 WILLIAM WITHEBLE LAWRENCE

and four good lines recalling the best heroic epic manner, with
their mention of the "yelling shaft that flew, whining." The narra-
tive closes with the moralizing afterthought, clumsily expressed,

Swa ic paet symle onfond on Peere f eringe,

paet se bip leofast londbuendum

se J?e him god syle<5 gumena rice

to gehealdenne, penden he her Ieofa5,

— a pious reflection utterly at variance with the spirit of what
precedes.

Finally, an epilogue of nine lines closes the piece, recalling
rather superfluously that it is thus that the minstrels wander over
the earth and gain everlasting glory.

Critics have generally agreed upon one point, that a composi-
tion full of such discrepancies in style, subject-matter, and metre,
is in all probability not entirely the work of one man.1 The
passage consisting of 11. 10-49, as has been seen, does not fit into
the general scheme of the whole, and has every appearance of
having been composed for another purpose and utilized or inserted
here. Again, it seems almost impossible that such screamingly
bad verse as 11. 79 ff., with its mention of such "undinge"2 as
Mof dings and Amothings, and its jumble of scriptural names, can
have been composed by the poet of the picturesque and graceful
account of Widsith's stay at the court of Eormanric, and his rela-
tions with Eadgils and Ealhhild. It is difficult to imagine a scop
of the Christian period in England — as the biblical matter and
the mention of the Picts and Scots must force us to believe him
to have been — writing off this unnatural mixture of contrastingly
good and bad verse, of early and late material. The matter in the
"memory verses," in the earlier portion of the poem, bears signs
of great age, as ten Brink has pointed out. On the other hand,
the figure of Eormanric, who is so conspicuous in this poem in

iCf. the summary in Walker's Grundriss, pp. 319 ft. and 329. Heinzel, who is disposed to
defend the unity of the piece so far as may be, acknowledges that it contains discrepancies
which cannot be explained away : " v. 88 And ic woes mid Eormanrlce eaZZe^ra.qrekannunmog-
lich derjenige sagen, der schon v. 57 erzahlt hat, er sei bei den Hredgoten gewesen, noch der
v. 18 den Goten Ermanarich unter jenen alten Fftrsten aufgezAhlt hat, von denen er nur durch
flberlieferung weiss." (Anz. f. d. Alt., Vol. X, p. 232.) Miss Eickert (Mod. Philology, Vol. II,
p. 370, notes that all the poems in the Exeter Book, except the Wife's Complaint, the frag-
mentary Ruin, and the Riddles, have been "edited" to a greater or less degree.

2Mullenhoff subsequently proposed to identify them with the Moabites and Ammon-
ites. (Grein- Wttlker, Bibliothek der ags. Poesie, Vol. I, p. 401.)

338

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 11

various places, was one little known to the Anglo-Saxons after
their migration to Britain,1 and it seems unlikely that a poet of
the later time, as the Christian coloring would show him to have
been, should have chosen to give Eormanric a prominent mention
in his prologue, to have made him later one of the chief per-
sons connected with the personal adventures of his hero, and have
thought it worth while to enumerate his "innweorud" at length.
Any argument supporting unity of authorship must concede that
the poet was working on the basis of older material, chiefly of
continental origin, and that he incorporated some of it bodily into
his work. A more reasonable explanation for the stratification so
generally conceded by modern critics is that the incongruous ele-
ments must have been inserted from time to time in a poem
which was in its older form more consistent with itself. We have
learned, indeed, not to set up a rigid standard of perfection for
early poetry, and adjudge whatever does not conform to this
standard to be spurious, but the discrepancies here are of another
sort than literary inequality or carelessness of detail, they reveal
fundamental differences of time and place and literary interest.
Obviously, the chief value and attraction of the piece for the man
who copied it into the Exeter Book was the information it con-
tained. The cataloguing material occupies the main part of the
narrative put into the mouth of the singer ; the touches of personal
experience seem insignificant by comparison. Personal interest,
whether real or imaginary, made doubly conspicuous by the
enumerative lists accompanying, is aroused by the kindness
of Gunther and of Eadwine of Italy, the historical Audoin,
father of Alboin, the longer narrative of the stay at the Gothic
court, and the mention of Eadgils, Ealhhild, and the brother-
minstrel Scilling, with such details as the exact value of the ring
bestowed by Eormanric, and the repurchasing of land belonging
to the minstrel's father. *tt is a thousand times to be regretted
for the poetic interest of the piece that Widsith does not oftener
take the hearer into his confidence.

i Binz, Paul-Braune, Beitr&ge^ Vol. XX, p. 209 : *l Die gauze sage von Ermenric aber 1st
off enbar den Angelsachsen schon bald nach der ubersiedlung nach England fremd geworden ;
nur so lasst es sich begreifen, dass die einst im epos hervorragenden namen derselben in
gebrauche des taglichen lebens gar keinen widerhall mehr linden."

339

12 WILLIAM WITHEBLE LAWRENCE

We shall surely not err in looking to this thread of story for
the earlier material at the basis of the poem, rather than to the
lists of names, etc., which precede. Instances of expanding a tale
by the interpolation of inferior matter are common enough, but to
enliven cataloguing by the composition of epic verse dealing with
different material, and telling a separate story, is, so far as I am
aware, unheard of. It seems reasonable, then, to regard much of
this ethnological tediousness as a later addition to the main theme,
having crowded out earlier portions of the poem, so that the real
narrative of Widsith's adventures is preserved in a fragmentary
condition only.

At this point the question arises : Granted that the poem con-
sists of elements composed at different times, how far is it possible
to separate these with accuracy ?

Those who are familiar with the monographs already written
on Widsith will have recalled in the course of the present discus-
sion various attempts which have been made in the past to distin-
guish clearly the different strata in the poem. It has, in fact,
already been dissected ad nauseam. The three most detailed
studies of the piece ever published have been essays in critical
dismemberment. In 1858 Mtillenhoff attempted to separate
the interpolations, arriving at definite, though not complicated,
results.1 At the end of his article he expressed the hope that the
processes of composition might be analyzed more in detail,
remarking that the mere excision of interpolated passages did
not mean the restoration of the original text. In regard to
Beowulf, criticism had arrived at other results. Why not in
regard to Widsith? This tempting opening for critical ingenuity
was utilized to the fullest degree in 1883 by Hermann Moller,
who evolved a theory of growth of the most complicated sort, the
minutest details being carefully worked out, and the whole pro-
cess of construction laid bare. Where Mtillenhoff had assumed
but one interpolator, Moller distinguished two, "Interpolator A
and Interpolator B," quite in the manner of Mtillenhoff's Innere

i Haupt's Zeitschrift, Vol. XI, p. 275. Mtillenhoff had already discussed Widsith in his
Nordalbingische Studien, Vol. I, pp. 48 ff. The divisions of the poem and the excisions,
according to Mflllenhoff, are as follows: Introd. 1-9; I, 11. 18-49 (except 11. 14-17); II, 11.
50-56, 57-108 (except 11. 75-87) ; III, 1. 109-end (except 11. 131-34).

340

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 13

Geschichte des Beowulf s. The whole was chopped up into
lengths, and printed, as was also Beowulf, "in the original strophic
form." 1 Finally ten Brink, carrying the " Liedertheorie" to its ut-
most limits, as he had already done in his Beowulf 'untersuchungen,
presented an analysis of Widsith even more elaborate than Mol-
ler's.2 While recognizing the value of the work of his predeces-
sors, he thought that it might, in various details, be corrected
and completed. Those who are familiar with the profound
scholarship, the delicate literary sense, and the laborious indus-
try of his investigation of the Beowulf problem will have noticed
the same qualities in the article in Paul's Grundriss. Granted
that the method is legitimate, the work is as brilliant as that
written before the latter days of his life. Yet it must bear, in
direct proportion to its very elaborateness and its eager desire
to leave no problem in the history of the poem unsettled, a severe
weight of skepticism from those who disbelieve in the principles
of higher criticism to which ten Brink subscribed. The eminence
of ten Brink as a scholar, the great authority of the manual in
which the work was published, and the valuable contributions
made to other questions than those dealing with structure and
growth have no doubt caused many to accept the whole argument
without question. It is always to be remembered, too, that the
essays of Mtillenhoff and Moller contain a large amount of highly
valuable and suggestive comment on ethnology, geography,
language, history, and so forth. But the principles underlying
the analysis under discussion call for most careful consideration.
The whole question of the structural character of Widsith
depends, indeed, upon the creed of the investigator in regard to
the processes through which early poetry has passed, and the ability
of modern scholarship to unravel these processes. The situation is
familiar from the criticism of Beowulf. The man who believes

1 The details of Holler's theory are too complicated to give, even in outline. He dis-
tinguished three principal lays, 1, 11. 50-108; II, 11.88-90 and 109-30; III, 11. 10-34, besides
interpolations and additions — 11. 35-49; 1-9; 82-87; 131-34; 135-43.

2 For the sake of comparison, the results of ten Brink's analysis are here given. Introd.
1-9; 1,11.10-49,131-34; 11,11.59-63,68, 69, 75-81,82-87 (?), 88, 89, 109-30; 111,11.50-58 (read Hwcet
in 1. 50 instead of Swa), 64-67, 70-74, 90-108 (read He instead of Se in 1. 90), 135-43. He as-
sumed possible losses before 11. 57 and 88. For further details cf. his article, Paul's Grun-
driss, Vol. II, pp. 538-45.

341

14 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

in the exegesis applied to that poem by the scholars just enumer-
ated has only to choose between their respective analyses to satisfy
himself in regard to the growth of Widsith — making due allow-
ance, let us hope, for the strophic theory. The fact that it must
often be conceded that early poetry is patched and pieced makes
the way to such a belief all the more easy. The insertion in the
Genesis, and the proof that the parts preceding and following are
the work of different men; the two, and possibly three or more
hands at work on the Seafarer; the curious relations between
the Daniel and the Azarias; the interpolations in the Old Norse
Grimnismdl — these may stand as examples of such alteration. It
is not so difficult for an unprejudiced person to admit that some
such additions as Mullenhoff describes may have crept into
Widsith, however unlikely he may think it that Mullenhoff suc-
ceeded in denning their limits with certainty. Most scholars
would probably hesitate to deny that some lines in Beowulf are
interpolated, and all would agree that the present text represents
a reworking and insertion, in more or less changed form, of
older subject-matter probably existent earlier in other versions.
But that the processes are so simple and mechanical as the
adherents of the ballad-theory supposed them to be, or that it is
possible to trace the history of these combinations with micro-
scopic exactness are very different propositions. It is no pur-
pose of the present article, however, to enter into a detailed
criticism of the application of the " Liedertheorie " to Anglo-Saxon
poetry. Such a criticism — which, despite various able essays,
has not been satisfactorily written — would have to take a far
broader scope than the limits of the present paper allow.1 But it
seems to be coming to be generally regarded as dangerous to
depend upon subjective and a priori conceptions of Anglo-Saxon
poetic style, conceptions which presuppose a high degree of
smoothness and consistency and lead to elaborate and minute

1 Cf. especially Heinzel's review of ten Brink's " Beowulfuntersuchungen," Anz. f. d.
Alt., Vol. XV, pp. 153 if.; and of Holler's strophic reconstructions, ibid., Vol. X, pp. 220 ff.;
Jellinek and Kraus, "Die Widersprttche in Beow.," Zs. f. d. Alt., Vol. XXXV, N. F. XXIII,
p. 265 ; Brandl, Herrig's Archiv, Vol. CVIII, p. 155 ; Kistenmacher, Die wdrtlichen Wieder-
holungen im Beowulf, Diss., Greifswald, 1898. Hauschkel, Die Technik der Erzdhlung im Beo-
wulfliede, Diss., Breslau, 1904; J. E. Routh, Jr., Two Studies on the Ballad Theory of the
Beowulf, Diss., Johns Hopkins Univ., 1905. Mr. Routh gives a short introductory sketch of
-opinion concerning the ballad theory.

342

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 15

rearrangements of the text. The weakness of these processes is
particularly evident when applied to poems of a lyric character.1
On the other hand, it is perhaps equally uncritical to go too far to
the opposite extreme, to shut our eyes and accept as a unity a
piece which shows clear evidence of contamination. The dis-
crepancies in Widsith, which are, on the whole, far more striking
than those in Beowulf, show, as already observed, every indication
of being due to something else than lack of artistic skill in the
composition of verse. What one cannot reasonably attribute to a
poet capable of producing the best passages in the poem, namely,
the most bungling and uninspired of the cataloguing, may
reasonably be laid to the account of some botching scribe or
copyist. It seems proper, then, in attempting to clear up the
date and composition of Widsith, not to disregard the alterations
which it has suffered, but to endeavor to gain a general idea of
the nature and probable extent of these, even though their exact
limits can never be precisely defined.

The next thing to do, then, is to examine the narrative portion
of the poem somewhat more attentively. If this constituted the
original material, a decision in regard to its interpretation, date,
and authorship must be of prime importance in settling the ques-
tions connected with the present form of the piece.

The most detailed and important passage in that section of the
poem which professes to relate the personal experiences of the
singer is the one already quoted, which deals with the stay at the
court of Eormanric, his return to the Myrging country, and his
pre-eminence in his art. These lines ( 88-108 )2 do not appear to
have been tampered with, while the narrative preceding contains
much cataloguing of the most suspicious sort, and that following,
which tells of the visit to the members of the "innweorud
Eormanrices," is open to the same charge. One would like to
believe that the references to GuShere (11. 64-67) and to ^Elfwine
(11. 70-74) formed originally a part of the same story as 11. 88 ff.,

iCf. Boer, Zs. f. d. PhiloL, Vol. XXXV, pp. 1 ff., and criticism in Jour. Germ. Philol.,
Vol. IV, pp. 460 ff.

2Cf. p. 337 above.

343

16 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWBENCE

as they are similar to it in style and metre, and unlike the material
in which they are imbedded. It is almost impossible to resist the
conclusion that there is here preserved some of the good old piece
which formed the nucleus of the present poem, much mutilated
and interpolated, indeed, but still showing its presence wherever
it remains by its superiority to the matter which surrounds it.
Both GuShere, the Gunther of the Nibelungenlied, and JElfwine,
the historical Alboin,1 the conqueror of Italy, would have been
well-known figures to a North-German — each early gathered to
himself an accretion of legend and story. It is worth while to
note that they were far from being contemporary, Gunther dying
in 437 and Alboin in 572. It is unnecessary to point out the
presence of the Eormanric saga in this territory. Evidently this
journey to the Gothic court was one of the principal exploits of
the minstrel in the earlier version of the poem ; it is the only one
described in detail, and it is particularly mentioned in the pro-
logue, which, though brief, gives an important piece of informa-
tion in regard to the expedition, namely, that Widsith was accom-
panied by Ealhhild.

He mid Ealhhilde,

fselre freopuwebban, forman sipe

Hre9cyninges ham gesohte;

eastan of Ongle, Eormanrices,

wrapes wserlogan.

i There is little doubt that the identification of JSlf wine, the son of Eadwine, with
Alboin, the son of Audoin, is correct. The close correspondence in the names, and the fact
that .<Elf wine is spoken of in connection with Italy leave little doubt on this point. Mullen-
hoflt' accepted it unhesitatingly : " Efidwine, der vater Alf vines (Albuins) in Italien v. 74, und
der vater der konigin Ealhhild v. 98, ist sicherlich ein und dieselbe person und kein anderer
als der Langobardenkonig Auduin" (Haupt's Zeitschrift, Vol. XI, p. 278). The idea that
JSlfwine was one of the chiefs who followed the expedition of Alaric (cf . n. 2, p. 355) is without
foundation, and seems to have been proposed mainly because the date of the historic Alboin
was too late to square with Guest's general hypothesis. The conclusion that this Eadwine
is the celebrated king of the Lombards is strengthened by the recurrence of the name
further on (1. 117), where an Eadwine is mentioned along with Elsa, 2Egelmund, and Hun-
gar. JSgelmund is a well-known early Lombard ruler mentioned by Paul the Deacon. Elsa
is taken to be an Aliso of early Lombard records by C. Meyer, Sprache der Langob., Index,
cited by Heinzel,JTeryarar>Sa0a,p. 526 (cf.n.3, p. 351). Binz thinks Elsa "eine ausdem My thus
herubergenommene Gestalt " (Beitr., Vol. XX, p. 206). Hungar, so far as I am aware, has not
been satisfactorily identified. If grouping counts for anything— and one can place little
reliance upon it— this is a slight confirmatory piece of evidence. But such evidence is,
indeed, hardly needed. A well-known passage from Paul the Deacon shows the familiarity
of the name of Alboin to North-German tribes. "Albuin ita praeclarum longe lateque
nomen percrebuit ut hactenus etiam tarn apud Baiuariorum gentem quam et Saxonum, sed
et alios eiusdem linguae hominis eius liberalitas et gloria bellorumque felicitas et virtus in
eorum carminibus celebretur." (Mull., loc. cit., p. 279.)

344

STBUCTUBE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 17

The question now arises whether this prologue is to be reck-
oned with in the interpretation of the poem, or is to be regarded
as a wilful distortion of the story as told in the narrative portion.
Moller and ten Brink, finding it impossible to make this agree
with their theories, are disposed to explain it as the work of a
clumsy patcher. "Dass der sanger die Gotenreise in begleitung
seiner konigin Ealhhild machte ist gewiss nur die erfindung des
verfassers dieser einleitung."1 Why? Moller argues that nothing
is said of the incident in the body of the poem, but he seems not
to consider the necessity of allowing for losses, which must inevit-
ably have taken place in such a process of growth as he postu-
lates. Again, the discrepancy between the conception of Eorman-
ric as a kindly monarch (11. 88 ft3.) and the stigmatizing of him
here as a "wrap wserloga" has been made much of. It was
noticed long ago by Thorpe,2 who assumed on this account a hiatus
after 1. 9. Bojunga, in 1892, tried to show in this a proof of the
early date of the older parts of the poem. "Wir sind also ge-
zwungen, die alteren bestandtheile des Widsith in eine zeit zu
verlegen, in der der Ostgotenhof wegen seiner kunstsinnigkeit
und freigebigkeit in den deutschen landern allberuhmt war, also
sicher vor der mitte des 6ten jahrhunderts."3 Moller adduces
this as a proof of the untrust worthiness of the prologue. "Der
verfasser der einleitung nahm dies epitheton, das der verfasser
der verse 50-130 nicht gebraucht haben kdnnte,* ohne rticksicht
auf das vorliegende zum zweck des reimes auf worn." Jiriczek
has disposed of this by pointing out that the events narrated fall
before the time when Eormanric earned the uncomplimentary
title of the introductory lines.5 The connection with the Har-

i Moller, loc. cit.t p. 32. 2 Beow., p. 218, note.

3 Paul-Braune, Beitr&ge, Vol. XVI, p. 548. *P. 33; the italics are mine.

5 Deutsche Heldensagen, Vol. I, pp. 73 ff. After commenting upon the list of heroes con-
nected with the mane of Eormanric in the poem, Jiriczek continues : " Dass der Dichter alle
diese Personen als lebend anfuhrt, ist naturlich kein Beweis, dass er die Sage von dem Ende
der Harlungen nicht gekannt hatte ; er wahlte, um seinen Zweck, Katalogisierung der Hel-
den nach dem Modell, dass der Sanger WidsiO sie kennen lernt, zu erreichen, seinen chrono-
logischen Standpunkt so, dass der Besuch des Sangers vor die Ereignisse der Sage fallt.
Wenn er Eormanric gleich zu Anfang als wraf) weerloga, den bOsen Treuebrecher bezeichnet,
so setzt das notwendig Kenntnis der Sagen voraus, aus denen diese Bezeichnung sich
ergibt. Wenn Bojunga, Beitr. 16, 548, meint, der Kern des WidsIO setze noch die ungetrubte
gotische Auft'assung Ermanarichs als eines kunstsinnigen und freigebigen, erhabenen
Fursten voraus, die Eingangeveree mit seiner Verurteilung aber seien eine aus dem Geiste

345

18 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

lung-saga, which gave Eormanric the appellation of "wraf> wlir-
loga," is further carried out in the Eormanric catalogue, where
Emerca and Fridla are expressly mentioned. There is surely
nothing unnatural in finding an account of the visit of a minstrel
to a famous king and to those who were afterwards to fall victims
to his bad faith prefaced by the reminder that this was the very
man of whose treachery the world had heard, although at the time
when the minstrel made his tour the tragedy had not taken place.
Furthermore, it would have been out of place for the singer him-
self to set forth a scandal like that which clung to the name of
Eormanric, in a narrative whose avowed object is to relate how
the great ones of the earth were good to him. Singers conven-
tionally told of present-giving and the like — it was their business
to praise their patrons. Alboin, who appears in Paul the Deacon
as a cruel and barbarous king, forcing his wife to drink from a
cup made of her own father's skull, is seen in Widsith in a wholly
favorable light. There is, then, really no need of finding any dis-
crepancy here, or of assuming a date for the main body of the
poem earlier than the attachment of the Harlung-saga to the
figure of Eormanric.

That the prologue was written in Britain, and consequently in
all probability later than most of what follows, appears from the
phrase eastan of Ongle. This was explained by the earlier com-
mentators as meaning "im osten von Angeln" (Mtillenhoff), and
as referring to the location of the home of Eormanric. Sievers
pointed out, in considering the evidence for the situation of the
Gothic people, that this translation is incorrect.1 "Die Ansicht
Mullenhoffs, Deutsche Aitertumsk. 2, 99, dass noch das ags-
Widsidhlied die Goten 'ostwarts von Angeln' sitzend denke,
beruht auf falscher Ubersetzung der Worte eastan of Ongle, v. 9
.... Allerdings weiss der Wids. von Kampfen der Hrsedas
gegen die Hunen ymb Wistlawudu v. 120, aber geographische
Schlusse lassen sich daraus nicht ziehen." The phrase does not

der spftteren Sage herausgesprochene Interpolation, so kann dass— auch wenn die Interpola-
tionstheorie richtig ware— doch in Hinblick auf das oben erwahnte Princip des Dichters
kaum gefolgert werden, zumal die Verdunkelung des Charakters Ermanarichs eben auf der
Verbindung mit der Harlungensage beruht, die von WidslO bereits vorausgesetzt wird.11

i Paul's Grundriss, Vol. I, p. 408.

346

STEUCTUKE AND INTERPRETATION OP WIDSITH 19

modify ham, it modifies he (I. 5) , and is to be rendered " (he,
starting) from the east, from Angle-land hither." A valuable
article by Sievers, apropos of the words pat from ham gefrcegn
(Beow., 1. 194), emphasizes the peculiarities of Anglo-Saxon
usage, whereby after verbs of seeing, hearing, seeking, shining,
etc., adverbs denoting rest must modify the object, those denoting
motion the subject of the sentence.1 It might be expected that
Widsith would start from the country of the Myrgings, but it is
quite conceivable that the writer of the prologue should use the
term Ongle loosely here. The territory of the Myrgings bordered
upon that of the Angles in the old days, as 1. 42 indicates. Pos-
sibly, the difference between the territory occupied by the two
peoples was so small that the prologue writer thought it proper to
treat the localities as roughly synonymous; possibly he thought
that the use of the familiar term Ongle would help to fix a locality
which would have been only vague under the name Myrginga-
land. Or perhaps Widsith, though born a Myrging, started from
Ongle on this first long journey, as the poem might show if pre-
served entire. There is nothing strange about his traveling
"from the east hither" upon a journey which was ultimately to
lead to Eormanric ; he went from court to court, as the narrative
suggests, not making a bee-line for the land of the Goths. The
details of his itinerary will be discussed later, however. If it
appears that, starting from the Low Countries, he ought to move
south as well as west, it is well to remember that statements of
direction are vague in early poetry. Henrici has emphasized
this: "Die hauptsachlichen himmelsrichtungen sind fur die
Deutschen ost und west, die anderen treten dagegen zuruck."2
It would not be strange to find vagueness of location and direc-
tion in such a later addition to the poem as this. It need hardly
be said that geographical uncertainty is likely to arise early in
the transmutations of a story from one form to another, while the
events remain clear and distinct. On the other hand, nothing
could be more explicit than the statement that Widsith went with
Ealhhild to the home of Eormanric.

i Paul-Braune, Beitrttge, Vol. XI, p. 354 ; Vol. XII, pp. 188 ff.
2Zwr GescMchte der mhd. Lyrik, pp. 63 f.

347

20 WILLIAM WITHEBLE LAWRENCE

There seems to be no sufficient reason, then, to throw out the
testimony of the prologue. It is not unlikely that the man who
composed it possessed some information in regard to the situation
in the passage 11. 88 ff., which has not been preserved for us;1
that a part of the poem has been crowded out, perhaps, by the
evidently spurious 11. 79-87 ; and that this lost part would have
gone far to make the interpretation of the whole poem clear.
Nothing is commoner in. early poetry, of course, than the elusive
style of the reference to Ealhhild in the prologue. It sounds
like the work of a man who knew the story, and was writing for
an audience familiar with it. At all events it is not hard to
choose between the two hypotheses that the man who wrote the
opening lines was spinning out gratuitous and unmotivated non-
sense and that he was adding something which had a reasonable
connection with the story. The more critical attitude is certainly
to accept the testimony of the poem wherever possible, and not to
regard definite statements as wilful misrepresentations if they
may be otherwise explained. In the following discussion, then,
the motive of Widsith's accompanying Ealhhild to the Gothic
court will be accepted as an integral part of the story.

Unfortunately the little tale in 11. 88 ff. is far from clear. The
phrase ealle prage is puzzling — Widsith remained with Eormanric
ealle prdge. It may well refer to something preceding which has
been crowded out by the Mofdings and the Amothings and the
rest. The situation in the following lines raises new difficulties.
The commonly accepted interpretation of the whole story of Ealh-
hild seems to be that suggested by Ettmuller: "Eadgils sandte
seine Gemahlin Ealhhild zu Eormanrike, dem Gothenkonige, und
gab ihr seinen Sanger Widsi9 zum Geleite mit."2 Mr. Stopford
Brooke explains it thus: "Born among the Myrgings he, [i. e.,
Widsith] became the singer of the court, and while still young
went, in this capacity, 'with Queen Ealhhild, the weaver of
peace,' the daughter of Eadwine and the wife of Eadgils King of
the Myrgings, to seek the home of Eormanric (Hermanrich)
King of the Ostrogoths who lived 'east from Ongle;' and this was

1 According to the view of ten Brink, the " Ordiier " left out some lines preceding 1. 88t
which he made use of in his introduction.

2 Cf. Wulker, Grundriss, p. 322.

348

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 21

his first journey."1 Kogel gives a similar outline: ". . . . Der
Gote Eormanric hat ihm einen goldenen Ring geschenkt, der 600
Schillinge wert ist. Den uberlasst er seinem Landesherrn Eddgils,
dem Fursten der Myrginge, weil er ihm seinen Erbsitz, der ihm
verloren gegangen war, zurtickgegeben hatte. Seine Herrin Ealh-
hild, die Gattin des Eadgils, Albums Sch wester, schenkt ihm zum
Ersatze einen anderen Ring, und zum Danke daftir preist er sie in
Liedern [11. 90 ff.] als die freigebigste aller furstlichen Frauen."2
Upon a careful examination of the lines in question, there are
seen to be certain difficulties with this interpretation. In the
first place, there is no statement in the poem that Ealhhild was
the wife of Eadgils. The question naturally arises, too, why the
Myrging queen — as Ealhhild is conceived to be — whose country
was somewhere in North Germany about the mouths of the Elbe
and Eider, should make this long journey to the distant court of
Eormanric, the king of the Goths, somewhere in the eastern part
of Europe.3 A Germanic lady of the Heroic Age could hardly
have taken the trip for pleasure. The explanation given by Leo
years ago, and apparently still in force today,4 is that she went as
a "Friedenswerberin," a female peace-commissioner, because she
is called in 1. 6 fcele freopuwebbe, "lovely weaver of peace."
After mentioning the two cycles of Alboin and Eormanric notice-
able in the poem, Leo continues: "Beide sind verkntipft durch
Ealhhilden, die Tochter Eadvyne's, die (wie es scheint) Ftirstin
der Myrgingen (wohl EadgiFs Gemahlin) geworden ist, und welche
als Friedenswerberin der Sanger zu Eormanrika begleitet."

1 History of Early English Literature, p. 2. Mflllenhoff objected to the arrangement of
the main part of the poem as illogical, remarking that this mention of his journey as hav-
ing been made to the home of Eormanric would lead one to expect that the enumeration
would begin with that monarch or in the east (loc. cit.^ p. 276). Yet this eeems to demand an
exactness of arrangement not to be found in early poetry. It is perfectly conceivable, even
were the poem a unity, that the narrator might not proceed in strictly chronological fashion,
but mention first other places than those visited on his earliest trip. Or perhaps this phrase
was added to guard against the misconception that the mention of other travels first might
lead the hearer to think they were first in point of time. Possibly forman sipe is not to "be
held to its strict meaning — Professor Gummere renders it "once." There seems to be no
reason to balk at it, however.

2 Gesch. der deutschen Lift., Vol. I, p. 139.

3 It is impossible to locate the Goths from this poem, cf . p. 346. Probably they were
placed only vaguely by those who dealt with the poem in its later forms.

*Cf., for example, Chambers, loc. cit. For Leo's comments, cf. Walker, Grundriss,
pp. 320 f.

349

22 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

It has not been hitherto pointed out, I believe, that this ex-
planation is far from being satisfactory. In the first place, it
would have been an unusual, if not an unknown proceeding to
send a woman on such a mission. In the second place, the term
fcele freopuwebbe will not bear such an interpretation. It was,
rather, a formal epithet applied to a queen, as in Beow., 1. 1943,
where it is used in describing the fierceness of Queen Thrytho.
Here the formal character of the phrase appears very plainly.
"Thrytho, ambitious queen of the people, showed terrible vindic-
tiveness; no brave man among the court favorites, except her
husband, durst gaze on her openly with his eyes, but he might
count on deadly bonds being appointed for him, woven by hand;
very soon after his seizure was the knife brought into service, so
that the damasked dirk might settle it — proclaim the punishment
of death. That is no queenly custom for a woman to practice,
peerless though she may be, that a peace-weaver should assail the
life of a valued liegeman, because of fancied insult."1 The mean-
ing of the epithet is clear. A queen should be a woman promoting,
in a general way, good feeling, not hostility, as nowadays princes
have been called "defender of the faith," not because they have
ever fought for it, but because that is their general attitude toward
the established religion. The Heyne-Socin glossary suggests how
the term may have come to be applied to queens, interpreting it as
"pacis textrix, Bezeichnung der (oft zur Befestigung des Friedens
zweier Volker zur Ehe gegebenen) koniglichen Gemahlin." Bos-
worth-Toller defines it as " peace-weaver, woman." Its significance,
then, is general, not special. Care must be taken not to read too
much meaning into a formal epithet of this sort. Note that the
adjective fcele often accompanies the noun, adding still further to
the formal character of the word freopuwebbe. So in Elene, 1. 88,
the angel who appears to Constantine is called fcele fridowebba,
but he does not come as a " Friedens werber ;" his mission is to
announce that victory will perch on the standard of the Christian
king on the morrow. It is a suitable epithet to apply to the
divine messenger; it being the regular business of angels, as of
queens, to promote peace in a general way. Moller regards it as

i Transl. J. R. C. Hall. Cf. the termfridu-sibbfolca, Beow., 1. 2017.

350

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 23

purely mechanical: "Das epitheton das ihr hier in der einleitung
v. 6 gegeben ist das allergelaufigste, das sich behufs reimes auf
for man sipe ganz von selbst darbot,"1 an observation which would
have more point if the phrase forman sipe stood in the first half-
line rather than in the second.

The use of the term "lovely weaver of peace" in the passage
just quoted from Beowulf may serve to suggest the relation of
Ealhhild to Eormanric in the present poem. She took the long
journey to the Gothic court for the most natural reason which
would lead a woman in those days to travel so far — she went to
become his bride. In like manner Thrytho sought the hall of
Offa "over the fallow flood," and Kriemhild journeyed from
Worms to Vienna to wed Etzel the Hun, her royal husband wait-
ing to welcome her in his home. It is natural to find Widsith in
the train of Ealhhild on this joyful occasion, when minstrels and
entertainers must have been particularly welcome, not only because
they could give brilliancy to the festivities, but because they could
beguile the tedium of the journey.

This interpretation is entirely contrary to the accepted view of
the story, yet it will be found to be the one which best satisfies
the requirements of the situation, the one which affords the most
reasonable explanation of the text. It was proposed about twenty
years ago by Heinzel, in a discussion of the Hervarar saga,2 but
as the comment on the passage in Widsith was merely incidental
to the treatment of other matters, and as Heinzel did not give it
more than the briefest comment, this important suggestion seems
to have passed virtually unnoticed.3

It is worth while to quote Heinzel' s comments in full:

Dass der Sanger Widsidh mit der Frau seines myrgingischen Konigs
Ealhhild, der Tochter des langobardischen Eadwine, seine Kreuz- und
Querfahrten durch Europa unternimmt, schliesslich mit ihr einen Besuch
bei KOnig Ermanarich abstattet und sie wieder in die myrgingische
Heimat zuriickf iihrt, wo er gleichsam als Lohn f lir die Reisebegleitung

. cit., p. 32.

ZSitzungsberichte der Wiener Akademie (Phil.-Hist. Klasse), 1887, Vol. CXIV, pp. 417 if.
Cf. particularly pp. 514 ff. (Also issued separately. ) Cf. also ibid., Vol. CXIX, Uber die Ost-
gothische Heldensage.

3 The only other reference to Heinzel's discussion of this matter which I have observed
is in Jiriczek's Deutsche Heldensagen, Vol. I, p. 73. Jiriczek accepts Heinzel's position with-
out question.

351

24 WILLIAM WITHEBLE LAWKENCE

von ihr einen Ring erhalt, ohne dass irgend ein Zweck angedeutet wtirde,
1st unepisch und unglaublich. Der myrgingische Sanger macht vielmehr
in seinem Berufe eine Fahrt an verschiedene Ftirstenhofe, kommt dabei
nach Italien, das regnum Italice, wie das langobardische Reich hiess, und
erhalt da von Alboin, dem Sohne Audoins, den Auftrag, seine Schwester
Ealhhild zu dem Gothenkonig Ermanarich, der um sie geworben hat, zu
ftihren. Er entledigt sich dieses Auftrages und wird wie billig von Er-
manarich daftir mit einem Ring beschenkt, den er aber, wie proleptisch
erzahlt wird, bei seiner Heimkehr ins Myrgingenland seinem Herrn Ead-
gils gibt — aber auch von Ealhhild, der neuen Gothenkonigin, worauf er
mit Scilling, seinem poetischen Collegen, den gotischen Hof mit seinen
Liedern erfreut und verherrlicht.

Heinzel fails to note the "Friedenswerberin" argument, or
perhaps prefers to ignore it as untenable. He seems to exagge-
rate the probable prominence of a minstrel like Widsith in the
bridal expedition of Ealhhild to the court of Eormanric. It is
surely more likely that the minstrel must be thought of as one of
a numerous company, led by some distinguished man of the
Lombard court. The retinue of a noble lady, apparently the
sister of Alboin, must have been a large one. As the whole
poem centers about the figure of the singer, it is hard to think of
him as filling a relatively subordinate place, but it seems unlikely
that he would be very prominent; that the charge of escorting
the bride would be placed in the hands of a minstrel, as Heinzel's
words would seem to imply. Again, it is not quite clear that 11.
103-8, which describe the singing of Widsith in company with
his brother minstrel Scilling, refer to events at the Gothic court.
It seems quite possible that the scene may be shifted after 11.
97, 98. The train of thought runs: Ealhhild (in the country of
Eormanric) gave me another ring; I spread her praises over many
lands, whenever I had occasion to speak of the most generous
queen under the heavens. On such an occasion, when Scilling
and I raised up our voices in song before our sigedryhten (who
may be the hleodryhten of ten lines preceding, i. e., Eadgils, at
the Myrging court), many men of excellent judgment exclaimed
that they had never heard better minstrelsy. — The mention of
the travels "through many lands" makes a close logical con-
nection between the localities doubtful. The peculiarities of

352

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 25

thought-sequence in Anglo-Saxon poetry must also be taken into
account. A sort of interlacing of ideas is, as is well known, very
common. It is quite in accordance with well-established usage
to assume a double shifting of thought here, the ideas following
in the order ABAB. The prologue affords a good instance of
this stylistic trick. There the mind of the narrator wavers
between the end of the journey, the stage traversed with Ealh-
hild, which resulted in reaching the home of Eormanric, and the
place where the singer came from in the beginning. The clauses
follow somewhat thus: He was a Myrging; he, with Ealhhild, on
his first journey, visited the home of the Gothic king; he came
from the east, from Angleland; (he visited the home of) Eor-
manric, the wrathful treaty-breaker. Many instances of this
ABAB sequence have been collected by Heinzel in the criticism
of the application of the "ballad-theory" to Beowulf, and the
whole matter has been quite sufficiently discussed already.1 It
should be added, perhaps, that the place at which Widsith is
to be thought of as relating all this is not indicated in the poem.
In spite of these dissents and queries, it appears that Heinzel's
suggestion has marked a distinct step in advance in the interpre-
tation of the poem. It is necessary, however, to examine other
readings of the situation somewhat more carefully. This exami-
nation of other theories is conveniently made in connection with
the important question of what historical foundation, if any, exists
for the passage just discussed.

Ill

According to the interpretation of the story proposed by
Heinzel, there is evidently no historical foundation for the
relations between Ealhhild and Eormanric, and consequently
none for the alleged escorting of the lady to the Goths by the
hero of the poem. The sister of Alboin2 could not have married

i Cf. Heinzel, Quellen und Forsch., Vol. X, pp. 10 ff., and Anz. filr deut. Alt., Vol. X, pp.
220 if. ; Vol. XV, 157 ff., and Jour. Germ. Philol., Vol. IV, 4, p. 467.

2Notice that Ealhhild is mentioned in the poem as dohtor Eadwines (1. 98) while JSlf-
wine or Alboin is called beam Eadwines (1. 74) . It seems most likely that the two Ead wines
are identical, and that Ealhhild is to be thought of as a sister of Alboin. The identification
has been accepted by Mullenhoff, Moller, ten Brink, and by critics of the poem generally.
There is, of course, no historical testimony that Alboin ever had such a sister, or any
sister, indeed. But we are probably dealing with pure fiction here ; the main question is

353

26 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

a man a century and a half older than herself, any more than
Widsith could have visited both Alboin and Eormanric on his
travels. We are here dealing with epic fiction, not with reality.
Such unions as this are common enough in saga. The sister of a
great conqueror like the invader of Italy would have seemed a
fitting bride for the renowned Gothic king to a people who did
not trouble themselves about chronological discrepancies. In a
similar way, Eormanric was moved down into a later period in
the Middle High German conception of the Dietrich of Bern
story.1 Here he is transferred from the first three-quarters of
the fourth century into the latter part of the fifth, and made to
serve as uncle and opponent of Dietrich. Again, in the Poetic
Edda, the bride of Eormanric, the bright-eyed Swanhild, whose
connection with Ealhhild is interesting and significant,2 is said to
be the daughter of a sister of Gunnar, whose historic prototype
flourished long after Eormanric's death. There is an even more
curious distortion in the Volsungasaga. The compiler of this
saga in its present form apparently intended it as an introduction
to what he considered the far more important events in the life
of Ragnar Lothbrok, connecting the two parts by making Aslaug,
the daughter of Sigurd and Brynhild, the second wife of the
Viking king. The historical Ragnar was born in 750, yet it did
not involve an artistic blemish to connect him as closely as this
with early saga characters. Such anachronisms are of course

whether the author of the lines conceived Ealhhild as the child of Audoin. Hodgkin, Italy
and Her Invaders (Vol. V, p. 177), says, " considering the commonness of that name (Eadwine),
we have perhaps no right to conclude that we have here an unknown sister of Alboin mar-
ried to an English prince." Hodgkin's seems almost the only dissenting voice.

1 Cf . Dietrich's Flucht.

2 Both Heinzel (Hervararsaga, p. 516) and Jiriczek (loc. cit., pp. 73, 104) agree that Ealh-
hild here replaces the Sunilda (northern Swanhild) in the Eormanric story. The name
was probably in Gothic *S6nihilds, in OHG. *Suonhilt, and the transition from a form of
this sort ending in -hild to Ealhhild seems easy. Such confusion was not uncommon, of
course ; compare the identification of a Hild or Hildiko of historic story with Grimhild,
sister of the Nibelungen princes (Paul's Grundriss, Vol. Ill, 1898, p. 660). As Symons points
out, this process may well have been assisted by the Germanic custom of letting one part
of a compound name do duty for the whole, as Hild for Brynhild, Bera for Kostbera, etc.,
in the Edda. The Sunilda motive seems to have early faded out in German territory,
though it seems necessary to postulate its existence to account for the presence of the
Swanhild story in Scandinavian. There is no record in German saga sources of the death
of Sunilda as a punishment for illicit love. Just what stage of the conception of the story
is represented in Widsith it is difficult to say. The question is further complicated by the
possibility that the references to the Eormanric saga in its various forms which the poem
contains may very likely not all be from the same source.

354

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 27

common in the chansons de geste, which show little sense for his-
torical perspective.1 Charlemagne is credited in the Song of
Roland with the act of William the Norman in collecting tribute
for the pope from the island of Britain, and he goes on a pil-
grimage to the tomb of Thomas h Becket in Eauf Coilyear.
Many instances of similar inconsistency in the time-relations in
early and mediaeval literature might be cited, if such citations
were necessary.

If this visit of Eormanric to Ealhhild is a creation of saga-
making imagination, the apparently personal account of the visit
to the brother of Ealhhild, and of the ring-giving at the Gothic
court and in the hall of Eadgils does not appear in quite so con-
vincing a light. The question naturally arises whether such a
person as Widsith ever existed, and if so, whether any of his
experiences are to be believed. An intelligent answer will be
much more easy to give if the question be put aside for a moment,
and the principal interpretations of the poem be passed in review.
This will, furthermore, make clearer the details of HeinzeFs
theory. Most scholars who have believed in the authenticity of
any part of Widsith' s experiences have made the poet a contem-
porary of Alboin. Some of the earliest investigators, however,
were inclined to refer him to the time of Eormanric. Although
their ideas have received very cautious support in modern times,
it is perhaps best to consider briefly in the first place the possi-
bility that the kernel of the piece may go back to actual events of
the fourth and fifth centuries.

The theory of Dr. Guest, which has already been referred to,
need not detain us long. He conjectured that practically the
entire narrative of the singer was composed in the fifth century
by a man "soon after the age of eighty" — a fairly advanced age,
but one necessary to make his life touch the reigns of Eormanric
and Attila, and that, as Mr. Brooke notes, ^Elfwine is not Alboin,
but one of the chiefs in the train of Alaric, ca. 400 A. D.2 The

1 If Paris' theory of the lyric character of the Cantilenas be accepted, and the histori-
cal element in the chansons be regarded as largely an aftergrowth due to a people who
are beginning to forget the exact details of history, these discrepancies may be all the
more readily understood. (Cf. Romania, Vol. XIII, pp. 616 ff., and Rajua, Epopea francese,
pp. 469 ff .)

2 Cf . Brooke, loc. cit., p. 460. I do not find this statement in Guest's Hist . of Eng. Rhythms.

355

28 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

statement, already quoted, that the poet's reference to Alexander
the Great is uthe only instance in which he has referred to one
not a contemporary" shows better than any criticism how anti-
quated Guest's view is today. Conybeare held a somewhat simi-
lar view in general to the one adopted by Guest. It is pleasant
to record these early appreciations of the interest and significance
of the poem, but unprofitable, from a critical point of view, to dwell
upon them here. A modified form of this theory, which would
treat a portion of the poem as genuine, and as the composition of
a contemporary of Eormanric, has not been without supporters.
Mr. Stopford Brooke, though expressing himself with due reserve,
appears to regard this position with favor,1 so also Professor Earle2
and Dr. Garnett.3 The comments of Dr. Garnett, which have the
importance of being perhaps the most recent of the criticisms of
the Widsith, are unfortunately hardly detailed enough to carry
much weight in a matter so complicated and confused as this.
He wrote with due caution: "If Widsith is a real person, and the
poem a genuine record of his bygone days, it must have been
composed early in the fifth century." He admitted the evidences
of lateness, but thinks "it is, perhaps, in favor of the genuiness
of the poem that palpable interpolations should occur in several
places." The mention of Alboin, king of the Lombards, he
would regard as such a later insertion. Just what his position
was in respect to the relations between Ealhhild, Eadgils, and
Eormanric is not clear. He observed in regard to 11. 88 ff., how-
ever: "It is difficult not to be impressed with the apparent sin-
cerity of Widsith's praise of his patrons, and still more difficult
to conjecture why a literary imposture should be perpetrated in
honour of the deceased sovereigns of an extinct nation two cen-
turies after their death;" so that his idea was clearly that they
lived in the era of Eormanric.* The question of how much

lLoc. cit., p. 459.

2 Anglo-Saxon Literature, London, 1884, p. 148. 3 Cf . n. 5, p. 331.

*This sounds a little like Guest's comment: "Of the different theories which may be
started as to the origin of this singular poem, the one which seems to me beset with the
fewest difficulties is that which maintains its genuineness. If we suppose it to be a forgery,
where shall we discover a motive for the fraud? Where shall we find any analogous case in
the history of that early period? Above all, where shall we find the learning and the
knowledge necessary to perpetuate such a fraud successfully? " (Loc. cit., p. 373.)

356

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 29

significance is to be attached to the personal coloring of this passage
will be considered at length later. But even granting that this
personal quality is the reflection of actual experience, the burden
of proof upon the supporters of this hypothesis is a heavy one.
The only other historical patron besides Eormanric to whom the
singer refers with anything like a personal touch, who could have
been known to a man who had attained his majority by the beginning
of the third quarter of the fourth century, is Gunther, the his-
torical Gundicarius, who fell in battle in 437. Ealhhild cannot
be the daughter of Audoin and the sister of Alboin, as she is
almost universally regarded. Eadgils, if he has any historical
position, must be moved back into the fourth or early fifth
century. The citations of the various peoples of course prove
nothing. Nor will the list of monarchs and chiefs in the "innweorud
Eormanrices" (11. 112ff.) help the case for putting the kernel of
the piece in the fifth century. Dr. Garnett seemed to think
otherwise: "He speaks .... distinctly of his comradeship with
the Goths when they were contending against the bands of JMa
(Attila)." The probability that this is a purely fictitious list of
rulers seems as great as that there is no sober record of fact in
the list of peoples in 11. 82 ff. Mtillenhoff has compared the
mechanical use of sohte ic with the equally mechanical use of
ic wees in the passages preceding which fall under the suspicion
of being spurious. The "innweorud Eormanrices" is a jumble of
names, a few of which belong to history, but of widely different
periods, as Theodric (1. 115), not the Frankish monarch, but the
Gothic king (died, 526), the Hunnish Attila (died, 543), and
the Lombard JEgelmund, who reigned in the early days when
the Lombard people were still in their seats in the north of
Europe. Others belong to saga, like Becca; the Bikki who
betrayed Randver and Swanhild in the Eormanric story; Sifeca
and Heathoric, who are the traditional Sifke and Heidrek, and
the equally imaginary pair Hlithe and Incgentheow, whom
Grundtvig explained as Hlodh and Angantyr. The mythical Har-
lung brothers appear as the Herelingas, Emerca and Fridla.
Others are utterly unknown, or at best darkly conjectured —
Wulfhere and Wyrmhere, RaBdhere and Rondhere, whose names

357

30 WILLIAM WITHEBLE LAWRENCE

have a suspiciously "decorative" look, Rumstan and Secca and
Becca and Withergield and Aliso and Hungar.1 Is it safe to
read any serious personal experience into all this? Let it be
granted that it preserves an early form of the Gothic saga — the
chieftain Wudga, the later German Wittich in the Dietrich of
Bern story, here appears in his proper setting if we allow him
an historical counterpart in the old Gothic hero Widigoia or
Widigauja. As to his friend and companion Heime or Hama,
there are no conjectures to help out a decision as to his identity,
save that he is the constant companion of Wudga, and so probably
of like nationality. It is clear that after fiction and probable
interpolation have been cut out of this passage there is little to
base historic truth upon. The description of the contests between
the Goths and the Huns shows discrepancies. The very mention
of a series of battles instead of one great contest may indicate
epic error, and the strife of the followers of Eormanric with
the Huns of Attila about the Vistula is puzzling.2 Dr. Garnett
suggested: "It .... seems not unlikely that Widsith's lays on
the conflicts between the Goths and the Huns really related to
those which took place under Hermanric's immediate successors,
but that the passage has been altered by a later poet, for whom
Attila was the representative of the obliterated Hunnish nation,
now passing into the domain of legend."3 Is it not more probable
that this change took place in the oral tradition upon which such
an account as this must rest, and that the passage in its present form
was composed by a man who really had a wrong conception of the
facts ? But the possibilities of theorizing on the basis of the intro-
duction of new names in the place of old ones are so varied that
it is hardly profitable to carry this train of thought further. It
seems evident, however, that if matters are as confused as this, no
sound conclusions as to the life of the singer can be drawn from
the Eormanric catalogue. If the Eadwine (1. 117) is Audoin,

1 Cf., for discussions of these names, Kogel, Oesch. der deutschen Litt., Vol. I, pp. 146 ff . ;
Binz, Beitrdge, Vol. XX, p. 207; Bugge, Beitrage, Vol. XII, pp. 69 ff.; Jiriczek, loc. cit.

2 Cf. Heinzel, Hervararsaga, p. 517.

3 Jagic, Arch.fiir slavische Philol., Vol. XI (2), pp. 305 ff., makes a similar suggestion,
which Garnett may have had in mind, as his reference to modern Slavonic scholars suggests.
.Jagic remarks : " Attila, der legendhafte Eponym des Hunnenvolkes, mochte einen alteren

Namen leicht verdrftngt haben ; die umgekehrte Auderuug ist kaum wahrscheinlich."

358

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 31

the father of Alboin, it would seem that its present date, at least,
must be pretty late.

The amount of actual testimony to the composition of any
part of the poem by a man who had actually "seen Eormanric,"
then, is very small. It cannot be regarded as otherwise than
highly dangerous, on the basis of such slender evidence, and the
preservation of so small a part of the original poem, to refer its
nucleus to so remote a period as the late fourth or early fifth
century, a time when, as Professor Saintsbury has pointed out in
this connection, no modern European language has left any
traces of its existence.

The hypothesis that the poem reflects actual historic events of
the fifth century, and that Widsith, if he were a real person, lived
in that age, has been far more generally credited. The great
learning and authority of Mullenhoff made his remarks on the
historical events and the ethnology of the piece of very great
weight. His arguments were accepted, in general, by Wulker,1
after a careful summary of the evidence up to 1885. They are
especially worth notice as having formed the basis for the more
elaborate studies of Moller and ten Brink.

Mullenhoff cut out as spurious 11. 75-87, and remarked that
1. 88 would make a good continuation for 1. 74: "V. 88 schliesst
sich auch vortrefflich an v. 74 an. V. 88 bezieht sich offenbar auf
v. 70, und die ganze f olgende Schilderung von des Sangers Verhalt-
nis zu seinem Herrn und zur Ealhhild, der Tochter Eadvine's tritt
erst ins rechte Licht, wenn unmittelbar das Lob .ZElfvine's, des
Sohnes Eadvine's, voraufgeht, und umgekehrt auch dieses, wenn
jene unmittelbar folgt."2 It is not difficult to agree with Mullen-
hoff that the passage has all the earmarks of spuriousness, but
that there was originally no gap between 11. 74 and 88 seems an
unwarrantable assumption. The two hardly make a faultless
connection. What does ealle prdge mean? One of the common-
est errors of the Liedertheoretiker was supposing that because an
interpolated passage had been removed, and the beginning and
end of the gap made good sense, no loss had taken place. It
would be easy enough, as has been often pointed out in this con-

i Grundriss, p. 329. 2 p. 291.

359

32 WILLIAM WITHEELE LAWRENCE

nection, to cut out long passages in modern poems, so that no one
unfamiliar with their original condition would guess that any-
thing had been taken away. It seems quite likely here that the
passion for mere information, for making this an "instructive"
poem, may have led to the sacrifice of matter that would have
explained the vague indication in the prologue that Widsith had
accompanied Ealhhild to the home of Eormanric. But this is a
mere conjecture. The main point is to examine Mtillenhoff's
interpretation of the part which has been preserved.

His argument is closely connected with his investigation into
the identification and position of the different peoples. It really
arises from the discussion of the location of the Myrgings.1 They
are treated in 11. 41-44 as the same folk as the Suevi or Swsefs;
one of the exploits of Offa, the Anglian king, is that

ane sweorde

merce gemeerde wi3 Myrgingum
bi Fifeldore: heoldon for3 sippan
Engle and Swsefe, swa hit Offa geslog.

They are mentioned separately after the Swsefs in 1. 22, but this
does not necessarily mean that they cannot have been a division
of the same people. As for the Swaefs themselves, Mtillenhoff
notes that their position according to the poem is "noch ganz in
der stellung wie die Suebi in den ersten jhh. an der Elbe und
Oder." But he thinks that the Myrgings were not a folk of this
region. "Dass die Myrginge hier kein theil der Svsefen, etwa alte
Holsteiner sind, beweist ihre verbindung mit der Langobarden an
der Donau und in Pannonien." The Lombards in the time of
Alboin were occupying lands in modern Austria, south of the
Danube, and west of its southern course from Buda-Pesth down-
ward, having crossed about 547 from the region lying east of the
river. They were thus in an advantageous position to make their
descent upon Italy in 568. Mullenhoff is convinced that the
Myrgings were not up in Holstein, or thereabouts, as all the indi-
cations in the poem lead one to infer, but that they extended into
much more southerly territory, not at a great distance from the
Lombards in Pannonia. This view is all the more surprising, as the

i Haupt's Zeitschrift, Vol. XI, pp. 278 ff.

360

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 33

location of "Fifeldor" in the passage just quoted is believed to be
the river Eider, in the lower part of the Danish peninsula.1 Peoples
in these early days were subject to migration, however, and a
very convincing reason might lead to placing the Myrgings farther
south than would otherwise be believed.

Mullenhoff argues that they were neighbors of the Lombards
because Ealhhild, the daughter of the Lombard Eadwine (Audoin)
married the Myrging prince Eadgils. But it has been shown that
there is no statement in the poem to that effect, and, furthermore,
that there are grave objections to that interpretation. Mullenhoff
thinks this marriage could not have taken place if the Myrgings
had been restricted to Holstein: "Es kann aber der Langobarden-
kOnig in Pannonien keine interesse gehabt haben seine tochter
nach Holstein zu verheiraten. Der Myrgingenname muss eine viel
grossere ausdehnung gehabt haben." Various reasons, he says,
tend to confirm the conclusion that they may have been neighbors.2
The Saxons and Swabians are known to have followed Alboin into
Italy, and they came from a district, "das von der Elbe durch-
stromte und Ostlich anliegende land von der Donau bis zur Ostsee,"
where the people were known as Maurungani, as the map of the
Geographer of Ravenna indicates. Moreover, according to Mullen-
hoff, the Lombard saga of Paul the Deacon puts Mauringaland
"eben dahin." Finally, the name seems to be preserved in rela-
tively modern place-names; cf. the minnesinger Heinrich von
Morungen, the curtis Moranga in pago Morangano in the Vita
Meinwerci, etc. Hence, he thinks, one cannot doubt the linguistic
identity of "Maurungi, Mauringi, Myrgingas," and the chain is
complete.

iMOllenhoff, Deutsche Mythologie, ed. Meyer, Berlin, 1875, Vol. I, p. 198; Bosworth-
Toller, A. 8. Lexicon, etc.

2 In showing Eadwine, the father of Ealhhild and JSlfwine, to have been the Lombard
king Audoin, he points out the fact that the name occurs in 1. 117 in connection with other
Lombard heroes— JSgelmund, Hlithe (if Ettmuller's conjecture be correct). Cf. n. 1, p. 344. The
mention of the Wid-Myrgings in the following line seemed to him additional testimony to the
close connection which he wished to establish between the peoples. But it is evident from
the preceding lists that no sound conclusions can be drawn from grouping, otherwise one
would have to see relations between the Greeks and the Finns in 1. 20. Mullenhoff himself
says : " Eine strenge ordnung, wie im guten mhd. epos bei dergleichen aufzahlungen, weiss
ich freilich nicht nachzuweisen "(p. 276) . In the days of JSgelmund, the Lombards were near
what we may believe to have been the seats of the Myrgings, a consideration which may per-
haps have a little weight in the matter. The map in Hodgkin's Lombard Invasion, p. 80, will
be found useful.

361

34 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

If this argument be followed carefully, it will be seen to approach
perilously close to a circulus vitiosus. Mullenhoff says in effect :
The Myrgings must have been near the Lombards because these
two peoples are connected in marriage. But this marriage could
not have taken place unless they had been neighbors. Various
reasons seem to show that a people with a name similar to that of
the Myrgings were neighbors of the Lombards, hence they were
no doubt identical with the Myrgings, and there is nothing to
interfere with the connection by marriage. — The important thing
to remember, in criticising Mullenhoff, is that the marriage of
Eadgils and Ealhhild must be as hypothetical as anything else.
At all events, whatever one may say about these logical processes,
it is clear that the key to the whole question is the validity of the
reasons brought forward to prove the Myrgings near the Lom-
bards, all of which reasons depend upon proving the equation
My rgingas = Maurungani .

The linguistic identity of the two names was evidently not so
close as Mullenhoff could have wished. Although it was accepted
by Moller, Thorpe, and others, it appears quite impossible on
philological grounds. Here again, in his article, ffber die Ost-
gothische Heldensage, Heinzel makes a valuable point. " Der Name
My rgingas, welchen das ags. Widsidhlied und nur dieses, auch
fur ein Land ostlich der Elbe braucht, ist lautlich mit Maurungani,
Mauringa nicht in Einklang zu bringen, das erste g macht unuber-
windliche Schwierigkeiten."1 If this be the case, it is evidently
useless, as must appear to every unprejudiced critic, to criticise
Mullenhoff 's hypothesis further. It is worth noting, however, that
neither the testimony of the Geographer of Ravenna nor the Lom-
bard saga of Paul the Deacon gives testimony to the southerly posi-
tion of the Maurungani as conclusive as one would infer from
Mtillenhoff's statement. The Geographer of Ravenna, who is
believed to have written in the seventh century, is by no means so
clear as he might be. It is significant that he has given Hodgkin,
an investigator of remarkable impartiality, and one of the best
authorities upon this period, a very different impression. Hodgkin
says: "Maurunga is also, on the authority of the Geographer of

1 He refers to Beitr&ge, Vol. VIII, p. 256, and Brugmann's Grundriss, Vol. I, p. 332.

362

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 35

Ravenna, connected with the country near the mouth of the Elbe,
probably on its right bank"1 — a very different thing from Mtillen-
hoff's "grossere ausdehnung" toward the Danube. I feel incom-
petent to give an independent judgment as to the precise meaning
of the Geographer's rather misty words. The place-names in late
German records cannot be regarded as important independent
testimony to the position of a people in the sixth century. Again,
the Lombard saga of Paulus Diaconus, as interpreted by Zeuss, the
authority on early history whom Mtillenhoff frequently quotes, as
well as by more modern scholars, places Maurunga very near, if
not in, Holstein, and gives no authority for extending it into
southern Germany.

According to Paul the Deacon, the Lombards came originally
from Scandinavia, and after leaving this country their first home
was Scoringa, the left bank of the Elbe near the mouth. Strabo
(A. D. 70), Tacitus (ca. 61-117), and Ptolemy (ca. 100-61)
agree that the Langobardi dwelt near the mouth of the Elbe.
They then moved into Mauringa, the land where Mtillenhoff
would have us believe the Myrgings lived. Paul continues : " The
Langobardi were sore pressed with famine, and moved forth from
the province of Scoringa, intending to go into Mauringa. But
when they reached the frontier, the Assipitti were drawn up deter-
mined to dispute the passage .... Thus, then, did the Langobardi
succeed in reaching Mauringa .... From Mauringa the Lango-
bardi moved forward into Golanda, and there they possessed the
regions of Anthaib and Bainaib and Burgundaib."2 It should be
remembered that all this is some centuries before the time of
Alboin, and that the history of those early days is so enwrapped
in legend and fable as to be very difficult to treat accurately. The
location of Mauringa is given by the chief authorities as follows :

Zeuss.3 Flat country east of Elbe. Golanda was Rugulanda,
coast opposite island of Riigen in the Baltic.

Bluhme.4 The Assipitti were located near Wolfenbtittel, and
Mauringa north of the Assipitti.

1 Italy and Her Invaders, Vol. V, p. 100.

2 I use Hodgkin's translation, loc. cit., p. 94.

3 Die Oermanen und die Nachbarstamme.

* Die Gens Langob. und ihre Herkunft, Bonn, 1868.

363

36 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

Schmidt.1 Mauringa was the country between the Elbe and
Oder, or perhaps was Holstein. Golanda was Gotland.

Hodgkin's own view has already been given.

It appears, then, that the widely quoted interpretation of Mul-
lenhoff breaks down upon careful scrutiny. The errors in this
argument affect directly only that part of the poem under dis-
cussion, although indirectly the view adopted of the growth of
the poem as a whole is deeply influenced by the construction of
this important Eadgils-Ealhhild-Eormanric passage. It should be
said that Mullenhoff rendered a great service by giving the long
lists of peoples and kings a careful review, and placing many of
them in their true places in history and saga.

Any analysis of the work of Moller and ten Brink must depend
to a very great extent upon the view taken of their general criti-
cal method, a method which, as has already been noted, cannot be
adequately treated within the limits of this paper. It is interest-
ing, however, to note their conceptions of the professedly autobio-
graphical and historical elements in the piece, although these are
very much affected by their reconstructions of the hypothetical
original forms of the component lays. It will be observed that
there is considerable divergence in their views upon various
matters.

The clearest idea of Msller's division of Widsith into its ele-
ments may be gained by consulting his reprint of the poem in the
second part of his study. Here the story of Eadwine, Eadgils,
and Ealhhild appears, comfortably cleared of the troublesome ref-
erence to Eormanric, and set forth "in der ursprunglichen stro-
phischen Form." The high-handed proceedings of the later ad-
herents of the ballad theory is well seen in the work of Moller
and ten Brink. While Mullenhoff, who was on the whole cautious
in his cutting, regarded the reference to the Gothic king as "epic
fiction," these scholars removed it from its place altogether.
Moller sees no reason why the episode as he restores it may not
have had a basis in actual fact. "Eine ringschenkung Albums an

i Zur Gesch. der Langobarden, Leipzig, 1885. For details of these views in small space
cf. Hodgkin, p. 141, n. A, " On the early homes of the Langobardi."

364

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 37

den sanger des liedes braucht nicht fiktion gewesen zu sein, wie
eine solche des Ermanarich, sondern kann in wirklichkeit statt-
gefunden haben."1 He argues that it was this ring given by
Alboin that Widsith gave to Eadgils, the name of Eormanric hav-
ing been inserted later. He seems to agree in general with Mul-
lenhoff s conception of the passage, quoting him with approval,
and referring to Alboin as a king connected in friendship and
marriage with Eadgils, which appears to him an additional reason
why the ring given at the Lombard court should have been the
one presented to the Myrging prince. He seems to have mis-
understood the meaning of the phrase eastan of Ongle, as the
earlier scholars did generally.

If due allowance be made for Holler's general theory, his view
of the significance of the name "Widsith" seems eminently sane.
He regards it as a proper name, as do the majority of the critics.
"Der name Widsid, mit dem das ganze beginnt, steht nur an
dieser stelle : es war offenbar der name mit dem das volk den san-
ger dieser lieder bezeichnete. Man hatte lieder in denen ein
sanger der in der ersten person spricht von weiten reisen erzahlt :
sein wirklicher name kam in den liedern nicht vor, man nannte ihn
darum nach dem was man von ihm wusste Widsid, und diese benen-
nung gait alsbald als wirklicher name."2 Whether the singer of
the lay or lays which form the groundwork of the -piece was a real
or a fictitious personage evidently does not affect the bestowal of
such a cognomen as "the Wide Wanderer" upon him.

The results reached by ten Brink are even more definite than
Holler's. The reconstruction of Widsith, like that of Beowulf,
becomes in his hands a kind of apotheosis of higher criticism. The
"Ealhhild lay," which, as he rebuilds it, consists of 11. 50-58
(read Hwcet instead of Swa, 1. 50) ; 64-67; 70-74; 90-108 (read
He instead of Se, 1. 90) ; 135-43, "bildet ein vollkommen befrie-
digendes Granzes, an dem wir nichts vermissen, und dem wir etwas
hinzuzusetzen kein Bedurfniss empfinden." Holler assumed
more gaps and imperfections than ten Brink, although it must be
said that the failure of the lines to conform to the strophic theory
is responsible for a good many of these.

i p. 3. 2 p. si.

365

38 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

As for the autobiographical element, ten Brink admitted little
of it, so far as the singer is concerned. He thought him "kein
wirklicher, sondern ein idealer Sanger, der hier zu uns redet:
gleichsam der typische Vertreter des fahrenden Sangertums der
epischen Zeit." The marriage of Ealhhild and Eadgils he
regarded as historical fact; the basis of the lay perhaps being an
older poem belonging to the general class which details the expe-
riences of minstrels. His views are best given in his own words.

Vielleicht hat man sich die Sache folgendermassen vorzustellen. Es
wird fruhzeitig Lieder gegeben haben, in denen Sanger ihre Erlebnisse
erzahlten — in diese allgemeine Gruppe gehort auch Deors Klage — und
im besonderen solche, in denen sie liber ihre Reisen und den Empfang
an verschiedenen Furstenhofen berichteten. An letzteren werden im
Lauf e der Zeit, wie manches Andere in Form und Inhalt, auch die Namen
geandert werden, jiingere Namen zu alteren getreten sein. So dtirfen
wir uns eine altere Gestalt unseres Liedes denken, deren schematische
Grundlage der vorliegenden ziemlich entsprach; ich denke namentlich
auch an das Motiv des von einem auslandischen Fiirsten erhaltenen kost-
baren Rings, den ein Sanger seinem eigenen Fursten schenkt und was
sich weiter daran schliesst. Jener auslandische Fiirst kOnnte der Bur-
gunderkonig Gunther gewesen sein (zu dem Albuin im vorliegenden Text
sich wie eine gesteigerte Wiederholung ausnimmt). Nehmen wir nun an,
dass, wie unser Lied berichtet, eine langobardische Prinzessin (Ealhhild)
Tochter des Auduin, wirklich als Gemahlin des Kflnigs Eadgils bei den
Myrgingen — eben im mittleren und ostlichen Holstein — geherrscht und
sich wie ihr Bruder Albuin, von dem uns solches auch sonst bezeugt ist
(Paul. Diac., I, 27) durch ihre Freigebigkeit bertihmt gemacht habe, so
wird die Kunde von ihrer Milde auch zu den Angeln gedrungen sein;
und von den wenigen anglischen Sangern, die damals noch nordlich von
der Eider heimisch waren, werden Einzelne zweifellos diese Milde an sich
selber erfahren haben. Da bedurfte es nur noch der Nachricht von
Albuins Zug nach Italien und der Griindung des langobardischen Reichs
daselbst um einem englischen Sanger den ganzen fur die Umgestaltung
des alten Liedes notigen Stoff zu liefern. Am einfachsten war die Sache
dann, wenn — wie sehr wohl denkbar — jenes alte Lied selbst aus dem
Land der Myrginge stammte. Ob die vorliegende Gestalt des Ealhhild-
lieds — es wird hierbei nur an die wesentlichen Momente, nicht an alle
Einzelheiten der Darstellung gedacht — noch in Angeln oder erst in
Mercien zum ersten Male gesungen wurde, lasst sich nicht entscheiden.
Zweierlei aber ist hochst wahrscheinlich: einmal dass sei es unser Lied
sei es der Stoff dazu im Gefolge des — etwa um 575 stattfindenden — letzten
Angelnzugs, und so wohl im Gefolge des altanglischen Konigsgeschlechts

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 39

(Mtillenhoff, D. A., II, 98 ff.) nach Brittanien verpflanzt wurde; zweitens
dass die Verschmelzung jener Elemente jedenfalls noch vor dem Ende
des sechsten Jahrhunderts stattfand.1

If Ealhhild is to be regarded as the wife of Eadgils, and the gene-
ral method of reconstruction is admissible, the above hypothesis
appears plausible. But there is so little direct evidence in the
poem to support the details of so complicated a theory, that it
must be regarded rather as an ingenious surmise as to what may
or might have taken place than as a well-grounded outline of
actual growth. Probably ten Brink would have admitted this
himself. The difficulty is not that the theory is too complicated,
or that the analysis takes account of too many details, but the
chances are small that so elaborate a conjecture — admittedly not
supported by facts — corresponds with even approximate accuracy
to the facts of the case.

The foregoing review of the principal interpretations of the
more personal passages in the poem does not encourage the belief
that they reflect actual historical conditions as observed by a con-
temporary. The hypothesis that Widsith was a singer of the days
of Alboin is almost as unconvincing as the one which makes him
out a man of the time of Eormanric. Too much of the text must
be credited either to interpolation or to "epic fiction." Both are
justifiable processes to which to appeal to sustain an argument in
regard to a poem of the age of the one under discussion, but it
will not do to push either beyond reasonable limits. The amount
of later matter is out of all proportion to the original nucleus, if
the theory that the latter was composed in the fifth century or
earlier be adopted — a theory so unlikely for other reasons that it
will hardly find many advocates among careful students. On the
other hand, Mtillenhoff 's suggestion that the reference to Eorman-
ric was introduced as a kind of rhetorical flourish into an account
of bona fide experience is not so convincing as it might be. Mak-
ing all due allowances for the haziness of historical fact in the
popular mind, it is not very probable that a man should be solicit-
ing belief for the statement that the ring with which he bought

i Paul's Grundrisa, Vol. II, pp. 543 ff.

367

40 WILLIAM WITHEBLE LAWBENCE

back his father's land came from a monarch whom his hearers
must have known to be a misty figure of saga. Eormanric had
been dead about two hundred years at the time when Widsith
may be supposed to have visited Alboin. Dr. Garnett remarked:
" .... it is manifest that while seeming indications of a later
date may easily find their way into an old poem, tokens of
antiquity are not so likely to be interpolated into a recent one
with deliberate purpose of deceit." If the historical allusions are
shown to be untrustworthy, there is little evidence upon which to
base an actual personality for the singer. There is, indeed, no
way of proving that a North-German chief, Eadgils, may not have
had a traveled singer attached to his court, whose figure was made
to serve as the starting-point around which to weave this story.
But where so much fiction has to be accounted for, it is hard to
feel certain that even a small residue of fact may remain.

Entirely aside from the interpretation of the tale of Eadgils
and Ealhhild, it seems antecedently more probable, in view of the
characteristics of early poetry, to regard the whole of Widsith as
fictitious. The simplicity, the straightforwardness, the personal
ring of portions of the story have seemed to many critics con-
vincing indications of its veracity. After the long dry enumera-
tions which precede, it makes an impression of even greater
sincerity. But this show of truthfulness must not deceive us.
Early narrators were anxious to be implicitly believed. A tale
gained in the telling if it had the added charm of being a "true
story." Beowulf exclaiming sod ic talige — "this is truth I tell
you!" in his description of the swimming-match with Breca, or
the author of the Romance of Partenay, beginning with the
assurance: "Hit is so in truth in time auncion," use the same
literary device, which was common among minstrels down to the
close of the Middle Ages. Chaucer has his humorous fling at it:

This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake,
As is the book of Launcelot de Lake.

Nothing gives veracity like detail, a discovery remade in the
eighteenth century by Defoe, but no secret to the bard of early
times. When we read of the hundred sceats marked on the ring
which Eormanric gave Widsith, or consider the naive way in

368

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 41

which the business transaction with Eadgils is arranged by
means of this same present, we cannot but be struck, as was Mr.
Stopford Brooke, with the apparent plausibility of "the little tale,
so simple, so direct, so full of the detail of memory." It is of
course common, however, to find this realism and this detail in
early poetry which is undoubtedly fictitious. The presents
bestowed upon Beowulf by Hrothgar are even more carefully
described than Widsith's ring — the eight horses with bridles
covered with plates of gold, and the helmet curiously protected
with wires. It was no part of the story-teller's business to be
vague; his hearers wanted to know things precisely. The
apparently exact six hundred sceats on the arm-band given to
Widsith fall into the same class as the seven hundred rings
which Weland forged, the eight salmon and three tuns of mead
which Thor consumed in the hall of Thrym, or the seven hundred
camels and the thousand falcons and four hundred laden mules
sent by Marsilies to Charlemagne. The desire to give vividness
by introducing realistic touches is noticeable in the narrative
poetry of the Christian period in early Britain. The poetic
elaboration in Andreas, in which "the passages of description
and dialogue .... are sometimes given a strikingly realistic,
even extravagantly realistic coloring"1 illustrates this.

Furthermore, narrative in the first person, which lends a
specious air of directness and candor, was a favorite device in
early literature in England and on the Continent. Misconcep-
tions in regard to the personal element contained in such pieces
have been common. The Pearl was long regarded as an elegiac
outburst upon the death of a beloved child, and not as an allego-
rical poem.2 It is not now generally believed that such pieces as
The Lover's Message and The Wife's Lament are in any sense
the records of personal experience. The latter has been
connected, indeed, with the Off a saga.3 Or consider the elabo-
rately circumstantial fiction woven about the name of Sir John
Mandeville, which has deceived so many as to the real facts in

l Andreas, ed. Krapp, Albion series, p. Iv.

2Cf. C. P. Brown, "The Author of the Pearl," Pub. Mod. Lang. Assoc. of America, Vol.
XIX, pp. Iff., and W. H. Schofield, ibid., pp. 154 ff.

3 Miss Edith Rickert, Mod. PhiloL, Vol. II, pp. 370 ff.

369

42 WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

regard to that highly entertaining figure. How convincingly
does "the good knight" tell us of his history and intentions!

And for als moche as it is long tyme passed, that ther was no gen-
eralle passage ne vyage over the see, and many men desiren for to here
speke of the holy lond, and han thereof gret solace and comfort; I, John
Maundevylle, knyght, alle be it I be not worthi, that was born in Eng-
lond, in the town of Seynt Albones, passed the see, in the yeer of our
Lord Jesu Crist MCCCXXIL, in the day of Seynt Michelle; and hidreto
have ben longe tyme over the see, and have seyn and gon thorghe manye
dyverse londes, and many provynces and kingdomes and iles, and have
passed thorghe Tartarye, Percye, Ermonye the litylle and the grete,
thorghe Lybye, Caldee and a grete partie of Ethiope, thorghe Amazoyne,
Inde the lasse and the more, a gret partie, and thorgheout many othere
iles, that ben abouten Inde; where dwellen many dyverse folkes, and of
dyverse maneres and lawes, and of dyverse schappes of men.

Does not this seem "simple, direct, and full of the detail of
memory" ?

The general tendency nowadays is to be sceptical about the
autobiographical element in works which apparently reveal the
inmost feelings of the writer. Shakspere is not thought to have
"unlocked his heart" for us in his sonnets so much as to have
illustrated the extent of the influence of French sonneteering
conceits ; we know better than to take the apparently personal allu-
sions in Chaucer too seriously ; and we are able to guard against
confusing the poet who wrote The Vision of Piers Plowman
with his imaginary dreamer.1 Why should we attempt to read
sober truth into Widsith, to find actual experience in a poem,
which can, under any hypothesis, contain only about one-fifth
fact to four-fifths fiction, on the most liberal estimate possible ?
There seems to be, on the whole, no reason for thinking that it
may not be quite as much a work of the imagination as Mande-
ville's Travels, besides showing other interesting analogies with
that work.

These considerations are perhaps a sufficient answer to such
queries as those made by Guest, who thought, strangely enough,
that "the theory which maintains the genuineness of the poem is
beset with fewest difficulties" (a remark quoted respectfully by

JCf. A. E. Jack, "Autobiographical Elements in Piers Plowman," Jour. Germ. Philol.,
1901, Vol. Ill, no. 4, and Professor Manly's article in Modern Philology, Vol. Ill, p. 259.

370

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 43

Mr. Brooke), and who inquired eagerly where one could find the
motive for such a "fraud" as the poem must be if fictitious, or
the learning to perpetuate it successfully. If Widsith is a "fraud,"
then realistic fiction generally must be branded with that disa-
greeable name; as for the learning, an acquaintance with the
familiar heroes of saga such as most men possessed in the sixth
and seventh centuries, the name of a traveled minstrel, and a
little imagination were enough for a nucleus; the great show of
learning, the long catalogues of peoples and rulers, we may
believe to have come from another source or sources, having been
added to suit the taste of a circle among whom knowledge was
more prized than amusement. It was a common device of Scan-
dinavian poets to set information, mythological and otherwise, in
a narrative framework, as in the Grimnismdl or the Vafprtipnis-
mdl. The Gylfaginning exemplifies the same process in prose.
Something the same condition appears to exist in Widsith, the
singer's story serving as a useful peg upon which to hang the
lists of names which some scribe was anxious to preserve,
although the details of the process of combination are no doubt
quite unlike those in Old Norse.

It may be well, in closing, to summarize briefly the results of
the above review. Some interesting problems have been left
untouched, particularly those dealing with ethnology and saga,
but as more attention has been given to questions of this sort in
recent years than to those of composition and structure, there
seems to be less reason for discussing them here.

The poem appears to have been originally an imaginary account
of the travels of a professional singer, represented as having vis-
ited prominent heroes of Germanic history and saga. The present
version seems to have grown up, not by the dovetailing or inter-
weaving of separate and dissimilar compositions, an "Ealhhild
lay," an "Eormanric catalogue," etc., as ten Brink and Moller
supposed, but by additions made to an early lay of the same gen-
eral character which the poem exhibits today, save that it was
probably less occupied with mere enumerations. How much of
this original lay has been preserved cannot be precisely deter-
mined; it seems probable, however, that it included at least the

371

44 WILLIAM WITHEBLE LAWRENCE

visits to Alboin, Gunther, and Eormanric, and the band of war-
riors imagined as acknowledging allegiance to the Gothic king.1
The passage describing the "innweorud Eormanrices" is evidently
early at bottom, as the lines locating the Goths on the Vistula in
contests against "the people of Attila" indicate. An imaginary
incident of especial interest in connection with Eormanric is the
part taken by the minstrel in accompanying Ealhhild, presumably
the sister of Alboin, on her bridal journey to the Gothic court.
While its main object was apparently to recount the various
worthies visited, this lay was apparently far from being mere bald
cataloguing, but possessed considerable literary merit. Such
enumerations as it contained, however, may well have given the
hint for continuing the process farther and in a more mechanical
way. It was probably composed upon the Continent,2 although
any conclusive evidence of this is lacking, and not later than the
latter half of the sixth century, as the reference to Alboin indi-
cates. If the Alboin passage be regarded as interpolated, it is
possible to place the date earlier, but such interpolation is not
probable, and other reasons for assuming composition earlier than
this are not convincing. The poem cannot have been a record of
personal experience, and there is no reason for believing that such
a person as "Widsith" ever existed.

This lay was provided with a prologue in England, as the

1 How far 11. 10-87 may be taken from various sources it is difficult and dangerous to con-
jecture. It has been seen that 11. 14-34 and 11. 75-87, although so unlike each other, show strong
evidence of having been inserted. L. 76 appears to be a feeble imitation of 1. 20. Apart from
the metrical discrepancy, 11. 57 ff . are suspicious ; contrast the mention of the Huns and Goths
with what follows (cf. n. 1, p. 338); 11. 35-49 do not agree with the character of the later
part of the poem, while 11. 10-13 and especially 11. 50-56 do. But any attempt to assign these
portions to definite sources must prove unavailing. Such lines as 10-13 for example, may
be among the earliest in the poem — or they may be among the latest.

Early lays of such a sort as the one here postulated as the basis of the present poem
are not unknown in early literature. Heinzel, in his recension of Moller (Anz.f. d. Alt.,
Vol. X, p. 232), remarks that there are parallels to the divisions II and III of Mollers analysis
in Old Norse and in Anglo-Saxon, and gives references.

2Wulker, after reviewing the evidence, says (Grundriss, p. 329) : " Der altere Teil des
Gedichtes weist sehr entschieden auf die Zeit, wo die Angelsachsen noch auf dem Festlande
sassen." There seems to be no reason to dissent from this. The acquaintance with saga,
especially with the Eormanric saga, which was little known in Britain, apparently, and the
intimacy of this acquaintance (cf. ten Brink, Paul's Grundriss, Vol. II, p. 541) point to a
continental composition. The "merkwurdige Ansicht " of Maurer (Zs.f. d. Philol., Vol. II,
p. 447), who places the composition of the poem after the time of Charlemagne, hardly
seems to require refutation. As Wulker suggests, Maurer evidently came to the criticism of
the poem " ohne gehOrige Beachtung der dartiber erschieneneu Litteratur."

372

STRUCTURE AND INTERPRETATION OF WIDSITH 45

phrase eastan of Ongle indicates. The epilogue (11. 135-43) may
well have been added at the same time.1 It was further altered
by the insertion of material intended to perpetuate information,
some of which (11. 18-34 ?) may have existed previously, and may
be as old as the narrative portion, or perhaps even older; other
passages, particularly ca. 11. 79-87, bear evidences of lateness, as
references to the Picts and Scots and to biblical peoples indicate.
Christian coloring appears also in 11. 131-34. Portions of the
original lay were doubtless sacrificed in the process of alteration.
It seems likely that the prologue may have been added before the
main portion received its present form, as it shows an acquaint-
ance with a part of the Ealhhild-Eormanric narrative which has
apparently been lost, and an interest in mentioning this which
would hardly be expected from the man who is responsible for the
addition of the cataloguing. The chronological order in which
the prologue, epilogue, and other portions were added cannot,
however, be definitely ascertained.

The great discrepancy in the matter and manner of various
passages in the narrative precludes the hypothesis that the whole
is a unit, the work of one man. It is impossible, then, to set any
one "date of composition" for Widsith, since a poem which has
taken shape in such a fashion as this must be called rather a
growth, an evolution, and must be judged by critical standards of
a different sort than those which apply to more homogeneous
compositions. It seems most probable that but a small portion of
it antedates the end of the sixth century, while the present form
of the piece, considering all the changes, and the presence of
Christian influences in it, is not likely to be older than the latter
half of the seventh century, and may be much later. While the

i Mftllenhoff, MOller, and ten Brink all separated 11. 131-34 from the following, assign-
ing them to a different source. Moller remarks : " Das eine der beiden stucke ist ohne
zweifel auf grund des andern gemacht, denn wie Mullenhoff s. 293 zeigt es wiederholen sich
dieselben ausdrficke und gedanken," etc. (p. 35). Repetition of the same thought in slightly
changed words is really exceedingly common in AS. poetry, cf . the references in n. 1, p. 353. As
for the fact that both divisions begin with stca, cf . the instances of similar beginnings of
sentences in Kistenmacher, Die wGrtlichen Wiederholungen in Beowulf, Dies., Greifswald,
1898. The fact that one division reflects Christian conceptions and that the other does not
proves nothing conclusively in regard to their origin. An interesting example of the danger
of dogmatizing about such a passage as this is afforded by the epitaph in Timon of Athens
(v, 4, 70 ff.). The two couplets of which this is composed are inconsistent with each other,
yet Shakspere evidently allowed both couplets to stand.

373

46 WILLIAM WITHEKLE LAWRENCE

general drift of the history of the poem may still be observed,
after careful study, attempts to trace this in minute detail must
prove fruitless. The exact limits and boundaries of the various
insertions cannot be definitely fixed, nor can anything like a
reconstruction of the earliest form of the piece be successfully
accomplished, if for no other reason than that so much has been
lost. Precise results give an air of scientific exactness, but in the
analysis of Widsith are to be distrusted. When one remembers
the inevitable changes in oral transmission, the complexity of
which the English and Scottish ballads well illustrate, and the
arbitrary behavior of scribes, one hesitates to make any dogmatic
statements at all about the original form of such a text as this.
For in the earliest stages of the development it is by no means
impossible that oral transmission must be reckoned with; in the
latest ones it seems plain that someone has been at work with pen
in hand. Widsith is probably far more changed than has hith-
erto been supposed. If the singer of the original lay were to
"unlock his word-hoard" for us today as he did for his hearers
in the beginning, we should hardly recognize his song at all in
the mutilated, distorted, and debased version which we read some
thirteen centuries later.

WILLIAM WITHERLE LAWRENCE

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

374

EIN BRIEF GOETHES

Hiermit sende ich die ersten Scenen1 meines S tucks bey dessen
Ausfiihrung ich mich nur um Ein Jahr Arbeit verrechnet habe. Was es
geworden ist mag das Publicum entscheiden.

Nun empfehle ich die allerstrengste Fiirsorge bey den Correcturen.
Die vorigen Bande sind leidlich, doch nicht ohne Mangel, bey diesem
Stiicke werde ich auch den geringsten Fehler durch einen Carton zu
verbessern bitten. Bey der hOchsten Sorgfalt die ich auf dieses Stuck
gewendet, wiinsche ich auch dass es ganz rein in die Hande des
Publicums komme. Warm Sie das Exempl. mit lateinischen Lettern
anfangen wollen, ist mir ganz gleich.

Was H. Vulpius betrift, wiederhohle ich dass mir eine Gefalligkeit
geschieht wenn Sie diesem jungen Mann Ihren Rath und Beystand
gOnnen wollen. Er hat manche gute Eigenschaften und es fehlt ihm
nicht an Talent. Bey den weitlaufigen Bedurfnissen der Buchhandlung,
sollte es mich wundern wenn er nicht, gut geleitet, sich einen massigen
Unterhalt sollte verdienen konnen. Ich bin auch nicht abgeneigt ihm
von Zeit zu Zeit einige Unterstiitzung zu gOnnen, nur was seine
Einrichtung betrift, darin kann ich nicht reden, das ist ganz seine
Sache.

Leben Sie wohl. Das Mst von Tasso folgt nun nach und nach.
Senden Sie mir ja gleich 3 Exemplare der abgedruckten Bogen.

W. E. 22 Jun. 89

v Goethe

Der Brief ist abgedruckt in der Weimarer Ausgabe, Briefe,
9. Band, Seite 134-35. Er ist an Goschen gerichtet, dessen
Geschaftsvermerk am oberen Rand des zweiten Bogens steht:
Weimar d. 22. Juny 89. v. Goethe empf. d. 24. Die vorstehende
Fassung ist dem Original entnommen, das sich nebst einem von
mir im vorigen Jahre veroffentlichen, bis dahin unbekannten
Briefe Schiller's, im Besitze von Frau Rossmassler in Germantown,
Pennsylvanien befindet.

Vergleichung mit der Weimarer Ausgabe ergibt eine betracht-
liche Anzahl Lesarten. Da die oben mitgeteilte Fassung
urkundengetreu, ist dies die Rechtfertigung der Mitteilung.

Nur einige Bemerkungen zu den Unterschieden. Darein

lAct ist gestrichen, Scenen drabergeschrieben.
375] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, October, 1906

2 KARL DETLEV JESSEN

(W. A. S. 135, Z. 5) 1st offensichtlich Lesefehler fur darin,
ebenso Stuck fur Stiicke (Ebenda, S. 134, Z. 14). Nach den
orthographischen Anderungen der Weimarer Ausgabe — wie bei
statt bey, wiederhole statt wiederhohle, betrifft statt betrift —
fallen besonders auf die vielen Anderungen in der Inter-
pungierung. Zweimal ist, und zwar das zweite Mai ohne jede
innere Berechtigung, ein Semikolon statt eines Kommas gesetzt,
S. 134, Z. 14 nach Mangel, S. 135, Z. 6 nach reden. Einmal
(S. 135, Z. 1 nach Buchhandlung) fehlt Goethes Komma. Acht-
mal hat schulmeisterlich-subalterne Pedanterie ein Komma ein-
gefugt, wo Goethe keins hat. Goethe interpungiert sinnenfallig
nach rhythmischen Grundsatzen, nach der musikalisch-logischen
Art des Sprechstils. Selbst wenn dies nicht der Fall ware und
so unsern asthetischen Sprachsinn weniger befriedigte, ware uns
der genaue Text eines von Goethe eigenhandig geschriebenen
Briefes an sich sakrosankt.

KABL DETLEV JESSEN

BRYN MAWR, PA.

376

"TKOTULA"

There has not been any adequate explanation of the reason
that the name of "Trotula" should appear as the author of one of
the books "bounden in o volume" which was the Vade Mecum of
Jankin in the Wife of Bath's Prologue.1 Tyrwhitt merely cites
the title of one of the several editions of the Trotulae curanda-
rum aegritudinum muliebrium ante, in, et post partum, liber
unicus.2 Skeat3 scarcely adds to our knowledge by following
Warton in citing as two other works of the writer, a manuscript
and an imprint of the same work under different titles. And yet
one does not need to go far for an explanation.

Trotula was the first and most distinguished of the female
representatives* of the medical school of Salerno. The little that
is known of her life is that she lived about the middle of the
eleventh century, that she had the family name of di Ruggiero;
that she was the wife of one member of the Salernitan school,
Johannes Platearius I, and the mother of two others, Johannes
Platearius II and Matthaeus Platearius I.5 Of her works the
most important was a treatise on the diseases of women and the

1 Canterbury Tales, ed. Skeat, Group D, 677, " Crisippus, Trotula, and Helowys."

2 Note to C. T., 1. 6253. He cites from the edition contained in the Medici antiqui (ff. 71-80)
published by Aldus in 1547. Besides this edition P. Meyer (Rom., Vol. XXXII, p. 270 n.)
notes the first edition published in Strasburg in 1544, and that which appeared in Gaspard
Wolf's Gynaeciorum published in Basle in 1566. To these are to be added the edition in the
reprints of the latter work : Basle, 1586, 4to, I, pp. 89-127 ; in the Gynaeciorum of Spath,
Strasburg, 1597, fol. ff. 42-60; in the three editions of Victorinus Faventinus, Empirica,
Venice, 1554, 1555, 1565; 12mo, pp. 460-525; and in Heinrich Kornmann, De virginitate,
Leipzig, 1778.

3 Works of Chaucer, Vol. VI, p. 309. The two works noted are " Trotula Mulier Salerni-
tana de passionibus mulierum," and "Trottula, seu potius Erotis medici aegritudinum
muliebrium liber ; " Basil, 1586 ; 4to. The latter of these is evidently the edition found in
the Gynaeciorum of 1586, noted above.

* Renan (Hist, litt., Vol. XXX, p. 578) makes the curious mistake of stating that "le
medecin salernitain est transforms en une femme." Upon the other female representatives
of the school of Salerno, cf. de Renzi, Collectio Salernitana, Vol. I, pp. 372 ff. ; Choulant,
Haesers Archiv, Vol. II, pp. 301 ff.; J. K. Proksch, Die Geschichte der venerischen Krank-
heiten, Vol. I, p. 285.

*> De Renzi, loc. cit.< Vol. I, pp. 149-64; Vol. Ill, pp. 327 ff.; Choulant, Geschichte und
Litteratur der dlteren Medicin, Vol. I, pp. 293, 294, 299 ; E. G. J. Siebold, Essai d'une histoire
de Vobstetrice, Vol. I, pp. 296-300.
377] 1 [MODEEN PHILOLOGY, October, 1906

2 GEORGE L. HAMILTON

care of children, known under the various titles of De passioni-
bus mulierum,1 De aegritudinibus mulierum,2 De curis mulierum*
Trotula major,4' and Trotula.5 A work dealing with the care of
the complexion and cosmetics, known as De ornatu mulierum* and
Trotula minor? is generally appended in manuscripts to the more
important work. The printed editions only present an abridged
version of these two works,8 which cannot have been made before
the thirteenth century,9 although in Wolfs edition the work is
attributed to a certain Eros, a freedman of Augustus, the physi-
cian of the emperor's daughter, Julia.10

The great reputation of this mediaeval Lydia Pinkham is not
only evidenced by the large number of manuscripts of her work,
and copies of certain chapters under the titles of Practica domine
Trote ad provocanda menstrua,11 and Practica de secretis muli-
erum™ liberal use was made of her work in later medical compi-
lations ; it was translated into various vernacular tongues, and the
authoress was cited as a high authority. Her work is an important

1 MS Bibliotheque nationale, Lat. 7856, Fol. 112 recto. Cf. Renzi, loc. cit., Vol. V, p. 121;
M. R. James, Ancient Libraries of Canterbury and Dover, p. 481, " Trotula major de pas-
sionibus." This title is not to be confused with another medical treatise with the Incipit
"De passionibus mulierum," sometimes attributed to Trotula, sometimes to Cleopatra
(Rom., Vol. XXXII, p. 272; M. Steinschneider, Virchowa Archiv, Vol. LII, pp. 349,350) and
again to Theodorus Priscianus (Oxford, Coll. Magd. CLXIV, 243 recto).

2 James, loc. cit., p. 62; Oxford, Merton Coll. CCCXXIV, Fol. 94 verso.

3 James, loc. cit., p. 338, " Trotula major de curis mulierum," also pp. 345, 347. Cf . title of
MS Univ. Bibl. Breslau, Practica Trotulae mulieris Salernitanae de curia mulierum, which
according to Haeser, Lehrbuch der Geschichte der Medicin, 3d ed., Vol. I, p. 663, is chiefly
devoted to cosmetics.

* James, loc. cit., pp. 341, 385.

5 Rom., Vol. XXXII, p. 270; Oxford, Merton Coll. CCXXX, Fol. 11 verso; Digby, 29, Fol.
278 verso; cf. 291 verso, "Explicit hec Trota multum mulieribus apta."

6 James, loc. cit., p. 59; Meyer, loc. cit., p. 270; Coll. Magd. CLXXIII, Fol. 253 recto;
A. Schultz, Anz.f. d. Kunde d. deutachen Vorzeit, 1877, col. 186-90.

^ Meyer, loc. cit., p. 271; James, loc. cit., pp. 340, 385; Haeser, p. 663.

8 Cf . Rom., Vol. XXXII, pp. 88, 270 ; Haeser, p. 662. Perhaps it would be better to speak of
the two parts of one work, remembering that the first sixteen books of Priscian were known
as Priscianus major, and the last two as Priscianus minor, cf. Thurot, Notices et Extracts
des MSS, Vol. XXII, 1, 213; G. Becker, Catalogi Antiqui Bibliothecarum Britique, p. 321.

9 Choulant attributes the revision to a female physician of Salerno in the thirteenth
century; Jahr.f. d. deutache Med., Vol. Ill, p. 144.

10 G. C. Gruner. Neque Eros, neque Trotula, sed Salernitanus quidam medicus, isque
Chriatianus, auctor libelli est, qui de morbis mulierum inscribitur, Jena, 1773.

" James, loc. cit., p. 58. Upon the importance in mediaeval medical treatises of this sub-
ject cf . J. Haupt, Wiener Ak. Sitzungaber. phil. hiat. Cl., Vol. LXXII, pp. 477, 480.
12 Oxford, Bodleian, Rawlinson, C, DVI, Fol. 146 recto.

378

"TBOTULA" 3

source of the twelfth century De aegritudinum curatione,1 and of
the Poema medicum* of the thirteenth century. It was trans-
lated, or at least largely utilized in two Old French verse compo-
sitions,3 and once translated into French4 prose and once into
German.5 The popularity of the work was in part due to its
pornographic character, and later compositions of the same
stamp, such as the Secreta mulierum* falsely attributed to
Albertus Magnus,7 refer to Trotula as one who sat on the bench
of last appeal.8 A most striking instance of such a use, and its
justification is to be found in a French work of the fourteenth
century, Le livre des secrets aux philosophes:

Premierement je vous di que une feme qui fu philosophe, appellee
Trotula, qui mout vesqui et fu moult belle en sa jeunece, de laquelle li
phisicien qui riens sevent tiennent moult d'auctoritez et de bons enseig-
nemenz, nous dist une partie des natures aus femmes. L'une partie
nous en pot elle bien dire tant comme elle en sentit en soi; 1'autre partie
que, comme elle fust feme, et toutes femmes descovroient plus volentiers
a li toutes leur contenances et leur secrez que a un home, e li disoient
leur natures, et elle regardoit en ses livres et trouvoit concordances a ce
que nature li en divisoit. Par icelle seusmes nous grant partie des
natures aus femmes.9

How well the name of Trotula was known one sees from the
way she is mentioned in the Diz de Verberie of Rutebeuf. In
this composition, a parody of the advertising methods of the
traveling quack doctor, the charlatan, after puffing his wares,
addresses the audience with

Or oeiz ce que m'enchar ja

Ma dame qui m'envoia sa,
and dropping into prose continues:

Bele gent, je ne sui pas de ces povres prescheurs ne de ces povres her-
biers qui vont par devant ces mostiers a ces chapes mau cozues, qui

i Choulant, Haesers Archiv, Vol. II, pp. 302 if . ; de Renzi, loc. cit., Vol. II, pp. 81 ff.

a de Renzi, loc. cit., Vol. VI, pp. 1 ff. ; cf. Hist, litt., Vol. XXII, p. 105 (V. Le Clerc). On
a reference to her as an authority in a medical work of the school of Salerno in Hebrew, cf.
Steinschneider, Virchows Archiv, Vol. XL, p. 124.

3 Meyer, loc. cit., pp. 88, 101.

* Ibid., p. 270. Cf. P. Giacosa, Magistri Salernitani nondum editi, p. 429.

5 Spiller, Zeits.f. deutaches Alterthum, Vol. XXVII, p. 167.

6 On similar works cf . Steinschneider, Virchows Archiv, Vol. XXXVII, p. 405, n. 53.
' On attribution to Albertus, Hist, litt., Vol. XIX, pp. 171, 173.

» Spiller, loc. cit., p. 166; cf. Oefele, Allgemeine deutsche Biographic, Vol. X, p. 672.
9 Hist, litt., Vol. XXX, p. 578.

379

4 GEOBGE L. HAMILTON

portent boites et sachez, et si estendent .i. tapis, car teiz vent poivre et
coumin [et autres .espices] qui n'a pas autant de sachez comme il ont.
Sachiez que de ceulz ne sui je pas; ainz suis a une dame qui a nom
Trote de Salerne, qui fait cuevre chief de ces oreilles, et li sorciz li pen-
dent a chainnes d'argent pardesus les espaules; et sachiez que e'est la
plus sage dame qui soit enz quatre parties dou monde.1

Assuredly in Jankin's "book of wikked wyves" the work of such
an authority on women, and of such wide repute would not be
out of place.

GEOBGE L. HAMILTON
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

i CEuvres completes de Rutebeuf, ed. A. Jubinal, 1874, Vol. II, pp. 58, 59. I have corrected
the text after the extracts printed by Picot in Rom., Vol. XVI, p. 493. His comment on the
passage is worth citing: " Trot de Salerne, ou Trotola de Boggeri, est rest6 celebre par mi
les medecins du XI<» siecle : mais Butebeuf semble jouer ici snr le nom de ce medeciu et sur
la mule du marchand d'orvietan. C' est a cette derniere qu' appartiennent les longues
oreilles et la chaine d' argent qui sert de bride." G. Mannheimer, in his article " Etwas nber
die Arzte im alten Frankreich," cites only the Butebeuf passage (Rom. Forsch., Vol. VI,
p. 596) . Cf . A. Delpeuch, La G&ute et la Rhumafisme, p. 350, for a comment on the passage.

380

THE RELATION OF DRYDEN'S "STATE OF INNO-
CENCE" TO MILTON'S "PARADISE LOST" AND
WYCHERLEY'S "PLAIN DEALER": AN
INQUIRY INTO DATES

In the history of English literature few incidents are better
known or more attractive to the imagination than the meeting of
Dry den and Milton, recorded by Aubrey.1 In that meeting con-
fronted each other not only radically contrasting personalities
and geniuses, but epochs of society and government, of literary
ideals and form. Dry den came to do honor to Milton, but he
came with the proposal to translate Milton's greatest work into
a form which the age could comprehend and enjoy, to turn the
blank -verse epic into a rimed "sacred opera." Whether Milton's
feeling was one of amusement, as Masson suggests, or indifference,
as Scott has it, or something deeper, he answered Dry den at all
events with superb self-reliance and control. "Certainly," he
appears to have replied, "you may tag my verses, if you will."
And so, some time after the publication of the second edition of
Paradise Lost, in 1674, came out Dryden's The State of Inno-
cence and Fall of Man.

It was entered on the Stationers' Register by Herringman, the
publisher, on April 17, 1674, under the title The Fall of Angells
and Man in Innocence, and was published, according to Scott,2
soon after Milton's death, on November 8 of that year. This date
of publication has been accepted by Genest,3 Saintsbury,4 Mas-
son,5 A. W. Ward,6 W. C. Ward,7 and by scholars in general.
During the interval between entry and publication, "many hun-
dred" surreptitious and erroneous copies had got abroad, as Dryden
informs us in the well-known "Apology for Heroic Poetry and

i Lives. 2 Works of Dryden, ed. by Scott and Saintsbury, V, 99.

3 History of the Drama and Stage in England, 1, 161.
* Works of Dryden, V, 94. 5 Life of Milton, VI, 710.

6 History of English Dramatic Literature, III, 368.
^ Plays of Wycherley (Mermaid Series), 364.
381] 1 MODERN PHILOLOGY, October, 1906

2 GEORGE B. CHURCHILL

Poetic License," a defense of his method, prefixed to the State of
Innocence; and critics were expressing unfavorable opinions.
"Among those critics of the opera," claims Mr. Masson, "as it was
to be read in the copies that had got about early in 1674, were
Milton himself and his friend Mar veil. The fact has escaped
notice hitherto, but it is certain, nevertheless."1 For proof of the
fact Mr. Masson relies upon the date of the entry, with Dry den's
statement as to the surreptitious copies ; and the verses of Andrew
Marvell, prefixed to the second edition of Paradise Lost; the
peculiarity of which, says Masson, "consists in their being a
studied combination of eulogium on Milton for his Paradise Lost
with rebuke to Dryden for his impudence in attempting a dra-
matic and rhymed transversion of such an epic."2

There is another literary relation of interest connected with
The State of Innocence. In the "Apology" Dryden refers to the
dramatist Wycherley. "The author of the * Plain Dealer,' whom
I am proud to call my friend, has," he says, "obliged all honest
and virtuous men, by one of the most bold, most general, and
most useful satires, which has ever been presented on the English
Theatre."3 Now The Plain Dealer, here referred to, was not
published till 1677, but Dryden's words show that when he wrote
the "Apology" it was already on the stage, and as The State of
Innocence with the prefaced "Apology" has been dated 1674, it
follows that Wycherley's play was produced as early as that year.
And this has been the general assumption of the editors and
critics of Wycherley. The date is of special importance because
there has been much controversy as to Wycherley's method of
work. Rochester characterized him as "slow" and says:

Wycherley earns hard whater'e he gains,
He wants no judgment, nor he spares no pains.4

Lansdowne objected that the adjective "slow" was due merely to
the demands of Rochester's verse. To judge by what Wycherley
accomplished one would think it

could be no other than the work of extraordinary diligence, labour and
application. But, in truth, we owe the pleasure and advantage of having

i Life of Milton, VI, 710. *Life of Milton, VI, 715.

3 Works of Dryden, V, 115.

*" An Allusion to Horace," in Poems on Several Occasions, ed. of 1685, p. 36.

382

DRYDEN, MILTON, AND WYCHERLEY 3

been so well entertain'd and instructed by him, to his facility of doing
it .... The club which a man of an ordinary size could not lift, was but
a walking-staff for Hercules.1

And Pope declared:

Lord Rochester's character of Wycherley is quite wrong. He was
far from being slow in general, and in particular, wrote the Plain Dealer
in three weeks.2

Now, if The Plain Dealer was produced in 1674, we have good
evidence that Wycherley carefully worked over and revised his
plays; for the first edition, of 1677, contains allusions to events
and productions subsequent to 1674.

Thus the conclusions that Milton knew the State of Innocence,
except for the evidence of Marvell's verses, and that Wycherley's
Plain Dealer was produced in 1674, both depend upon the
acceptance of 1674 as the date of the publication of The State of
Innocence. A careful examination of the data on which the
authorities above named relied, together with data that have
since become available, leads to the belief that The State of Inno-
cence was not published in 1674, nor in 1676, the date ascribed
by W. C. Hazlitt,3 Halliwell,4 and others, but first in 1677. It
will be seen that there is no direct testimony to the 1674 date,
and only one piece of apparently direct testimony, and, so far as
I have been able to discover, no testimony at all for the 1676
date; while there is evidence of considerable value that the 1677
edition is the first.

The verses of Marvell — all that are important for this discus-
sion— are these:

ON PARADISE LOST

When I beheld the poet blind, yet bold,
In slender book his vast design unfold —

.... The argument
Held me awhile misdoubting his intent,
That he should ruin (for I saw him strong)
The sacred truths to fable and old song

i Genuine Works of George Granville, Lord Lansdowne, ed. of 1732, 1, 432.
tSpence's Anecdotes, ed. Singer, p. 201.

3 Manual for the Collector and Amateur of Old English Plays. * Dictionary of Plays.

383

4 GEORGE B. CHURCHILL

Yet as I read, soon growing less severe,
I liked his project, the success did fear —

Lest he perplexed the things he would explain,

And what was easy he should render vain.

Or if a work so infinite he spanned,

Jealous I was that some less skillful hand

(Such as disquiet always what is well,

And by ill-imitating would excel,)

Might hence presume the whole Creation's day

To change in scenes, and show it in a play.

Pardon me, mighty Poet ; nor despise

My causeless, yet not impious surmise.

But I am now convinced, and none will dare

Within thy labours to pretend a share.

Thou hast not missed one thought that could be fit,

And all that was improper dost omit;

So that no room is here for writers left,

But to detect their ignorance or theft.

Well might'st thou scorn thy readers to allure

With tinkling rime, of thy own sense secure;

While the Town-Bayes writes all the while and spells,

And, like a pack-horse, tires without his bells.

Their fancies like our bushy points appear;

The poets tag them, we for fashion wear.

I too, transported by the mode, offend,

And, while I meant to praise thee, must commend.

Thy verse, created, like thy theme sublime,

In number, weight, and measure, needs not rime.

These latter lines are sufficient to prove Masson's claim that
Milton and Marvell had talked over Dry den's request and Milton's
answer ; but they afford no evidence that they had seen The State
of Innocence, or even that they knew it was to be published.
After stating that he had been fearful lest someone might show
Milton's work in a play, Marvell calls his surmise "causeless."
The lines that follow — somewhat significantly, not quoted by
Masson — appear to mean that he is now convinced that no one
will dare to turn Paradise Lost into a play, because to do so
would clearly manifest him a fool or a thief ; they may mean that
he no longer fears, because, if anyone does turn Milton's work

384

DRYDEN, MILTON, AND WYCHEBLEY 5

into a play, it can only redound to Milton's honor, through the
manifest ignorance or plagiarism of the dramatist; but they cer-
tainly do not indicate that Marvell has seen any such play.
Dryden's project he evidently knows; had he known Dryden's
production, he could hardly have failed to attack it more directly.

That Milton and Marvell had seen The State of Innocence
appears less likely in view of the date when the second edition of
Paradise Lost was published. Professor Arber' s invaluable
reprint of the Term Catalogues1 now enables us to state approxi-
mately the time of year when it appeared. It is advertised in the
Catalogue of Books published in Trinity Term, 1674. This cata-
logue was licensed for publication on July 6, so the second edition
of Milton's work had either been published between May 26, or
thereabout — the date of the preceding catalogue — and July 6, or
on July 6 was about to appear. Thus, even if Marvell' s verses
were written and printed after the second edition was otherwise
ready, we have at the most barely three months after its entry in
the Stationers' Register for a surreptitious copy of The State of
Innocence to come into Milton's hands. These copies were evi-
dently written, not printed. Dry den speaks of "everyone gather-
ing new faults," and Masson calls them "transcripts." In view
of all the circumstances it appears highly improbable that Milton
had seen The State of Innocence: it clearly is not "certain."

But even if Milton saw such a copy, and even if that copy were
printed, this is no evidence that the authorized edition was pub-
lished in 1674. Scott's statement that it was so published,
"shortly after the death of Milton" on November 8, adopted by
Masson and others, appears to rest on no better foundation than
the natural belief that it would be published not long after the
entry in the Stationers' Register, and the fact that Dry den in the
prefaced "Apology" speaks of Milton as deceased. It is a not
unnatural surmise that Dryden might have delayed the publica-
tion of his work out of regard for the aged poet merely until his
death.

i The Term Catalogues, 1668-1709. Edited by Professor Edward Arber ; Vol. 1, 1903 ; Vol.
II, 1905. By this vast and difficult undertaking, of which he bears all the financial as well
as editorial responsibility, Professor Arber has again placed students of English literature
deeply in his debt.

385

6 GEOKGE B. CHURCHILL

Two things declare strongly against the acceptance of this
surmise. The first is that a copy of a 1674 edition is not to be
found! First editions of Dryden's other plays are not rare.
Dryden's popularity and prominence, together with the connection
of this book with Milton, would lead one to expect a specially
large first edition. The edition of 1677 is today a fairly common
book; yet the supposed first edition is not to be found. It is not
in the British Museum, the Bodleian, or the Cambridge University
Library, and diligent search in the other large British libraries
has failed to reveal it. No private collection has been discovered
that contains it. Mr. Edmund Gosse has been collecting for
thirty years, has in his possession the first edition of every other
play of Dryden; but this he has never seen or heard of. The
great London booksellers have never seen it, though they have
been commissioned hundreds of times to procure a copy. Nor
has the edition apparently ever been described. Why should this
one first edition be so entirely missing?

Corroborative evidence is furnished by the Term Catalogues.
From November, 1668, to November, 1682, but one play of Dry-
den — All for Love — is missing from the catalogues. All the
others, fourteen in number, leaving out The State of Innocence,
are advertised in what are demonstrably the first editions. And
the one new play, Don Sebastian, which appears in the catalogues
after this time is also in the first edition. For books not in the
first edition the catalogues have a special heading — "Reprinted
Books." Now, The State of Innocence appears first in the Term
Catalogue for Hilary Term (licensed for publication February 12),
1676-7. This is the edition which bears on the title-page the
date 1677. Like all the other plays, this entry of The State of
Innocence does not appear under the heading "Reprinted Books,"
but under that of "Poetry and Plays." Professor Arber informs
me that he has never yet [August, 1904] discovered a case
where a book not entered under the head of "Reprinted Books"
is not a first edition. The third edition of The State of Innocence
appears in the catalogue of November, 1684, in its proper place,
under the head of " Reprinted." Why should it be supposed that
the edition of The State of Innocence entered in February,

DRYDEN, MILTON, AND WYCHERLEY 7

1676-7, forms a unique exception, and though not entered under
the head "Reprinted" was really preceded by an edition in 1674
and possibly by another in 1676 ?1

Only one piece of apparently direct evidence for the existence
of a 1674 edition have I succeeded in discovering; but this is of
a character to give one pause. In Saintsbury's edition of Scott's
Dryden he publishes what appears to be a copy of the title-page
of the first edition of The State of Innocence. It differs in spell-
ing from the title-page of the 1677 edition, but this is probably
the editor's modernization; the quotation is followed by "Ovid
Met." [1677, "Metam."]; it is printed by "T. M." [1677, "T.
N.," i. e. Tho. Newcomb] ; and it is dated 1674!

Here, it seemed, was evidence enough for the existence of a
1674 edition. Private inquiry was made of Professor Saintsbury
where this 1674 copy was to be found. His reply I am not
authorized to quote in detail. It must suffice to say that, while he
believed that he would in no case quote a title-page except from
actual inspection by himself or a trustworthy deputy, he could
not remember where it had been seen; nor is the volume to be
found in the British Museum or Mr. Grosse's collection, where he
thought he might have seen it. Nor could he offer any evi-
dence for its existence. Another letter recently received from
Professor Saintsbury says: "I always now inform inquirers that
the '74 State of Innocence cannot be found and is probably a
Boojum."

And there we are left. It is difficult to account for Professor
Saintsbury's title-page. But as he cannot account for it himself,
and apparently no longer believes in it, is there not, in view of
the other evidence, good reason to believe that his title-page is
not in fact the copy of a title-page bearing the date 1674?

None of the evidence that I have adduced against the existence
of a 1674 edition is absolutely conclusive. But it is sufficient to
warrant the strong belief that there was no such edition, until
someone has actually produced or described it.

For the 1676 date there is apparently no evidence at all. An

i It is perhaps not without significance that in the interval between November, 1673,
and Easter, 1676, Dryden published nothing but the pamphlet Notes and Observations on the
Empress of Morocco.

387

8 GEORGE B. CHUBCHILL

edition may have been put on the market late in that year, but
if so it bore the date 1677.

There remains the question how, if the 1677 date be accepted
as that of the first edition, we are to account for the delay in
the publication since April 17, 1674. Masson's explanation of
the delay till after Milton's death suggests a plausible conjecture
for the longer delay. In the contract between Milton and his
publisher, Milton engaged

that he the said Jo. Milton, his executors or administrators, or any other
by his or their means or consent, shall not print or cause to be printed,
or sell, dispose or publish the said book or manuscript, or any other book
or manuscript of the same tenor or subject, without the consent of the
said Samuel Symons, his executors or assigns.1

Milton's permission to Dryden may easily have appeared to
Symons a breach of contract ; and it would not be at all strange if
he made such difficulties for Dryden and his publisher Herring-
man as to delay the publication of The State of Innocence, not
only during the remainder of Milton's lifetime, but for some time
after, until the second edition of Milton's work was well dis-
posed of.

Our conclusion is therefore that Wycherley's Plain Dealer
was not produced in 1674, but probably as late as 1676, and that
the 1677 edition of The State of Innocence is the first. And it
may be said " that our conclusion is strengthened by the fact that
it has already been reached by Professor Ker and Mr. Gosse.
In his edition of Dryden's essays Professor Ker gives 1677 as the
date of the first edition,2 and Mr. Gosse writes in a private letter :3

I have ceased to believe in the editions of The State of Innocence of
1674 and 1676. I believe the edition of 1677 to be the first .... I pos-
sess in my own collection every other play of Dryden in the first edition,
and have been collecting now for thirty years. I think that if there
were an edition earlier than 1677, I must have heard of it.

GEORGE B. CHURCHILL
AMHERST COLLEGE

1 Life of Milton, VI, 713.

2 Essays of John Dryden, ed. by W. P. Ker, I. Ixxv. Cf. also Ker's note, p. 313.

3 To Winston H. Hagen, Esq., New York.

A NOTE ON THE SOURCES OF THE OLD SAXON

"GENESIS."

It is well known that the narrative in the Anglo-Saxon Gene-
sis B, which constitutes in translated form the longest existing
fragment of the Old Saxon Genesis, departs considerably from the
corresponding portions of the Vulgate. But it has not been
clearly shown that the author had any other source, and recent
opinion appears to be tending toward the view that his variations
are original. This idea was long ago suggested, though not
actually stated, by Sievers, who discussed the question of sources
quite incidentally in his famous essay on the Heliand and the
Genesis* Sievers pointed out that, while the doctrine of the
creation and fall of the angels (11. 246 ff.) was a theological com-
monplace, and while other parts of the Genesis resembled pas-
sages in Avitus, at the same time there were significant variations
from both Avitus and the commentators; and he laid stress upon
certain elements which seemed peculiar to the Saxon poet. Later
investigators have expressed doubt about the parallels from Avi-
tus, and Behaghel, in a recent general survey2 of the literary rela-
tions of the Genesis, speaks with some assurance of the inde-
pendent imagination of the author, adding that he has not been
proved to have made use of any sources outside of the Bible.
This opinion, then, appears to be becoming current doctrine on
the subject,3 and it may be well to inquire whether the peculiarities
of the Saxon narrative are, after all, so entirely without parallel.

The feature of the story which has been oftenest designated
as original is the account of the temptation and the fall. The
tempter, it will be remembered, is said by the Saxon poet to have

1 Der Heliand und die angelsachsische Genesis (Halle, 1875).

2 Heliand and Genesis (1903), p. xxiii, with a reference to Siebs, ZDPh, XXVIII, 139. '

3 Other expressions of the same opinion will be cited in the following pages. Jellinek
(Haupt's Anzeiger, XXI, 220), speaking primarily of the later Vatican fragments which deal
with Cain and Sodom, expresses uncertainty about the author's use of biblical commen-
taries. He says he could cite parallels to 11. 41, 75, 79, 124, 273, etc. : " Aber mit solchen ver-
einzelten Nachweisen ist doch wenig gethan."

389] 1 MODERN PHILOLOGY, October, 190&

2 F. N. ROBINSON

declared himself a messenger of God, and to have professed to
bring Adam and Eve divine permission to eat of the forbidden tree.

Ongon hine PS frinan forman worde

Se lS3a mid ligenum : " LangaQ P6 Swuht,

Adam, up t6 Gode? Ic eom on his aerende hider

feorran gefSred; ne Paet nu fyrn ne waes,

Paet ic wi3 hine sylfne saet. Pa he"t h6 m6 on pisne siS faran,

h6t paet pu pisses ofaetes sete, cwaeS Paet pin abal and craeft

and pin m6dsef a mSra wurde

and Pin lichoma leohtra micle,

pin gesceapu sce*nran; cwse5 pget P6 seniges sceattes Pearf

ne wurde on worulde." 1

When he failed to beguile Adam, he went to Eve and urged her
to avert the divine anger which Adam had incurred by doubting
God's messenger and refusing to eat. If she would take the for-
bidden fruit herself, and persuade Adam also to taste it, all would
yet be well.

Gif Pu Paet angin fremest, idesa se6 betste,

forhele ic incrum herran, paet m6 hearmes swd fela

Adam gespraec, eargra worda,

tyh9 m6 untry6w9a, cwy9 pget ic se6 te6num georn,

gramum ambyhtsecg, nales godes engel.

Ac ic cann ealle sw& geare engla gebyrdo,

heah heofona gehlidu: waes se6 hwil pees lang,

Paet ic geornlice gode Pegnode

purh holdne hyge, herran minum,

dryhtne selfum: ne eom ic 5e6fle gelic.2

Thus the tempter made his appeal to the credulity of the first
parents rather than to their pride, and caused them to disobey
God unwittingly and in a sense innocently. The doctrine is
obviously not biblical, and Sievers, finding no support for it in
the commentators, pronounced it "eigenthumlich."3 Other
scholars have been less cautious and have attributed it to the
poet's invention. Hoenncher, in an article* on the sources of the

1 Ll. 495 ff. The quotations are from Behaghel's text (Heliand and Genesis, p. 215).

2 LI. 578 ff.

^Sandras had also called attention to its peculiarity (De carminibus Anglo-Saxonicis
Caedmoni adjudicatis disquisitio, p. 74) .

* Anglia^ VIII, 41 ff. See particularly pp. 48 ff. Compare also Jovy's discussion of the
subject in the Banner Beitr&ge zur Anglistik, V.

390

NOTE ON THE SOURCES OF THE OLD SAXON "GENESIS" 3

Genesis, while undertaking to show that Sievers was wrong in
deriving any part of the poem from Avitus, insisted still more
strongly than Sievers on the originality of the account of the fall ;
and W. P. Ker, in his admirable volume on the Dark Ages1
quoted the opinion as if it were an established fact and made it
the basis of critical observations. "Both imagination and good
sense," he observed, "are shown, as Sievers has brought out, in
the view taken of the temptation. The ordinary theological
motives, gluttony and vainglory, did not seem sufficient. The
poet would not so degrade the Protoplast. Adam and Eve are
beguiled by the lies of the serpent, who brings them word that the
Lord has revoked his prohibition, and that for their good they are
to eat of the fruit of the tree." The same implication of originality
on the part of the Saxon author is found in a recent dissertation by
Abbetmeyer, who remarks: "The poet, it then appears, selected
the Teutonic conception of loyalty to account for the disloyalty
of the first parents."2

Now, while I am not prepared to say just where the Saxon
writer learned his theory of the temptation, I am convinced that
he did not invent it, and consequently that he is not to be cred-
ited with such originality as the foregoing comments imply. To
be sure, the details of his story differ considerably from any other
account of the fall that I have seen. But the feature of the
deception upon which Sievers and his followers lay stress, is by
no means uncommon in the apocryphal documents about Adam
and Eve. It is natural to conclude that the Saxon version is
somehow indebted to that body of literature. In the Latin Vita
Adae et Evae, edited and discussed by Wilhelm Meyer3 a few
years after the appearance of Sievers' study of the Genesis, a
similar deception is practiced by Satan to induce Eve, after her
expulsion from the garden, to abandon her penance in the waters
of the Tigris. The fiend transforms himself into an angel of

1 The Dark Ages, p. 259.

"2~Cf. I Abbetmeyer, 'did English Poetical Motives Derived from the Doctrine of Sin (Minne.
apolis, 1903), p. 23. Elsewhere (p. 20) Abbetmeyer says of the passage in the Genesis: " The
source, though much looked for, has not been found." Perhaps he means, then, that the
author was influenced by the Q-ermanic conception of loyalty, not in inventing a new theory
of the fall, but in choosing among existing accounts of it.

3 Abhandl. d. JeOnigL bayer. Akad. d. Wiss., XIV (1878), pp. 187 ff.

391

4 F. N. ROBINSON

light and tells Eve that God has forgiven Adam and her and
remitted their penalty.1 Eve is deceived at once and comes out
of the river; but Adam recognizes the Adversary and rebukes
Eve for having again yielded to him. The circumstances of this
temptation differ considerably from those in the Genesis, where
Adam is first approached (11. 261 ff.), and where the tempter
takes the usual form of the serpent, though protesting himself to
be an angel from God. But the nature of the strategy is the
same in both instances, and the Saxon poet, or more probably
some predecessor, may simply have transferred to the temptation
in the garden the method employed by Satan, according to the
Vita, in the later temptation by the Tigris.

The apocryphal accounts of the earlier temptation furnish, in
my opinion, some confirmation of this surmise ; for they exhibit a
good deal of confusion as to the form in which Satan addresses
Eve when he offers her the forbidden fruit in Paradise. In the
Greek Apocalypse of Moses2 (hereafter referred to briefly as the
Apocalypse) Eve, long after the expulsion, relates to her chil-
dren the story of the fall. She declares that Satan appeared to
her in the form of an angel, and then she describes him as
answering one of her questions "out of the mouth of the ser-
pent."a The inconsistency apparently arises from the introduction

i Vita* §9: "Et translerunt dies xviii. tune iratus est Satanas et transfiguravit se in
claritatem angelorum et abiit ad Tigrim fiumen ad Evam et invenit earn flentem. et ipse
diabolus quasi condolens ei coepit Here et dixit ad earn : egredere de flumine et de cetero
non plores. iam cessa de tristitia et gemitu. quid sollicita es tu et Adam vir tuus? audi-
vit dominus dons gemitum vestrum et suscepit penitentiam vestram ; et nos omnes angeli
rogavimus pro vobis deprecantes dominum, et misit me, ut educerem voa de aqua et darem
vobis alimentum quod habnistis in paradise et pro quo planzistis. nunc ergo egredere
de aqua et porducam vos in locum, ubi paratus est victus vester. Haec audiens autem Eva
credidit et exivit de aqua numinis et caro ejus erat sicut herba de frigore aquae, et cum
egressa esset cecidit in terram, et erexit earn diabolus et perduxit earn ad Adam."

2 This Confession of Eve (Apocalypsis Mosis, §§15 ff.) does not appear in the Vita, where
Adam (p. 236) simply asks Eve to tell the story to the children after his death. But Meyer,
believing it to have formed an episode of the earlier work from which both the Vita and the
Apocalypse were derived, inserted the Greek passage (following Tischendorf's Apocalypses
Apocryphae) after §41 of the Latin text. For Meyer's discussion of the relation of the Vita
and the Apocalypse see p. 206 of his article ; and for evidence that a Latin text combining
elements of both existed in Ireland in the tenth century see Thurneysen, Revue celtigue,
VI, 104.

3 The devil first asks the serpent to help him. Xeyet avr<a 6 Std/3oAo?- /U.TJ 4>o/3oC. yevov fiot.
rrxeOos *ayu> AaAtjcrw Sia oTojuaTOS (rov prj/uara irpof TO c^aira/njaat avrov. «cai c»cpe/u,a<r0i} tvfltios irapa
TWI> reixeotv rov irapaoeio-ov irepi wpav orav av^\9ov oi ayyeAoi rov 9eov rov Jrpo0xvv»}o-a«,. rore 6
Saraca? tyevero ev elSet ayyeAou Ka.1 v^vei rov Oebv tcaOairep ol ayyeAoi. KCU irapeKv^a. ex rov rei'xous

NOTE ON THE SOURCES OF THE OLD SAXON "GENESIS" 5

into the biblical story of the apocryphal idea of the later tempta-
tion as set forth in the Vita — just such a confusion as I have
assumed to lie behind the Saxon poem.1 Except for what is
implied by the angelic disguise, the -motive of Eve's guilt in the
Apocalypse is made substantially the same as in the biblical
account. The tempter tells her that if she and Adam eat of the
fruit their eyes will be opened to perceive good and evil, and that
God has forbidden them to touch the tree for fear that they will
become like him. But the object of the disguise itself was clearly
to make Eve suppose she was dealing with a loyal messenger of
the Lord, and to complete the deception Satan even joined the
other angels in singing a hymn of praise to God.

The author of the Saxon Genesis, then, whether or not he
wrote independently, was not the first or only authority to refuse
to "degrade the Protoplast." I am inclined to believe that he
did not reinvent the motive, but rather that he knew some form
of the apocryphal Life of Adam and Eve. Very likely he is still
to be credited with originality in his treatment of the details of
the story. At all events, I have not found any other account
which resembles it closely. The long speech of Satan (11. 356 ff.),
pointed out by Sievers2 as a departure from Avitus, is not only
not paralleled by the Vita, but represents a different theory of
the fall of the angels.3 The use by Satan of a subordinate demon

everei'AaTO 6 0ebs rfp.lv ^,rj itrdieiv e£ avrou, en-el

1 Meyer (p. 206) comments on this confusion in the Apocalypse. Something like it is
observable in the Slavic versions of the story published later by Jagic, Abhandl. d. kais.
Osterreichischen Gesellsch. d. Wiss., 1893, II, 26 ff. In the first of these texts the devil
appears as an angel and tempts Eve. Nothing is said of the serpent, though Satan has
already instructed it to beguile Eve. In the second version, which Jagic thinks is a correc-
tion of the first account, Satan does not go to the serpent till he has talked with Eve.
Gaster (Ilchester Lectures on Greeko-Slavonic Literature, p. 32) quotes a popular Wallachian
version of the Confession of Eve, according to which the devil first comes as an angel and
tries to beguile Eve, and after his repulse the serpent comes as an angel and prevails upon
her. I cite these accounts, of course, not because I suppose them to have influenced the
Saxon, but simply to show how, as I believe, the conception of the temptation in the garden
was affected by the tradition about the later temptation.

2 Pp. 18 ff .

3 In the Vita Satan tells Adam that the fallen angels were expelled from heaven because
they refused to worship Adam, the image of God. The Genesis, on the contrary, follows

393

6 F. N. ROBINSON

to tempt Eve (dyrne deofles boda, 1. 490) is unlike the proced-
ure in either the Vita or the Apocalypse.1 The long conversa-
tion between Eve and Adam when she urges him to eat the apple
also finds no close parallel in these texts.2 But, on the other hand,
certain elements of the Genesis which Sievers found it hard to
account for may be plausibly explained by the Adam book. The
delusive light which Eve saw when she had partaken of the fruit,
and which disappeared soon after Adam's fall was accomplished,3
may well go back to the "great glory" described in the Apocalypse
as surrounding the forbidden tree.* The account of the sufferings
of Adam and Eve after their expulsion (11. 802 ff.) is not based
upon the Vulgate, and Siebs has shown5 that it is not strikingly
similar to the two passages cited by Sievers6 from the third book
of Avitus. It is also unlikely, in my opinion, that the lines con-
tain a reminiscence of a passage in Hilarius, as Siebs suggests,7
and it seems quite as easy to explain them as an elaboration of
the situation described at the beginning of the Vita. The Latin
text, to be sure, is brief and bare at this point,8 but other versions
of the Adam book (as, for example, the Irish Saltair na Bonn)9

the orthodox view and represents the fall of the angels as anterior to their envy of man.
Meyer (p. 199) cites Augustine, De Genesi ad literam xi, 18, for the condemnation of the apo-
cryphal account. Compare also Bonwetsch on Methodius, Gottingen Abhandlungen, N. F.
VII (1903), 71 ff. A disagreement with respect to this doctrine of course constitutes no argu-
ment against the influence of the Adam book on the Genesis.

iThis situation was long ago compared by Sandras (De carminibus Anglo-Saxonicis
Caedmoni adjudicatis disquisitio, p. 67) with that in another apocryphal document, The
Book of Enoch (ed. Lawrence, Ixviii, 61), where Gadrel is represented as the seducer of Eve.

2 The Apocalypse represents Adam as more easily persuaded, ei/na yap ^Xflev, ijvoi£a TO
crrofia JU.DV KOI 6 6(.a/3oAos eAaAei Kal qp£aju.i)p vovBerelv O.VTOV Xeyovera- Sevpo, Kvpie /u.ou 'ASa/u., eTra-
novffov fj.ov KOI (jxiye OTTO roO Kaptrou TOV SevSpov, ov elirev 6 0ebs TOV /arj (/xryetv aw' avroi), Kal ea"f) cb;
dco?. KO.L a.rroKpi6fi<; 6 irarijp v/xwy elirev <^o/3oCju,ai firj irore bpyicrdfj fiat, 6 Ceos. eyw Se elwov avrai*
fXT) <£>oj3ou' aju,a yap (^a-yrj? tcrrj •yipwajcwv xa\bi> Kal irovi\pov, Kal Tore Ta\ea>; Trttcracra avrbv, eiftayev,
Kal iji'ecJxflrjcrar avrov 01 6</>0aA/xoi., Kal eyi'co Kal aiirb? T>)V yvfJiVit>(Tt.v avrov.

3 LI. 600 ff., 666 ff., 772 ff .

< <rv Se irpo<Tf\e TO> ^»WT<O KOI Si/rei S6£a.v neyd\r)i> irepl auTOu. eyia 5e 7rpo<Te<rxov T&5 <£UT<J> Kal elfioi'
&6i-a.v /aeyaXTji' Trepl avrov. Sievers (p. 20) pointed out that the "repentinus fulgor" in his
parallel passage from Avitus does not appear until after Adam's fall is accomplished, and
is also not described as a "teuflischer Trug." In the Apocalypse the "great glory," which
seems to be part of the tempter's device, is visible to Eve before she eats of the fruit.

5 ZDPh, XXVIII, 138, 139. 6 p. 21.

7 Siebs's reference is to Hilarius, In Genesin ad Papam Leonem, 11. 164 ff .

8Quando expulsi sunt de paradiso, fecerunt sibi tabernaculum et fuerunt vii. dies
lugentes et lamentantes in magna tristitia. post vii. autom dies coeperunt esurire et
quaerebant escam ut manducarent, et non inveniebant.

• LI. 1469-1520 (Whitley Stokes's edition, Oxford, 1894).

394

NOTE ON THE SOURCES OF THE OLD SAXON "GENESIS" 7

enlarge considerably upon the sufferings of Adam and Eve from
hunger, thirst, and the fierceness of the elements. Finally, I
think we have in Adam's words in 11. 830 ff. a hint of the penance
in the rivers, a conspicuous episode of the Vita which has been
already referred to.1 After bewailing the sorrow that sin has
brought upon himself and Eve, Adam declares himself ready to
endure any pain for the sake of regaining God's favor.

Gif ic waldendes willan cu5e,
hwaet ic his t6 hearmsceare habban sceolde,
ne gesawe pti. n6 sni6mor, f>e£h m6 on sse wadan
h6t6 heofenes god, heonone nu P£
on fl6d faran: neere h6 firnum pees d6op,
merestr&im fees micel, Pset his 6 min m6d getw6ode,
ac ic t6 P£m grunde genge, gif ic godes meahte
willan gewyrcean.2

Unfortunately the interpolated fragment — Genesis B — breaks off
just too soon for us to know whether the poem included an
account of the penance.8

By these various resemblances, as well as by the similarity in
the central motive of the temptation, I am led to believe that there
is some connection between the Genesis and the body of tradition
represented in the Latin Vita and the Greek Apocalypse. It
remains to be said that there is no chronological difficulty in my
supposition. One of the Latin manuscripts published by Meyer
is earlier than the eighth century. Meyer assigns the composition
of the Latin text to the fourth century, and Tischendorf dated the
Apocalypse in the " saecula circa Christum natum." 4 The original
Adam book, from which both of these were derived, Meyer holds
to have been pre-Christian (probably written in Hebrew), and to
this Urtext he traces various Jewish and Mohammedan legends5

i See p. 392, above.

2Hoenncher (Anglia, VIII, 55) suggested a relation between these lines and the Middle
English Canticumde creatione, which is now known to be based upon the apocryphal Life of
Adam.

3 In the later fragments of the Old Saxon Genesis there are also apocryphal elements,
such as the references to the " children of Cain " (11. 807 ff .) and to the battle between Enoch
and Antichrist (11. 879 ff.). The first of these, though not found, I think, in either the Vita
or the Apocalypse, appears elsewhere in documents derived from the Adam book. Compare
the Irish Saltair na Rann, 11. 2389 ff., for the "clann Cain."

* See Meyer's introduction for all these matters.

6 For the Mohammedan stories in question see Weil, Biblische Legende der Musselmdn-
ner, p. 20.

395

8 F. N. ROBINSON

in which Satan is said to have tempted Eve in the form of an angel.
The apocryphal story, then, was widely known long before the time
of the Saxon poet, who is now supposed to have written after the
author of the Heliand. Its later influence is apparent in various
literatures of mediaeval Europe, and Meyer brought together in
his introduction1 a considerable list of versions. But none of the
vernacular texts cited by him is as early as the probable date of
the Old Saxon poem, which furnishes, if my argument be accepted,
an interesting bit of additional testimony to the spread of the
tradition.

F. N. ROBINSON
HARVARD UNIVERSITY

1 See p. 209 S. The Irish Saltair na Rann, to which I have several times referred, was
not published till after Meyer's article. See Stokes's edition, Anecdota Oxoniensia, 1892, and
Thurneysen's remarks, Revue celtique, VI, 114 S. It is a document of the tenth century. A
later prose redaction from the Lebor Brecc was published by MacCarthy in the Todd Lecture
Series of the Royal Irish Academy, III, pp. 29 ff. The narrative in the Saltair is not close
enough to that in the Genesis to suggest a direct relation between the two.

Modern Philology

VOL. IV January, IQOJ No. 3

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY," AND ITS
VARIOUS VERSIONS

In the following paper I wish to examine Thomas Campion's
claim to the authorship of a song which during the latter part of
the sixteenth century and the whole of the seventeenth century was
among the most popular airs of that musical age. To enable the
reader to take in at a glance the various references to, and forms
of, the poem, I subjoin the following numbered list:

I. Scottish Metrical Psalter. 1566. Brit. Mus. Add. 33,933. Fol.

81 b.

II. Diary of John Sanderson. Date of entry probably 1592. Brit.
Mus. Lans. MS 241. Fol. 49.

III. Philotus. Edinburgh: Robert Charteris, 1603.

IV. An Hour's Recreation in Music. By Richard Alison, Gentleman.

1606. British Museum.
V. A Scottish version copied by Sir James Murray of Tibbermuir,

ab. 1612? Univ. Libr. Cambr. K. K. 5. 30. Fol. 82 b.
VI. Giles Earle his booke, 1615. Brit. Mus. Add. MS 24,665. Fol. 25 6.
VII. Alexander Gil's Logonomia Anglica. 1619.

VIII. The Golden Garland of Princely pleasures and delicate Delights.
The third time imprinted, enlarged and corrected by Rich.
Johnson. 1620.
IX. Richard Wigley's Commonplace Book. Brit. Mus. Add. MS 6704.

Fol. 163. (1591-1643).
X. Cantus, Songs and Fancies, &c. Second edition. Aberdene,

Printed by John Forbes, 1666. (Brit. Mus. K. 1. e. 12.)
397] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, January, 1907

! A. E. H. SWAEN

XI. Select Poetry, Chiefly Sacred, of the Reign of King James the
First. Collected and edited by Edward Fair, Esq., editor
of Select Poetry of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth, Gems of
Sacred Poetry, etc., etc. Cambridge: Printed at the Uni-
versity Press for J. & J. Deighton; and J. W. Parker, Lon-
don, 1847. P. 102.

XII. Collection of Ballads in the Pepysian Library, at M,agda-
lene College, Cambridge. Vol. I, p. 52.

XIII. The Roxburghe Ballads. Edited by Charles Hindley. Lon-

don, 1873. Vol. I, pp. 439-44.

XIV. Professor Edvv. Arber, Shakespeare Anthology. 1899. P. 247.

(From An Hour's Recreation. = No. 4.)

XV. Thomas Campion, Songs and Masques. Edited by A. H. Bul-
len. London, 1903. P. 270.

XVI. A Collection of National English Airs, Consisting of Ancient
Song, Ballad, and Dance Tunes. Interspersed with Remarks
and Anecdotes, and preceded by an Essay on English Min-
strelsy. The airs harmonized for the pianoforte by W.
Crotch, Mus. Doc., G. Alex. Macfarren and J. Augustine
Wade. Edited by W. Chappell. London: Chappell, 1840.
P. 63, No. 127, music and words; No. 128, music. Page 108
of the companion volume containing the notes (published
1838) gives under No. CXXVII remarks and another ver-
sion.

XVII. W. Chappell, Popular Music of the Old Time: A Collection
of Ancient Songs, Ballads, and Dance Tunes, Illustrative
of the National Music of England. London, 1855-59.
XVIII. Old English Popular Music. By William Chappell, F.S.A.
A new edition, with a preface and notes, and the earlier
examples entirely revised by H. Ellis Wooldridge. Vols. I
and II. London, 1893. Vol. I, pp. 100, 101.

XIX. Wright-Halliwell, Reliquiae Antiquae, I, 323 (= Sanderson's
Diary}. II, 123 (=Wigley's Commonplace Book). Inaccu-
rate copies!

XX. [William Slatyer]. Psalmes or Songs of Sion: Turned into
the language, and set to the tunes of a strange Land. By
W. S. "Intended for Christmas Carols, and fitted to divers
of the most noted and common, but solemne tunes, every-
where in this land familiarly used and knowne. London.
Printed by Robert Young." 1642. On p. 36: "Psalme 126;
tune: ' What if a day.'"

XXI. Skene MS, Advocates' Library. Lute tablature to the tune of
"What if a day." 1615-35.

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY" 3

XXII. J. Starter, Friesche Lust-hof. 1634. P. 77: " What if a Daye,
or a moneth, or a year;" tune of a song beginning " Suyvere,
schoone, vermaecklycke Maeghd." Ibid., p. 108: " Suyvere,
schoone, vermaecklycke Maeghd '' is given as tune of a song
of three verses, the first of which is an adaptation of the
first stanza of " What if a day." The tune also occurs on
pp. 65 and 141. See Tydschrift v. Nederlandsche Taal-
en Letterkunde, Vols. XXI, XXIV.

XXIII. D. R. Camphuyzen, Stichtelycke Rymen (f Rotterdam, 1639).

P. 305. "Ongerustigheyds oorspronck." Zangh: Essex
Lamentatie of " Wat if a daye, &c."

XXIV. University Library, Cambridge, Lute MSS Dd-iv, 23. To the

tune of " What if a day or a night or an hower."
XXV. Robinson's Citharen Lessons. 1609.
XXVI. Sir John Hawkins' Transcriptions. See p. 417.
XXVII. Butler's Hudibras, I, 3, 9.
XXVIII. Bagford Ballads, p. Ixxi, No. 209 (= XII).
XXIX. Old English Ditties. The words sometimes altered by John

Oxenford; music arranged by Macfarren.

XXX. Valerius, Nederlandtsche Gedenck-clanck. 1626. No. XV of
Loman's edition . Leipzig : Breitkopf & Hartel ; The Hague :
M. Nyhoff, 1893.

I is the oldest version I have been able to find, and has only
two stanzas. Upon inquiry I have been informed by the keeper
of the manuscripts, at the British Museum that "the date is based
on a comparison of the MS with David Laing's 'Account of the
Scotch Psalter of 1566, Containing the Psalms .... set to
Music in Four Parts in the MSS of T. Wade ....,' from the
Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries, Vol. VII (Edinburgh,
1871). The music to the Psalter proper is ' in iiii partes be . . . .
David Peables,' with the exception of at least Ps. 128, which was
'set and notit be Jhone Bughen of my vnwitting.' The music
of the Canticles, etc., which immediately follow the Psalter, is by
various composers ; those whose names occur in the MS are Andrew
Kemp, Andrew Blakehall, David Peables, Sir John Frith y, and
Francis Heary; John Angus is known to have set eight of the
Canticles. Date of the MS, about 1575-78." Thus the date
varies between 1566 and 1578.

399

A. E. H. SWAEN

Scottish Metrical Psalter. 1566

111 ' n

What yf a day or a month or a yeer Crowne thy delyts
cannot the chance of ane nyt or an hog Crof fe thy desyirs

4 1 1 yi

w* a thoufand fwet c tentings Fortoun honor beutie youth
wt als many fad tormentings Wantoun pleffo5 Doting loue

ar but blof fomes dying All 05 loyes ar but toyes
ar but fhadows flieing Non hath pouer of ane h

o <;

Idle thoughts deceaving
in their lyves bereaving

Earthis But a poynt to the world and a man is but a

from

poynt to the earthis copared centure Sail then a poynt of a

P^f

• J

1 1

poynt be so vane As to trivmph in a felie poynts advento^

400

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY"

All is hazarde that we haue | there is nothing .tp.1

Nothing byding Dayes of plef f 05 ar lyk f treames

^jjj^niJjjJJ'ijjn.ij'ntPnfJ^

throw fair Medowis glyding .||. .||:

^••K-i'lJ^j J'^vir^

a/ t^kLi*-gJycr' I I

glyding

tyme doth go weel and wo tyme doth go tyme is

never turnyng | guyde 05 ftates fecret fates guyde 05

ftates both in Mirth and Mournyng.

II also has only two stanzas. With I it belongs to the six«
teenth century.

DIARY or JOHN SANDERSON
What yf a day, or a night, or an hower,
Crowne thy desire, wth a thowsand wifht contentinges
Cannot the chaunce of a night or an hower
Croffe thy delighte w** a thowfand fad tormentinges

i This is the nearest approach to the original mark of repetition that can be given in
ordinary type.

401

6 A. E. H. SWAEN

fortune, honor, bewtie, youth ar but blofoms dienge
Wanton pleafure, dotinge loue, ar but fhadowes flienge
All our Joyes ar but toyes Idle thoughts deceauinge
None hath power of one hower in their liues bereauinge.

Earth8 but a poynt to the world, & a man

is but a poynt, to the worlds compared Center.,

fhale then a poynt of a poynt be fo vaine

as to triumph in a filly poynts aduenture!

All is haffard that we haue ther is nothinge bidinge

Dayes of pleafure ar like f treams throughe f aire medowes glidinge.

Weale or woe time doth goe, in time no retorninge

Secret fates guyde our ftates, both in mirth and mourninge.

Ill, printed at the end of Philotus, which was published by
Robert Charteris at Edinburgh in 1603, but may have been
written as early as 1594,1 has again but two verses. They are
here copied from the edition of Ballantyne & Co., 1835. This is
the first appearance in print of the song.

Ill

Philotus: reprinted from the edition
of Robert Charteris Edinburgh.

Printed by Ballantyne & Company
(MDCCCXXXV).

What if a day or a month or a zeere
Crown thy def ire with a thouf and wif ched contentings ?
Can not the chance of ane nicht or ane houre,
Croffe thy delightes with a thowfand fad tormentings?
Fortune, honour, bewtie, zouth are but bloffomes dying
Wanton plefoures, dotting loue are but fhadowes flying:
All our joyes are but toyes idle thoughtes deceauing,
None hes power of an houre in thair lyues bereauing.

Earth's but a point of the World, and a man
Is but a poynt of the Earths compared centure.
Shall than the poynt of a poynt be fo vaine
As to delight in a fillie poynts a venture?
All is hazard that wee haue, here is nothing byding:
Dayes of pleafures ar but f tremes throgh fair medowes glyding
Well or wo tyme dois go, in tyme is no returning,
Secreete fates guydes our ftates, both in mirth and murning.

iCf. "R. Brotanek, Philotus," in Festschrift zum VIII. allgemeinen deutschen Neuphi-
lologentage, 1898, p. 152.

402

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY" 7

IV. The following is only a copy of Arber's reprint, 1883.
"What if a day or a month or" and "Earthes but a point to the
world" are mentioned as Nos. XVII and XVIII in "The Table,"
but are not in the book, and a MS note in the margin refers to
the Pepys Ballads. I have in vain tried to find a copy of the
book elsewhere.

AN HOUR'S RECREATION IN Music
By Richard Alison, Gentleman. 1606
What if a day, or a month, or a year
Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentings !
Cannot a chance of a night or an hour
Cross thy desires with as many sad tormentings ?
Fortune, Honour, Beauty, Youth, are but blossoms dying!
Wanton Pleasure, doating Love are but shadows flying !
All our joys are but toys! idle thoughts deceiving:
None have power, of an hour, in their lives bereaving.

Earth's but a point to the world, and a man

Is but a point to the world's compared centre!

Shall then a point of a point be so vain

As to triumph in a silly point's adventure ?

All is hazard that we have! there is nothing biding!

Days of pleasure are like streams through fair meadows gliding.

Weal and woe, time doth go! time is never turning!

Secret fates guide our states, both in mirth and mourning!

(THOMAS CAMPION, M. D.)

V. The following copy I owe to the courtesy of the librarian
of the University Library, Cambridge. The original writing is
very bad. The letters in brackets are blotted. This is the first
version that has more than two stanzas.

The Scottish version copied by Sir James Murray of Tibbermuir.
Quhat giff a day or a ny* or a #eir
Croune thy delyts v* a thousand vist contentings
Mey no* the chonge off a month or ane houre1
Cross thy desyres w* als monie sad tormentings
forton, honowr, beutie gouth, ar bo* shaddous fleeing
Wanton pleasure, dotting Love, ar bo1 blossums deeing

iMay be "hower."

403

8 A. E. H. SWAEN

All our joyis, ar bot toyis, idle thoghts disceaveing
Non heth power, off ane houre in yr lyffs bereveing

The erth is bot a poynt off a poynt and a man

Is bot ane poynt off ye erths compareid1 center2

Suld then a poynt off a poynt be so vaine

As to triumphe in a sillie poynts adverter 3(sic)

All is haserts that ve heve, ther is no thing byding

Dayis off pleasure ar as streames throu fair medous slyding

[Wei] 11 or vo tyme doth go in tyme no returneing

Sacreid faith gydes our steatis both in mirth & murneing

Quhat hes thou then sillie man for to b[oi]st
bo* of a shoirt and a sorowfull lyff perplexit
Quhen haipp and h[oi]p [&] thy saiftie is moist
Then vo & waik * dispaires and deth is annexit
Blossums bubles as is erth doth thy steat resemble
ffear off seiknes danger death maketh the to tremble
Evrie thing that do spring shoone ryp is shoone rottin

Pomp and pryd shoone doth slyd and is shone forgottin.

VI. Two stanzas. The setting of the second is struck out and
followed by another, the one here printed.

Giles Earle his booke. 1615. (fol. 3)

Egidius Earle hunc librum pofsidet qui compactus fuit mense Septem-
bris 1626. (fol. 1)

th
What if a day or a moneth or a yeare, crowne thy delights w: a thouf-

and wifh'd contentings

Cannot the chance of a night or an houre, crofse thee againe w: as'

many fad tormentings. —

J J J J J J JJlEJ

Fortune, honoure, beautie, youth, are but blofsoms' dyeinge )
Wanton pleafures', dotinge loue, are but shadowes' flyinge )

i " eid " indistinct. 3 "Adverter " probably " adventer.'

2 Initial letter indistinct. * Waile?

404

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY

iJ J c. I

^N=

p-ft .

-y-^ \—m-

•

- — «-„ *

All our ioyes are but toyes', idle thoughtes' deceauinge.
None haue power of an houre in their Hues' bereauinge.

^^ ^ J i — J-J-J — -4^1

j J n,i ^

^i ^ ^ || ^ » | "
What if a daie &c.: —

'j.,, J i . 1 J i J . J . i

z±z2 — J * ° J J — ? —

J 7

A w * v

^ o

C^-

Th' earth's but a point to the world, and a man

is' but a point to the earths' compared center

Shall then a point of a point be foe vaine,

as' to triumph in a fillie pointes' aduenture?

All is' hazard that wee haue, there is nothing bidinge

daies' of pleafure are like streames' through faire meadowes'

glidinge.
All our ioyes &c:

VII. Gil quotes this stanza after saying: "Ut in illo perbello
cantico Tho. Campiani, cujus mensuram, ut rectius agnoscas,
exhibeo cum notis."

VII

Logonomia | Anglica | Qua Gentis Sermo
Faci lius Addiscitur. |

Conscripta ab Alexandra Gil | Paulinae Scholae
Magistro Primario. |

(Device)

Londini | Excudit lohannes Beale. |
1619.

Wat if a dai, or a munp, or a yer, kroun 8j

Kan not a cauns of a njht, or an ouer, kros

405

10 A. E. H. SWAEN

.
dezjrz wip a pouzand wist kontentiyz?

deljts wip a Pouzand fad tormentiyz?
0 c i I =fc =£

> b T T ? V A A * & "9 T

Fortvn, (h)onor, beutj, yvp, dr but bloffumz djiy:
Wanton plezvr, dtotiy luv, dr but saddtomz fljiy:

Al our goiz dr but toiz, Idl pouhts defeviy.
Ntun hap pouer of an ouer, in 9eir Ijvz bireviy.1

VIII is the first version which has five stanzas. A note in
the volume from which this was copied says that it is the third
edition of a work unknown, and is probably unique.

VIII

THE GOLDEN GARLAND OF PRINCELY PLEASURES AND DELICATE DELIGHTS.

The third time imprinted, enlarged and corrected by Rich. Johnfon.

The inconftancy of the World.

(1)

What if a day, a moneth, or a yeere,
Crown thy defires with a thowiand wifht contentings
Cannot the chance of an night or an houre
Croffe thy delights with as many fad tormentings:
Fortune in their faireft birth,
Are but blof fomes dying,
Wanton pleafures doating mirth,
Are but fhadowes flying:
All our ioyes are but toyes
Idle thoughts deceiuing:
None hath power of an houre
In our Hues bereauing.

i The above is as close a reprint of the original as ordinary type will allow. Cf . Ziriczek
Alexander GiVs Logonomia, p. 147.

406

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY" 11

(2)

What if a fmile, or a beck, or a looke

Feed my fond thoughts with as many fweet concerning

May not that fmile, or that beck, or that look.

Tell thee as well they are but vaine deceiuing:

Why fhould beauty be fo proude

In things of no furmounting

All her wealth is but a fhroude

Of a rich accounting:

Then in this repofe no bliffe

Which is vaine and idle:

Beauties flowers haue their houres,

Time doth hold the bridle.

(3)

What if the world with alures of his wealth

Raife thy degree to a place of high aduancing

May not the world by a check of that wealth

Put thee again to as low defpifed chancing

Whilft the Sun of wealth doth fhine

Thou fhalt haue friends plenty:

But come want they then repent,

Not one abides of twenty:

Wealth and friends holds and ends,

As your fortunes rife and fall :

Up and downe rife and frowne

Certaine is no ftate at all.

What if a griefe, or a ftraine, or a fit,

Pinch thee with pain, or the feeling pangs of ficknes,

Doth not that gripe, or that ftraine, or that fit.

Shew thee the forme of thy own true perfect likenes

Health is but a glimpfe of ioy,

Subiect to all changes

Mirth is but a filly toy,

Which mifhap eftranges.

Tell me then filly man

Why art thou fo weake of wit:

As to be in ieopardy

When thou maift in quiet fit.

407

12 A. E. H. SWAEN

(5)

Then if all this haue declard thine amiffe
Take it from me as a gentle friendly warning:
If thou refufe and good counfell abufe,
Thou maift hereafter dearely buy thy learning.
All is hazard that we haue
There is nothing biding,
Daies of pleafure are like ftreames,
Through the meddowes gliding,
Wealth or wo, time doth go
There is no returning
Secret fates guide our ftates
Both in mirth and mourning.
Finis.

Printed at London by A. M. for Thomas Langley, & are to be fold at
his Shop ouer againft the Sarazens Head without Newgate 1620.

IX. It is impossible to fix the date of this version. The third
stanza is different from that of any other version.

RICHARD WIGLEY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK.

1. What yf A daye or A month or A yeare

Crowne my desyres wth A Thousand wifht Contentments
cannot the Chaunce of A nighte or an hower
Crofs thy delytes wth A Thowsand sad tormentments
ffortune ffavoure bewty youth are but bloffoms dyinge
wanton pleafures dotinge loue are but fhadowes flyinge
all oure loyes are but toyes Idle thoughtes delightinge
none haue power of an hower in their lyves bereavinge.

2. Thearths but A poynt to the world & A man

is but the poynte to the Earthes Compared Centur

cann then the poynte of A poynte be foe f onde

as to delighte in A Sillie poynts adventure

All is haffard that wee haue their is noughte abydinge

dayes of ffortune are but ftreames throughe f aire meadowes glydinge

Weale or woe tyme dothe goe in tyme noe returninge

secrete fates gydes oure ftates bothe in mearth & mourninge.

3. Goe fillie note to the Eares of my deare

make thy felfe blefte in her fweeteft paffions Languishe
Laye thee to fleepe in the bedd of her harte

408

THE AUTHORSHIP or "WHAT IF A DAY"

Geue her delighte thoughe thy felfe be madd wth Anguifhe
Then wheare thou arte thinke on me that from thee ame vanif[ht]
Saye once I had bine Content thoughe that nowe ame vanif[ht]
Yett when Streames backe fhall mnne & tymes paffed shall [renewe?]
I fhall Seaze her to loue & in Lovinge to be trewe.

X. This famous "book of songs" has five verses again.

Cantus, Songs and Fancies, &c. 2nd edn.

Aberdene, Printed by John Forbes, . . . M.DC.LXVI.

THE XVII. SONG.

Hat if a day, or a month, or a year, Crown thy

delights with a

May not the change of a night or an hour, Cross

thy delights with as

MF^

• i it

0 0 ... 1 I 1 .. 0 f - 1

\ ° <

> 0 '"'

: 1 1 1 ^ ° ft ° 1 I ' —

thoufand wifht contentings. Fortune, honor, beauty, youth, Are but

bloffoms

many fad tormentings. Wanton pleafures, doting love, Are

but fhadows

dying

<> O 4- -g— 0 T <^^

-. I V ' A A .'.

•JM f :i.r-

dying. All our joyes, are but toyes, Idle thoughts deceiving,
flying. None hath power of an hour, Of his lives bereaving.

(2)

Th' earth's but a point of the world, and a man
Is but a point of the Earth's compared centure:
Shal then the point of a point be fo vain,
As to triumph in a filly points adventure.
All is hazard that we haue,
Here is nothing by ding:
409

14 A. E. H. SWAEN

Days of pleaf ure are as ftreams
Through fair meadows glyding.
Well or wo, time doth go,
Time hath no returning.
Secret Fates guides our States,
Both in mirth and mourning.

(3)

What if a fmile, or a beck, or a look,
Feed thy fond thoughts with many vain conceivings:
May not that fmile, or that beck, or that look,
Tell thee as well they are all but f alfe deceivings.

Why fhould Beauty be fo proud,

In things of no furmounting?

All her wealth is but a fhrowd,

Nothing of accounting.

Then in this, there's no blifs,

Which is vain and idle

Beauties flowrs haue their hours,

Time doth hold the bridle.

(4)

What if the World with a lure of its wealth,
Raife thy degree to great place of hie advancing.
May not the World by a check of that wealth,
Bring thee again to as low defpifed changing.

While the Sun of wealth doth fhine,

Thou fhalt haue friends plenty;

But come want, they then repine,

Not one abides of twenty.

Wealth and friends holds and ends,

As thy fortunes rife and fall:

Up and down, fmile and frown,

Certain is no ftate at all.

(5)

What if a grip, or a ftrain, or a fit,
Pinch thee with pain of the feeling pangs of f icknef s :
May not that grip, or that ftrain, or that fit,
Show thee the form of thine own true perfect likenefs.

Health is but a glance of joy,

Subject to all changes;

Mirth is but a filly toy,

Which mifhap eftranges.

Tell me than, filly man,

410

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY" 15

Why art thou fo weak of wit,
As to be in jeopardie,
When thou mayft in quiet fit.
* FINIS.

XI. The third stanza is different again from any in the other
versions.

XI
E. FABB'S SELECT POETBY.

xv.
Anonymous Stanzas.

(1)

What if a day, a month, or a yeare,
Croune thy delights with a thousand wisht contentings,
May not the chance of a night, or an howre,
Crosse those delights with as many sad tormen tings?
Fortune, honoure, beautie, youth,

Are but blossomes dying;
Wanton pleasure, doting loue,
Are but shadowes flying.
All our joyes
Are but toyes,
Idle thoughts deceaviug:
None hath power
Halfe an howre,
Of his Hue's bereaving.

(2)

The earth's but a pointe of the world, and a man
Is but a poynte of the earth's compared center:
Shall then a pointe of a pointe be so vayne,
As to delight in a sillie poynt's adventer?
All's in hazard that we haue,

There is nothing by ding;
Dayes of pleasures are like streames
Through fay re medowes gliding.
Weale or woe,
Tyme doeth goe,
There is no returning:
Secreat fates
Guide oure states,
Both in myrth and mourning.
411

16 A. E. H. SWAEN

(3)

What shall a man desire in this world,
Since there is nought in this world that's worth desiring?
Let not a man cast his eyes to the earth, *
But to the heavens with his thoughts high aspiring.
Thinke that, living, thou must dye,

Be assured thy dayes are tolde:
Though on earth thou seeme to be,
Assure thyself e thou art but molde.
All our health
Brings no wealth,
But returnes from whence it came;
So shall we
All agree
As we be the very same.1

XII. I owe this copy to the courtesy of the librarian. Together
with XIII it is different from all other versions in consisting of
two parts, each counting five stanzas.

XII

A FRIEND'S ADVICE:

In an excellent Ditty, concerning the variable changes in this World.
To a pleasant new Tune.

(1)
What if a day, or a month, or a yeere,

Crowne thy delights

with a thousand wisht contentings,
Cannot the chaunce of a night or an houre,

Crosse thy delights

with as many sad tormentings ?
Fortunes in their fairest birth,
Are but blossomes dying,
Wanton pleasures, doting mirth,
Are but shadowes flying:
All our ioyes are but toyes,
Idle thoughts deceiuing;
None hath power of an houre,
In our liues bereauing.

i In " Brief Notices of the Writers in this Selection," the author says under XV Anony-
mous: "The extracts from this author are derived from SirEgertonBrydges' Eestituta^vfho
printed them from a MS in the possession of the Rev. H. J. Todd. This MS was noticed by
Mr. Todd in his edition of Milton's Poetical Works, Vol. VI. It was evidently written in the
age of King James, as in the epigrammatic portion there is an allusion to the 'counsayle' of
that monarch, which, it is pungently said, ' made wise men mad, and mad men wise.' "

412

THE AUTHORSHIP OF " WHAT IP A DAY " 17

(2)
What if a smile, or a becke, or a looke,

Feede thy fond thoughts,

with many a sweet conceiuing:
May not that smile, or that becke, or that looke,

Tell thee as well

they are but vaine, deciuing (sic)1
Why should beauty be so proud,
In things of no surmounting?
All her wealth is but a shroud,
Of a rich accounting:
Then in this repose no blisse,
Which is so vaine and idle:
Beauties flowers have their bowers,
Time doth hold the bridle.

(3)

What if the world with allures of her wealth,
Raise thy degree

to a place of high aduancing?
May not the World by a check of that wealth,
Put thee againe

to as low dispised chancing?
Whilst the Sunne of wealth doth shine,
Thou shalt haue friends plenty:
But come want, then they repine,
Not one abides of twenty:
Wealth and Friends holds and ends,
As your fortunes rise and fall,
Up and downe, rise and frowne,
Certaine is no state at all.

(4)

What if a griefe, or a straine, or a fit,
Pinch thee with paine,

or the feeling panges of sicknes:
Doth not that gripe, or that straine, or that fit,
Shew thee the forme

of thy owne true perfect likenesse?
Health is but a glimpse of ioy,
Subiect to all changes :
Mirth is but a silly toy,
Which mishap estranges.
Tell me then, silly Man,
413

18 A. E. H. SWAEN

Why art thou so weake of wit,

As to be in ieopardy,

When thou maist in quiet sit?

(5)

Then if all this haue declar'd thine amisse,
Take it from me

as a gentle friendly warning;
If thou refuse and good counsell abuse,
Thou maist hereafter

deerely buy thy learning:
All is hazard that we haue,
There is nothing byding,
Dayes of pleasure are like streames,
Through faire Medowes gliding,
Wealth or woe, time doth goe,
There is no returning,
Secret Fates guide our states,
Both in mirth and mourning.

THE SECOND PART: To the same Tune.

(1)

Man's but a blast, or a smoake, or a clowd,
That in a thought,

or a moment is dispersed:
Life's but a span, or a tale, or a word,
That in a trice,

or sodaine is rehearsed:
Hopes are chang'd, and thoughts are crost,
Will nor skill prevaileth,
Though we laugh and live at ease,
Change of thoughts assayleth,
Though a while Fortune smile,
And her comforts crowneth,
Yet at length failes her strength,
And in time she frowneth.

(2)

Thus are the ioyes of a yeere in an hower,
And of a month,

in a moment quite expired,
And in the night with the word of a noyse,
Crost by the day,
of an ease our hearts desired :
414

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY" 19

Fayrest blossoms soonest fade,
Withered, foule, and rotten,
And through griefe, our greatest ioyes
Quickly are forgotten:
Seeke not then (mortall men)
Earthly fleeting pleasure,
But with paine striue to gaine
Heauenly lasting treasure.

(3)

Earth to the world, as a Man to the earth,
Hath but a poynt,

and a poynt is soone defaced:
Flesh to the Soule, as a Flower to the Sun,
That in a storme

or a tempest is disgraced:
Fortune may the Body please,
Which is only carnall,
But it will the Soule disease,
That is still immortall,
Earthly ioyes are but toyes,
To the Soules election,
Worldly grace doth deface
Mans diuine perfection.

(4)

Fleshly delights to the earth that is flesh,
May be the cause

of a thousand sweet contentings,
But the defaults of a fleshly desire
Brings to the Soule

many thousand sad tormentings:
Be not proude presumtious Man,
Sith thou art a poynt so base,
Of the least and lowest Element,
Which hath least and lowest place:
Marke thy fate, and thy state,
Which is only earth and dust,
And as grasse, which alasse
Shortly surely perish must.

(5)

Let not the hopes of an earthly desire,
Bar thee the ioyes

of an endless contentation,
415

20 A. E. H. SWAEN

Nor let not thy eye on the world be so fixt,
To hinder thy heart

from unfeyned recantation:
Be not backward in that course,
That may bringe thy Soule delight,
Though another way may seeme
Far more pleasant to thy sight;
Doe not goe, if he sayes no
That knowes the secrets of thy minde,
Follow this, thou shalt not misse
An endlesse happinesse to finde.

Finis.
Printed for H. Gosson

XIII does not differ from XII except as regards the spelling.
Stanzas 4 and 5 of part II are printed as one. I omit this version,
as the differences are immaterial.

XIV is the same as VIII, save for some differences in spelling,
which is modernized in the Anthology.

XV. At the end of his volume Mr. Bullen gives the two stanzas
from Alison's An Hour's Recreation, in modernized spelling, as
one of the " scattered verses.'-' In the exhaustive note he gives
three additional stanzas from the Golden Garland and the
Roxburghe Ballads.

XVI. On p. 63, No. 127 gives the music (f sharp) and the
words of the first stanza according to Alison's version; p. 63, No.
128 gives the music only (b d flat). The companion volume of
1838, containing the remarks, says under No. 127 that the music
is from Starter's Lusthof (XXII of our list), and that the same
words were differently set by Richard Alison. These observa-
tions are followed by the five stanzas of X (Cantus), with here
and there a slight change.

XVII has the same stanzas, but Chappell has taken some lib-
erties with his text. Thus "wisht" in 1. 2 of the first verse has
been changed into "sweet" from An Hour's Recreation (IV).
The peculiar spelling "centure" in 1. 2 of stanza ii, which is
characteristic of Forbes's Cantus and has been retained in XVI,
has been changed here into "centre." Chappell does not expli-
citly state the source of his version, but his words leave the

416

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY" 21

impression that he took them from VIII or XIII ; but this is not
so, as will be evident on comparing the second stanzas.

XVIII. Mr. Ellis Wooldridge's plan in this revised edition of
Chappell's work is to give two stanzas only, as a rule. Conse-
quently he gives only the two verses from Giles Earle's song-
book (VI), with some inaccuracies. Referring to Wigley's Com-
monplace Book, he quotes the third stanza of that version in a
note, saying that he gives it because it has never been printed
before, acknowledging at the same time that it is "perfectly irrel-
evant." He also refers to Sir John Hawkins' Transcripts. I am
sorry to say I have not been able to verify this reference. Men-
tioning John Sanderson's Diary, he says that it "is remarkable
from the fact that the first line there reads, 'What yf a daye or a
night or an houre,' which is the title of the tune in the Cambridge
Lute Books" (vide infra XXIV), and is also the beginning of a
fifteenth-century song in Ryman's collection in the Cambridge
University Library where the first two lines read:

What yf a daye, or nyghte, or howre,
Crowne my desires wythe every delyghte?

Now, Mr. Bullen on p. 271 of his Campion says in a note:

There was a fifteenth-century song to which Campion was indebted;
for J. O. Halli well-Phillips pointed out (in 1840) that one of the songs in
Ryman's well-known collection of the fifteenth century in the Cambridge
Public Library commences

What yf a daye, or night, or howre,
Crowne my desyres wythe every delyghte;

and that in Sanderson's Diary in the British Museum, MSS Lansdowne
241, fol. 49, temp. Elizabeth, are the two first stanzas of the song, more
like the copy in Ryman, and differing in its minor arrangements from
the latter version.

On applying to the librarian at Cambridge, I was informed that
no trace of the poem had been found in Ryman's collection,
though he had looked through it twice. On referring to Profes-
sor Zupitza's articles on "Jakob Ryman's Gedichte," in Archiv
fur das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen,1 I find
no trace of our song. Nor does this collection appear to be a very
likely place for the poem to crop up in. Till further light has

1 Nos. 93, 94, 95, 96, and 97.

417

22 A. E. H. SWAEN

been thrown on this point we had better be on the safe side and
doubt the statements concerning Ry man's collection.
XXVII. The passage in Hudibras runs:

For though dame Fortune seem to smile,

And leer upon him for a while,

She '11 after show him, in the nick

Of all his glories, a dog-trick.

This any man may sing or say

F th' ditty called, "What if a day?"

This passage shows that more than a hundred years after the
writing-down of the first version mentioned in this paper the
song was still referred to as a well-known ditty.

XXIX. Valerius' song is the famous " Bergen-op-Zoom " air,
which after the continental revival of old music has rapidly
become a favorite, not only in Holland, but also in Germany. It
commemorates the siege of Bergen-op-Zoom by the Spaniards in
1622. The tune over the song is " Comedianten Dans."

Now that we have become acquainted with the various forms
in which the song has come down to us, we will try to settle the
question: Is Campion the author? The reply must be negative.
Thomas Campion was born in or about the year 1567 ;a that is,
the year after the oldest known version of "What if a day" was
written down (Metrical Psalter, 1566). The song is not in his
"Books of Airs," but even in his lifetime it was ascribed to him.
"Thomas Campion M.D." is printed at the end of the version in
An Hour's Recreation (IV), and, as we have seen, Alexander Gil
corroborates this ascription, which may perhaps be accounted for
as follows: Either Campion, who was very musical, reset the older
music, and thus paved the way for his name becoming coupled
with the words ; or, being widely known as the author of a great
number of very sweet, melodious airs, it was taken for granted
that he must be the author of this very popular song as well. By
the time Alison edited his collection he was generally regarded as
such, and, no contradiction ensuing, in that age so careless in this

1 Vide Mr. Bullen's introduction to his edition of Campion's Poems.

418

THE AUTHORSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY" 23

respect, Alexander Gil perpetuated the mistake. It would not be
difficult to corroborate this surmise, which seems to me to be the
more plausible of the two, by examples from English or continental
literature.

Though we can say, "Campion is not the author," no answer
can be given as yet to the question: Who, then, was the author?
It is not at all improbable that the song originally appeared
anonymously as a broadside. If so, luck served us; for many of
these broadsides were irretrievably lost, and we know of their
existence only from first lines being quoted as tunes (e. g., "Was
Bommelalire so pretty a play," "Y have waked the Winters
nights"). Or it may have appeared in an old book of songs of
which no copy has come down to us. I may here remind the
reader of the fact that no copies of the first and second editions
of the Golden Garland appear to have come down to us. As many
things come to those who know how to wait, we need not despair,
although the chance of discovering the author seems slight.1

Ill

We may divide the versions into four groups: (1) those con-
sisting of two verses only; (2) those consisting of three verses;
(3) those consisting of five verses; (4) those divided into two
parts of five stanzas each. The first group comprises I, II, III,
IV, VI ; the second group comprises V, IX, XI ; the third group
comprises VIII, X; the fourth group comprises XII, XIII. The
single stanza in VII is, of course, of the nature of a quotation.

We may safely say that the poem originally counted two stanzas
only, the four oldest versions having only that number of verses.2
What strikes us most in group 2 is the divergent character of the
third stanza. In IX it has the character of an envoy to the writer's
"mistress," and has in spirit no connection with the two preceding
stanzas. In V the thing is different: here we have a verse kept
in the spirit of the song, and there is something in the order of

1 It is a striking fact that the earliest written and the earliest printed forms are both
Scotch.

2 The reader will have noticed that the four last lines of the second verse of VI are a
repetition of the last four lines of the first verse. In this respect VI differs from the other
versions.

419

24 A. E. H. SWAEN

its thoughts that reminds us of the fourth verse of XII, while
other touches may be found dispersed through the other stanzas
of that version. Yet it is a verse standing by itself. This is also
the case with the third stanza of XI: it has a decidedly religious
ring, which is in accordance with t the spirit of the two preceding
stanzas, yet it is original. This is important, for it shows that
one and two are the original stanzas on which the poets grafted
their own additions, and it also shows that the second group is
independent of groups 3 and 4, from which it differs not only in
the number of stanzas, but also in the wording of the third verse ;
they are not merely versions of 3 and 4 with the last stanzas
lopped off.

VIII and X of the third group differ from each other in one
material point : What is the second stanza in nearly all versions is
the second also in X, but in VIII it has been shifted to the end,
its first four lines have been altogether changed, and a subjective
element has been introduced which is foreign to the other stanzas.
This fact connects VIII with the next group, where we find the
same state of things; only in XII and XIII we find in the third
verse of the second part a reminiscence of the second stanza in
the other versions in the two opening lines:

Earth to the world, as a man to the earth,
Hath but a poynt, and a poynt is soone defaced.

This leads us to a second division into three groups : A, versions
with "Earth's but a point" for their second stanza (I, II, III, IV,
V, VII, IX, X, XI) ; A I, version with the four last lines of
"Earth's but a point" like the four last lines of the first stanza
(VI) ; B, versions with "What if a smile" for their second stanza,
and a fifth stanza ending like the second stanza of the remaining
versions, but with the first four lines different (VIII, XII, XIII).

If we consider stanzas 1 and 2 as the basis of our poem, and
compare the different versions, we shall come to the following
results: The first line is either, What yf a day or a month or a
year (I, III, IV, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XXII) ; or,
What yf a day, or a night, or an hower (II, XXIV) ; or, Quhat

420

THE AUTHOKSHIP OF "WHAT IF A DAY" 25

giff a day or a nyt or a $eir ( V) ; with which corresponds the third
line, Cannot the chance of ane ny* or an ho$ (I, II, III, VI, VII,
VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII), or, Mey no* the chonge off a month
or ane houre (V). Looking away from minor differences, all the
versions except one agree in the form of this line, which would
seem to point to "What yf a day, or a night, or an hower" as the
oldest form of the first line. The later form, "What if a day, or
a month or a year," would in that case be an improvement in its
olimax. "Though a day, or a month, nay even a year, may crown
thy delights, all is transient," seems to me more forcible than,
"Though a day, or a night, or an hour crown thy delights, all is
transient," with its anti-climax. In the second line we have
either desire (s) or delight (s). Desires seems the most rational
word here in connection with contentings (contentments) ; in the
fourth line all have delights except I, IV, V, which have desires
(VI has crosse thee againe). The substitution of contentments for
contentings in IX has induced the uncommon tormentments. In
1. 2, wisht has in all the versions replaced the sweet of I and IV.
Whereas V and X have change, all the other versions have chance.
While in 1. 5 the majority have honour, IX has favour, and VIII
and XII have Fortune(s) in their fairest birth. In 1. 6, VIII and
XII have doting mirth instead of doting love — a decided falling-
off. In 1. 7. IX spoils the rime by putting in delighting for
deceiving. The remaining variants are of slight importance.
Between VIII and XII there appears to be a close connection,
which is confirmed by the form of the second and fifth stanzas.
From this we may conclude that the author of XII extended VIII
by the addition of a second part.

The variants of the second stanza, except the differences that
have already been pointed out, are of no importance.

From what has been said it follows that each succeeding copyist
changed and added at his own sweet will. This may, as regards
the changes, be accounted for by supposing that it was often
written down from memory. The semi-religious, contemplative
spirit made the song popular with people of a serious and pious
cast of mind throughout the realm, while the sweetness of its
melody, coupled with solemnity, made it a welcome contribution

421

26 A. E. H. SWAEN

to the "books of songs." Both melody and contents shared the
same fate in Holland: it appears in Starter's book of songs, in
Camphuyzen's collection of hymns, and as a political, patriotic
song in Valerius' Gredenck-Clanck. The latter's calling the tune
"Comedianten Dans" may perhaps be accounted for by supposing
that it first became known to the Hollanders at performances by
English actors. Its being called a dance remains, however, a
difficulty.

In conclusion, I wish to say that in my opinion it is desirable,
both on chronological and on aesthetic grounds, to consider the
form of two stanzas, such as it occurs in Alison's book, as the best.
Whenever the song is reprinted for merely literary purposes in
anthologies and collections, this form should be chosen.

A. E. H. SWAEN

GBONINGEN

422

THE TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURAL STORY,
MOTIVE, AND CONCEPTION IN ANGLO-
SAXON POETRY1

In the selection of material from which to trace the trans-
formation of scriptural story, motive, and conception in Anglo-
Saxon poetry, considerable difficulty arises in determining the
limits to be imposed. Exact isolation of scriptural material is
impossible. "Scriptural story" might be limited to the para-
phrases; though even here arises the difficulty of logical distinc-
tion in character between biblical and patristic literature. The
canonical story of the fall of man cannot be separated from the
non-canonical story of the fall of the rebel angels ; nor the tempta-
tion and the ascension of Christ from his descent into hell. Dis-
tinction would be still more arbitrary in the case of motives and
conceptions which are based on Scripture, but developed in poems
not confined to scriptural sources. Thus the most fundamental of
all scriptural conceptions — those of God, of Christ, of the duty
of man — cannot be understood in Old English literature without
consideration of the Christ-poems, which can be directly attached
to Scripture only at occasional points ; and, to a less extent, of the
legends of the saints. Indeed, scriptural motives and conceptions
are illustrated, in greater or less degree, by almost every Old Eng-
lish poem which touches on religious subjects.

A survey of the transformation of the ideas of Christianity in
all its aspects, however, though more satisfactory in logical com-
pleteness, would tend, under the conditions of the present essay,
to become somewhat vague and remote from necessary detail.

!The text-references are to Grein-Willker's Bibliothek der angels&chsischen Poesie
(Leipzig, G. H. Wigand, 1898). Heinzel, Q. und F., X, refers to Heinzel's Essay " Ueber den
Stil der altgermanischen Poesie," No. X, in Quellen und Forschungen zur Sprach- und
Culturgeschichte der germanischen VGlker. Meyer, Altgerm. Poesie, refers to Meyer^s Die
altgermanische Poesie nach ihren formelhaften Elementen beschrieben (Berlin, 1889).
Grimm's Teutonic Mythology is cited always in Stallybrass' translation. All other author-
ities are named in full.

Quotations have been given wherever apparently necessary. No attempt has been
made to give exhaustive lists of references, but enough have been noted (by verse-number
in Grein- Wfllker) to substantiate the statements to which they are appended.
423] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, January, 1907

2 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

The proposed limitation of range, on the other hand, is practicable,
though no phrasing of a title can exactly define it. Scriptural
story, motive, and conception can be broadly recognized though
not accurately separated; and the Old English poems may thus
be grouped according to the influence of these elements. A brief
survey of the material bearing on the subject may indicate the
varying relation between Teutonic motives and ideas and those
introduced by Christianity. It must be confessed that the vague-
ness of the data, through uncertain chronology, through the possi-
bility that the poems preserved may not be truly representative,
and through the indefiniteness of many of the influences to be
considered, makes it impossible to draw authoritative conclusions.
Still, the evidence to be gathered may furnish suggestions indi-
vidually plausible and collectively coherent, which, when more cer-
tain results cannot be established, may be not entirely valueless.
The redactor of the Beowulf songs, the scopas of the Wanderer
and the Seafarer were Christian; but the character of the songs
preserved by the one, of the subjects treated by the others, did
not compel definite realization of the new conceptions and ideals.
Consequently these were attached to poetry preserving the old
traditions; probably with no feeling of incongruity, since both
the new element and the old would be accepted individually ; but
leaving new and old distinct, associated but not amalgamated,
untouched by that correlative realization — that application of the
old motives and conceptions to the new — which was gradually
produced by the specialization of the appeal of Christianity to
Anglo-Saxon thought and feeling.

'\ In another group of poems scriptural material was deliberately
chosen ; and in this case, where the whole basis of the poem, instead
of merely an occasional insertion, was taken from Christian sources,
realization of the story compelled the unconscious application of
those motives and conceptions which were most familiar ; and thus
the paraphrases show scriptural material transformed by its inter-
pretation. The extent of the transformation, of course, varies
very much; but even in Daniel, where the paraphrase follows the
Vulgate unusually closely, modifications are to be found ; while in
Genesis, Exodus, and Judith, congenial passages lead to free inven-

424

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 3

tion, thoroughly Teutonic in character. This group, where appar-
ently the^hole reverent aim of the poet is to transfer his original,
as he realizes it, into Anglo-Saxon vers^aifords, with the Christ-
poems mentioned below, the central field for treatment in this essay.
One member of the group cannot be included without distinction
— the interpolation in the Genesis, known as "Genesis B." The
Old Saxon origin of this poem places its evidence on a different
footing from that of the original Anglo-Saxon paraphrases. Never-
theless, of the motives, conceptions, and ideals which these trans-
form those of Christianity are at least Teutonic, and supplement
in a very interesting way the conclusions drawn with regard to the
Anglo-Saxon transforming influences. In a synthetic treatment
of these influences detailed notice of its special characteristics
cannot be attempted;1 and its evidence will therefore be adduced
for corroboration, with only this general distinction. In no case,
however, will a statement be founded on Genesis B. alone.

greater freedom than was possible in paraphrase)>was offered
by poems which borrowed a subject from Scripture or from
patristic literature, but developed it by detail, sometimes collected
from other scriptural and patristic sources, sometimes created by
free application of native conceptions and motives. In this group
are included the poems attaching to Christ, which stand apart
from the saints-legends through their much closer connection with
scriptural incidents and conceptions — Cynewulf's Christ; the
Dream of the Rood; the Exeter Book Descent into Hell; the
fragments in the so-called "Csedmonian" MS on Christ's Descent
into Hell, Resurrection and Ascension, the Last Judgment,* the
Temptation of Christ, and, connected with the other hell-poems
though not immediately concerned with Christ, the Complaint of
the Fallen Angels. Of these, the Christ seems to stand some-
what apart, although the fragmentary character of the other poems

1 These may be briefly indicated in the words of Professor Ten Brink — written, it may
be noted, before the OS. origin of the poem was conclusively established : " Profoundness of
psychological insight is a chief characteristic of this poet ; and though he is too fond of the
forms of variation, his copious, somewhat verbose style, while not sentimental, is much
more sympathetic and tender than Caedmon's." — Early English Literature (Kennedy's
translation), p. 85.

2The Exeter Book, Last Judgment (Bibl. der as. Poesie, Grein-Wulker, Vol. Ill, p. 171)
and the poem called by Walker Vom jungsten Tage (Gr.-W., Vol. II, p. 250) are entirely
Christian in conception, and hence fall outside present consideration.

425

4 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

makes distinction tentative. The Christ does not closely follow
any single original; its sources are various, and are handled with
freedom. The opportunities for the introduction of characteristic
detail thus seem exceptional; and the other Christ-poems (v. s.)
show that reverence for the subject did not preclude such treat-
ment. Nevertheless, the spirit of the poem is definitely Chris-
tian. Further, the Christ bears traces of wide knowledge of the
Scriptures, shown in phrasal reminiscences, and in references to
the prophets and to incidents not concerned in the immediate
narrative;1 and also of a considerable acquaintance with the writ-
ings of the Latin Fathers. With this is combined a strong tend-
ency to homily, both direct and through simile. It is true that
moral reflections occur in most of the poems (e. g., Exodus, 11.
522-47; Daniel, 11. 444 ff.; The Fallen Angels, 11. 194-224,
283 ff. ; Christ-fragments in " Csedmonian " MS, in sermon-songs
at the end of each) and that they appear a natural Christian
development of the sententious spirit which earlier inspired
gnomic verses. In the Christ, however, not only are homiletic
passages very numerous and unusually closely woven into the
structure of the poem, but the language of some of them gives

i In some cases the debt to Scripture is at second hand ; as, for example, in the descrip-
tion of the Last Judgment in Passus III, modeled, as Professor Cook has shown, on the
hymn De die judicii. It seems possible, however, that the loan was here supplemented by
direct recollection of Scripture. In the passage parallel to the verse of the hymn " Erubescet
lunae sol et obscurabitur " Cynewulf writes:

"Ponne weorbeB sunne sweart jjewended
on blodes hiw, seo 5e beorhte scan
ofer aerworuld selda bearnum ;
mona pset sylfe, be eer moncynne-
nihtes lyhte, niper jehreoseB."— Christ, 11. 935 if.

It is suggestive that erubescet is paraphrased, not readap, but weorped .... %ewended
on blodes hiw — the phrase of the Vulgate, Joel 2 :31 : " Sol convertitur in tenebras, et luna
in sanguinem." This does not account for the application of the phrase to the sun instead
of to the moon ; but the mistake would be more easily made if the poet were expanding the
hymn by scriptural accounts, from memory, than as a mere misapprehension. Again, the
lines

"WeorbeS jeond sidne ^rund

hlud jehyred heofonbyman stefn

and on seofon healfa swojaO windas

blawaQ brecende bearhtma mseste

weccaQ and woniaS woruld mid storme."— Christ. 11. 948 ff .

have for foundation in the hymn only "clangor tubae per quaternas terrae plagas con-
cinens." The Vulgate, Matt. 24:31, reads: "Etmittet angelossuos cum tuba, etvocemagna;
et congregabunt electos ejus a quatuor ventis . . . . " May not possibly the phrase of the
Vulgate, conventional though it is, have given just the mere hint necessary for such a
congenial addition? Of course, the evidence is extremely slight, and the suggestion ia put
forward with the utmost diffidence.

426

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 5

the impression of an attempt at popular appeal. Thus, 11. 758-78
describe the attacks on man of the devil:

tonne wrohtbora

in folc jodes for5 onsendeS

of his brae^dbojan biterne strael.

The passage is quoted at length in another connection.1 As there
noted, it cannot be considered certain that the passage is to be
interpreted literally. In any case, however, comparison with
passages descriptive of a similar subject in ordinary warfare2
shows that some motive other than spontaneous warrior-feeling is
probable here; while the careful elaboration of the passage, bor-
rowing the familiar phraseology without its spirit, confirms the sug-
gestion of deliberate illustrative intention. A similar impression
is given by the summary of the gifts of men (11. 664 ff. ) ;3 the pass-
age borrowed from Gregory's Homily is here amplified to include
secular as well as spiritual gifts, but the references to warlike
qualities lack vigor — those to eloquence and music are more
sympathetic. So again in 11. 851-67, the simile between life and
a sea-voyage is developed with unusual care and fulness; yet in
comparison with sea-passages in Andreas, for example, or the
Riddles, it cannot be said to express any strong feeling for the
sea. On the other hand, the conclusion of rapturous praise is
wonderfully powerful. _

The apparent inference is that in the Christ the poet was sub-\
dued by his subject; that his conceptions and motives were!
thoroughly Christianized, so that their expression conveys the
force of vital conviction; but that he still used the favorite Teu-y
tonic ideals as media of popular homily.4 Such an hypothesis
would explain the strange mingling in the Christ of elements
very definitely non-Christian with elements surprisingly modern;
and whether or not the theory supported by Dietrich and Grein,

i See p. 42.

2E. g., Judith, 11. 220 ff. ; or, to take a passage from Cynewulf himself, Elene, 11. 114-23.

3 Mr. Gollancz, in his note on this passage, points out its dual connection with
Gregory's Homilia in ascensione domini and the Exeter Book Manna Crceftas.

* Deliberate introduction seems the most plausible explanation; for the absence of
spontaneous vigor makes against explanation by sheer involuntary persistence of the old
ideals ; and though the assumption of a conventional vocabulary (cf. p. 15), here supported
by the absence of spontaneity, might be applied to isolated phrases, it does not satisfactorily
explain the more elaborate passages.

427

6 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

identifying the poet with Cynewulf, the Bishop of Lindisfarne,
who died in 783, be accepted, the choice of subject in the Christ
makes probable strong religious preoccupation, and its treatment,
as already said, proves considerable theological qualifications
in its author.

Coming to the Christ-fragments in the "Csedmonian" MS, it
is noteworthy that while Christian influence is very plainly
marked, Teutonic conceptions also are applied, especially to
Christ, with a boldness greater even than in the Christ itself.
Here, further, the heroic element is more spirited than in the
Christ. The absence of any strong evidence on even the approxi-
mate chronology of the poems, added to their fragmentary charac-
ter, makes this very uncertain ground. If, however, as Ten
Brink and Wtilker think, the fragments are later than Cynewulf,
the increased force of the Teutonic element might indicate a
further and freer development of the tendency to deliberate appli-
cation of Teutonic motives, suggested in the Christ.

In this respect, the saints-poems1 closely resemble the Christ-
fragments. In Andreas, Guthlac, and Elene, especially in
Andreas and the later part of Guthlac, the conditions of the
paraphrases seem reversed. There, the pagan element results
from the unconscious persistence of older conceptions. Here, a
subject from Christian legend seems to be deliberately treated in
a popular, heroic manner, and the native element to be exagger-
ated with a conscious effort at popular appeal. The Fates of the
Apostles shows a similar tendency in phraseology, but the poem
does not give scope for its development in treatment of incident.

Finally, completing the gradation from pagan to Christian
poetry, may be grouped the poems in which Christian conceptions
and motives are supreme — the symbolic poems, the didactic
poems, hymns, prayers, etc. These lie quite beyond our immediate
subject.

Though this general arrangement of the poems according to

character harmonizes with the chronological order most weightily

supported, it does not depend on a chronological classification.

^Teutonic conceptions and motives were interacting with those of

1 Juliana stands apart through the nature of the story there reproduced.

428

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 7

Christianity; and the poems have been grouped according to the
predominance of one or the other^ The relation between the two
forces is explained by the history of the Teutonic conquest of
England, and of the conversion of the conquerors to Christianity.
"Of all the German conquests," says Green, "this was the most
thorough and complete." On the continent, the conquest

proved little more than a forcible settlement .... among tributary sub-
jects who were destined in a long course of ages to absorb their con-
querors But almost to the close of the sixth century the English

conquest of Britain was a sheer dispossession of the conquered people;
and, so far as the English sword in these earlier days reached, Britain
became England, a land, that is, not of Britons, but of Englishmen.1

Green perhaps exaggerates the absolute character of the establish-
ment of pure Teutonism ;2 but it is at least certain that the influ-
ence of the conquered was less important than in any other Teu-
tonic settlement.3 On the continent, the Teutonic conquerors
were subdued by the culture of the Roman provincials, and in
many cases adopted their religion. In England, the Roman civi-
lization, never deep-rooted, did not remain a living force in the
midst of the new rulers. They retained their native ideals and
motives, and, in a very large degree, their form of society. When
Augustine landed in 597 A. D., Christianity thus had to make its
appeal to a spirit thoroughly Teutonic in its conceptions ; and its
introduction was accompanied by no rude assault upon that spirit.
\l3espite the occasional union of political and religious motives in
the struggle between rival kings, the conversion was essentially a
conversion by persuasion, gradual, conciliatory, and assimilative.
The old beliefs long remained side by side with the new, which
became modified to minimize their divergence. In the words of
Mr. Stopford Brooke

The rites and beliefs of either religion took one another's clothing;
the people reverted to heathen practices and then back again to Christian
in times of trouble ; the laws right up to the time of Cnut are still " for-
bidding heathendom, the worship of heathen gods, of Sun and Moon,

1 The Making of England, p. 135.

2 Undoubtedly Celtic influence was felt in the marches, especially of the later settle-
ments ; but during the period before the introduction of Christianity — and this is the point
at issue — it was of little importance.

3 Cf. Stubbs, Constitutional History of England, Vol. I, chaps. 1 and 4.

429

8 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

rivers and wells, fire, stones and trees." .... The long intermingling
.... of heathenism and Christianity did not exile the captured deities,
or utterly destroy the old habits of worship, but took them into service,
gave them new names, and clothed them in Christian garments.1

The survival of old pagan beliefs unchanged is very rare,
though possible examples may be found in the scriptural poems.
In descriptions of hell, for example, Teutonic recollections seem to
mingle with the Christian terrors. Says Grimm :

Niflheimr where Niphoggr and other serpents have their haunt
.... is the dread dwelling-place of the death-goddess Hel; .... it is
gloomy and black, like her; hence a Nebelheim, cold land of shadows,
abode of the departed, but not a place of torment or punishment as in
the Christian view.2

Hell includes serpents and terrors of cold in Christ, 11. 1545 ff . :

Ac pser se deopa sea5 dreor^e fede3,

^rundleas jiemeQ jaesta on peostre,

eeleS hy mid Pj ealdan li^e and mid py e$san forste,

wrapuin wyrmum and mid wita f ela

frecnum feorh^omum f oleum scende3.

Serpents are again mentioned in this connection in Christ, 11.
1251, 1252 (the wicked suffer "wyrma slite | bitrum ceaflum) ;
cold in Christ, 1. 1630 ("caldan clommum"); while the phrase
windsele gives a hint of a Teutonic conception in the midst of a
very conventional description of hell in the Fallen Angels*
Such evidence is certainly very slight; and it becomes still less
capable of supporting any assertion that pagan beliefs persist
directly, when it is recalled that "worms" are included in hell in
the gospel of Mark4 in the thrice repeated phrase "Ubi vermis
eorum non moritur" — to which must almost certainly be attributed
the allusions to wyrmas in that thoroughly conventional poem
"On the Last Judgment."5

Even such examples as these are few. The wider influences
of paganism merge indistiiiguishably into those of temperament
and ideals. Temperament and ideals, indeed, were of very great

1 Early Eng. Lit., Vol. I, pp. 265 ff.

2 Teutonic Mythology, Stallybrass' translation, Vol. II, p. 800.

3 L. 320 ; cf . also 11. 135-37. * 9 : 43, 45, 47.
5 Grein- Walker, Vol. II, no. 6, 11. 167, 168, 210. 211.

430

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 9

importance in determining the character of the older beliefs them-
selves, JforJTejiij^^ and
typincation.

Teutonic characteristics in scriptural poems may result either
from preservation of the old beliefs; from the application to the
new religion of the ideals and motives which helped to shape the
old ; or from the influence of ideals and motives which, though very
important for the earlier Teutonic society, as well as for the Anglo-
Saxon, left little trace on the earlier religion, but were called into j
prominence by related motives and ideals in Christianity.

Vital importance thus attaches to the dominant relations, con-
ceptions, and emotions of Anglo-Saxon society. These may be
gathered, in essentials, from the account given by Tacitus, at the
end of the first century, of the customs and the structure of society
of the Teutonic tribes on the continent; for, according to Green,1
" the settlement of the conquerors was nothing less than a transfer
of English society in its fullest form to the shores of Britain;"5
while the freshness and vigor with which the Teutonic spirit was
preserved has already been noticed and explained.

In the Germania, the warlike propensities of the tribes are
repeatedly emphasized:

Si civitas, in qua orti sunt, longa pace et otio torpeat, plerique
nobilium adulescentium petunt ultro eas nationes, quae turn bellum
aliquod gerunt, quia et ingrata genti quies et facilius inter ancipitia
clarescunt magnumque comitatum non nisi vi belloque tueare.3 ....

Nee rubor inter comites adspici Magnaque et comitum aemulatio,

quibus primus apud principem suum locus, et principum, cui plurimi et

acerrimi comites.*

Valor and loyalty are the greatest virtues:

Cum ventum in aciem, turpe principi virtute vinci, turpe comitatui
virtutem principis non adaequare. lam vero infame in omnem vitam ac
probosum superstitem principi suo ex acie recessisse: ilium defendere,
tueri, sua quoque fortia facta gloriae eius adsignare praecipuum sacra-
mentum est: principes pro victoria pugnant, comites pro principe.5

1 Making of England, p. 154.

2 Cf . Stubbs's more cautious statement : " It is unnecessary to suppose that a migrating
family exactly reproduced its old condition ; . . . . every element of society would expect
advancement and expansion. But all allowance being made for this, the framework of the
older custom must have been the framework of the new."— Constit. Hist., Vol. I, p. 66.

3 Cap. xiv. * Cap. xiii. £>Cap. xiv.

431

10 AETHUR R. SKEMP

In the chief, liberality is also a necessary virtue.1 Feasting, in-
cluding hard drinking, is a pleasure second only to that of battle.2
"Proditores et transfugae, ignavi et imbelles" are among the
worst types of criminal.3

Scutum reliquisse praecipuum flagitium, nee aut sacris adesse aut
concilium inire ignominioso fas; multique superstites bellorum infamiam
laqueo finierunt.4

The relation between chief and follower is thus of the greatest
importance. Very important also, and frequently associated with
it, is the bond of the family.

Quanto plus propinquorum, quanto maior adfinium numerus, tanto
gratiosior senectus.5 Suscipere tarn inimicitias seu patris seu propinqui
quam amicitias necesse est.6

I have quoted at some length because these characteristics fur-
nish the key to many Anglo-Saxon conceptions. In England, as
on the continent, the warrior was. the social unit; and the_organiza-
tion of the tribes, later to form a nation, developed from^the^

relations of the family and of the warrior to his chief. As the
office of king grew in importance under the circumstances of the
conquest, a relation developed between king and ealdormen similar
to that existing between ealdorman and followers, while still closer
ties of personal allegiance bound the king's thanes to him.7 Other
modifications also took place ; the distaste for tillage and the work
of cultivation noticed by Tacitus diminished ; and, more important,
the activity by sea, which was characteristic especially of the old
Saxons, was almost abandoned.8 The sea gradually comes to be
regarded with dread rather than with the daring and affectionate
familiarity of the old rovers — a change noticeable on contrasting
the Seafarer or the Wanderer, or the sea-passages in Guthlac
and Andreas, with those in Beowulf.9 This change, however, is
interesting chiefly in relation to the Anglo-Saxon view of nature ;
for the same relation of follower and chief, the same ideals of

!Cap. xiv. 2 Caps, xv, xxii. 3 Cap. xii. 4Cap. vi. »Cap. xx. 6Cap. xxi.

i Cf . Green, Making of England, pp. 179, 180.

8 Tacitus mentions this quality only in the case of the Suiones, and there without
emphasis ; but with the exceptions of the Frisii and the Cimbri, the other tribes described in
the Germania dwelt inland. The sea-daring of the Saxons is, however, vividly recorded in
a letter of Sidonius Apollinaris (Ep., viii, 6), quoted by Green, Malting of England, p. 16.

9Cf. Mr. Stopford Brooke's Early Eng. Lit., Vol. I, chap. 10.

432

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 11

bravery and loyalty, governed the warrior by sea and by land.
And whatever other modifications might follow the settlement,
the warrior conception of the individual and of society was not
likely to lose its hold among a people constantly stirred up to
battle.1 The motives and conceptions of the earliest Anglo-Saxon
poetry correspond very closely to those mentioned by Tacitus.2
Beowulf himself leaves home to seek the rumored adventure, and
Hrothgar welcomes him and rewards him liberally. Beowulf
realizes the ideals sketched in the Germania of leader, thane, and
king alike. Wiglaf expresses the spirit noted by Tacitus almost
in parallel phrases:

Me is micle leofre, pset minne lic-haman

mid minne gold-gyfan gled fse9mise.

Ne 9ynce9 me jerysne, pset we rondas beren

eft to earde, nemne we seror maejen

fane gefyllan, feorh ealjian

Wedra Siodnes.3

And again:

Dea5 bip sella
eorla ^ehwylcum ponne edwit-lif .*

The same spirit breathes also in the song of Byrhtnoth's death at
the Battle of Maldon in 991 — at the close of the period of
Anglo-Saxon poetry proper.

I>a wear5 afeallen Paes folces ealdor,

Aepelredes eorl; ealle ^esawon

heorSjeneatas, pset hyra heorra Isej.

I>a 9ser wendon for5 wlance pe^enas,

unearge men efston jeorne:

hi woldon pa ealle o5er twe^a

lif forlsetan o99e leofne gewrecan.5

1 "The world of these men was in fact a world of warfare ; tribe warred with tribe, and
village with village ; even within the village itself feuds parted household from household,
and passions of hatred and envy were handed on from father to son. To live at all, indeed,

in this early world, it was needful, if not to fight, at any rate to be ready to fight The

very form of the people was wholly military." — Green, Making of England, pp. 171, 172.

2 The evidence of vocabulary shows that Old Teutonic poetry generally preserved the
direction of thought and feeling indicated in the Germania. Meyer, adopting Liliencron's
theory that frequency of variation depends on the importance to poetry of the idea expressed, ^
names as the three ideas most frequently varied in Old Teutonic poetry, " king," " treasure,"

and "battle."— Altgermanische Poesie, cap. ii, § 1.

3 Beowulf, 11. 2651 ff . * Ibid., 1. 2890.
SGrein-Wulker, Vol. I, no. 16, 11. 202 ff.

433

12 ARTHUK R. SKEMP

says:

"Ne sceolon me on psere peode pe^enas aetwitan,
pset ic of 9isse fyrde feran wille,
eard #esecan, nu min ealdor Iije5
forheawen set hilde; me is pset hearma msesst!
He wees ee^Ser min mae^ and min hlaford."
E>a he forft eode, faehcte gemunde.1

Other speakers echo the words. They fight on, slaying until one
by one they fall by the body of their lord. The words used of
Offa may be applied to all.

He haefde 5eah ^eforpod, paet he his frean jehet

swa he beotode set wiS his beahjifan,

paet hi sceoldon bejen on burh ridan,

hale to hame o95e on here crincgan,

on wselstowe wundum sweltan;

he Ise^ Se^enlice Seodne gehende.2

"He was both my kinsman and my lord," says JElfwine of
Byrhtnoth. The root of Anglo-Saxon society at the end of the
tenth century, as of the Germanic society on the continent at the
end of the first, lay in this relation of kinsman to kinsman and
of warrior to chief. Its ideals and motives were those of the
brave and loyal warrior. <Trlory was the greatest good; and it
was to be earned by valor and loyalty — by faithful service during
the lord's life, and vengeance on his foes if he were slain. Around
such duties life centered. It was a worthy code; but it empha-
sized rather the rugged than the tender emotions^ Even the love
of the chief had to be earned by the stern qualities of the war-
rior; while of all emotional satisfactions, triumph is one of the
most powerfully expressed. On the side of painful emotions, the
earlier Teutonic characteristics are somewhat modified in the
Anglo-Saxon poetry.3 \Early Teutonic poetry generally exhibits
little sense of the pathetic, and the general tendency of the poetry
here preserves an original racial characteristic^ The Teutonic
temperament was serious, even somber; but it felt rather the
tragedy than the pathos of life — its pity was mingled with awe.
Even when death snaps the ties they cherish most, there is no

ILL 220 ff. 2 LI. 289 ff.

3Cf. Heinzel, Q. und F., X, p. 25 ("Das angelsachsische und das deutsche Epos ").

434

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 13

sentimentalism. "Lamenta ac lacrimas cito, dolor em et tristitiam
tarde ponunt. Feminis lugere honestum est, viris meminisse." '
•^In the Anglo-Saxon poetry, on the other hand, this tendency
is softened^- according to Heinzel's very plausible suggestion,2 by
the influence of Christianity^ The elegiac motive is especially
fruitful. Still, in the sense of the mutability of life, the uncertainty
of power and happiness, the certainty only that even the most
fundamental relations must be broken; in the Heimweh of the
exile, and in grief for dead kinsman or lord; in all the occa-
sions, in short, of Anglo-Saxon elegiac expression, the element of
pure pathos is less important than that of tragedy. And Beowulf
expresses the old Teutonic feeling even more strongly than it
appears in the records of Tacitus (v. s.) —

selre bip> seghwaem
paet he his freond wrece, ponne he fela murne.

Similarly in Anglo-Saxon original poetry fear of human enemies
can find no place; but the sense of the terrible is repeatedly
noticeable in superstitious feeling for the vague, unknown powers
of the darkness and the storm.

Such, briefly, were the native ideals and motives of the Anglo-
Saxon, to which the conceptions of Christianity were introduced.
These conceptions, however, as expressed in the Scriptures, were
extremely various. <Hie Anglo-Saxon, though regarding all with
equal veneration, must instinctively have been drawn most strongly
to those portions which expressed the conceptions and the life of
a society not entirely dissimilar to his own\ In the Old Testa-
ment he was brought into contact with the writings, diverse,
indeed, through differences in date and in the conditions of their
production, of wandering shepherd tribes, evolving through con-
quest and captivity, in constant conflict with other tribes and
among themselves, under changing social organizations, and with
unusually important interaction of religion and leadership, into
national life, ^he New Testament, on the other hand, presented
a society and a spirit entirely alien to the Anglo-SaxonS In the

i Tacitus, Germ., cap. xxvii.

2<2. und F., X, Section "Angelsachsen und Skandinavier ;" especially p. 38.

435

14 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

gospels, which would naturally claim first attention, the society
is that of a subject race, among whom battle was little more
than a hope or a tradition; and throughout the New Testament
the spirit expressed is that of a peaceful religion, professed by a
suffering minority — a spirit not calculated to attract the warlike
conquerors of the Britons. 1^ was the heroism of action — of
armed action — which appealed most powerfully to them, not the
heroism of meek, unresisting endurance^ Again, the religious
teaching of the New Testament, with its emphasis on the spiritual
aspect of God, could not appeal to the Anglo-Saxon mind as did
the more primitive beliefs of the Old Testament, where traces of
nature-worship and fetishism lingered, and where, even in the
later-developed monotheistic religion, Yahweh was conceived as a
tribal god, a god of battle, in whom awful attributes predomi-
nated. The religious conceptions of the gospels then had little
influence in so far as they related to the present life ; and even
the contribution of the New Testament to the system of the uni-
verse is entirely transformed in spirit. ^?he Anglo-Saxon, sus-
ceptible to a doctrine of love only in so far as it harmonized with
the familiar feeling for kinsman and chief, conceived the redeemer
of damned mankind with the full vigor of motives and ideals
thoroughly TeutonicX

Scriptural story, -inotive, and conception were modified, there
fore, at the points where the temperament, the ideals, and the
structure of society which they expressed or embodied, failed to
harmonize with those of the Anglo-Saxon. The transforming
influences were related, and operated both in preserving old con-
ceptions and in shaping new. In the latter case it must be
noticed that very frequently the difference between the early Teu-
tonic and Christian conceptions lay, not in the elements present
in the conception, but.in their proportion; and the transformation
consisted in change of proportion, bringing into dominance ele-
ments previously subordinated. Warrior-motives, for example,
occurring only incidentally in the Vulgate, are habitually devel-
oped by the Anglo-Saxon poets, and a material change of effect is^
thus produced.1

1 Cf. pp. 16, 17, 29 ff .

436

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 15

In this connection, the influence of a traditional vocabulary
may be considered.1 Says Kemble:

To this is owing the retention, even in Christian works, of modes of
expression which must have had their origin in heathen feeling and
which in order to fit them for their new application, are gradually
softened down, and gain less personal and more abstract significations
.... Even translations become originals from the all-pervading Teu-
tonic spirit, which was unconsciously preserved in the forms and phrases
of heathen poetry.

The first sentence quoted seems to exaggerate the loss of signi-
ficance of the traditional phrases. Some, especially those fixed
by alliteration, doubtless tended to become conventional ; but more
frequently it seems probable that the use of "the forms and
phrases of heathen poetry" implies not only the preservation of
"the all-pervading Teutonic spirit," but its living and active
application. The continued life of this spirit has already been
explained; and the Maldon and Brunanburh poems show it in
undiminished vigor at the very close of the period of Anglo-Saxon
poetic production. Here it cannot be explained simply by t
assumption of a traditional vocabulary, for it appears, not in
single phrases, but as the essential motive and inspiration of the
poems. Similarly in the specifically Christian poems, the Teu-
tonic spirit is preserved, not only in phrases which can be iso-
lated, but in conceptions, emotions, and ideals. While old con-
ceptions lived, as well as the old phrases, the association between
the two could scarcely be forgotten. Christianity could be real-
ized only through known conceptions; and the familiar motives
and emotions thus retain potency in their new connection. The
supposition that heroic phrases used of saints and martyrs were
merely conventional seems to arise only from a modern sense of
incongruity. There appears no sufficient reason to doubt that
they were used with a sense of their real force, thus indicating
the Anglo-Saxon tendency to conceive as heroic the persons and
events of Christian story.

The existence of a poetic vocabulary, marked by peculiarities
not shared by the vocabulary of prose, is, however, beyond doubt ;

i Cf. Professor Toller's History of the English Language, chap, vii, from which the quo-
tation is borrowed.

437

ARTHUR R. SKEMP

and its character, as well as that of the metrical form employed,
(cf. pp. 24, 25) emphasized the effect of the older motives and
ideals in harmony with which it was itself evolved.

It is impossible to isolate any single transforming influence.
Temperament is the most fundamental, determining in great
measure the ideals and motives, and the organization of society,
which more frequently form the immediate sources of transfor-
mation. Its influence through direct emotional differentiation —
through the comparative power and familiarity of various moods
—may be considered first in cases where these related causes do
not operate.

The joy of victory has been placed among the satisfactions
most natural to the Anglo-Saxon mind. Naturally the literature
of the wandering, fighting Hebrew tribes does not lack expres-
sions of this feeling, which especially inspires the Judith. Even
in this case, however, where the story is told in the original with
outbursts of savage triumph unsurpassed in Hebrew Scriptures,
the Anglo-Saxon poet does not for a moment lag behind. Though
the story possesses for him no immediate national inspiration, its
spirit is so congenial to him that it bursts out in his verse with
undiminished power.

This instinct exercises a definite transforming influence by
seizing on opportunities for the expression of triumph not taken
in the Vulgate. Thus in the account of Abram's victory over the
four kings, in the Vulgate the simple fact is recorded:

Et divisiis sociis, irruit super eos nocte; percussitque eos, et persecu-
tus est eos usque Hoba, quae est ad laevam Damasci. Reduxitque omnem
substantiam, et Lot fratrem suum cum substantia illius, mulieres quoque
et populum.1

In the Anglo-Saxon paraphrase, these two verses are elaborated
to fifty-one lines (Gen., 11. 2045-95). A very brief quotation will
show how thoroughly the Anglo-Saxon poet appropriates his
materials:

I>a ic ne3an ^efrae^n under nihtscuwan

heeleQ to hilde: hlyn wear5 on wicum

scylda and sceafta, sceotendra fyll,

juQflana ^e^rind; jripon unfaejre

i Gen. 14: 15, 16.

438

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 17

under sceat werum scearpe #aras
and feonda feorh feollon gicce,
Peer hlihende hu3e feredon
sergas and ^esiSSas . . . . ]

.... wide jesawon
freora feorhbanan fujlas slitan
on ecjwale.2

Similarly in Exodus, the Vulgate describes the actual over-
whelming of the Egyptians in the Red Sea very briefly;3 the
Anglo-Saxon paraphrase extends the account to sixty-eight lines,
with an infinite addition of personal exultation.

The same spirit is felt repeatedly in Cynewulf's Christ and in
the Junian Christ-fragments. The descriptions of Christ's vic-
tories over the archfiend, the redemption of the captives of hell,
the return of Christ to heaven, were recognized occasions for jubi-
lation in the conventional Latin Christianity ; but it is noteworthy
that while the more tranquil and benign motives of the orthodox
religion were neglected, this was fully developed in the Anglo-
Saxon poems. The early Christian experienced only the exulta-
tion of spiritual triumph ; the Hebrew tribes throughout their
history were never so thoroughly dominated by the spirit of the
warrior and the conqueror as were the Anglo-Saxons; and hence
the accepted literature of Christianity was transformed in Anglo-
Saxon poetry with vivid familiar touches of joy in victory, native
in the blood and known from actual warfare.

The Teutonic mind, as said above, was not susceptible to
purely pathetic appeal. Very few cases occur in the scriptural
poems in which a pathetic touch is added to the original. The
only examples I have noted are in Genesis, in the king of
Sodom's speech,4 in the remark on Abraham's friendlessness,5
and in the description of the wanderings of Sarah and Abra-
ham.6 On the other hand, pathetic potentialities are often left
unemployed, as in the story of Abraham's intended sacrifice of

i Genesis, 11. 2060 ff. *Ibid., 11. 2087 f.

3 The narrative gives only two verses (Ex. 14:27, 28) to the incident itself; and in the
song of Moses (chap. 15) praise predominates over description and triumph. The gap in the
AS. MS (v. Walker's note ad loc.) also calls for allowance. In this case the expansion is
due to feeling for storm, as well as for triumph (cf. p. 19).

* LI. 2124-35. & LI. 2625, 2626. 6 LI. 2695-2706.

439

18 ARTHUR K. SKEMP

t Isaac, and throughout the Christ story. N^n the scriptural as in

i the secular poetry the sense of tragedy overshadows that of pure

Apathos^The sorrow of exile, in which both are mingled, is repeat-

Wly applied in the scriptural poems to the banishment of the

rebel angels and the unrighteous from heaven ; and the sense of the

instability of life is redirected but not removed by Christianity.1

I In Cynewulf's Christ and in the Dream, of

the crucifixion is overshadowed by terror. The weeping women,
the prayer of Christ for his persecutors, are passed by ; and the
poet's entire attention is absorbed by the awful convulsions of
nature recorded in the gospels and emphasized by Gregory.2 In
the Christ, the details of the Scriptures and of Gregory's homily
are followed; but the fifty-nine words of Gregory and the three
verses of Matthew3 which form the basis are expanded to fifty-
nine lines;4 the seas, the stars, the trees are added to the insensi-
bilia elementa which testify to their Lord; more important still,
their testimony takes on the character of a personal though
inarticulate anguish and terror:

.... jesejun pa dumban jesceaft
eorpan eal^rene and uprodor
forhte ^efelan frean prowin^a
and mid cearum cwi9dun, Peah he cwice nseron.5

and seo eorSe eac e^san myrde
beofode on bearhtme.6

The sense of imminent horror is even more powerfully expressed
in the Dream of the Rood. It pervades the whole description
of the crucifixion in that poem, and quotation can give no adequate
Mdea, of its force.

l^This sensitiveness to the terrible — this feeling for superhuman
I forces in nature, which are often almost personified, is thoroughly
^Teutonic. On the one hand it connects with the liking for
nature description; on the other, with the sense of human impo-
\ tence under the unknown, irresistible Wyrd.

1 Cf. pp. 44 ff.

2"Homilia in die Epiphaniae" (In Evangelia, Lib. I, Homil. X), " Omnia quippe ele-
[down to]

menta, etc., .... reddidit."

327:51-53. * Christ, 11. 1128-87. 5 ibid., 11. 1128 ff. 6 ibid., 11. 1144 f.

440

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 19

The Anglo-Saxon poetry is marked by distinct fondness for
description of nature.1 In the paraphrases, such passages are
regularly expanded — e. g., in the Genesis account of creation,2 the
account of the flood ;3 the passage of the Red Sea in the Exodus/
and the Azarias, where the whole poem expands and describes
the natural phenomena which in the Vulgate are simply exhorted
to praise. (A similar tendency is seen in the elaborate meta-
phorical passage, Gen., 11. 987-95.)

Naturally, the sea possessed a special attraction for men who
still remembered their tradition as "ocean-dwellers,"5 though the
exact nature of their feeling had changed. The wild and terrible
aspects of the sea, and of nature generally, forced themselves on
the Anglo-Saxon imagination; awakening, however, not the ear-
lier joy of strenuous conflict nor the modern romantic wonder,
(but the terror of painful experience. Dread of storm influences
the descriptions of the Day of Judgment in the Christ, where
the storm-elements are emphasized.6 The description, already
referred to, of the Red Sea at the overwhelming of the Egyptians7
shows a similar sense of the terrors of sea and sky in the gloom
and violence of storm. Cold especially is noticed. The sea there
is sin-ceald8 and Adam in his new consciousness of nakedness I
expresses his fear of cold more strongly than his fear of heat.9'
The sea-passages in Andreas echo those of the Seafarer in
emphasizing the sad fate of the sailor,10 the bitter weather, hail
and snow,11 the terrors of the storm.12 The waves are brown,13 fal- ,
low,14 as in the Wanderer and the Seafarer. This characteristic I
is emphasized repeatedly in the descriptions of the Flood,15 and on/
the other hand it is a characteristic of Eden that the water there
is bright.16

1 Other Teutonic poetries share, though in less degree, the feeling for storm so pro-
ductive in the Anglo-Saxon. The Anglo-Saxon view of sea and storm had, however, become
somewhat enervated (see p. 10). Feeling for the milder aspects of nature is not a general
Teutonic characteristic. It has been plausibly ascribed to Celtic influence ; and also to the
general softening of emotions (Q. und F., X, pp. 32 ff.) produced by Christianity (ibid., p. 38).

2 Gen., 11. 97 ff. 3 ibid., 11. 1300 ff . * LI. 282 ff . 5 Christ, 11. 73, 221.

6 Christ, 11. 933-41, 950-53, 991, 992, in comparison with sources ; see p. 4, note.

7 Ex., 11. 446 ff. 8 EX., 1. 472 ; cf. Wanderer, " hrimceald," 1. 4. 9 Gen., 11. 805-9. »
10 Andr., 11., 511 ff. n Ibid., 11. 1255 ff. 12 Ibid., 11. 369 ff.

13 Ibid., 1. 519. i* Ibid., 1. 421.

4 15 Gen., 11. 1300, 1301, 1326, 1355, 1375, 1414, 1430, 1462. 16 Ibid., 210-12, 220. •

441

20 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

In this connection, gloom is simply one attribute of storm,
brightness of the fair weather. A similar feeling is shown for the
I contrast between day and night. The gloom of the earth before
! the creation of light strikes the Anglo-Saxon imagination, and the
whole passage is expanded.1 Again, a striking passage referring
to the creation of light is inserted in the Christ.2 Nightfall and
dawn are favorite times in descriptions;3 and frequently where
the original simply names the time, the Anglo-Saxon poem describes \
it (e. g., for nightfall, Genesis, 11. 2448-51, cf. Guthlac, 11. 1252 ff. ;
for dawn, Genesis, 11. 2874-76 — a pure insertion — Exodus, 11. 45,
46; cf. Andreas, 11. 835 ff.).

The contrast occurs frequently in Anglo-Saxon poetry in much
wider application.%\Association of darkness, evil, and ugliness on
the one hand, and of light, goodness, and beauty on the other,
is of course very widespread. It is repeatedly suggested in
Christian Scriptures, and Teutonic paganism here found familiar
ground. > The Anglo-Saxon poems dwelt especially 011 this .asso-
ciation^— a tendency well illustrated by the descriptions of heaven
and hell, which give much more concrete detail than those in the !
Vulgate. Gloom, a characteristic alike of Christian hell and pagan
Niflheimr, is one of the horrors of hell most insistently emphasized.*
The very flames are sweart,5 as in another scene of terror to the
wicked — the destruction of Sodom and Gomorra.6

Similarly the brightness of heaven is appreciated; here, how-
ever, the suggestions of the originals are so insistent that the
point avails little. Epithets of praise are frequently borrowed
from light; though one very interesting metaphorical passage, in
which Christ is called "se so9fsesta sunnan leoma,"7 may rather
be suggested by the scriptural "Light of the World." The same
\ term, wuldortorht, describes a beam of the sun8 and the spirit of

* 1 Gen., 11. 103-11, 116-19. 2 LI. 230-35.

3 This is a characteristic common to all early Teutonic poetry. " Wie die menschliche
Gesellschaft treffen wir sogardie Zeit auf der Hohe; nie ist es Vormittag oder Nachmittag,
sondern stets gerade Abend oder Morgen."— Meyer, Altgermanische Poesie, p. 108.

' * E. g., Genesis, 11. 42, 312, 333, 391, 392 ; Christ, 11. 1543, 1632 ; Fallen Angels (Gr.-W., Vol. II,
no. 18), 11. 28, 38, 104-6, 111, 178.

5 Christ, 1. 1533. J 6 Gen., 11. 1926, 2505, 2541, 2556, 2557.

^ Christ, 11. 104-18, especially 11. 108, 107 ; repeated in 11. 696, 697.
* 8 Gen., 1. 2874.

442

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 21

,1 and the double application suggests the connection of
ness and brightness. A sunbeam from the southeast heralds the
second advent of Christ;2 and when Christ descends into hell,

5eseah he [Johannis] helle duru hsedre scinan,
Pa Pe lon^e ser bilocen wseron
•bepeahte mid Pystre.3

On the question of the Anglo-Saxon sense of physical beauty,
general Teutonic tendencies afford no entirely satisfactory evi-
dence. Tacitus mentions beauty, with youth and wealth, when he
wishes to name qualities highly desired in a woman, in order
that the force of his negation may emphasize the importance
attached to chastity.* With such an aim, however, a Roman idea
might easily intrude; and though Tacitus speaks of the fine
physique of both men and women,5 he never refers definitely to
regard for beauty. In Anglo-Saxon, as in early Teutonic poetry I
generally,6 the physical beauty or ugliness of a hero is rarely |
mentioned. The generalization does not, however, apply to women
or to superhuman figures. In these cases the Anglo-Saxon scrip-
tural poems regularly emphasize a hint of physical beauty given
in the original. Sarai is described in the Vulgate7 as pulchra;
her beauty is mentioned in the paraphrase, not only in the cor-
responding passage, but in 11. 1722 and 2730. Eve's beauty is
repeatedly mentioned.8 In the Judith, it is true, the Anglo-Saxon
poet cannot equal the glowing eastern praises in the original ; but
the failure is in lyrical expression, not in appreciation of the
beauty which lured Holof ernes to death. Beauty is associated
with the freedom which belongs to a certain dignity of rank;
freolic, applied, parallel with other terms of respect, to Enoch,9
Shem's sons,10 and to heroes and warriors generally, is also used
to describe Eve, Sarai, and Cain's wife.11 The Vulgate does not
state that Hagar is beautiful; but this is inferred by the Anglo-

' 1 Gen., 1. 119. 2 Christ, 11. 900-4. 3 Exeter Bk., Descent into Hell, 11. 53 ff.

*" Publicatae enim pudicitiae nulla venia ; non forma, non aetate, non opibus maritum
invenerit.-' — Germania, cap. xix.

5 Germania, cap. xx.

6 Meyer, Die altgermanische Poesie, p. 108. 7 Gen. 12 : 11-14.*'

8 Gen., 11. 184, 188, 527, 548, 626, 627, 821, 822, 884, 896, 998.

9 Ibid., 1. 1169. wibid., 11. 1709, 1710. n Gen., 1. 1053.

443

22 ARTHUR K. SKEMP

Saxon as a circumstance natural to the story, and slave though
she is, she is called freolecu.1 Again, consciousness of beauty
""unites with the desire for perfect freedom in inspiring Satan's
rebellion.2 On the whole, it seems probable that the sense of
beauty, like the more tender emotions, developed under the
influence of Christianity and reacted on the scriptural material
treated. The suggestion is, however, offered with the utmost
caution, for here the possibility of conventional phraseology is not
balanced by definite knowledge of recognized Teutonic tendencies.
The conventional tendency would be stimulated by such alliterative
phrases as freolecu faemne, wifa wlitegost; but the variation in
the terms used (e. g., in the passages on Eve and Sarai referred
to above) shows that this is only a subsidiary cause, and that (by
Liliencron's theory, see p. 11, note 2) the idea of beauty is not
unimportant. In any case, the development of a conventional
phrase implies a nucleus of ideal. "Fair" becomes a stock epithet
in mediaeval romance ; but it is because beauty was the first qualifi-
cation of a heroine.

Physical beauty, like light, is associated with goodness in very
many religions and mythologies ; and here again the Anglo-Saxon
poetry emphasizes the element common to Latin Christianity and
Teutonic paganism.3 Thus the change, after the fall, in Satan, so
gloriously beautiful and bright in heaven, is seized upon ; and the
change of the angels to devils.4 At the Judgment Day womma
leas and wlitig are used by Christ as associated terms;5 so the
blessed shine gloriously,6 while each of the damned, swart with

sin,7

won and wliteleas, hafaS werges bleo,
facentacen feores.8

Again, Andreas is sigeltorht; while the devil who causes the
attack on him

wann and wliteleas hsefde weri^es hiw.9

A dark appearance characterizes the devils also in Christ, 11. 269,
1523, 1561.

1 Gen., 1. 2226. * Gen., 11. 305-9. 1 Christ, 11. 1561, 1607.

2 Ibid., 11. 265 ff. 5 Ibid., 1. 1465. 8 Ibid., 1. 1565.

3 Cf. Grimm, lent. Mythology, p. 993. *Ibid., 11. 1238-42, 1292. * Andreas, 1. 1169.

444

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 23

The appearances of the trees of life and of the knowledge of
good and evil are similarly contrasted:

O5er wses swa wynlic, wliti^ and scene,
Ii5e and lofsum: paet wees lifesbeam; 1
ponne waes se o9er eallenja sweart,
dim and Pystre: Pset wses deaSes beam.2

It is difficult to mark the point of transition to metaphor in many
slightly varying phrases which speak of the "stain" or "rust" of
sin on the soul; of its "beauty" through good deeds; and of
good deeds themselves "shining."

It is to be noticed that modifications and additions occur
especially in points of detail. Even where the outline is trans-
ferred unchanged, the details added by the poet are naturally
Teutonic in character. Customs unknown to him are ignored.
In the Vulgate, when circumcision is mentioned, the phrase speci-
fies the nature of the operation — carnem praeputii circumcidere,
or sometimes simply circumcidere.3 The Anglo-Saxon paraphrase
uses vague general phrases — sigores tacn* fridotacen? torht
tacn* beacen.1 Similarly the change of names of Abram and
Sarai, possessing no significance for the Anglo-Saxon, is
ignored, Abraham and Sarah being used throughout. On the
other hand, slight modifications constantly occur, not only
in the representation of persons and conceptions, but in inciden-
tal detail, giving characteristic tone even when the paraphrase
follows the main outline closely. Thus the importance of rela-
tionship is felt in the accuracy of the paraphrase, where instead
of the loose fratres of the Vulgate Abraham reminds Lot—

Ic eom fsedera pin
sibgebyrdum, pu min suhterga.8

The strife of the herdsmen of Abraham and Lot is nationalized.
The significance of "foes all round" — mentioned only casually in
the Vulgate — is appreciated and expanded. Lot's possessions \
become Teutonic in character —

beajas from Bethlem and botljestreon
welan, wunden ^old.

i Gen., 11. 467 ff . 2 iud., 11. 477 f .

3 Gen. 17 : 10, 11, 12, 14, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27 ; 21 : 4.

* Gen., 11. 2311, 2320. $Ibid., 1. 2369. «Ibid., 1. 2375. i Ibid., 1. 2768. *Ibid.< 1. 1900

445

24 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

— as do those of Abraham.1 Similar coloring is given to the gifts of
Abimelech to Abraham,2 the description of Sodom;3 and generally
wherever personal property is mentioned.4 Again, Abraham offers
sacrifice "nalles hneawlice"6 and his great feast assumes Teutonic
characteristics. So does Belshazzar's:6 Belshazzar, "medugal"
sends for the treasure of the Israelites; the history of the con-
quest by which it was gained is briefly given; then — "switie
gulpon" In Genesis also, Abimelech is wine druncen1 — a state-
ment unauthorized by the Vulgate — and his speeches are modified
in tone.8 In the same way the sentence of Cain,9 though very
little altered, conveys more of the force of exile — the grief so
characteristically Teutonic, which again in Christ influences the
curse pronounced by God on disobedient man, adding to the labor
and sorrow inflicted by the scriptural curse,

[t?u scealt] wreece dreojan
feondum to hropor fusleo5 ^alan.10

None of these modifications or additions is important when
isolated; but the total effect is a very considerable modification
in the tone of the poetry. Hence, since it is in detail that the
change is made, the causes which lead to its accumulation in the
Anglo-Saxon poetry rank among the influences transforming
scriptural story, motive, and conception. The alliterative verse
and the enormous wealth of synonyms of Anglo-Saxon stand as
immediate causes ; but these must themselves be explained by the
emotional and mental characteristics in harmony with which they
evolved. Heinzel has pointed out11 that the Anglo-Saxon style
tends somewhat to heighten emotional expression — to carry it to
extremes ; and that it is excellent to convey the changing emotions
of the hero and the poet. Those emotions which are well
expressed by insistent reiteration are especially developed, as in
the triumphant conclusion of the Exodus, already noted. Here
style and emotional tendencies harmonize. Again, with the abun-
dance of synonyms possessed by Anglo-Saxon, the exigencies of

i Gen., 11. 1875-79. 2 ibid., 11. 2716-19. 3 ibid., 11. 2402-04.

* Of. Daniel, 11. 9, 58-61, 672, 673, 691 ; Andreas, 11. 1655-57.
5 Gen., 1. 1809— a pure addition. 6 Daniel, 11. 696 ff.

i Gtn., 1. 2634. 8 Ibid., 11. 2679-89, 2827-30.

9 Ibid., 11. 1020 ft1., especially 1020, 1021, 1051-53. ™ Christ, 1. 622. » Q. und F., X, p. 32.

446

TRANSFORMATION OP SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 25

metre do not compel accumulation of detail; if, however, such
accumulation is congenial to the poet, vocabulary and metre alike
offer the ready means. Here the style harmonizes with the power
to realize events — to imagine the minutiaB which give vividness
to a scene.

The Anglo-Saxon poets seem, indeed, to possess^rue dramatic
imagination^ Thus, when Cain slays Abel, the poet, with the
scene before his eyes, sees the earth soak up the blood as it
gushes forth.1 The episode of Noah's drunkenness is made more
dramatic than in the Vulgate by the addition of Ham's laughter,
which excites Noah's anger. The same thorough realization is
shown in the expansion of Hagar's speech ;2 and in the telling inser-
tion that Sarah's laughter was joyless.3 The intended sacrifice of
Isaac is vividly described — the fire is actually kindled.* Detail is
similarly added in the Christen the description of the rending of the
veil of the Temple;5 its beauty is emphasized, and its appearance
when rent "swylce hit seaxes ec^ | scearp f>urhwode."fl Even in
entirely superhuman matters the same tendency to insert detail may
possibly be seen in the Temptation of Christ, 11. 56-60 — from
hell's door to hell's bottom is a hundred thousand miles; in the
Exeter Book Descent into Hell, 11. 100, 101 — the time at which the
descent occurs is definitely named; and in the Fallen Angels,
11. 338-40 — though here the "twelve miles" distance at which
the gnashing of teeth in hell can be heard may simply represent
any considerable distance.

The dramatic imagination which adds these vivid details pro-
duces an attempt to realize the persons as well as the scenes
described. This tendency is clearest in the national shapi
given to the emotions and motives of scriptural personages.7 It
may be connected, in another direction, with the attempt to give
logical coherence and plausibility to scriptural story — an attempt
which shows the capacity to feel the significance of detail, and

1 Gen., 11. 978-86; repeated 11. 1097, 1098. In 11. 1015, 1016, the paraphrase merely follows
the Vulgate.

2 Ibid., 11. 2272 ff . 3 ibid., 11. 2380, 2381.

*Ibid., 1. 2922. Cf. the account in Exodus, 11. 397, 415. The preparations might perhaps
recall the funeral pyres, e. g., in Beowulf, 11. 1119-22, 3144-48.

& Christ, 11. 1134-42. 6 ibid., 11. 1141, 1142. 1 See pp. 29 ff.

447

26 ARTHUK R. SKEMP

also a disposition to give the imagination as much support as

Lpossible from reason.

In Daniel, for example, the cause of the fall of Jerusalem is
added;1 the king's threat to the Chaldeans2 is made more reason-
able by emphasis on their pretences to wisdom ; and it is specially
explained that the bonds of the "children" are burned off — a
necessary condition, unnoticed in the Vulgate, to their walking
out of the "oven." Another aspect of this feeling is seen in the
special emphasis apparently felt to be necessary to insure the
acceptance of so wonderful an incident as the removal of Adam's
rib.3 Genesis B, however, surpasses in coherence and plausibility
all the poems which exhibit only Anglo-Saxon transforming influ-
ences. The account of the temptation is well conceived. The
devil first tempts Adam,' whose caution is well depicted; then,
foiled, he turns to Eve. His speeches, not too eager, are finely
created; and Eve's reasoning is very plausible — once convinced,
she finds ample proofs of the devil's good faith. Again, an

I explanation is inserted4 why the woman yielded when the man
resisted ; and the obvious comment that it is strange God permitted
the temptation is anticipated.5

Miracles essential to the framework of the narrative are
accepted without question6 — the Anglo-Saxon felt no strangeness
in supernatural incidents per se. It was simply in detail, where
no contradiction of his authority was involved, that his logical
and dramatic imagination tended to harmonize and complete the

, statements handled.

The capacity for imaginative vision — for mental reconstruction
of scenes and events — is naturally associated with a strong sense
of contrast. Not only is the incident itself pictured with atten-
dant detail, as already said, but a wider glance forward and back-
ward brings out the incidents future and past with which it is
connected. This tendency is related to that which, acting in a

i Ll. 17 ff. 2 LI. 135 S . 3 Gen., 176 ff. * LI. 590, 591, 649. 5 LI. 595-98.

6 Cf. Heinzel: " Nur selten warden solche Unebenheiten bemerkt und geglftttet. In der
Regel nahm sie der a.e. tJbersetzer ohrfurchtsvoll oder gedankenlos in seine Arbeit hin-
uber." — Q. und JF7., X, p. 43. The statement is true of expressed and essential incon-
sistencies, but not of those which could be remedied without violence to the original. In
the former case the Christian's reverence outweighed the native instinct for coherent
narrative.

448

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 27

narrower range, produces the frequent fluctuation of attention
from one circumstance to another, and back again, which marks !
the Anglo-Saxon style.1 The use of contrast to heighten effect is
one of the most obvious and widespread of literary artifices.
In Anglo-Saxon literature it is frequent and effective, especially
in association with the sense of tragedy already mentioned.
Emphasis is constantly placed on the gloomier of the elements
contrasted. In the Wanderer, the vision of former joys adds
poignancy to the waking sorrows of exile ; and the fate of the Sea-
farer becomes more gloomy by contrast with that of the dweller
in the town. Similarly in the scriptural poems : the former state ,
of the fallen angels is constantly recalled in the midst of descrin- '•
tions of hell,2 and Satan's first feeling in hell is that of the V0f-
trast with heaven.3 On the Day of Judgment, the wicke^feel
their tortures increased by contrast with the bliss of the righteous ;
and the same contrast points the moral to the hearer. Other
examples occur in Genesis, 11. 792 ff. ; and in the conclusion of the
Exodus, when after a picture of the Israelites rejoicing and
dividing the spoil, the poet abruptly turns again to the
Egyptians—

Werigend lagon
on dea5stede, drihtfolca msest.4

Closely connected with the feelings for tragedy and contrast
is tragic irony, which is a frequent source of fine effects in the
Anglo-Saxon scriptural poems. Its use is generally exultant and
derisive. Thus in Judith, 11. 250-80, the effect is much heightened
by a development of the irony of the situation. In the Vulgate,
three verses5 sum up the crisis: the captains send to waken Holo-
fernes; Vagaus knocks, then enters to find the headless trunk of
his lord lying on the threshold. The paraphraser, fascinated by the

i Cf. Heinzel, Q. und F., X, pp. 10, 11.
J 2 Qen.^ 11. 320 ff., 367, 368, 419. 3 Gen., 11. 356 ff. ; Fallen Angels, 11. 141 ff.

* Exodus, 1. 588. The examples given illustrate what might be termed pictorial con-
trast, presenting two scenes side by side. The use of antithesis, which might seem related
to this, is ascribed by Heinzel to Latin influences (Q. und F., X, p. 46). Anglo-Saxon
sensitiveness to contrast may have assisted the introduction of the rhetorical figure. An
extraordinary example, where the antithesis is emphasized both by alliteration and rhyme,
occurs in Christ, 11. 590-94.

& 14: 13-15.

449

28 AETHUK R. SKEMP

grim dramatic power of the situation, lingers over it for thirty-one
lines. The followers even fear to arouse their leader, when within
the tent he is lying dead —

nees Seah eorla nan
pe pone wijjend aweccan dorste.1

In Genesis the fate of Lot's foes is anticipated in the midst of
their triumph with the same exulting mockery.

\flettend laeddon
ut mid sehtum Abrahames mse^
of Sodoma byrig. We pset soS majon
sec^an fur9ur, hwelc siQSan wearS
sefter paem gehnseste herewulfa si3,
para Pe laeddon Loth and leoda god,
suSmonna sine, sigore julpon.2

In 11. 2065-67, the irony is retrospective—

and feonda feorh feollon 5icce,
peer hlihende huSe feredon
secjas and gesi53as.

So also in Exodus, 11. 204-7. Akin to this spirit is the fierce
humor of the "ransom"-— not gold, but death and destruction —
paid for Lot by Abraham.3

So far an attempt has been made to indicate the modification
of scriptural story and motive by the elaboration of congenial
passages, the addition of detail native in character, the vivid
dramatic realization, characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon story-
teller, of scene and event. These influences, we have seen, pro-
duced variations from, and developments of, the original, which,
though individually slight, gain importance by their agreement,
^nd in the aggregate distinctly modify the character of the

v material 3-The predominance of certain emotions, the special sen-
sibility to certain aspects of nature and of life, the general
character of the Anglo-Saxon imagination in comparison with the
Hebraic and the early Christian, are potent forces ; but from their

J very nature they are vague and elusive^ We turn now to consider^
the influence of the Anglo-Saxon form of society, and of the ideals

i Judith, 11. 257, 258. 2 Gen., 11. 2011 ff. 3 Ibid., 11. 2069-72.

450

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 29

and motives associated with it, upon the conceptions of the Scrip-
tures. Here, though exact statement and authoritative inference
are still impossible, the material for comparison is less uncertain.
Of course, national^ character retains its importance here also as
an ultimate source of difference ; but it is crystallized in a social
organization changing only very slowly, and in well-marked ideals
and motives. The tendencies here native can be defined with a
nearer approach to accuracy ; and although the conceptions, ideals,
and motives presented by the scriptural originals differ widely
within those originals themselves, they can be roughly grouped in
broad contrasts with their Anglo-Saxon equivalents. Thanks to
this possibility of approximately determining the forces in opera-
tion, the effect of their resultant may be suggested with more con-
fidence, though still without any assumption of certainty.

The dominant motives and ideals of Anglo-Saxon society have
already been sketched. They are those of the warrior, developed
by the special form taken by his relations with his comrades and
his lord. It was with these motives and ideals that the Anglo-
Saxon poets approached scriptural originals; with these they
endowed the persons of the stories to be told. This unconscious
reconstruction of the conception of individuals was helped by the
tradition of poetic subject. Anglo-Saxon poetry, like early Teu-
tonic poetry generally,1 centered around the deeds of heroes, to
whom the other figures are subordinated ; and it was from this f
standpoint that the persons and incidents of the scriptural stories)
were regarded. ^Prophet, patriarch, and apostle were thus con- \
ceived with the attributes of the Teutonic warrior, and their deeds
were celebrated in the familiar heroic spirirv Wherever the
original gives a hint of warlike action, it is seized, elaborated,'^
and given Teutonic character in the paraphrase. The account of
Chedorlaomer's ("OrZa/iomar's") invasion2 is transformed by the '
feeling for war which later produced the poems on Brunanburh
and Maldon. The Vulgate gives the bare outline, which is filled
in by the Anglo-Saxon poet with detail thoroughly characteristic. *

1 "Als vornehmster Typus, als Quintessenz gleichsam aller altgermanischen Typen, tritt
der Mann als Held auf, entweder KOnig oder Einzelkampfer." — Meyer, Altgerm. Poesie^
p. 36. " Der Held kann nicht anders gedacht werden als im Kampf " (ibid., p. 39).

2 Gen., 11. 1960 if. 3 75 id., 11. 1982 ff.

451

30 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

Foron Pa tosomne (francan waeron hlude)
wra3e wselherijas; sang se wanna fujel
under deoreSsceaftum, deawi^feSera
>- hrses on wenan.1

v The bravery of the warriors, and their eagerness for battle, are
I emphasized as usual:

HaeleS onetton
on msejencorSrum modum Prydje.2

Similarly the battle phrases of 11. 1989-95, the compact picture of
the ravished maidens and their slaughtered protectors, 11. 1969-72;
, in fact, all the details of the description, express the Anglo-Saxon
feeling for war. The same fascination is very clearly seen in
Judith and in the opening of the Elene. In other cases the cir-
cumstances preceding battle furnish the welcome opportunity.
The finest example in the scriptural poems occurs in Exodus,
11. 154-99. A short extract may serve as illustration.

.... hie ^esawon of suchvejum
fyrd Faraonis for9 on^an^an,
oferholt we^an, eored lixan,
(jaras trymedon, 5u5 hwearfode,
blicon bordhreoSan, byman sunjon)
Jmfas Punian, peod mearc tredan.3

Then, as already noticed, the description passes to the wolf lurk-
ing, and the war fowl hovering in joyful expectation of their prey.
Another fine specimen occurs in Elene, 11. 22S-65.4

The Exodus paraphrase strikingly illustrates another point of
great interest. The way in which Pharaoh's army is levied is
very much taken for granted in the Vulgate : 5

Tulitque sexcentos currus electos, et quidquid in Aegypto curruum
fuit, et duces totius exercitus.6

1 The carrion-birds, those grim war fowl so familiar in Anglo-Saxon poetry, appear
again in 11. 2087-89, 2158-60; and in the other scriptural poems; for example, Judith, 205-12,
296, 297 ; Exodus, 161, 168.

2 Gen., 11. 1985, 1986. 3 Exodus, 11. 155 ff .

4 The very similar description in Judith (11. 199 ff.) leads directly to an equally spirited
account of the battle itself.

5 Ex. 14:7.

6 The "2,000 chosen warriors" of the Anglo-Saxon appear to correspond to the "600 chosen
chariots " of the Vulgate. No numbers are definitely stated elsewhere in either. If this be
so, the exaggeration in the Anglo-Saxon account, like the emphasis on the disparity in num-

• bers between Abraham's followers and their opponents (Genesis, 11. 2092-95 — a pure inser-
tion) , seems to mark a tendency in the Anglo-Saxon to make the most of the heroic action
provided.

452

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 31

In the paraphrase, the actual Anglo-Saxon method is applied.
The king calls out his thanes and ealdormen, and they bring with
them their followers:

Hsefde him alesen leoda

tireadi^ra twa Pusendo,

pset wseron cyninjas and cneowmagas

011 pset eade riht se9elum deore;

for5on anra ^ehwilc ut alsedde

waepnedcynnes wi^an seghwilcne

para pe he on 9am fyrste findan mihte.1

Even when the outline of the story gives no opportunity for the
description of actual combat, or even of warlike preparations, its
personages are often conceived as warriors. Thus, though Moses
is described as rices hyrde? werodes wisa? the other aspect
appears within half-a-dozen lines:

Ahleop Pa for hseleQum hildecalla,
bald beohata, bord up ahof .4

The patriarchs are described in phrases familiar in application to
warrior-chiefs; for example:

.... [wurdon] bearn af eded
f reolicu tu and Pa frum^aran
hseleS higerofe hatene waeron
Abraham and Aaron.5

Frum$ara, freolic bearn, heeled hi$erof, ma$orceswa, ma^orinc
and variants of these phrases occur repeatedly. Still more strik-
ing is the phraseology used to describe the apostles.6

Wisdom in council, also an attribute of the ideal leader,7 is
attributed to the leaders of the scriptural stories in such phrases
as folces wisa? aldordema, weardwisa.9 The leader assumes the
aspect not only of head of the family or tribe, but of the warrior-
king. Abimelech, described in the Vulgate simply as rex
Gerarae™ is called aedelinga helm,n gumena baldor,™ sinces
brytta™ and his servin become

1 Exodus, 11. 183 if. « See pp. 41, 42. n Gen., 1. 2721.

2 Ibid., 1. 256. 7 Cf . Tacitus, Germania, xi. 12 Ibid., 1. 2693.

3 Ibid., 1. 258. 8 Gen., 1. 1198. ™ Ibid., 1. 2726.
*Ibid., 11. 252 f. vibid., 1. 1156. " Vulgate, Gen. 20 : 8.
5 Gen., 11. 1707 if . w Gen. 20 : 2. is Gen, 1. 2703.

453

32 ARTHUK R. SKEMP

The patriarchs also are described in phrases expressing the
Teutonic conception of the chiefs function. Liberality, in that
conception, was one of the most essential virtues of a leader.
Gifts were the reward of the brave warrior.1 This ideal colors
the description of Abimelech in the phrase already noted (sinces
brytta, Gen., 1. 2726) ; and the accounts of the patriarchs—

Lon^e si58an

geared gumum gold brittade:
se eorl wses se5ele, sefsest hsele9
and se frum^ar his freomajum leof.2

geomor si93an

feeder flett^esteald freondum dselde
swsesum and jesibbum sunu Iafe9es.3

Chus wses seSelum heafodwisa
wilna brytta and worulddujeSa
bro5ram sinum.4

So also in Daniel, 11. 672-77.

Another very characteristic transformation is that of the
account of Abraham's little council of war. The Vulgate5 simply
says: "hi enim pepigerant foedus cum Abram." In the para-
phrase the description is that of a chief consulting with his fel-
lows, and its spirit is quite Teutonic:6 —

Pa pset inwitspell Abraham ssegde
freondum sinum; bsed him fultumes
wserfsest hsele5 willjeSoftan.7

.... bsed him prsecrofe,
Pa rincas paes raed ahicjan,
Pset his hyldemseg ahred wurde
beorn mid bryde. Him pa broSor pry
set sprsece psere spedum midum
hseldon hygesorge heardum wordum,
ellenrofe and Abrahame
treowa sealdon, pset hie his torn mid him
^ewrsecon on wra3um, 08 Se on wsel feallan.8

i"Exigunt enim a principis sui liberalitate ilium bellatorem equum, illam cmentam
victricemque f rameam ; nam epulae .... pro stipendio cedunt."— Tacitus, Germania, xiv.
The point is constantly illustrated in the AS. secular poetry — in Beowulf especially ; the
Wanderer, the Fight at Maldon, etc.

2 Gen., 11. 1180 ff. 3/6id.,ll. 1610 ff. < Ibid., 11. 1619 ff. 5Gen. 14:13.

6 Cf. Tacitus, Germania, xi. ? Gen., 11. 2024 ff. 8 ibid., 11. 2030 ff.

454'

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 33

«— •*•
The persons of the Old Testament stories are thus endowed

with the qualities of the Anglo-Saxon warrior or king. In some
cases the original gives hints which harmonize with such develop-
ment; but in others, as in the accounts of the patriarchs quoted
on p. 32-, the additions have absolutely no foundation in the
Vulgate. The genealogical catalogue of the patriarchs scarcely
varies in phrase: "vixit .... annis, et genuit . . . ."* The
Anglo-Saxon poet, with his instinct for detail, could not be satis-
fied with such bald statement, and added the phrases proper to an
enumeration of his own warrior-kings. In the original there was
no immediate suggestion of the character of the bond between the
head of the tribe and its members; and these phrases must be
regarded as indicating the application of the Anglo-Saxon con-
ception in all unconsciousness — the simple realization of the
scriptural story through native ideals and motives.

In the poetry of a newly accepted religion, it is natural that
special interest should attach to conceptions of the divine powers
and of their relationship to man. The idea of a struggle between * /
jcrnorlariH evil ^yji]itiearwTiifth runs through so many religions and
mythologies, found widely varying expressions in the composite
literature of Christianity. The Talmudic legend of the fall of
the angels, taken over by the early Christian Fathers, supposes
an actual combat between the rebel angels and God ; and the
fall of man is a later incident in the same struggle. Man, as
a creature of God, becomes an object of attack for the enemies

of God.

"1^

The life and teaching of Christ gave a new character to the \

conflict of the forces of good and evil. Spiritual struggle replaces \^
physical combat. The present life is regarded as a preparation I
for a higher; and devotion to the needs of that higher life ]
becomes the first duty. Meek endurance thus transcends physical^
courage.

Early Latin Christianity absorbed both conceptions, preserving
the one in symbolism fropi warf arqf frfaq 9frer in emphasis on the
ascetic virtues. A similar contrast exists between the conceptions
of God in the Old Testament and the New.2 Again, early Latin

i Gen., chap. 5. 2 Cf. pp. 13, 14.

455

ARTHUK R. SKEMP

Christianity absorbed both.1 y^6 two elements could not, how-

ever, become perfectly fusedj^and in the selective process inevitable
in adaptation to a new type of character, these conceptions could
be transformed by a change in the proportion of their elements.
The tendencies of the Anglo-Saxon transformation have already
been indicated. Any conception of a deity must consist more or
less in a summation and symbolic presentation of ideals.2 ^?he
object of worship must embody the qualities most valued by
the worshiper^ In the case of the Anglo-Saxon these were
the qualities of the warrior and the leader. The Hebraic Yahweh
possessed congenial elements; he was Lord of hosts, God of bat-
ties, the Lord mighty in battle, and so on. The Anglo-Saxon
Christian made these elements more personal, conceiving God not
only as ruling in battle, but as actually fighting with his own
hands.3 ^'Further, the conception took Teutonic coloring, and was
applied also to New Testament material, so that Christ, as well as
the Father, was represented as a warrior goi. Side by side with
native phrases, conventional Christian titles are transcribed : * God
is the feeder, godspedig gast, drihten, frea cdmihtig, etc. ; Christ
is nergend, haelend, etc. ; but the invented detail — the material
which really marks the vital element in realization of ideas —
represents the Deity, in personal attributes, as a Teutonic warrior. «
The account of the expulsion from heaven of the rebel angels may
serve as an example:

iThe Fathers, of course, modified and developed the early conceptions, and added
others ; but their influence, as distinct from that of the Scriptures, was less important for the
poetry, where details of doctrine do not matter very much, than for the homilies.

2Cf. Meyer, Altgerm. Poesie, chap, ii, §§ 2 (section i) and 3 for illustration of this point
from the characters of the old Teutonic pagan gods. The new conception was influenced less
by persistence of the old beliefs than by application, to the ideas offered by Christianity, of
the methods and the attitude of thought which had produced those old beliefs.

3 The scriptural phrases making God a "man of war" are almost always softened by
additions clearly differentiating him from the human warrior.

* A passage from Cynewulf 's Christ may be quoted to illustrate the mingling of Christian
titles with those expressing native ideas applied to the Deity :

. . . . " Se bre^a msera to Bethania

peoden prymfsest his pe^na ^edryht

jelafiade, leof weorud. Hy pses lareowes

on bam wildseje word ne jehyrwdon

hyra sinc^iefan : sona wseron jearwe

heeleO mid hlaford to paere hal^an byrj,

peer him tacna fela tires brytta

onwrah wuldres helm wordjerynum

eerpon upsti^e ancenned suim,

efenece beam ajnum feeder. "— Christ, 11. 456 ff .

456

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 35

Him seo wen ^eleah, si58an waldend his,
heofona heahcininj honda arserde /
hehste wi5 pam herge. Ne mihton hy Release
msene wi9 metode maegyn bryttijan,
ac him se maera mod getwsefde
baelc forbade Pa he ^eboljen wear 3,
besloh synsceapan si^ore and ^ewalde.1

.... Hsefde styrne mod
•je^remed ^rymme, grap on wra9e
faum folmum and him on faeSm jebraec
yr on mode.2

Similar phrases forecast the Flood: —

.... He [God] Pset unfee^ere
wera cneorissum gewrecan pohte
forgripan gumcynne ^rimme and sare
heardum mihtum.3

Christ is still more distinctly conceived as a warrior. Here the
original material contained much less explicit indication of such
a conception, and, indeed, in many ways definitely contravened it ;
but the idea of Christ as the Redeemer who released man from the
powers of hell especially lent itself to such a transformation.
Perhaps the most striking example is the Exeter Book fragment
on the Descent into Hell, from which a few lines may be quoted:

Wolde heofona helm helle weallas
forbrecan and forbyjan, psere burje prym
onjinnan reafian, repust ealra cyninja.
Ne rohte he to psere hilde helmberendra
ne he byrnwi^end to Pam burjjeatum
laedan ne wolde.*

The same incident is treated with similar spirit in Cynewulf s
Christ:

Nu sind forcumene and in cwicsusle

gehynde and gehsefte in helle jrund

dujupum bidseled deofla cempan:

i Genesis, 11. 49 if. 2 ibid., 11. 60 ff . 3 ibid., 11. 1273 ff.

*Gr.-WM Vol. Ill, no. 14, 11. 34 ff. The lines describing the Resurrection may perhaps
be added :

" . . . . hajosteald onwoc
modi 3 from moldan, meejonbrym aras
ei^efaest and snottor .... " — LI. 'i\ f.

457

36 AKTHUR R. SKEMP

ne meahtan wiperbrojan wije spowan
wsepna wyrpum, sippan wuldres cyninj
heofonrices helm hilde ^efremede
wip his ealdfeondum anes meahtum,
Peer he of hsefte ahlod hupa maeste,
of feonda byri^ folces unrim.1

Again in the Exeter Book Descent into Hell, the description is
exactly that of an invasion of hostile territory, to rescue the cap-
tives from the "camp of the foes."2 Christ's speech is that of a
victorious leader, not without a touch of gielp. The Teutonic
spirit is very distinct also in the '"CaBdmonian" Temptation of
Christ, in savage triumphant mockery of the conquered foe:

Ah ic Pe hate purh Pa hehstan miht,

peet 8u hellwarum hyht ne abeode,

ah pu him sec^an miht sorga mseste

Pset 9u ^emettes meotod alwihta3

Wast Pu Ponne pe ^eornor, Pset Pu wid jod wunne.4

The point first to be recognized, then, in the Anglo-Saxon
transformation of the conception of the Deity, is the emphasis on
the individual character of Grod as a warrior. This conception, of
course, was familiar in the case of the pagan gods. ^Christianity,
however, suggested a new relationship between divine powers and
humanity^) The Teutonic pagan gods occupied a sphere distinct
on the whole from man's; they came into contact with human
kind at certain times and under certain conditions, but without
any suggestion of the intimate relationship, eternal and unchan-
ging, between the Christian God and man. Vfhe Anglo-Saxon
adopted this idea of close connection ; but he gave it very charac-
teristic coloring"^ The Father of the New Testament, the tribal
god of the Old, became in Anglo-Saxon poetry the great leader
and lord to whom all men owe loyalty. Even the phrases derived
from his lordship over the angels "Become more specifically those
of the chief:5 engla ordfruma* brego engla.1 But his lordship —

1 Ll. 561 ff.

2 Wradra wic, Christ, 1. 1535 ; cf . 11. 568, 569, quoted above.

3 Junian MS, Temptation, Gr.-W., Vol. II, no. 20, 11. 30 ff. *Ibid., 1. 41.

5 Of course, conventional Christian titles are also used — cf . p. 34.

6 Fallen Angels, 1. 21 ; Fates of the Apostles, 1. 28.

7 Genesis, 11. 181, 976, 1008.

458

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 37

still with Teutonic character — extends to all mankind: helm
alwihta,1 blid-heort cynin^, metod alwihta? Similarly, Christ is
cedelin-%? cedelin$a ore?,4 bre%a mcera* lieahen^la bre$o* The dis-
ciples especially are his pe^nas,1 his leofe ^esipas? and in the
Exeter Book Descent* Christ is John's mce%; but Christ is also
lord and leader of all men — wi^endra hleo™ helm ealuoihta,11 eorla
ead$iefa.1'2

It is, then, the warrior-element in conceptions of God and of
Christ, both as individuals and in relation to mankind, which is
emphasized. Universal mercy and tenderness were not qualities
appreciated by the Teutonic races. So God, as represented in
Anglo-Saxon poetry, though kind and generous to his followers,
is cruel and terrible — as in the Old Testament — to his foes; and
Christ, almost denuded of the qualities attributed to him in the
gospels, shares this character, differing from the Father chiefly
in his closer connection with man — his more active part, if such
a phrase may be used, in the world-struggle.

The early Christian conception of Satan, on the other hand,
needed little modification in outline to harmonize with Anglo-
Saxon motives. Grimm has pointed out13 the special importance,
in the Latin Fathers, of "names denoting a hostile being, resisting
God and persecuting men" — antiquus hostis, persequutor anti-
qims, callidus hostis, etc. — and that this idea preserved its
prominence in Teutonic names for the devil. Moreover, by the
time of the Fathers, there had arisen

the doctrine of a satanic empire in rivalry with the celestial . . . . : the
evil spirits may be the weaker side and suffer defeat, but they go about
enlisting wicked men, and seek thereby to replenish their host.14

This doctrine also was thoroughly congenial to the Anglo-Saxon,
as is shown by the frequency with which it is treated in the
poetry. There was consequently no necessity for the conception

i Genesis, 11. 978, 1290. 2 ibid., 11. 192, 193.

3 E. g., Ex. Book, Descent, 11. 3, 5 ; and repeatedly in Christ and Andreas.
* Christ, 11. 515, 846. ? Ibid., 11. 470, 497, 541. 10 Christ, 1. 409.

5J6id., 1.456. »Ibid., 1.473. n Ibid., 1. 410.

f-Ibid., 1. 403. 9 LI. 55^, 57. 12 Ibid., 1. 546.

13 Grimm, Teut. Mythology, Vol. Ill, pp. 989, 990.
L, p. 985.

459

38 AKTHUB R. SKEMP

of the devil to be modified by a process complementary to that
I which attributes ideal qualities to God and Christ. The original
represents the devil as breaking his faith with God ; and the Anglo-
Saxon adds no further hated sins — he is not characterized by
•< cowardice, illiberality, or tyranny over followers. The patristic
conception is eagerly accepted; Satan is the opponent of good
rather than the representative of evil — godes andsaca is one of
the phrases most frequently applied to him.1 Satan is a thane, s
owing duty to God, his overlord; from pride he rebels, and with
his followers endures the punishment of faithlessness:

Lagon pa o5re f ynd on pam fyre, pe aer swa feala hsefdon J
gewinnes wi5 heora waldend: wite poliad2

.... forpon hie pegnscipe
godes forgymdon.3

Even in hell, se ofermoda cynin%* remains a leader;5 and the fiends
are his thanes.6 A passage from Genesis B may be quoted to
illustrate how literally they are conceived as warriors:

Angan hine Pa gyrwan godes andsaca,

fus on fraetwum, hsefde facne hyge,

hseleQhelm on heafod asette and Pone ful hearde geband,

speonn mid spangum.7

Similarly in Christ, the fiends are deofla cempan and fight hand
to hand with Christ.8 In Andreas the devils address the arch-
fiend as eorla leofast;* they are his rincas, lind^esteallan^ and he
bids them attack the saint with spear and arrow.11

The same predominating motives and ideals that cause the ready
seizure and development of the warrior- aspects of God and the
angels, Satan and the devils, color some descriptions of heaven and
hell. Heaven is cynestola cyst, Cristes bur$lond, en^la epelstol*
guarded by a micel mce^enprym;™ peodnes pryd^esteal and his

1 E. g., Fallen Angels, 11. 191, 269, 280, 340 ; Genesis, 11. 321, 442 ; Temptation of Christ, 1. 54
The same phrase is used of Pharaoh, Exodus, 1. 502 — they alike "fought against God."

2 Genesis, 11. 322 f . 3 L. 326. < Ibid., 1. 338.
5 Fallen Angels, 1. 323, "aldor;" Juliana, 1. 544, "helwarena cynin$."

6 Fallen Angels, 1. 326. 7 LI. 442 ff.

8 LI. 561 ff ., quoted on pp. 35, 36. « L. 1352. w LI. 1343, 1344.

11 Cf. pp. 1330 f., quoted on p. 42. 12 Christ, 11. 51, 52 13 Cf. ibid., 1. 1007

460

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 39

pe$nun%a,1 where Christ's warriors feast, rewarded by treasure.2
These terms are native parallels to, not mere paraphrases for, the
conventional Christian City of God and of the LambvtheNew
Jerusalem where glory and bliss await the blessed; and t^
changes, though generally slight, bring in some flavor of the
northern ideals.3 Hell, on the other hand, presents two aspects.
In the first place it is the home of Satan and his followers, feonda
byri$,* wradra wic? Here the joys of feast and gift are no longer
known ; when Heliseus and his followers die and go to hell.

Ne porftan pa Pejnas in pam Systran ham
seo jeneatscolu in Pam neolan scraefe
to Pam frumgare feohjestealda
witedra wenan, pset hy in winsele
ofer beorsetle bea^as Pe^on,
sepplede

This ironic negation does not convey the full force of the other
aspect. Hell is the career,1 witehus? morperhusa mcest? to which
God consigns his foes. Here Teutonic detail is sometimes added,10
but the outline and general coloring of the conception is preserved
unchanged.

<CThe Anglo-Saxon tendency, then, is to dwell especially on the
heroic element in the theory of the universe and of life presented
by Latin Christianity^ When this element dominates the origi-
nal, the modifications in the Anglo-Saxon parallel are merely
those produced by transcription into the terms of Anglo-Saxon
heroic poetry. The spirit is the same, but the conceptions it
inspires vary through differences in time and place. When the
heroic element is quite subordinate in the original, the changes
caused by the Anglo-Saxon instinct for heroic motives are more
considerable. Whenever possible the literal aspect of the strug-
gle between good and evil is presented. The war stirred up by
Satan's rebellion remains physical so long as it is sufficiently

i Christ, 1. 354. 2 ib id., 11. 550-57 ; 1635, 1636.

3 It is noteworthy, in passing, that though there is feasting in heaven, the drinking
which was so prominent a feature of Teutonic feasts is never mentioned. The omission
illustrates the AS. sense of propriety in religious ideas, noted by Heinzel, Q. und .F.,X, p. 44.

* Christ, 1. 569 ; Juliana, 1. 545. 5 Ibid., 1. 1535. 6 Juliana, 11. 683 ff .

7 Christ,l. 334. 8 J6id., 1. 1534. * Ibid., 1. 1623. lOCf. p. 8.

461

40 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

remote. Thus the aim of the rebellion in heaven is stated in the

Fallen Angels :

We woldon swa

drihten adrifan of pam deoran ham
cynin^ of cestre.1

When Satan, plotting revenge after his downfall, takes council
with his thanes, he says: "On^innaS nu ymb pafyrde pencean."2
In the temptation of Adam and Eve strategy replaces force. Even
here, however, Adam is pictured as a warrior, given a trust by his
leader; he suspects treachery, and refuses to disobey his original
orders without proof of his lord's command.3 The idea of physi-
cal combat breaks through again in the third great group of inci-
dents in the struggle — those connected with Christ. Here the
Anglo-Saxon heroic tendencies find much less warrant in the origi-
nal stories. The transformation of the conception of Christ has
already been noticed. His descent into hell (v. s.) becomes the
hero's daring expedition to rescue the followers who cry to him
for help. The account of the Ascension* has the tone of the tri-
umphant return from war of the successful king. At the Day of
Judgment the struggle ends with God's final victory, the reward
of his followers and the punishment of his foes.

I>onne herja fruma
sepelinja ord eallum deme5
leofum 56 Ia3um lean eefter ryhte,
peodum ^ehwylcre.5

Until this final triumph, however, the warfare originated by
Satan's rebellion remains the central occupation of universal
existence. The nature of the part to be played by man is very
clear from the Christ. He is bound to fight for God, and wrong-
doing is branded with the stigma of faithlessness.6 The ethical
significance of the struggle is sometimes lost to sight. The duty
of the Christian is to fight for God — not for abstract righteous-
ness— because God is his chief, who has already shown him good-*'
ness, and who will further reward him if faithful. This distinc-
tion gains significance when it is remembered that Teutonic wars

i Fallen Angels, 11. 256 f . 2 Gen., 1. 408. 3 ibid., 11. 535 ff .

* Christ, 11. 547-81. 5 Ibid., 11. 845 ff.

6 Thus in Christ, 1. 1614, the wicked are called wcerleasra weorud; and the disobedience
of Adam and Eve becomes almost deliberate treachery, 11. 1393-96.

462

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 41

were less between nations than between the followers of rival
chiefs.1 Loyalty to the lord is the cardinal virtue in Anglo-
Saxon Christianity as in the paganism it replaced; and the rela-
tionship between lord and follower, in a warrior-society, gives the
key to the Anglo-Saxon transformation of the fundamental con-
ceptions of Latin Christianity.

Man was bound to fight for God. Putting aside the most
obvious and congenial kind of religious warfare — that of Oswald
and Oswin against Penda — it seems difficult for the literal com-
bat, so unerringly singled out when remoteness made it possible,
to be applied to the everyday life of man. In the practical appli-
cation of religion, the Anglo-Saxon was inevitably brought down
to the struggle between good and evil within himself, to which
the actual teaching of Christ was directed. Still, the idea of
physical combat was retained whenever possible; and the lives of
the apostles and saints, falling between the superhuman world of
the Christ-stories and the conditions of actual life, gave an oppor-
tunity for the development of the heroic element.2 Thus phrases
absolutely heroic are applied to the apostles and saints:

Hwaet ! we gef runan on f yrndagum
twelfe under tunglum tireadi^e hseleS
peodnes pejnas: no hira prym alaeg
campraedenne, ponne cumbol hneotan,
sy95an hie ^edseldon, swa him dryhten sylf,
heofona heahcynin^ hlyt ^etsehte.
pset weeron meere men ofer eor9an,
frome folctogan and fyrdhwate,
rofe rincas, ponne rond and hand
on herefelda helm ealjodon
on meotudwange.3

Again, the "Fates of the Apostles" tells

hu Pa aeSelin^as ellen cySdon,
torhte and tireadije. Twelfe waeron

iCf. Meyer, Altgerm. Poesie, p. 52.

2 It seems probable, as suggested on p. 6, that the choice of these subjects, and the
method in which they are treated, show deliberate inclination to the ideals and conceptions
most generally familiar.

3 Andreas, 11. 1 ff. Professor Toller has illustrated this point in a very striking way by
quoting, after these verses, passages in which the same terms are used in connections
thoroughly heroic. Vide his History of the English Language, pp. 112-16.

463

42 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

dsedum domfaeste, dryhtne gecorene
leofe on life. Lof wide sprang
mint and maerQo ofer middan^eard
peodnes Pe^na, prym unlytel.1

Similar phrases occur repeatedly in Andreas, the Fates of the
Apostles, and the latter part of Guthlac.

In the preservation of the heroic character of the struggle
between good and evil, one aspect of the attacks of the devil is
especially noteworthy. When the fiends come against Andreas,
the command given by their leader ^s

Lseta9 gares ord
earh attre gemael in gedufan
in f aejes f er5 ! 2

This idea of the devil shooting his arrows against the follower of
God is applied to the ordinary life of man in Christ:

.... He [God] his aras Ponan
halig of heah9u hider onsende5,
pa us jescildap wi9 sceppendra
ejlum earhfarum, pi lees unholdan
wunde gewyrcen, Ponne wrohtbora
in folc jodes for9 onsendeS
of his brsegdbojan biterne strael.
Forpon we fseste sculon wi9 Pam fserscyte
symle wserlice wearde healdan,
Py laes se attres ord in gebuje
biter bordjelac under banlocan,
feonda faersearo: Past bi9 frecne wund,
blatast benna.3

So in Beowulf:

. . . . Se weard swefeS,
sawele hyrde: bi9 se slaep to fsest
bisgum gebunden, bona swiSe neah,
se pe of flanbojan fyrenum sceote5.
ponne bi5 on hrepre under helm drepen
biteran strsele: him bebeorjon ne con
worn wunderbebodum werjan pastes.4

The context of the Beowulf passage clearly shows the nature of
the devil's darts. They are shafts of sin, leveled against the

i*Ll. 3 ff . 2 Andreas, 11. 1330 f . 3 Christ, 11. 759 ff.

* Beowulf, 11. 1741 ff. ; cf. also Christ, 11. 774, 77&-81 ; Juliana, 11. 382 ff .

464

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 43

unwary.1 It is very difficult, however, to decide to what extent
these expressions may be interpreted literally, to what extent they
must be considered figurative. Suggestions of such imagery
occur in the New Testament itself (e. g., Paul's Epistle to the
Ephesians, 6:16, where the Vulgate reads "In omnibus sumentes
scutum fidei, in quo possitis omnia tela nequissimi ignea exstin-
guere"), and Paul's phraseology is closely paralleled in the
Juliana passage. On the other hand, there can be little doubt
that the conflicts of the saints and devils, whatever symbolic value
they may ultimately possess, were taken in an entirely literal
sense in the Anglo-Saxon poems; while an idea similar to this of
the devil's shafts was literally accepted in the superstitions of
darts, maliciously shot by elves and hags, striking the victim with
sickness.2

The motives and conceptions of warfare leave their mark on the
aspects^pf Christian life least anticipated in Anglo-Saxon pagan-
ism. xThe New Testament conception of the struggle between the
higher and lower natures in man was developed in early Christi-
anity, as already said, into a doctrine of asceticism. This form
of godly life was familiar both to Celtic and Latin Christianity in
Britain, enshrined in stories of the saints, and actually illustrated
by hermit and recluse in Britain itselO Even here the favorite

iCf. wrapefirene .... synna wunde (Christ, 11. 1313, 1314) :
" [ic him}purh ear^fare in onsende
in breostsefan bitre jeponcas"— Juliana, 11. 404, 405.

2 In Guthlac Death is represented in very similar phrases :

" Dea5 nealeecte

stop staljon^um strong and hre&e,
sohte sawelhus. Com se scofeOa daej
seldum and weard, J>aes pe him injesonc
hat heortan neah hildescurum
flacor flanpracu, feorhord onleac
searocse^um jesoht." — LI. 1112 if.

This passage may be taken to support either view; prima facie it confirms the literal inter-
pretation, for Death seems conceived as an actual being, like the Norns, not as an abstrac-
tion personified. On the other hand, the passage is set among phrases which cannot
be taken metaphorically. Thus, a few lines before another passage where Death is called
wi$a wcel$ifre (11. 970-72), Guthlac's sickness is described:
" WJBS seo adl pearl .... 1. 951

.... brypen wees onjunnen,
psette Adame Eve ^ebyrmde
set fruman worulde " ; — 11. 953 ff .

while in the passage quoted above, the metaphor of the darts is followed, in 11. 1117, 1118, by
another— that of keys unlocking the life-hoard. At least the elaboration and repetition
of the idea, even if the expression must not be taken as literal, show its particular aptness
to the Anglo-Saxon mind, and illustrate the general tendency of Anglo-Saxon motives.

465

44 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

ideals are applied;1 and Guthlac is described as a warrior, while
his j self ^mortification ^ft°mea fl faffiM gf bflfVJJTO The courage pf

ia similarly trflnjafarrftri to f.hft freroift

When God sends Andreas to endure the tortures of the heathen
and the fiends,

meotud mihtum swi5 saejde his ma^ope^ne:
"Scealt pu, Andreas, ellen fremman!"2

The tendency to select, develop, and realize the elements in Latin
Christianity most capable of connection with warlike motives and
conceptions is perceptible also in the presentation of emotions in
the poetry.3 We have seen that the greatest hope of the warrior
•/ was in the glory of brave and loyal service ; his greatest fear, of
J the shame brought by faithlessness and cowardice. With these
ideals were associated the joy of the victor, savagely gloating over
the fallen enemy; and conversely, the shame of the vanquished,
quickened by the thought of the foe's triumph. The sadness of
life consisted less in physical ills than in sorrow for loss, in bitter-
ness of exile, and in the sense of powerlessness against fate.

These emotions appear clearly in the scriptural poetry.4 The

torments of hell lie not only in physical torture but in mental

anguish — in the sense of exile,5 of sorrow for lost joys,6 in impotent

i hatred and envy.7 The devil vanquished by Juliana feels the shame

he has incurred.8 At the Judgment Day, according to the Christ,

to the wicked

sar o5clife9 9

Proht, peodbealu on Freo healfa.

The first source of torment is anticipation of the fires of hell ; this
receives briefest mention of the three, and adds a touch of exile —
"awo sculon wraec winnende wczr^du dreo^an" The second is
the shame of exposure before the multitude:

ponne is him oper earfepu swa some
scyldjum to sconde, f»9et hi paer scoma maeste
dreoja9 fordone: on him dryhten gesihft
nales feara sum firenbealu Ia51ic
and feet aellbeorhte eac sceawiaS

i Cf . also pp. 41, 42. 2 Andreas, 11. 1207 f . 3 See pp. 34 if. * See also pp. 17, 18, 27, 28.
5E. g., Christ, 11. 1515, 1616-18. * Fallen Angels, 11. 184 ff. ; Genesis, 11. 365 ff. J

* ^ Genesis, 11. 368-72, 385-88, 393, 394, 433, 434, 733-37, 750-60.
« Juliana, 11. 526-30, 539-42. 9 Christ, 1. 1267.

466

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 45

heofonen^la here and haelepa beam,

ealle eor8buend and atol deofol

mircne maejencraeft, manwomma gehwone.1

The third is the bitterness of seeing the joys of the blessed:

Ponne bi9 paet pridde pearfendum sorg
cwipende cearo, Paet hy on pa claenan seo<5,
hu hi fore goddaedum jlade blissia9.3
ne bi5 him hyra yrm3u an to wite,
se para operra ead to sorgum.3

Similarly, of the three signs of the blessed with which these are
contrasted, the first is their public glorification:

An is aerest orgeate peer,

Paet hy fore leodum leohte blicap

blaede and byrhte ofer burja jesetu.4

The second — the sight of the glories of heaven — is mentioned
briefly; the third receives the chief emphasis — joy in beholding
the torments of the damned:

Donne bi5 pridde, hu on Pystra bealo
Pset gesseli^e weorud 5esih5 paet fordone
sar prowian synna to wite,
weallendne lij and wyrma slite
bitrum ceaflum, byrnendra scole:
of pam him aweaxe5 wynsum ^efea,
ponne hi paet yfel ^escoQ o9re dreojan
paet hy Purh miltse meotudes genaeson.5

Again, as the sorrows of hell include exile, the joys of heaven
include, in addition to physical rewards,6 enjoyment of the love
and the embrace of the lord,7 in the fatherland:

peer heo aefre for9 wunian moten

cestre and cynestol.8

SoSfaaste men, sunnan £elice,

faegre gefraetewod in heora feeder rice

scina9 in sceldbyrij, paer heo sceppend seolf

befaeSmeS.9

1 Christ, 11. 1273 ff. a ibid., 11. 1293 f. *Ibid., 11. 1248 if.

2 Ibid., 11. 1285 ff. * Ibid., 11. 1238 ff . 6 See pp. 38, 39.

7 Cf . the Wanderer, 11. 40, 41 :

" pinceS him on mode, pset he his mondryhten
clyppe and cysse."

8 Fallen Angels, 1. 297. 9 Ibid., 11. 307 ff .

467

46 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

In no poem where Anglo-Saxon influences alone operate, how-
ever, do the emotions represented become so thoroughly Teutonic
as in Genesis B. This distinction may be associated with the
/ attempt to give plausibility to the story,1 as characteristic of a
more mature narrative art than that of any Anglo-Saxon poet who
treated scriptural or quasi-scriptural subjects. Pride was the tra-
ditional motive for Satan's rebellion, and this is adopted with
ready comprehension.

.... Ne meahte he at his hige findan,
t>8et he jode wolde geongerdome
peodne peowian; puhte him sylfum,
pset he msegyn and crseft maran haefde
ponne se halga god habban mihte
folcgestaelna.2

Other motives stimulate this pride, and the ambition with which
it is so closely associated. He has confidence not only in himself,
but in his friends and followers:

Bigstanda9 me strange geneatas; t»a ne willa9 me set Pam stride

geswican,

hselepas heardmode: hie habba9 me to hearran gecorene
rofe rincas; mid swilcum mseg man raed gepencean
fon mid swilcum folcgesteallan; frynd synd hie mine georne
holde on hyra hygesceaftum.3

The Teutonic coloring is equally strong in Satan's feelings after
the fall. His heart swells as he thinks of his former state,4 and
he denounces the injustice of God.5 The thought of man enjoy-
ing his lost glories galls him above all,6 and revenge alone can

bring him ease.

Si85an ic me sefte mseg
restan on Pyssum racentum, gif him pset rice Iosa9.7

Equally characteristic is Satan's appeal to his thanes; he recalls
the gifts he gave them in happier times, and promises as a reward
to the successful volunteer

him bi8 lean gearo . . . . 8
Sittan leete ic hine wiS me sylfne.9

1 See p. 26. * Ibid., 11. 353, 354. 7 ibid., 11. 433 f .

2 Gen., 11. 266 ff. » Ibid., 11. 360, 391-93. 8 ibid., 1. 435.

3 Ibid., 11. 284 ff. 6 LI. 364-70, 385-89. 9 L. 438.

468

TRANSFORMATION OF SCRIPTURE IN ANGLO-SAXON POETRY 47

The thane who undertakes the temptation recurs to Satan's feelings
of savage jealousy to man,1 and exults in the blow struck through
him against God. His whole speech after his success throbs with
joy in revenge and in anticipation of his lord's approval:

Hloh Pa and ple^ode
boda bitre jehugod, ssegde bejra pane
hearran sinum: "Nu haebbe ic pine hyldo me
witode geworhte and pinne willan gelaest . . . .2

.... Mseg Pin mod wesan
bliSe on breostum; forpon her synt butu gedon,
ge Pset haele5a beam heofonrices sculon,
leode forlsetan and on peet li^ to pe
hate hweorfan: eac is hearm jode,
modsorj jemacod . . . . 3

.... Forpon is min mod jehseled,

hyge ymb heortan ^erume: ealle synt uncre hearmas jewrecene,
Ia5es Paet wit lan^e poledon."4

To recur, however, to the passages quoted from Cynewulf's
Christ and the Fallen Angels:* it has been noted that the rewards
and punishments offered by Christianity are transformed so that
they appeal to Anglo-Saxon emotional ideals as well as physical
(v. s.) The appeal of the contrast between them is directed
especially to the sense, so deep in the Anglo-Saxon mind, of the
transitory nature of life:

her bi9 feoh Isene, her bi5 freond Isene,
her bi9 mon Isene, her bi5 maej Isene:
eal Pis eorpan gesteal idel weorpe3!6

To a mind with this consciousness, the fervor of earth-contempt
expressed in the Christ was no difficult development ; and even in
less extreme cases, there appears instinctive attraction to the

Christian inference :

Wei bi9 Pam pe him are sece9,

frofre to feeder on heofonum, peer us eal
faestnunj stonde9!7

Beowulf's "Wyrce se f>e mote domes ser deaoV' still lives in the
Christian poems,8 though in the latter the glory to be sought is

i Ll. 733-36 ; 749, 750. 2 Gen., 11. 724 ff . » LI. 750 ff . * LI. 758 ff.

6 See pp. 44, 45. 6 Wanderer, 11. 108 ff. ? Ibid., 11. 114 f.

8 Thus Gods bids Andreas "ices a domes jeorn" (Andr., 1. 959). Appreciation of glory is
shown also in Daniel (11. 455-59), where the "children" gain glory and renown, instead of
merely being promoted, as in the Vulgate (Daniel 3: 97).

469

48 ARTHUR R. SKEMP

that of loyalty to God;1 Teutonic wisdom still rules, though it also
lies in the service of God, and in the sacrifice of the brief joys of
sin for the eternal bliss of heaven.2 The ideal of faithfulness is
strengthened by common-sense, for the ultimate issue of the
struggle is certain. In all the scriptural poems, it is emphasized
that God's side always wins — his foes inevitably suffer.3 In
Exodus the destruction of the Egyptians is explained — "hie wi3
god wunnon."4 The same reason accounts for the fall of Satan —
"he wann wi5 heofnes waldend."5 Abraham prospers because the
Lord favors him,6 and wins the battle against Lot's foes: "him on
fultum ^rap heofonrices weard."7 So in Daniel, the Jews prosper
while they deserve God's favor,8 but incur disaster through choos-
ing deofles crceft.

The moral of the poems is thus plain, however difficult it may
be to decide to what extent its deliberate inculcation was mingled
with other aims. And, though the varying motives with which
subjects from the literature of Christianity were treated must be
resigned to theories confessedly hazardous, the effect of that treat-
ment, in general tendencies at least, is plainly to be traced. It is
too much to hope altogether to have escaped exaggerated state-
ment and over-eager inference. The general conclusions, how-
ever, depend on no single detail, and historical circumstances, so
far as they are known, confirm and explain the tendencies noticed
in the poetry itself, in the transformation of the stories, motives, ;
and conceptions introduced by Christianity.

ARTHUR R. SKEMP

UNIVERSITY OF MANCHESTER
1904

i Cf. Christ, 11. 1577-89.

2Cf. Ibid., 11. 1293-96, 1315-25; Seafarer, 11. 72-80.

3 It is interesting here to contrast the Christian God with the Teutonic pagan gods.
Grimm remarks : " It is to my mind a fundamental feature of polytheism that the good
and beneficent principle in the Divine preponderates : only some isolated deities, subordi-
nate to the whole, incline to the evil and hurtful, like the Norse Loki." — Teut. MythoL,
Vol. Ill, p. 984. Yet though the good powers predominate, individually they are always
fallible — little removed from the heroes — especially subject to temptation and malice.
The God of Christianity, on the other hand, is almighty, and the very existence of his
opponents is allowed only to heighten the glory of his followers. (Cf. Gotfred of Viterbo,
quoted by Grimm, Vol. Ill, p. 986.)

* L. 514. 5 Gen., 1. 303 ; cf. also 11. 77, 345, 346 ; Christ, 1. 1525. e Gen., 11. 1945-51.

7 Ibid., 11. 2572, 2573 ; cf . 11. 2057-59. 8 LI. 7 ff., especially 11. 15, 16.

470

THE SOURCE AND COMPOSITION OF ILLE ET

GALERON

The student of mediaeval literature interested in the develop-
ment of the legend of the husband with two wives is forced to
take a decided attitude with reference to the source and structure
of Gautier d' Arras' poem on the adventures of Ille and Galeron,
which represents an important member in the group of stories in
which this legend is related. In his edition of this poem,1 Forster
formulates, on p. xxii, his conclusions with reference to this point
as follows: "unser Gedicht ist . . . . nichts anders als die im
Sinne einer idealen Liebesauffassung streng durchkorrigierte
Ueber- oder besser Umarbeitung des Lai von Eliduc. He hesi-
tates between the version of this lay rimed by Marie de France,
"oder einer einfacheren, vielleicht ungeschriebenen Fassung"
(p. xxiii), since he believes that the two episodes of the ship-
wreck (11. 815-68) and the resuscitation by means of a marvelous
herb (11. 1032-66) in Marie's poem are later additions to the
story "welche mit dem Stoffe des Eliduc in keiner ursachlichen
Beziehung stehen." This thesis he then tries to fortify by means
of a detailed comparison of the two poems.

This conclusion was rejected by Gaston Paris in Romania,
XXI, p. 278, for the reason that the motive of the injured eye,
which causes the separation of Ille and Galeron and forms in a
way the pivot of Gautier's whole story, is incompatible with the
Eliduc lay and is in itself intimately connected with another idea,
also unknown to the lay, viz., that of the original social difference
between Ille and his wife. He recognized, however, the relation
between the two poems, and maintained (Hist, liti., XXX, p. 600,
and elsewhere) that Ille et Galeron derives in part from the same
source as the Eliduc lay.2 This same view of the relation of the
two poems was accepted by Warnke in the notes to Eliduc in

1 "Ille und Galeron von Walter von Arras," Rom. Bibl. VII (Halle, 1891).

2 " Ille et Galeron venu d'un lai perdu qui, dans sa plus grande partie, n'etait qu'une
variante de celui d' filiduc de Marie de France." (Cf . Litt. franc, au moyen age, 3d ed., p. 113.)
471] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, January, 1907

2 JOHN E. MATZKE

his second edition of the Lais of Marie de France.1 To the
reasons advanced by Gaston Paris he adds that the two episodes
of the shipwreck and the resuscitation absent in Hie et Galeron
appear to be essential features of the Eliduc story. This particular
side of the problem we are not prepared to discuss at present. It
belongs to a larger comparative study of the legend of the husband
with two wives, sketched in general outline by Gas ton Paris (La
poesie du moyen age, deuxieme serie? pp. 109 ff.), which we
shall take up in the near future. Here we intend to limit our-
selves to a detailed examination of Forster's conclusions with
regard to the direct source of Gautier's poem.

The contents of both Eliduc and Ille et Galeron are so well
known and so easily referred to in the editions already cited that
we may abstain from repeating the stories. It will be useful, how-
ever, before going farther, to determine in barest outline the form
which the Eliduc story must have had, if Forster's supposition,
that the two episodes just cited are later interpolations, is correct.

Eliduc, happily married to Guildeluec, finds himself suddenly
maligned by his enemies, and he leaves his wife to seek adventures
and peace of mind in new surroundings. He arrives at the court
of the king of Exeter, who is hard beset by a rejected suitor for
the hand of his daughter. Eliduc takes up his cause and over-
comes the enemy. In consequence the princess falls in love with
him, and the king appoints him his chief minister. For a while
he struggles feebly between his new passion and his duty to his
marriage vows. The call of his former liege lord causes him to
return for a short period to his wife, but as soon as his services
are no longer needed he leaves her upon some shallow pretense to
return to Guilliadun, his new love. The two then manage to
escape together and arrive at Eliduc's home, and when the wife
learns the true state of affairs, she withdraws to a cloister, while
Eliduc and Guilliadun live happily together until remorse over-
comes them and they also enter monasteries to seek pardon for
their sin.

It must be confessed that a comparison of this outline with
the skeleton of Ille et Galeron makes Forster's theory stand out

i Halle, 1900 (Bibl. Norm., Ill, p. cl). 2 Paris, Hachette et Cie., 1903.

472

SOURCE AND COMPOSITION OF ILLE ET GALERON 3

in a rather favorable light. The story of this roman (Taventure,
if conceived as an anti-Eliduc and stripped of all accessory details,
can readily be presented as in every way the opposite of this lay.
Like Eliduc, Ille leaves his wife, but he remains faithful to her.
and when Ganor falls in love with him he rejects her advances,
agreeing to the marriage from a feeling of pity only when he
receives what he has every reason to accept as definite proof
that Galeron has disappeared. When she suddenly reappears on
the scene, he does not for a moment waver in his duty, and only
when his first wife of her own determination, and for reasons in
no wise concerned with his relation toward Ganor, has sought
refuge in a nunnery does he finally marry his second wife.

While the two stories, when thus reduced to their barest
outline, are undoubtedly the one the reverse of the other, it is
nevertheless questionable whether the exact relation between them
has been made clear ; for the possibility should be taken into con-
sideration that they are literary representatives of two opposite
types — a contingency which Forster does not seem to admit.
His theory is, moreover, absolutely dependent upon the relative
age of the Eliduc lay and Gautier's poem, for though he concedes
the possibility of the dependence of Ille ei Galeron (I) upon
an earlier, simpler Eliduc lay (E1), yet his whole argumenta-
tion is based upon Marie's poem1 (E2). It would follow that her
work must have been rather mechanical ; for on no other supposi-
tion would it be permissible to establish the relation of I to E1
through minutiae of similarity and verbal contact between I and
E2. And the difficulty of this whole theory is all the more
apparent when Marie's statement, E2 11. 1-4, is taken into account,
that she translates her lay from the Celtic. Under these circum-
stances it is important to consider the passages in either poem
which may have a possible bearing upon the question of its
immediate source.

Marie's testimony is direct. Her poem begins with a refer-
ence to a mult ancien lai Bretun, of which she will relate le
cunte e tute la raisun. Then she gives a succinct outline of

1 Warlike then goes a step farther and uses this relationship of the two poems to con-
firm the chronological order of Marie's works ; cf. Die Fabeln der Marie de France (Halle,
p. cxvi.

473

4 JOHN E. MATZKE

the story in 11. 5-28, and ends by saying that the lay has now

the name of

Guildeluec ha Guilliadun.

"Eliduc" fu primes nomez,
Mes ore est li nuns remuSz,
Kar des dames est avenu
L'aventure dunt li lais fu. (21-26)

The reference to an earlier form of the story is here quite definite,
and it also seems to follow that the name was changed,1 because
the real subject appeared to her the submissive wife rather than
the faithless husband. In the outline which Marie then adds
there is not the slightest hint of the two episodes of the shipwreck
and the resuscitation. It would perhaps help the theory if it
could be assumed that this silence is evidence that they represent
her additions, but there is not sufficient basis to warrant such an
inference.

Gautier refers to his source most directly in / 929-36. In the
note to these lines Forster explains the passage as having refer-
ence to the vogue of lays in general, but Gaston Paris (.Rom., XXI,
p. 278) has given another interpretation of it, which seems to me
undoubtedly correct. A paraphrase of the whole passage will
bring out its meaning. The author comments on his story. Ille
has fallen in love with Galeron and she with him. She is of
noble station and he a simple knight ; how could they ever expect
to enjoy each other's love! But they do not think of such diffi-
culties and take pleasure in each other's company. Such is the
nature of love. It flatters people to attract them, and later it has
no joys to offer.2 To be sure, they do not think of this and would
like the present condition to continue; but if love did not have
its sadder side, this lay would not be such a favorite, and knights
would not prize it as they do. A fine story is that of Ille and
Galeron. It contains no witchcraft nor lengthening, you'll not
find anything supernatural in it. There are other lays, which
make the one that hears them think that he has slept or dreamed.

lit is evident from these lines that the lay at present does not have the name which
Marie intended to give it.

2 Gautier returns to this same thought, 11. 1532-38. In the first passage it forms a natural
introduction to the reference to his source which follows, and this fact makes it impossible
to accept Foulet's suggestion (Zs. f. rom. Phil., XXIX, p. 303) that the lines in question
represent a later addition, either by Gautier himself or by a jongleur who recited the poem.

474

SOURCE AND COMPOSITION OF ILLS ET ^ALERON 5

Since the poem on Ille ei Galeron which we know is no lay, it
follows that Gautier here refers to his source and that this bore
the same title. The allusion to the absence in it of witchcraft
and the supernatural is important, for it contains a distinct refer-
ence to the peculiar atmosphere of the lays of Marie de France,
the chief exponent and, if Poulet in the article just cited is correct,
the inventor of this class of composition.

The further inference that the Eliduc lay itself is meant, and
specifically the two episodes not duplicated in 7, depends to a
certain extent upon the question at issue in this paper. If 7
represents a reversal of E'2 it would probably be exact. Yet, even
if the source of 7 were entirely independent of E'\ it might still
be true; for, granting the earlier date of E2, we should have proof
of his acquaintance with this poem in the name Eliduc, which he
applies to the father of his hero.

We have thus on either side the author's testimony of the
existence of an older form of either poem. The question to solve
is whether this earlier form is identical for both E2 and 7, and
whether the points of contact enumerated by Forster contain
evidence that 7 is a reversal of E1. Before going any farther it
will be of service to state clearly Forster's position. He main-
tains that Gautier reworked the Eliduc story, and purposely
eliminated all its immoral features. While Eliduc was ready to
forget his wife and commit bigamy, Ille remains faithful to
Galeron, until of her own will she sets him free. Hence the
remorse of Eliduc and Guilliadun could disappear from Ille ei
Galeron. The fundamental difference in the appearance of the
two protagonists — Eliduc as a knight with followers, Ille poor
and unknown — is due to Gautier' s principle to let his hero create
his position through his valor and daring. The motive of the
separation of Ille and Galeron, he thinks, is based upon a question
debated at the court of Marie de Champagne, and called up
presumably by incidents that must have been of frequent occur-
rence in the tournaments of the time, viz., whether a lady is justi-
fied in dismissing her lover when his appearance is changed as
the result of injuries received in combat, in this instance the loss
of an eye. And he refers to a passage in Andre" le Chapelain's

475

6 JOHN E. MATZKE

well-known book1 where a decision on this very question in the
sense of Gautier's poem is given by the countess Irmengard of
Narbonne. To this reconstructed story Gautier then made
various additions. He increased the poem to the proper length
of a roman cFaventure by adding an account of the youth of his
hero and his first marriage. He fills in and lengthens out descrip-
tions of battles, discourses on love in the manner of Chrestien de
Troies, and inserts some clever scenes of his own invention, such
as the life of Galeron in Rome and her appearance at the door of
the church at the moment of Ille's wedding to Ganor, the latter's
journey to Bretagne to implore the aid of Hie, and their failure
to meet in Vienne, and the like.

Bearing these points in mind, we may now proceed to a critical
examination of Forster's argument, which is based partly on
alleged similarities between E2 and J, and partly on contrasts in
the main motives of the two stories.

The first points of contact which he notes are contained in the
battle scenes. Only one such incident occurs in E2. Here it is
related that Eliduc arrives at the court of the king of Exeter with
10 of his own knights (1. 79). He is joined by 14 of the king's
men (1. 155), and together the 25 (1. 221) set out to give battle
to the enemy who is pressing him. The subsequent victory takes
place in a destreit, pointed out to Eliduc by one of the king's
men upon his question (11. 166-84) ; 30 of the enemy are captured
(1. 221) ; and when the king now sees this crowd of 55 knights
approaching his castle, his first thought is that the enemy has been
victorious (11. 235 if.). There are five battles described in J, and
the similarities are scattered through several of them. In the first
of this list Hie has set out to conquer his heritage with 10
knights (1. 319) and two old companions (11. 194 and 329), so
that the whole cavalcade numbers 13 men. These expect to be
joined by 20 additional knights (1. 340) of Ille's faithful friends,
but their plan miscarries. The 20 are attacked by 100 of Hoel's
men (11. 400 ff.), and hard pressed, and when Hie and his 12
companions arrive a battle ensues, 13 against 60, and 20 against
40 (11. 494, 495). Of the 20 finally only 13 remain, and of the

*De Amore, edited by E. Trojel (Havniae, 1892), p. 287.

476

SOURCE AND COMPOSITION OF ILLE ET GALERON 7

40 only 16 (11. 512, 513). Ille and his men in the end overcome
the other 60 (11. 517-792). He kills 18, and the others flee.

The similarities which Forster sees in these two scenes are
rather dim. Eliduc's battle is directed against a rejected suitor
for the hand of Gruildeluec, the daughter of the king of Exeter ;
while Ille fights for his own title, though later, after his marriage
to Galeron, he defends her twice — a fact which Forster overlooks
— against rejected suitors, first against Rogelion (11. 954-1176),
and later against the counts of Anjou and Poitou and the duke
of Normandy (11. 1494-97 and 1538-80). This latter battle takes
place in a destreit (1. 1552) as that of Eliduc; yet Forster fails
to note the vital difference that in E2 the pass is a part of Eliduc's
prearranged plan of attack, while in I it represents the natural
road of the enemy in the third of these battles. He maintains
further that the 14 knights in E2 (1. 155) play the same r6le as
the 20 in I (1. 483) in the first battle; but he overlooks that the
14 aid Eliduc in defeating the enemy, while Ille frees the 20
from the danger in which they are caught. Furthermore, Eliduc's
increase comes from the king of Exeter's men, while Ille's 20
knights are friends of his youth, trying to effect a union with him.
Finally the one battle takes place for the conquest of Ille's inheri-
tance, while the other is in aid of the father of Eliduc's future
wife; and above all, the points compared are divided between
two entirely different scenes. It is evident that the significant
features of the three battles are quite dissimilar. The mistake of the
king in E2, when he sees the larger number of knights returning
to his castle, and which is so unique that it should have appealed
to Gautier, is entirely lacking. Taking all these variations into
account, I think it will be agreed that the few scattered points of
contact, meager as they are, must be fortuitous, all the more when
it is remembered that they could be duplicated from other poems.

Forster thinks, in the next place, that the circumstances attend-
ing the appearance of Eliduc and Ille at the courts of the fathers of
their second wives are identical, barring the difference already
referred to that the former arrives surrounded by followers, while
Ille comes alone in shabby dress and is exposed to ridicule. In
both poems the king is described as old and feeble (E2 90, Vielz

477

8 JOHN E. MATZKE

liuem et anclens esteit = I 2004, Que dhme part Vaqeut viellece) ,
and both have refused a neighbor the hand of their daughters
(E2 95-98 = 1 5400). Here Forster distorts the facts to support
his thesis. In E2 the king is attacked by a rejected suitor, but
in / the sole reason for the Greek emperor's aggression is the age
(1. 2004) and feebleness (1. 2007) of the emperor of Rome. The
emperor of Constantinople is already married to Ganor's cousin,
and the question of his suit for the hand of Ganor does not arise
until much later, when her marriage to Ille is not thought of.
Galeron has reappeared and both have returned to Bretagne.
Ganor's father has died (1. 5400) and her cousin has suc-
cumbed to the effects of her husband's cruelty. This is the final
war of the poem, and, like the one preceding it, is in the main a
war of conquest in which the idea of a marriage is of secondary
consideration.

Forster sees further evidences of the indebtedness of Gautier
to the Eliduc lay in certain features of Ille's battles against the
Greeks after his arrival in Rome, 11. 2201 ff. The comparison is
of course again with the single battle in E2. The Romans retire
to a castle (J2255), where they are besieged, while Eliduc prepares
an ambush (E2 173) for the enemy. Forster notes particularly
that in both cases the action is the result of a conseil. He over-
looks that in E2 the counsel is sought by Eliduc, while in I it is
offered with diffidence by Ille to the seneschal (/ 2237, and par-
ticularly 11. 2274 ff.). The siege which the Romans undergo in
this castle Forster compares, if I understand him correctly, with
the siege which the king of Exeter suffers at the hands of the
rejected suitors, when Eliduc first appears at his court (E2 99) ! He
then notes that as the result of the victory Eliduc becomes gardein
de la terc (E2 270) and Ille senescal (I 2476) ; but he overlooks
that in E2 the appointment is made by the king, while Ille is
elected to the position by the knights on the battlefield after the
seneschal's death, when they are in need of a new leader ( I 2470).
The emperor merely confirms the choice ( J 3165 and 3237-67).

Forster lays stress upon the fact that in both poems it is the
princess who falls in love first with the newly arrived knight, and
he points out certain similarities that exist in the description of

478

SOURCE AND COMPOSITION OF ILLS ET GALERON 9

their first meeting (E2 300-02 = I 3317-19) ; their interview
without witnesses (E'2 297 ff. = I 3332 ff.); the shyness of the
girl, who fears that she may be laughed at and rejected if she
confesses her love (E* 307-08 = I 3354-58) ; her desire to have
the newly come knight for her lover (E' 327-30 = J 3358-61).
But certainly Gautier did not have to refer to the Eliduc lay for
such commonplaces of mediaeval literature.

The fundamental and conscious reworking of the Eliduc lay
begins, according to Forster's hypothesis, with the appearance of
Ille in Rome. The differences which may be observed now are
explained as being due to the purpose of the author. Eliduc falls
in love with Guilliadun, while Ille thinks only of Galeron. Then
the two couples are separated. Eliduc leaves Guilliadun unwil-
lingly when summoned by his liege lord (E2 550 ff.), while Ille
gladly follows Galeron to Bretagne when she informs him of
Conain's death and the country's needs ( 1 4213 ff. ) . Both knights
promise to return, Eliduc to carry Guilliadun away (E3 690), and
Ille only if Rome should stand in need of his sword (J 4880).

The leave-taking which is described at this point shows some
rather striking points of contact. Both Eliduc and Ille announce
their intention first to the maiden's father (E2 620 = I 4486) ;
both promise to return if needed or called by him (E2 638 ff. =
/4517 ff.) ; both receive presents from him as they leave (E2 643
= I 4942); both then say farewell to the princess (E2 654 =
J4675) ; in both poems the maiden swoons when she hears the
news (E2 661-62 = I 4774 ff.) ; the knight bemoans his fate (E*
664 ff. = I 4790 ff.) ; when she regains consciousness he makes
his promises (E2 668 = I 4873) ; and finally both Eliduc and Ille
kiss the maiden as they depart (E2 702 = I 4902).

This is the only scene in the poem showing distinct resemblan-
ces. There is the possibility that we may have to do with a com-
monplace of mediaeval literature, yet the various steps outlined
follow so closely in the same order that the relation between them
may perhaps be more vital; and since Gautier probably knew the
Eliduc lay, he may have had this scene in mind when he wrote
this portion of his poem. Yet the argument is not sufficient to
establish Forster's claim, and at any rate it is quite compatible

479

10 JOHN E. MATZKE

with the conclusions as to the source of his poem which we shall
try to establish later. After this scene fundamental differences
reappear. Eliduc returns to Guilliadun because he had promised
to do so, while Ille must avoid Ganor's presence until Galeron of
her own accord has entered the cloister. In either poem the knight
marries his second wife, but in E'2 this act is followed by ultimate
penitence for the sin that has been committed, while in I no wrong
has been done and Ille can live in joy with Ganor.

It must be granted that Forster's theory appears very plausible
with regard to the portion of the story in which one poem is the
reverse of the other, but it is evident also that the absolute proof
of its accuracy is lacking. Like all well-constructed theories, it
must rely upon its logic and plausibility. And, certainly, it must
be granted that Gautier might have composed his poem as For-
ster maintains he did. However, when one compares E2 and I
closely, as we have done, doubts with regard to the justice of For-
ster's point of view begin to assert themselves. Granting that
Gautier with conscious purpose stood the central motive of the
Eliduc lay on the head, it is evident from this comparison that he
did not make use of the form which Marie de France had given to
the story. The points of contact brought forward by Forster are
scattered and separated in a manner quite inexplicable on such a
supposition. Furthermore, many of the resemblances pointed
out by Forster are without doubt fortuitous, and could easily be
duplicated from other poems. The presence in two texts of an
ambush or a council of war, of a speech to infuse courage, or the
elevation to high office of an unknown knight who performs
miracles of bravery, the advances of a princess to this knight and
his disdainful attitude, the separation of two lovers and the maid-
en's swoon, can certainly not prove relationship between them. If,
then, we note in addition that these elements are used in the freest
manner, and that the scenes in which they occur are fundamentally
dissimilar, as has been shown, the conclusion becomes pressing
that the fancied relation of the two poems has no basis in fact.

Furthermore, Forster's supposition fails to give the key to
Gautier's method in many other details of the story. Granting
that the introduction of the account of Ille's youth caused him to

480

SOURCE AND COMPOSITION OF ILLS ET GALERON 11

split the battle episodes, why should he have introduced Galeron
as the sister of Conain, when in the corresponding scene in E the
princess is the daughter of the king whom Eliduc aids with his
arms ? Why should Rogelion, the first of the rejected suitors,
prepare an ambush for Ille and leave Conain unmolested ? Why
should the other suitors for Galeron's hand endeavor to avenge
the slight cast upon them only after her marriage to Ille ? Why
should the Greek emperor at his first attack on Rome lay no claim
to Ganor's hand ? Why should this suit appear as an afterthought
after her father's death ? And why should Gautier, who was
clever enough to invent such striking scenes as those depicting
the life of Galeron in Rome and her appearance at the cathedral
at the moment of Ille's impending marriage, duplicate in a vague
way at the court of Rome scenes upon which he had already drawn
when describing events at the court of Conain ? All these varia-
tions, and others that might be mentioned, become of small
importance when they are conceived as due to the impulse toward
variation observed in all popular literature ; but they demand a
definite explanation when it is maintained that one story represents
a conscious reworking of the other. And in support of our
demands we have merely to cite the Cliges of Chrestien de Troies.
That this poem represents a reversal of the Tristan story Forster
was the first to maintain, and all have subscribed to his opinion.
But here it is possible to outline the reversal step by step, and the
picture, when completed, represents not merely a plausible hypoth-
esis, but a definite and convincing argument.

There can be no question, however, that the two stories are
closely related in their central theme. E shows a fickle husband
and a faithful wife, while I tells of a model husband and the
reward of an equally faithful wife, with this addition that fate so
arranges the life of the second couple that the husband can wed
his second wife in honor. Looked at in this way, the one story
is plainly the reverse of the other. The question at issue is to
determine the age of the reversal. Before submitting our answer
to this problem we must look for a moment at the structure of J.

Three sections are plainly visible in this poem. ( 1 ) The story
begins with an account of the enfances of Ille. Deprived of his

481

12 JOHN E. MATZKE

heritage, he sets out to conquer his rightful possessions ( — 1.
(2) After a first unsuccessful attempt he arrives at the court of
Conain, count of Bretagne. Here he meets Galeron, his first wife,
and is victorious over four rejected suitors ( — 1. 1580) . Then follow
his separation from his wife, his arrival in Rome at that moment
besieged by a Greek army, his victory and selection to the office
of seneschal, the love of Ganor, the preparations for the wedding,
the appearance of Galeron, and the return of both to Bretagne,
while Ganor remains in Rome ( — 1. 5310). (3) After the death
of the emperor of Rome, Ganor is hard beset by a Greek army,
Ille hastens to her aid, after his wife has entered into a cloister,
defeats her enemies a second time, and is finally married to her.

Between the first and second of these divisions stands the
reference to the lay of Ille et Galeron, and its introduction at this
point and the general setting in which it appears create a strong
presumption that it is here that Gautier began to follow his source.
What precedes is his invention. If this be so, we shall get a
clearer conception of the type of story which this lay contained,
if we reduce it to general terms. A youth unknown and deprived
of his heritage arrives at a court, where he distinguishes himself
by his bravery and is raised to an important office. In conse-
quence a princess falls in love with him, and the two are married.
Presently, for a reason to be discussed later, the two are separated.
The knight journeys to another court, where similar scenes are
re-enacted, but he remains steadfast to his first love. In the end,
when he has received apparently definite news of the death of his
wife, he assents to a second marriage. But the first wife appears
before the ceremonyis consummated, is reunited with her husband,
and both return to their home.

I leave open for the moment the question whether the final
scenes of the poem also had their counterpart in the lay. The
portion that we have outlined bears most striking resemblance to
the story of Horn and Rigmel.1 Here Horn, unknown and shorn
of his heritage, with fifteen companions appears at the castle of
Hunlaf, who is old and feeble (1. 1752). As he grows up, his

i Das anglonormannische Lied vom Wackern Bitter Horn, published by Brede and Sten-
gel, Marburg, 1883 (Ausg. and Abh., VIII).

482

SOURCE AND COMPOSITION OF ILLE ET GALERON 13

daughter Rigmel falls in love with him. She employs the seneschal
to arrange an interview. She leads the youth to a portion of the
room where they can converse in private, and makes him sit near
her on a richly covered couch.1 Horn rejects her advances because
of his poverty and modest descent, telling her that she should
marry a king,2 or at least wait until she could be certain of the
value of her choice. Presently Horn becomes cunestable* on
account of his brilliant first battle. Then Rigmel sends him pres-
ents, which he accepts, much to her joy. The affection between
the two now becomes apparent, and Horn is maligned to Rigmel's
father. He leaves the court in disgrace and arrives at Westir, where
Gudreche is king, and lives there under the name of Gudmod.
Again he proves his valor and rises in esteem, so that Lenburc,
one of the king's daughters, falls in love with him and makes the
usual advances by sending him a messenger and presents. Horn,
however, repels her and remains true to Rimel. Then comes
another war, in which he proves himself the mainstay of the coun-
try, and when it is over Gudreche, who is also very old (1. 3573),
wishes to bestow upon Gudmod, though he is in entire ignorance
of his antecedents, the hand of Lenburc and with it the crown of
his kingdom.4 He now advances his low origin as an obstacle,
and speaks of his love to Rigmel and the troth which he had
pledged her.5 Soon after he leaves Gudreche' s court and arrives
at Hunlaf's castle just as Rigmel is to be married by the will of
her father to another.

The characteristic feature of this story is the youthful knight,
who through his prowess wins the love of two maidens, but remains
faithful to the first in spite of all the advantages which the second
union offers to him.6 Some striking points of contact with I have

i The same trait occurs in 7, 11. 3327 ft'., and since it is to be found also in E%, 11. 297 ff .,
FOrster construes it into an argument for Gautier's indebtedness.

2Cf. /, 11. 4699 ft1. 3 Cf. 1, 11. 1191 ff.

*Ille also arrives unknown at the court of Rome and is received by the emperor without
telling him his antecedents (11. 2011 ff.). Later the proposal to bestow Ganor and the crown
upon him also comes from the emperor (11. 3491 ft'.).

5Ille also makes known his marriage to the pope, when the latter makes him acquainted
with the emperor's plans, 11. 3666 ff. ; cf. Horn, 11. 3663 ff.

6 Another version of this theme is to be found in the unpublished poem on Gui de War-
wick. Here the hero of humble birth falls in love with the daughter of his liege lord. At
first scornfully rejected, his suit is listened to only on the condition that he shall become a

483

14 JOHN E. MATZKE

been pointed out in the course of the analysis. We may add that
the increase in prestige offered to Horn through his marriage with
Lenburc is also paralleled to a certain extent in the marriage of
Ille with Ganor. The latter is an emperor's daughter, while
Galeron was only the sister of a duke of Bretagne. Similarly
Hunlaf, the father of Rimel, though described as a king, does not
appear to be the equal in importance to Gundreche, the king of
Westir. Perhaps it is futile to lay too much stress upon this point,
but at any rate it is evident that the Song of Horn, when looked
at in this way, differs from our poem mainly in the fact that the
hero is not married to the first lady, when he meets the second.
We have proof, however, that a variation of this original theme,
representing the hero as married, was current before Gau tier's
time. The evidence lies in the following episode from the Beves1
legend.

Bueve, after his marriage to Josiane, goes to London to the
court of the king. During the festivities of Pentecost the king's
son tries to steal the horse of Bueve, and is killed by the animal,
and, in consequence, Bueve, though innocent, is forced to leave
the country. He takes Josiane and Tierri, a young companion,
and sails across the sea. When they have reached land again,
Josiane is delivered of twins, but Saracens carry her away before
Bueve and Tierri can come to her aid. In their journey to dis-
cover her whereabouts both arrive in Civile, and put up at the
house of a squire called Gernier. On the following morning the
city is attacked by a hostile army, and both aid in the defense and
are the cause of a complete victory. The lady of the land, a maiden,
witnesses the battle from her tower and falls in love with Bueve.
When he returns with Tierri to his lodgings, she sends her steward
Reiner to summon him to her presence, but he is unsuccessful in

famous knight. In consequence, he sets out on the quest of adventures, in the course of
which he finally arrives in Constantinople, where he delivers the emperor from the attack
of the Saracens. His reward is the offer of marriage with the emperor's daughter with half
the realm. He accepts the proposal, but at the very altar he remembers his given promise
and swoons. The marriage is thus deferred, and circumstances soon permit him to leave
Constantinople. Eventually he returns to England and marries his first love. Cf. Hist.
Lift., XXII, pp. 841-51, and Billings, A Guide to the Middle English Metrical Romances, Yale
Studies in English, IX, p. 25.

*Der anglonormannische Boeve.de Haumtone, Herausg. von Stimming (Halle, 1899;
Bibl. Norm., VII), 11. 2817-3045.

484

SOUBCE AND COMPOSITION OF ILLE ET GALERON 15

this errand. Then she goes herself, and hears now that Bueve is
seeking his lost wife and two children; but she persists in her
demands, and even threatens Bueve with death. Finally it is
agreed that Bueve shall marry her in form at once, but that he
shall continue his search for his wife for the space of seven years.
If at the end of this period he should still be ignorant of her
whereabouts, the marriage should be consummated in fact.
Should the wife be found, however, the duchess of Civile is to
receive Tierri as husband. Thus the ceremony takes place, and
they live together for seven years. At the end Josiane appears
with Sabaoth, Tierri's father, who had been seeking for Bueve
and Tierri. A general recognition follows, Bueve and Josiane are
joined again, and the duchess of Civile becomes the wife of Tierri.

The French poem, which we have followed so far, assigns no
reason for the attack upon Civile, which Bueve and his companion
repel. But this omission is supplied by the Norse version of the
story. Here it is told that two earls had declared war, because
the princess had preferred another suitor. After the victory, and
during the seven years in which Bueve is the nominal husband of
his second wife, this version adds that he increased her dominion
in every direction and killed her enemies wherever he could find
them, i. e., acted as her senescal or cunestable. Finally Sabaoth
and Josiane hear of his high station and impending marriage, and
fortunately arrive before the union has been consummated.

In this episode we have all of the important features of I.
(1) Bueve arrives as an unknown knight in a strange city. (2)
This city is attacked by enemies who in one version at least are
represented as rejected suitors. (3) Bueve aids the inhabitants
to repel the attack. (4) The princess falls in love with him and
makes advances. (5) Bueve refuses to marry her until definite
assurance of his wife's death can be obtained. (6) A search for
the wife is instituted. (7) This is unsuccessful, but she appears
herself at the moment when the second marriage is about to be
consummated. The two peculiar features of the marriage in form
and the agreement that the princess will accept Bueve' s companion
in case her liberator should prove unavailable do not alter the
general similarity.

485

16 JOHN E. MATZKE

Unless we are much deceived, we have in this episode of the
Beves legend evidence of the existence of a type of story which
we may call "the faithful husband." It seems to have developed
from an earlier type in which the hero is not yet married, but has
merely plighted his troth to the first of the two maidens who fall
in love with him. The lost lay of Ille et Galeron to which Gautier
refers was a member of this group, and if this conception of our
problem is correct, we can on the basis of it gain quite a definite
idea of Gautier's method in the composition of his poem. His
source furnished him with the central motive; that is to say, it
related the separation of Ille from Galeron, his arrival and signal
deeds in Rome, the love of Ganor, the steadfastness of Ille, and
the final union of husband and wife. This matter stands compactly
in the middle of the poem, and what precedes and follows repre-
sents his additions. That he is responsible for the enfances of
Ille is accepted by all,1 but it will have to be granted as well that
he added the final scenes of the story, beginning with 1. 5283.
In looking at the poem at this point, one is struck by the rapidity
with which the story proceeds here, which is quite contrary to
Gautier's usual habit.2 In twenty-seven lines he relates the early
education of the two sons of Ille and Galeron. The birth of a
third child, a daughter who is not mentioned again, the decision
of Galeron to take the veil, and the execution of this design.
Here certainly was matter for many lines. But the passage serves
merely as the connecting link for what was to follow, and when
that object is accomplished, the whole matter is dismissed in the
interest of the second marriage. There is a hasty reference to
Galeron as le nonain at the end, 1. 6565, her two sons are called
to Rome, but Idone, the daughter of 1. 5312, has completely
disappeared.

This third section of his story Gautier added under the influ-
ence of the Eliduc lay, in such a way, however, that the spirit of
the main motive was not changed. The relation of / to E'2 is
then to a certain degree comparable to that of Ami et Amile and
Jourdain de Blaive. As the hero of this latter poem becomes the

i Lot, Romania, XXV, pp. 585-90, has pointed out the probable historical back-
ground of this portion of the poem.

2Cf. Gaston Paris, Rom., XXI, p. 278, n. 2.

486

SOURCE AND COMPOSITION OF ILLE ET GALERON 17

grandson of Ami, so here Ille is described as the son of Eliduc.
Gautier did not find the name in his source, but basing himself
on a lay, which was an anti-Eliduc on account of the difference
in moral tone which pervades it, he could properly connect the
two stories in this way. Perhaps the suggestion to use the lay of
Ille et Galeron as the basis for an anti-Eliduc came to him from
the anti-Tristan of his famous contemporary. If Forster's dating
of Cliges is correct, this point of view would have much in its
favor. If, however, Cliges followed Ille et Galeron, as Gaston
Paris maintained, the relation between the two would be reversed
However this may be, in one respect Gautier's poem in its
spirit shows close resemblance to Cliges. In the various poems
which we have examined it is the maiden who falls in love with
the knight and makes the advances. Through her chamberlain
she invites the knight to her room and gives him presents. In
Bueve de Haumtone she even visits the knight when he refuses
to follow her invitation. No such scenes are found in Ille et
Galeron. Here the maiden is shy and reserved, and can show
her feelings only by indirection. It is significant, however, that
in both the scenes in point in the poem Gautier seems to have had
in mind the earlier habit illustrated by Eliduc, Horn, and
Bueve de Haumtone. After describing the love of Galeron, he
says:

N'ele ne li descoverroit

Premierement por rien qui soit,

Qu'il n'afiert pas que feme die:

" Je voel devenir vostre amie,"

Por c'on ne Fait ancois requise

Et mout est6 en son service. (1221-26)

and, similarly, when Ganor longs for Ille, he writes:

Tout li a dit la fille au roi

Fors seulement : " Sire, ame"s moi ! "

Et se costume fust en terre

Que fille a roi deust requerre

Nului d'amors premierement

Ele le feist esranment. (3353-57)

In both instances the natural guardian of the girl decides upon
the marriage. We have evidently a conscious alteration here,

487

18 JOHN E. MATZKE

introduced by Gautier in accord with the conception of propriety
at his time, and this spirit is entirely in harmony with that evident
in Chrestien's Cliges. In the Tristan story Blancheflur falls in
love with Rivalen, and goes to find him on the bed where he was
recovering from the wounds which he had received in battle. But
in Cliges Soredamors, the copy of Blancheflur, is shy and reserved,
and the confession of her love is skilfully provoked by the queen.
If this point of view is valid, we have an additional indirect
indication here of the age of Grautier' s source.

A word should finally be added about the cause of the separa-
tion between Ille and Galeron. The connection which Forster
has established between this passage and one of the Judicia
Amoris of Andre" le Chapelain is indeed evident, but this fact does
not prove the indebtedness of Gautier. Gaston Paris1 saw in it a
remnant of another story not connected with the theme under
consideration here. According to our view, Gautier found it in
his lay. It must be borne in mind that his story, as the others
that we have analyzed, must have given some explanation for the
separation of the knight from his first lady, and we may add that
no two agree in regard to this point. To be sure, the spirit of
this passage is more in accord with the subtler conception of the
relation of the sexes current at the time of Chrestien than with
that of the Song of Horn or Bueve de Houmtone. But it is
evident also that the accident described there, or similar ones,
must have been of frequent occurrence in the tournaments of the
time, and there is no valid reason which could be advanced against
the presence of this passage in the original lay. At any rate, this
point does not affect our main thesis, and if Gautier added it, he
made it replace some other explanation with similar purpose which
did not appeal to him. The fact that it stands at the beginning
of the second of the sections of the poem which we have observed,
and after the definite reference to his source, is a strong argument
for the accuracy of our point of view.

JOHN E. MATZKE

i Cf . Rom. XXI, p. 278.

488

STUDIES IN GERMANIC STRONG VERBS. I

These studies, which are preliminary to a book on Germanic
Strong Verbs to be published later, will discuss strong verbs that
have not been fully or satisfactorily explained. No distinction is
here made between originally strong verbs and those that became
strong by analogy.

1. BlDAN

Goth, beidan c, gen. 'auf etwas warten, etwas erwarten,' gabei-
dan tr. 'dulden, ertragen,' ON. bida 'warten; c. gen. warten auf
jemand oder auf etwas; tr.. durch Warten erlangen, erreichen;
erdulden, ertragen,' etc., have long been counected with Gk. TreiOco,
Lat. fido. But this connection has of late been doubted. So
Uhlenbeck, Et. Wb.2 26; Walde, Et. Wb. 222, who says: "Zwei-
felhaft ist die Zugehorigkeit von got. beidan 'erwarten' ....
wegen der anzunehmenden Bedeutungsentwickelung von 'sich
fugen machen,' intr. 'sich fugen,' zu 'warten.'" If we had to
assume such a development in meaning, connection between bei-
dan and TreiOco would be more than doubtful.

To get at the primary meaning of Germ, bidan, let us see how
it is used: (1) Absolutely meaning 'wait, remain, continue;' (2)
with gen. or prep, 'await, wait for;' (3) tr. 'endure, bear.' The
transitive meaning is especially instructive: Goth, gabeidan
1 vTropeveiv, ertragen,' ON. bida 'erlangen; ertragen,' OE. bidan
'endure,' MHG. gebiten 'erhalten, bewahren.' Notice also OE.
bid 'halt,' on bid wrecan 'make to halt, bring to bay,' MHG.
bit(e) ' Stillhalten, Verweilen,' beite 'Hinhalten, Zogern,' etc.

From this we may infer for bidan the primary meaning 'hold,'
whence tr. 'hold, bear, endure, sustinere, ertragen; intr. hold,
hold on, hinhalten, still halten.' A striking parallel between the
use of Lat. sustinere and bidan occurs in OLFr. Psalm 68, 21:
ik beid, thie samon gidruovit uuirthi, inde ne was, which trans-
lates sustinui, qui simul contristaretur, et non fuit. Compare
also OHG. haltan 'halten, erhalten, festhalten; intr. still halten.'

489] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, January, 1907

2 FBANCIS A. WOOD

As halten comes from the primary meaning drive: Skt. kald-
yati 'treibt, halt, tragt,' Gk. /eeXX&> 'drive,' ice\opai 'urge on,'
etc.; so also Germ, bldan 'halten, erhalten, ertragen; still halten,
verweilen, warten' goes back to a base bheidh- 'drive, urge,' which
is the underlying meaning in Gk. 7rei6a). For it is evident from
the way in which ireiOw is used that it could not have meant
originally either 'persuadeo' or 'uberrede,' but rather 'urge,
impel, compel, convince, force.' E.g. 'impel, stir up' (tfue'XXa?),
II. 15, 26; 'force, compel, make to obey,' II. 9, 345, etc. From
'urge, compel' naturally came 'prevail on, convince, cause to yield,
persuade,' and in the passive, 'yield, comply, obey, be convinced,
believe, trust, etc.'

From TreiOw 'impel, compel, convince, persuade' we certainly
do not need to separate Goth, baidjan 'zwingen, gebieten,' ON.
beida 'notigen, auffordern; bitten, begehren,' OE. bcedan 'compel;
urge on, incite; solicit, require; afflict, repress,' OHG. beiten
'antreiben, drangen; fordern; fuhren; refl. c. gen. wagen; intr.
sich drangen,' ChSl. bediti 'zwingen,' beda 'Not,' Alb. be 'Eid,
Schwur,' with which compare Lat. foedus 'league, compact,' and
OE. bad 'pledge, thing distrained.'

2. BRIDAN

MHG. *briden 'flechten, weben' is usually assumed on account
of the pp. gebriten, gebreten (cf. Wilmanns, DGr. I, 38; Paul,
Mhd. Gr.b 69, etc.). The inf. is better written *briten, if indeed
we may assume any inf. at all. For the word is identical with
OHG. bretten 'stringere, ziehen, zucken; weben,' OS. bregdan
'flechten,' etc. MHG. *brlden or *briten corresponds to OFries.
brida 'ziehen' from *brigdan. The loss of g with lengthening of
i to I occurs also in OE. brldel, OHG. bridel, MHG. bridel,
britel 'Ztigel' beside OHG. brittil 'Zugel,' brittolon 'frenare.'

3. DIKAN

MHG. tlchen 'schaffen, treiben, ins Werk setzen, fordern;
btissen,' ertwhen 'bussen.' This corresponds to the MLG. weak
verb diken 'btissen, wieder gut machen.' Whether this verb was
originally strong or weak it is impossible to tell. Here probably

490

STUDIES IN GERMANIC STRONG VERBS 3

belong OHG. tihton, MHG. tihten 'erfmden und schaffen, hervor-
bringen, ersinnen, ins Werk setzen, anstiften, machen, abfassen,
dichten,' OE. dihtan 'direct, command, arrange; compose, write,'
diht 'direction, command; arranging, ordering; administration,
office, action, conduct; purpose, intention,' MDu., MLG. dichten,
whence ON. dikta 'dichten, ersinnen.' The wide variety of mean-
ings in these words, and the close similarity with MHG. twhen
point to Germ, origin with later confusion with Lat. dictdre,
which probably took its late meaning 'verfassen' from the Germ.
The base dheig- of the above is a byform of dheigh- in Goth.
digan 'kneten, aus Thon formen.' Compare especially Lat. fingo
'form, fashion, make; mold; adorn, dress, arrange, direct; devise,
contrive, invent, feign, etc.' These meanings are strikingly simi-
lar to those of MHG. twhen and tihten. It is not impossible that
Lat. fingo represents both dheigh- and dheig-.

4. FLIHWAN, FLIHAN

OS. *fiihan 'versohnen' may be assumed from gifiihid C 1460,
gefliit M 1460, and from the corresponding strong verb in MLG.
vlien, vligen 'ordnen, ftigen, einrichten, in die Reihe bringen,
schichtweise legen, stellen, setzen; Streitende versohnen, einen
Streit schlichten, etc.,' NHG. (north German) fleihen 'put in
order, arrange, fold.' Here belong MLG. vlege 'Ordnung, Ein-
richtung, Schlichtung, Beilegung eines Zwistes; Schmuckung,
Putz,' MHG. vlie 'Ordnung,' ON.flti 'Schicht' from *flaihwo or
flai(g)wd, flflia 'schichtweise belegen.' Compare Gk. TrXtWw
'stretch out, stride,' TrXifi? 'a stretching out; span-measure; strid-
ing;' ON. flika 'stretch out,' base pleik, pleig- 'stretch out,
spread out: put in order, arrange, etc.'

This is probably a derivative of a simpler base plei- in Lith.
atsi-plaitau 'sich breit machen,' Lett, plitet 'platten, schlagen,'
Lith. plynas 'eben, frei,' plijne, pleine 'eine weite, baumlose
Ebene.' A synonymous base peld- also occurs.

5. FLITAN

OE. flitan 'contend, struggle, quarrel,' OS. flitan 'wetteifern,'
OHG. fiizan 'eifrig sein, Fleiss und Sorgfalt anwenden, sich

491

4 FRANCIS A. WOOD

befleissigen' etc., may be referred to a base pleid- 'stretch out:
aim at, strive for, contend, etc.,' from plei- in Lith. atsi-plaitau
'sich breit machen,' Gk. TrXtWo) 'stretch out, stride,' ON. flika
'ausspannen, ausdehnen; prahlen,' etc. (cf. no. 4). That plei-
' stretch out' should develop in opposite directions is nothing
unusual. For this change in meaning compare Lat. tendo 'stretch,
stretch out: aim, strive, go; exert oneself in opposition, strive,
try, contend,' contendo 'stretch out, strain: strive, dispute, fight,
vie with;' Gk. opeyco 'stretch, stretch out: stride; reach for, desire;
reach at, aim a blow at,' Lat. rego 'guide, conduct, direct; sway,
rule,' Av. rdzayeUi 'ordnet.' These combine the meanings in
Gk. TrXtWo) 'stretch out, stride,' &a7rXtW&> 'stretch out, spread
out, unfold, mid. stride, stalk,' MLG. vllen 'ordnen, einrichten,
schlichten' and in OE. fliian 'contendere,' etc.

The connection of flitan, assuming a pre-Germ. base *tleid-,
with Lat. silts 'strife, dispute' (cf. author, Americana Germanica
III, 315) I long ago discarded.

6. GLIPAN

Sw. dial, gllpa 'be open,' MHG. gllfen 'schrage, abschtissig
sein' are from a Germ, strong verb *gllpan 'slip, slant; fall away,
sink, open.' Related words are Sw. dial, glip 'gap, opening,
chasm,' Norw. dial, gllp, gllpa 'opening,' ON. gleipa 'schwat-
zen,' i.e. 'klaffen,' MLG. glepe, glippe 'Ritze, Spalt,' glippen
'gleiten, glipfen,' glipperich, glibberich ' schltipfrig,' glepe,
gleppe, MHG. gleif 'schief, schrage,' gleif 'das Abschtissige,'
gleifen 'schrage sein, hin und her irren,' glipfen 'gleiten,' NE.
glib, etc.

According to Falk og Torp, Et. Ordbog I, 235, these are
related to Germ, slipan 'slip.' Aside from the fact that this con-
nection is based on a theory that is unproved and unprovable,
Germ, slipan may be referred to a base selei- in Lith. seleti
'schleichen,' selejimas 'das Schleichen;' Ir. slemain 'lubricus,'
OE. slim 'slime;' Lett, sllpt 'gleiten, schief werden,' NE. dial.
slive 'sneak;' OHG. sllhhan ' schleichen ; ' Lith. slekas 'Regen-
wurm;' OE. slldan 'slide,' etc. (cf. author AJP. 24, 45 ff.).

492

STUDIES IN GERMANIC STRONG VERBS 5

For Germ, glipan we may assume a base ghlei- on account of
OE. glidan 'glide,' etc., Norw. dial, gleina 'open place,' which,
in the developed meaning 'fall away, give way, become soft' is
in Gk. %Xto) 'become soft or warm, be delicate, luxuriate,' %XtS^
'softness, delicacy, luxury, voluptuousness,' %Xi8ao> 'be soft or
delicate, live softly, revel,' %XtSaw 'soft, delicate, voluptuous,'
etc. These meanings are based on 'softness' not 'warmness,' the
latter coming from the former. So they cannot be connected
with OS. glltan 'gleissen,' as is frequently done.

The base ghlei- 'slip, fall away,' etc., comes perhaps from
gha*l- in Gk. %a\a&> 'slacken, loosen; let down, let sink; become
slack ; gape open, stand open ; leave off, cease from ; give way or
yield to, be indulgent to,' etc., %aXa/oo? 'slack, loose,' Ir. galar
'Krankheit, Kummer,' ON. galle 'Fehler, Mangel, Schaden;'
glata 'verlieren, verderben,' OE. gylt 'fault, guilt;' Lith. glebti
'weich werden, zerfliessen,' ON. glap 'flaw,' gl6pr 'idiot,' glflpr
'crime,' etc. (cf. IE. ax: axi: axu 108).

7. HRITAN: KIT AN: WRIT AN

Germ, hrltan and writ an are well authenticated; * rit an is
doubtful but possible. With initial hr- occurs OS. hrltan ' schrei-
ben.' Identical with this may be MLG., MDu. rlten 'reissen'
(by the side of MLG. writen 'ritzen, schreiben'), NFries. rit
'reissen,' OHG. rlzan 'reissen' (though this may be for *wrlz-
zan}. To these may be related ON. rista 'ritzen' (which may
have lost initial h- on account of the synonymous rlta), OSw.
rlsta, MLG. risten 'ritzen' (neither of which could have had
initial wr-, but both could come from hr-), OSw. reta 'reizen,'
OHG. reizzen, reizen.

Germ, hrltan is from a pre-Germ. base qrei-d-, with which
compare Gk. Sia-KpiSdv 'separately,' icptvto 'separate, distinguish,'
/cetpco 'cut,' ChSl. kroiti 'schneiden,' Lett, krijdt 'schinden,' OE.
hrlcian 'cut, cut to pieces,' etc. (IE. ax: axi: axu 88).

Germ, wrltan 'ritzen, schreiben' occurs in OE., OS. wrltan,
MLG. writen, OFries. wrlta, and probably in ON. rlta, OHG
rlzan. Related are Goth, writs 'Strich,' OE. writ, ON. rit

493

6 FRANCIS A. WOOD

'Schreiben, Sohrift,' OHG. riz 'Strich, Buchstabe,' ON. reitr,
OSw. vreter 'Streifen.' Doubtful are ON. reita, OHG. reizen
'reizen' on account of OSw. reta 'reizen,' and ON. rista 'ritzen'
on account of OSw. rista, MLG. risten 'ritzen.'

Germ, wrltan is from a base ureid-, which probably meant
'move to and fro, turn, rub, etc.' Compare early LRh. (ndrh.)
writen 'drehen, verdrehen,' Du. wrijten, and for meaning OHG.
(w)riban, MHG. riben 'reibend wenden oder drehen, reiben,
schminken,' MLG. wrwen 'reiben, wischen, scheuern, schleifen,
zerreiben;' OHG. drden 'drehen,' Gk. reipa) 'reibe auf.'

A Germ. *ritan may have occurred which is possibly repre-
sented in MLG. riten, MDu. riten, NFries rit, OHG. rizan 'reis-
sen.' Of these the first three could represent Germ. *hritan
(OS. hritan), or *ritan; the last *rttan, *hrltan, or *writan.
ON. rita might go back to *ritan or * writ an, and if rista is
related, it seems to point to the former. For if this were from
*wristan, we should expect OSw. *vrista, not rista, the form that
actually occurs. On the other hand Germ. *hristan would
regularly give ON. *hrtsta, OSw. rista. Similarly MLG. risten
may have had initial Germ, r- (or hr-) but hardly wr-. So also
ON. reita, OSw. reta, OHG. reizen give no difficulty when
referred to *raitjan. But *wr,aitjan would give OSw. *vreta;
and *hraitjan, ON. *hreita and, if early enough, OHG. *hreizzen.
On the whole, therefore, it is quite probable that a Germ. *ritan
occurred. In some dialects this would fall together with writan,
in others with hritan.

Germ. *ritan would go back to a base rei-d-, with which com-
pare rei-p- in ON. rifa 'reissen, zerreissen' (whence NE. rive),
OSw. rlva, OFries. riva 'reissen,' etc., Gk. e/oetVo) 'throw or tear
down,' Lat. rlpa, etc.; rei-b- in OE. rlpan 'reap,' Norw. ripa
'ritzen;' rei-k- in Skt. rigdti 'rupft, reisst ab,' Gk. epettcco 'break,
tear.' All of these may come from the base rei- in Skt. rindti
'lasst laufen, lost ab,' etc. A base reid-, with which we may com-
pare Germ. *ritan, and ON. reita, OSw. reta, OHG. reizen,
reizzen, is in Gk. epeiSa) 'press against, lean against; prop up;
press hard upon; dash, hurl, etc.' Compare no. 9.

494

STUDIES IN GERMANIC STRONG VERBS 7

8. LlMAN

MHG. ent-limen 'sich ablosen, ablassen von' is probably not
from *limen 'sich fest anschliessen' as given by Lexer, Mhd. Wb.
1922 (which would connect it directly with limen ' zusammenlei-
men, vereinigen ' ) , but from *limen 'weichen.' Such a meaning
best explains the use in such expressions as sin arger mut im
niht entleim; im entleim diu kraft. Compare Lat. limus 'seit-
warts abbiegend, schief,' OE. Urn 'limb,' ON. Urn 'Zweig,' limr
'Glied; Zweig,' base lei- in Goth, aflinnan 'fortgehen, weichen,'
Gk. \Lva^ai- rpeTro^ai (Hesych.) 9\id£ofiai 'weiche aus, gleite aus,
sinke,' Skt. lindti, Idyate 'schmiegt sich an, kauert, verschwin-
det,' etc.

9. RipAN

ON. rida l bestreichen, beschmieren' is usually supposed to be
the same as rida 'drehen, winden, flechten, binden,' OSw. vripa
'drehen,' OE. wripan 'twist, bind,' etc. I refer it rather to a
base rei-t-, and compare Skt. rlti-s 'Strom, Lauf, Strich; Art,
Weise,' OE. rip 'stream,' OLFr. nth 'Bach,' MLG. ride 'Bach,
Graben,' Lat. rltus 'way, manner, rite,' ir-rito 'incite, excite;
move, stir up,' Skt. rindti 'lasst fliessen, lasst laufen,' ChSl. rinqti,
rijati 'stossen, fliessen,' etc. (cf. author, Mod. Lang. Notes
16,311).

10. SKIBAN

MHG. schiben 'rollend fortbewegen, rollen lassen, walzen,
drehen, wenden, schieben; intr. rollen, sich wenden,' beschiben
'sich auf etwas walzen; einem etwas zuwenden, zuteilen,' NHG.
Bav. scheiben are plainly related to MHG. schibe, OHG. skiba
'Scheibe, Kugel, Walze, Rolle, Rad, Kreis,' OLG. sldba 'sphaera,'
ON. skifa 'Scheibe, Schnitte,' ME. schwe 'disk,' Gk. (TKOITTOS
'potter's wheel.'

The primary meaning of this group of words is not 'cut' but
'turn, roll, etc.' From this came various words for 'roller, ball,
wheel, disk, etc.,' a diminutive of which appears in OHG. skivaro
'Steinsplitter,' MLG. schiver 'Schindel,' NE. shiver 'Splitter,'
whence shiver 'zersplittern.' Or OHG. skivaro, etc., may belong
rather to ChSl. scepiti, cepiti 'spalten.' In this case they must

495

8 FRANCIS A. WOOD

be separated from ON. skifa 'in Schnitten schneiden,' which is
better taken with skifa 'Scheibe, Schnitte.'

The earlier meaning 'turn, roll; shove, etc.,' underlies the fol-
lowing: OHG. besklben 'disponere,' MLG. schlven 'nach Weise
einer Scheibe bewegen, rollen; zerquetschen, pilare, contundere,'
schivelen 'schwanken, auf die andere Seite treten, abf alien; un-
redlich handeln, intrigieren,' NE. shiver 'schauern, zittern' (these
last two frequentatives), ON. skeifr, OE. sea/, MLG. schef,
MHG. schief, 'schief.' ON. skeifr, etc., Zupitza, Germ. Gutt. 154,
compares with Lith. i skybei (adv.) 'schief,' Lett, schkibs 'schief,'
schkebt ' kippen,' which would imply a base sqeibh-.

In Gk. occur synonymous bases sqeip-, sqeib-, sqeibh-: O-KI/JLTTTO),
'prop against; crouch,' tvcac{fvirr& 'dash in or upon,'
D, cr/a/4/3a£ft>, Kip,$aCfi> 'halt, limp, crouch,' (ncifififa 'halt,
limping,' crid<t>ds 'niggardly, miserly.' Compare OE. hnigan
'bend down,' hndg 'bowed down, prostrate; contemptible; nig-
gardly.'

11. SMITAN

This word occurs with the greatest variety of meanings : NHG.
schmeissen, MHG. smlzen 'streichen, schlagen,' NE. smite, OE.
smitan 'daub, smear; pollute,' Norw. dial, smiia 'kleben; refl.
wegschleichen,' Sw. smita 'schleichen, sich drticken, sich davon-
machen,' etc. These are from a pre-Germ. base smei-d- 'drticken,
reiben, streichen, schmieren, etc.; sich drucken, schleichen, etc.,'
which is from smei- in Gk. oyw/y, cr/Lt^o), a^co^co (cf. Schade, Wb.
835; Persson, Studien 183).

Derivatives of the same base smei- are NHG. schmeichen
'smooth, plane,' Norw. smika 'streichen, glatten,' Sw. smeka
'streicheln, hatscheln, liebkosen,' MDu., MLG. smeken, MHG.
smeichen, smeicheln ' schmeicheln. '

Similarly Germ, smitan 'streichen, etc.,' may be compared
with Lett, smaidlt ' schmeicheln. ' But this is regarded as related
to Lett, smaida 'Lacheln,' Gk. fjieiSda) 'smile,' derivatives of the
base smei- in Skt. smdyate 'lachelt, lachelt verschamt, errotet,'
vi-smdyaie 'wird betroffen, besturzt,' smaya-s 'Staunen, Ver-
wunderung; Hochmut, Stolz,' ChSl. smejq s^, Lett, smeiju 'lache,'
Lat. mirus, etc. In these words we have the intransitive and

496

STUDIES IN GEKMANIC STRONG VERBS 9

passive meanings of smei-. Skt. smaya-s is especially instruc-
tive, as it points to the primary meaning 'drawing back,' which
describes both 'astonishment, wonder, shyness.' and 'aloofness,
haughtiness.' Compare especially Sw. smlta 'sich drticken, sich
davon machen' and NHG. verschmitzt, Dan. smette 'schltipfen.'

A similar development in meaning is seen in the following:
NHG. dial, schmorkeln 'schrumpfen,' OE. smearcian 'smile,'
NE. smirk 'schmunzeln.' — Lith. smaukiu 'glatt oder gleitend
streifen,' MHG. smiegen 'sich eng an etwas drticken, sich zusam-
menziehen, ducken,' NE. smug 'smooth, sleek; unctuous; self-
satisfied.' — Scotch smule, smuil 'schleichen ; schmeicheln,' MHG.
smollen 'schmollen; schmunzeln,' smielen 'lacheln:' Gk. a-poifa,
<r/ti»o? 'murrisch:' MHG. smieren 'lacheln.' — MHG. smutzen
'streichen: schlagen; beflecken,' MLG. smotteren 'schmeicheln,
liebkosen,' MHG. smutzen, smutzern, smunzeln 'schmunzeln.'

12. STRIDAN

This verb occurs in a twofold sense represented by OE. stri-
dan 'stride' and OHG. strltan 'streiten.' That these meanings
are easily combined I have shown in PBB. 24, 532. *

The old connection of OHG. strit 'Streit' with Lat. (st)lls
(Vanicek 329) may be phonetically possible as Uhlenbeek, PBB.
20, 328 f., and Walde, Et. Wb. 344, maintain. But before we
admit this comparison, it should be proved conclusively that
Germ, sir- may come from IE. stl-, and that the meaning of Lat.
Us and OHG. strit actually correspond.

In the sense 'strive, contend' the word occurs strong as fol-
lows: OSw. strlpa 'streiten' (usually weak), OFries. strlda,
MDu. striden 'streiten,' OLFr. withar-stridan 'widerstreiten,
zornig, erbittert sein,' MLG. striden (also wk. like OS. stridiari),
OHG. stritan, MHG. strtten 'kampfen, streiten; sich eifrig
bemtihen.' Related to these are ON. strid 'Streit, Kummer/
strida 'streiten; plagen, reizen,' stridr ' streitsuchtig, rauh, streng,
grimmig,' Dan. strid 'rauh, struppig; hart, streng, trotzig,' OS.
strid 'Streit, Eifer,' OHG. ein-striti ' widerspenstig,' etc.

1 The connection between stride and streiten had been given before by Skeat, Et. Diet.,
and has been adopted by Falk og Torp, Et. Ordbog II, 307.

497

10 FRANCIS A. WOOD

In all these forms there is no evidence of a Germ. p. If the
d of Germ, stridan goes back to an IE. £, then the verb must be
an aorist-present *strito or *srito or **stlito. Admitting that it
is an aorist-present, it is still strange that no noun or adjective
occurs with Germ. p. The probabilities are therefore that the
verb had IE. dh, and for that reason, if for no other, could not
be directly compared with Lat. Us.

Both stride and streiten may be referred to a pre-Germ. base
streidh- 'stretch out, stand out stiffly,' whence 'stride, straddle'
and 'strive, struggle,' with which compare streid- in ON. strita
'zerren, reissen,' stritask, streitask 'sich anstrengen, sich strau-
ben,' streita 'Anstrengung,' strit 'schwere Arbeit.' These seem
to come from a base sterei-: OE. strlmende 'resisting; striving.'
Lith. strainus 'widerspenstig in Worten,' pasistrainyju 'streben,
sich anstemmen;' Gk. o-rejp^o?, crrpifyvfc 'starr, hart, fest,' early
Du. strijven 'streben, streiten,' OHG. *striban, whence OFrench
estriver, NE. strive 'streben, streiten.' Synonymous bases
sterex- and stereux- occur. Compare especially streud-, which
shows the same double development as in stride, streiten: OE.
strutian 'stand out stiffly, be rigid,' NE. strut 'sich spreizen,
stolzieren,' MHG. strotzen, striuzen 'strauben, spreizen,' struz
'Widerstand, Streit.' For meaning compare no. 5.

13. SWIGAN

OSw. swigha 'sich neigen,' Sw. dial, sviga (sveg) 'sich biegen,
schwanken, nachgeben,' MDu. swighen, MLG. swigen 'schwei-
gen,' MHG. swigen 'schweigen, verstummen' (also weak like
OHG. swigen) etc.: ON. suig. 'bend, curve, circuit,' suige,
sueigr 'switch,' sueigia 'bow, bend:' Lith. svaigti 'schwindelig
werden,' svaigin&ti 'umherschwanken,' Russ. svigat 'bummeln,
sich herumtreiben' (cf. Mod. Lang. Notes xvi, 20).

According to Persson, Studien 192 f., Lith. svaigti has IE. g
not gh, and is related to OE. swican 'gehen, schweifen, weichen,'
etc. ; and Sw. dial, sviga is from pre-Germ. *smko. In that case
we may compare NIcel. svia 'weichen,' and in any case refer all
to a base suei- (id. ibid.).

The same change of meaning as in the above is seen also in

498

STUDIES IN GERMANIC STRONG VERBS 11

the following derivatives of suei-: MHG. swlmen 'schwanken,
schweben,' verswimen 'verschwinden,' MLG. swlmen 'schwinde-
lig sein, betaubt werden,' MDu. swlmen^ zwlmen 'abnehmen,
betaubt werden, in Ohnmacht fallen,' etc. — MHG. swinen 'abneh-
men, dahinschwinden ; abmagern, welken; in Ohnmacht fallen.'
— ON. suifa 'schweben, schwanken,' suifask ' zurtickweichen von,'
Goth, sweiban ' ablassen, aufhoren.' OHG. swifton ' stille sein.' For
other words with a similar change in meaning see Color-Names
and their Congeners 33 ff.

14. Twip>AN

MLG. iwiden 'willfahren, gewahren, bewilligen, erhoren' is
conjugated strong and weak. It corresponds to a weak verb in
MHG. zwlden (zwidigen, zwlgeri) 'willfahren, gewahren, erho-
ren,' bezwldegen 'gewahren, bestatigen;' zwldesal 'Gewahrung,
Geschenk,' MLG. iwidinge 'Gewahrung,' twlder 'Gewahrer,
Erhorer,' getwede 'willfahrig,' MG. getwedic 'zahm, willfahrig,'
getwedigen 'zahm, willfahrig machen,' OE. lang-twidig 'granted
for a long time.'

These are from a pre-Germ. base *duei-to-, which we may
compare with duel- in Lat. beo 'gladden, rejoice, refresh; present
with, reward with, enrich,' a derivative of due- in Lat. bonus
'good,' Skt. duvas 'Ehrerweisung,' duvasydti 'ehrt, verehrt,
erkennt an, belohnt,' and in OS. tugidon, tuidon 'gewahren,'' OE.
tygpian, tipian 'grant.'

To this base may also belong ON. tyia 'helfen, ntitzen' (con-
fused with ti6a), full-tyia ' ausreichende Hilfe gewahren,' OE.
teon 'furnish; adorn,' ful-tum, -team 'help,' getieme 'suitable,'
OLG. tomig 'ziemlich, schicklich,' MLG. tomen 'schmtlcken,
zieren,' Du. tooi 'Schmuck,' OE. tucian 'adorn' (cf. IE. ax: axi:
axu 70). Further connection with Goth, taujan 'machen, tun,'
OHG. zouwen 'fertig machen, bereiten,' zawen 'von statten gehen,
gelingen,' Skt. duvds 'hinausstrebend,' etc., is doubtful though
possible (cf. Uhlenbeck, Ai. Wb. 128).

15. I>W!TAN

OE. pwltan 'cut, shave off,' a-pwitan 'disappoint, frustrari,1
OFries. *thwlta, NFries. twit 'schneiden, schnitzen,' pre-Germ.

499

12 FRANCIS A. WOOD

base tueid-, also in OE. gepwit 'chip,' ON. puite 'Stein,' pueita
'kleine Axt,' pueita ' schleudern, werfen.' These are from the
base iuei- in Lith. tvyczyju 'schlage, staupe,' tvdju 'prtigele,'
tvyskinu 'klopfe gewaltig an,' tviska 'flackert, blitzt,' Gk. <7e«»
'swing, shake,' Skt. tvisdti 'ist in heftiger Bewegung, ist erregt;

funkelt, glanzt.7

FKANCIS A. WOOD
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO

500

THE SIXTH QUARTO OF HAMLET IN A NEW LIGHT

It has been generally held that the quartos of Hamlet, from
the second to the sixth inclusive, were printed each from the
immediately preceding copy. This statement must, I believe, be
accepted for the second, third, fourth, and fifth quartos, but the
sixth bears clear traces of different treatment. It evidently had
an editor who incorporated into his text many readings occurring
in the folios. Besides these he made many other important
changes.1

In order to prove my point it is simply necessary to present
those instances in which the reading of the sixth quarto differs
from the corresponding readings of the earlier quartos, but agrees
with the reading of the first or of the second folio, or of both
folios. Not having access to the fifth and sixth quartos, I have
made use of the readings recorded in The Cambridge Shakespeare
(1892). When no authority is given for the first reading, it is to
be understood that it is derived from the folios and quartos not

1 Compare, for example :

I, ii, 33 subject] subjects Qe. 215 made it] it made Qe. 237 a] an Qe.
I, iii, 7 primy] prime Qe. 79 the day] to day Qo. 98 you? give .... truth.] Qe. you
giue .... truth, Q2Q3. you giue .... truth. Q-tQr,. you, giue .... truth? Ff.

I, iv, 19 clepe] Qe. clip Q2Q3Q*Q5.

II, i, 18 iff] Ff . y'/fQ2QsQ4Q5. ifitQs.

III, ii, 87 detecting] Ff . detected Q2Q3Q*Q5. detection Qe. 301 from] upon Qe. 379
breathes] Qe. breakes Q2Q3Q4. breaks Qs. breaths FiFa. 380 this] the Qe. 383 lose]
Qe. loose The rest.

Ill, iii, 35 know] heare Qe.

Ill, iv, 79 sans] Qe. sance The rest. 215 in life] in's life Qe.

More such readings may be found by consulting the Cambridge edition : I, i, 49, 93, 96,
161, 163; I, ii, 63, 92, 127, 137, 147, 179, 200, 209; I, iii, 8, 9, 17, 48, 128 ; I, iv, 5, 57, 67, 82, 84; I, v,

I, 26, 30, 35, 38, 41, 44, 95, 97, 107, 137, 150, 162, 174; II, i, 3, 18, 42, 49, 63, 65, 69, 77, 79, 94, 106, 112;

II, ii, 12, 25, 30, 54, 80, 109, 125, 162, 164, 210, 224, 269, 277, 283, 294, 302, 311, 314, 359, 360, 362, 367,
380, 383, 396, 397, 414, 420, 424, 430, 444, 445, 449, 450, 455, 457, 478, 479, 482, 484, 489, 496, 497, 505, 516,
517, 550, 570, 571, 575, 579, 582 ; III, i, 10, 19, 30, 33, 46, 60, 61, 64, 65, 72, 75, 89, 92, 113, 118, 144, 147,
151, 161, 162, 163; III, ii, 25, 50, 51, 53, 57, 60, 63, 76, 96, 106, 153, 166, 171, 192, 218, 252, 267, 287, 301,
309, 313, 334, 337, 349, 370, 379, 380, 383, 388 ; III, iii, 6, 15, 26, 29, 35, 52, 58, 70, 75, 79, 93; III, iv, 22,
24, 77, 90, 116-118, 145, 161, 165, 188, 198, 210 ; IV, i, 13, 26 ; IV, iii, 6, 16, 35 ; IV, iv, 11, 14, 20, 24, 30,
60; IV, v, 26, 36, 55, 83, 102, 103, 129, 130, 138, 140, 173, 184, 197, 210; IV, vi, 8, 9, 16, 26; IV, vii, 7,
8, 11, 22, 29, 32, 45, 87, 115, 117, 122, 129, 159, 161, 174, 175, 191; V, i, 6, 18, 23, 76, 90, 107, 114. 118,
119, 124, 134, 147, 154, 160, 195, 211, 215, 218, 225, 242, 247, 268, 268, 284; V, ii, 13, 29-31, 52, 63, 67, 98,
102, 116, 125, 128, 140, 141, 145, 146, 155, 178, 201, 204, 211, 222, 257, 264, 273, 280, 295, 298, 300, 302,
303, 305, 318, 320, 329, 335, 350, 355, 357. Similar changes occur in other quartos, but so much
less frequently that they would not suggest any special editorial work.

501] 1 [MODEEN PHILOLOGY, January, 1907

AURA MILLER

subsequently mentioned. I have, of course, ignored all texts
other than the second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth quartos and
the first and second folios; still I have allowed the "Ff" of the
Cambridge editors to stand when the reading of the first two
folios is also found in the following folios.

I, i 122 entreatments] FfQ6. intreat-

4 Barnardo* FiFaQe. Barnar- ments Q2Q*Q4Q6.

do. The rest. 123 parley} FfQ6. parle Q2Q3Q4Q,.
21 What, has] Q2Q3. What ha's

Q4Q5. What, ha's F,F2Q6. lj lv

65 dead] same F2Q6. I shrewdly] F,Q6. shroudly

173 duty 9] FfQ6. duty. Q2Q3. duety. QAQ&*. shrew'dly F2.

Q4. dutie. Q5. T

29 bed-rid] bedred Q2Q3Q4Q5.

34 Voltimand] F2. Valtemand

Q2Q3Q4Q> Voltemand FjQg.
83 denote] FfQ6. denote Q2Q3Q4.

deuoute Q5.

105 course Q2Q3Q4Q5. Coarse FfQ6.
114 retrograde] F]Q6. retrogard
Q2Q3Q4. retrograd Q5. retro-
garde F2.

118 lose] FfQ6. loose The rest.
132 self-slaughter] seale slaughter

133 weary] FfQ»j. wary The rest.
157 incestuous] FfQ6. incestious

The rest.
174 Elsonoure Q2Q3Q4Q5. Elsenour

237 hundred] hundreth Q2Q3Q4Q5.
256 rise Though .... them to

Q2Q3Q4Q5. rise, Though ....

them to FfQ6.

I, iii
16 feare, Q2Q3Q4Q5. /eare F1F2Q,.

76 loses] FfQ6. looses Q2Q3Q4Q5.

77 dulls the edge] FfQ6. dulleth
edge Q2Q3. dulleth the edge

121
151

170

113

104

136

140
141
148

a] FfQ6. om.
pursuest] FfQ

pursues

it 9] FfQ6. it, The rest.
Sellerige Q2Q3Q4Q5. selleredge
PI. selleridge F2Q6.
so mere Q2Q3Q4Q5. so ere FfQ6.

II, i

quaintly] quently Q2Q3Q4Qs.
take Q2Q3Q4Q5. takes FfQ6.
beshrew] FfQ6. beshrow The
rest.

II, ii

33,34 Guyldensterne Q2Q3Q4Q5.
Guildensterne FiQ6. Guilden-
stare F2.

caZZ] Q2Q3Q4Q5. I call FfQ6.
/ Q2Q3Q4Q5. om. FfQ6.
shown] shone Q2Q3Q4Q5.
thus.] FfQ6. thus Q2Q3Q4Q5.
a winking] FfQ6. a working

sfar Q2Q3.

F2Q6.

prescripts] Q2Q3Q4Q5. precepts

FfQ6.

a] om. Q2Q3Q4Q5.

502

THE SIXTH QUARTO OF HAMLET IN A NEW LIGHT

151 this] Q2Q3Q4Q5. 'tis this FfQ«.
like] Q2Q3Q4Q5. likely FfQ6.

155 this, if . . . .otherwise;
Q2Q3Q4Q5. this; if . . . . other-
wise, FI. this, if . . . . other- 6
wise, F2Q6. 29

176 lord. Q2Q3Q4Q5. Zord* FfQ6. 46

190 Zord?] FfQ6. Lord. Q2Q3Q4Q5.

192 ford)] FfQe. Lord. QaQA- 61
Lord, Q4.

193 wfco?] FiQe. wfeo. Q2Q3Q4Q5. 66
whom1? F2.

228 Zap Q2Q,Q4Q5. Cap Ff. cap Q6. 85
271 even] FfQ6. euer Q2Q3Q4Q*.
295 forgone] FfQ6. forgon 140

146

substantially as in FfQ6. Com-
mas in Q2Q3Q4Q5.

Ill, i

Tie ttfiM] a wiZZ Q2Q3Q4Q5.
hither] FfQ6. /lef/zer The rest.
loneliness] lowlines Q2Q3. Zow-
linesse Q4Q5.
more ;] FiQ6. more, Q2Q3. more :

come,] FfQ6. come Q2Q3. come ?

302 T^/iaf a piece] FfQ6. What

peece Q2Q3Q4Q5. 147

303-305 faculty! ____ god!] Pointed
substantially as in FfQ6./acwZ-
ties, in . . . . moouing, how jg
.... action, how .... op- 29
prehension, how .... God:

315 cofed] Q2Q3Q4Q5. coated FfQ6. 4Q

hither] FfQe. hether The rest. 101
318 of me] FfQ6. on me The rest.
332 are they] Q2Q3Q4Q5. they are 107

FfQ6. 232

369 lest my] FfQ6. let me Q2Q3. let 256

my Q4Q5. 265

390 my] Q2Q3Q4Q5. mine FfQ6.
414 pious chanson] QaQsQtQs. Pans 278

Chanson Ff (Pons Fj). pans

chanson Q6. 290

450 heraldry] heraldy Q2Q3Q4Q5.
470 hideous] hiddious Q2Q3Q4Q5. 298
545 fiction] F2Q6. ^xion The rest.
548 tn's] F!Q6. m fets Q2Q3Q4Q5. 312

ins F2. 319

551 Hecuba. Q2Q3Q4Q5. Hecuba*

FfQ6. 386

565-569 coward ? . . . . tois ?] Pointed

sas

sicklied] FfQ6. s?cfcZed The

rest.

foo] FfQ6. to The rest.

Go to] Q5. goe to QjQgQ*. G!o

too FxQe. Goe F2.

marriage Q2Q3Q4Qs. marriages

FfQ6.

Ill, ii

ot*£-/fcerods] Hyphened in FfQ6.
praise] FfQ6. praysd Q2Q3Q4-
praisd Q5.
too] to Q2Q3Q4Q5.
too] FfQe. to The rest.
CapitoI\Fi.
Capitoll F2Q6.
<fea*?] FfQ6.
how*] FfQ6. /tow Q2Q3Q4Q5.
name's] FiQ6. names The rest.
strooken Q2Q3. stroken
strucken FfQ6.

Pajocke F2.

vouchsafe] FfQ6. voutsafe

/or, /or] Q2Q3Q4Q5. /or /or
FiQo. /or F2.

Zord ?] FfQe. Zord. The rest.
astonish] FfQ6. stonish

daagrers] FfQ6. dagger

AURA MILLER

III, iii

37 upon't] FfQ6. vppont Q2Q3Q4Q5.
73 praying] a praying Q^QsQiQs.
81 With all] FfQ6. Withall The

rest.
90 incestuous] incestious

Q2Q3Q4Q5.

Ill, iv
6 warrant] FfQ6. wait Q2Q3.

waite Q4Q5.

30 king. Q2Q3Q4Q5. fcma? FfQ6.
37 brasd Q2Q3Q4Q5. oraz'd FfQ«.
42 off ] FfQe. o/ The rest.
64 mildew'd] FfQ6. mildewed
Q2Q3Q4. mil-dewed Q5.

94 stae. Q2Q3Q4Q5. Sfc/e. F^Qe.

95 mi/] Q2Q3Q4Q5. mine FfQ6.

97 twentieth] FfQ6. twentith The

rest.
102 patches, Q2Q3Q4Qs. patches.

FfQ6.
143 And I Me] FfQ6. And the

Q2Q3Q4Q5.
155 cwr&e Q2Q3Q4Q5. courb FiQ6.

courbe F2.

179 !77ms] FfQ6. Tfris The rest.
186 rouell Q2Q3Q4Q5. to

F^Qe.
190 paddock] paddack Qa

IV, i

16 answered] answered FfQ6.

IV, ii
28 lord*] FfQ6. Lord. The rest.

England*] F^s. England.

The rest.

and so] FfQ6. so The rest.

IV, v

clothes] FXQ6. cZose Q2Q3Q4Q5.
cloathes F2.
rfcey] The Q^C^Qs.
Acfe] Acf s Q2Q3Q4Q5.
Christian] FfQ6. Christians

46
52

103
122
196

202 colaturall Q2Q3Q4. collaturall
Q5. Colaterall FI. Collaterall
F2Q6.

IV, vi

5 greeted, if] FfQ6. greeted. If
Q2Q3Q4Q5.

IV, vii

21 graves] FiFaQe. G^mes Q2Q3Q4Q5.
38 Hamlet* FfQ6. Hamlet, The

rest.

48 mean* .... dacfc?] Pointed
as in FfQd. Commas in
Q2Q3Q4Q5-

154 so/*, FfQ6. soft The rest.
180 indeed] FiQ6. indewed

Q2Q3Q4Q5. deduced F2.
184 she is drownd. Q2Q3. is she
drownd. Q4. is she drown'd.
Qs. ts s/fce drown 'd ? FfQ6.

201
226

IV, iii 255

19 supper, where. Q2Q3. supper 257
where. Q4Q5. supper* Where* 271
FfQ6. 272

35 indeed, if] Ff. if indeed 279
tfQo. 293

504

?] FfQ6. Carpenter.
The rest.

thither] F2Q6. thether The rest.
Grants Q2Q3Q4Q5. -Bifes FfQ6.
and] FfQ6. om. Q2Q3Q4Q5.
^and.J hand, Q2Q3. hand * Q4Q5.
thou] FfQ6. The rest omit.
grave*] FfQ6. grave, The rest.
thus] this Q2Q3Q4Q5.
Till] Tell Q2Q3Q4Q5.

THE SIXTH QUARTO OF HAMLET IN A NEW LIGHT 5

V, ii 311 poysned Q2Q3Q4Q5. poyson'd

31 sat] sate FfQ6. FxFaQe.

55 know'st] FfQ6. knowest 312 to blame] too blame

94 it is] Q2Q3Q4Q5. 'tis FfQ6.
102 laid] layed Q2Q3Q4Q5.
154 carriages] FfQ6. carriage The

rest.

249 off] FfQ6. o/ The rest.
256 too] FfQ6. to Q2Q3Q4Q5.
296 is it] QaQgQ^Qs. is'* FfQ6.
306 medicine] FfQ6. medcin
*. medecine Q5.

313 too] to Q2Q3Q4Q5.

317 incestuous] FfQ6. incestious
The rest.

318 off this] FfQ6. o/ Mis The
rest.

328, 329 time, as .... arrest, d
Q2Q3. time as .... arres*. O
time, (as .... arrest)
FfQ6.

308

/land] FfQ6. mi/ /land 377 inuenters

. Inuentors

AUBA MlLLEB

ANN ARBOR, MICH.

505

KEPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE
IN THE GERMAN DRAMA UNDER THE INFLU-
ENCE OF ROMANTICISM

I. GENERAL RELATIONS BETWEEN REPETITION AND
ARTISTIC COMPOSITION

The repetition of some part or parts organically related to the
fundamental idea of any work of art, literary, musical, or picto-
rial, is both an essential part of artistic structure and an effective
means of intensification of utterance. The parts repeated may be
any units of expression: in poetry, a word, a phrase, a sound, a
stress, a vowel or consonant, or groups and concretions of these;
in music, a tone or a group of tones, a theme, or a musical phrase ;
in pictorial art, a line or a general direction of lines, a color or a
combination of colors, spots or masses of color, or of light and
shade. They may even be whole sections, as the burdens of
ballads, the various restatements of the theme in symphonic com-
position, especially in the symphony and sonata, or the return to
the first part in Chopin's Nocturnes, and all the frequent repeats
in musical composition ; in architecture, all the structural duplica-
tions designated by the term "symmetry;" and in the drama they
may be, under certain circumstances, whole situations and scenes
— with modifications — as Herod's return in Hebbel's Herodes
und Mariamne.

The function of repetition as a necessary part of artistic struc-
ture is chiefly amplification. In order to give richness and
diversity, depth and breadth, to the main idea of a work of art,
it is necessary that this idea be presented in a variety of relations ;
which means that it must be repeated in many different surround-
ings. In every symphonic composition the various themes are
repeated in a constantly changing harmonic environment. With-
out this repetition musical composition would be impossible. The
same is true of pictorial art, as any good Japanese print, or any
fragment from the frieze of the Parthenon, or any example of
great art that has weathered the criticism of history will show.

507] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, January, 1907

2 MARTIN SCHCTZE

The other function of repetition, that of intensification, is
derived from the emotional effect of the reiterated impact of the
same perception upon our consciousness preoccupied with the
train of associations induced by the general idea of some work
of art. If the repetition is sufficiently regular to be anticipated
and calculated, it takes the form of symmetry, rhyme, or rhythm,
the latter including not only poetic rhythm, but the form of
repetition called rhythm of lines, colors, tones, curves, masses,
and movement in the pictorial and dramatic arts and architecture.
The repeated parts may be separated by others, or they may be
reiterated in uninterrupted succession. Beethoven frequently
doubles and again doubles the ratio of the repetition of a note;
others — Chopin and Liszt, for instance — increase the ratio of
repetition less regularly. Liszt uses ,,the repetition of a note in
a very characteristic and effective manner, in his piano concertos
and rhapsodies, to produce the effect of an echo-like reverberation.

Numerous as are these cases in which intensification is due to
regularity of repetition, they are yet easily classified under what
is properly termed the general technique of each art. Far more
complicated are the cases in which intensification is the result
of the opposite condition. The spectator may be startled into
intense anticipation by the unexpectedness, or by the length or
brevity, of the intervals separating the recurrences of the part
repeated. Or, repetition may, by a gradual unemphatic cumu-
lation of emotional effects, produce an all-pervading emotional
atmosphere, Stimmung, which may at times, as in Wagner's
Tristan und Isolde, grow to an almost mesmeric power. The
secret of Stimmungs-poeiTj, and of the art and poetry in which
mood predominates, consists in a skilful manipulation of the
emotional possibilities of irregular repetition.

Repetition in art, however, never occurs unaccompanied by
some variation. In its structural function, variation is implied
in the very purpose of achieving variety and amplitude of associ-
ations. But even when intensification is desired, entire absence
of variety would be monotonous and inartistic. Even repetitions
of the same musical note are attended by variations in intensity,
speed, quality of touch ; all of which, though almost imperceptible,

508

REPETITION OF A WOED AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 3

produce telling musical effects. In the case of rhyme in poetry,
even if we consider the mere matter of sound of the rhyming
words aside from the really inseparable matter of significance,
the most perfect rhymes offer variations in the preceding con-
sonants combined with the rhyming vowels. The classical
French "rich" rhyme seems to the modern mind tiresome
because it lacks this variety ; yet even here variety is pushed back
merely one step fastening upon the sounds preceding the rhyming
syllables. .

The range of variations, from the least degree perceptible to
the point where they threaten to overwhelm all sense of repetition
and identity, is very great. In a general way it may be said that
modernity, development in all arts, can historically be shown
always to have been attended by an increasing freedom of varia-
tion, and by, not a weakening, but a relegation to a less obvious,
though quite as essential, position, of repetition. Greater free-
dom, less rigidity of form, the incessant triumphs of Romanticism
over Classicism, mean ultimately, not, as is often said, displace-
ment of order by disorder, a futile triumph of formlessness over
form, but the development of a keener sense of essential identity
delving more deeply through the growing splendors of variation,
a greater ability to penetrate to the foundations of things, a more
incisive power of synthetic perception. It is true that at the
beginning of every great movement there is usually an outbreak
of disorder, but the laws of development soon sift the permanent
from the transitory. The peculiar character of obsoleteness in
forms of art and literature rests in their being too explicit, too
"complete," too definite, too limited in complex suggestiveness ;
attributes all of which spring from too obvious repetitions of
fundamental elements, insufficiently relieved, amplified, enriched
by significant variation. Too great explicitness produces thread-
bare monotony of restatement. As art develops, the fundamental
elements of it become more plastic, and elaboration takes greater
freedom.

Confining ourselves to a consideration of poetry, it is evident
that the more comprehensive, complex, and close-knit, the more
analogous to the highest forms of biological organization a work

509

4 MARTIN SCHUTZE

of poetry is — i. e., the more vital and numerous the relations
between each part and every other part are — the more significant
must be the elements establishing and emphasizing these rela-
tions. The most highly organized form of poetry is the drama.
Lyrical poetry, though it may be more intense, more penetrating,
more subtle, more exquisite, more true in some particular direc-
tion, can never achieve the breadth, complexity, pregnancy, com-
prehensive and vital synthesis, which are the glory of the great
drama. Epic poetry, on the other hand, though it may equal
the drama in the synthesis of what is essential, "historical," in
life, especially in that of the past, yet cannot achieve the direct-
ness, the elemental compactness, the supreme fitness, of the
texture and organization of the drama. The great drama com-
pared with the great epic is as the best type of a modern ocean
steamer, with all its lines trimmed down to greatest power of resist-
ance combined with greatest mobility, with not an inch of space
wasted, and with all parts so related to each other as to make pos-
sible an instant and most effective response of the whole complex
mechanism to the will of the guiding hand; compared with a recon-
structed Noah's ark, safe, slow, leisurely, rich in all the treasures,
memories, and associations of the patient earth.

It is this combination of greatest complexity and most effective
interrelation — i. e., of this . synthetic energy and high nervous
pressure — of its organization which gives to the drama in the high-
est degree the quality of suspense. Suspense, then, must be the
ultimate test of the structure of the drama. Under the head of
suspense comes whatever arouses, intensifies, and amplifies one's
interest in the progress of the drama. Where it is lacking there
is some deficiency, either in the intensity or in the variety of the
dramatic action. Whenever a dramatist is in a position to choose
between several forms in which he might present his story, he has
to take the one producing the greatest suspense, even if by doing
so he rejects others of apparently greater intrinsic beauty, as sym-
metry, balance, moderation, elegance, or smoothness. In German
literature some of the most poetic dramas — Goethe's Iphigenia,
Tasso, and Faust — are faulty as dramas for the chief reason that
the requirement of suspense has been subordinated to that of a

510

REPETITION OF A WOBD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 5

more abstract form of poetic statement. The pure lyric knows no
suspense, because it utters a mode of feeling without regard to
origin and issue; when suspense enters into a lyrical theme, it
produces a romance; when it becomes a prominent part of the
poetic effect a ballad results. In epic poetry there is consider-
able suspense. But it is only one element among others, all serv-
ing the chief purpose of giving a broad picture of people in their
fundamental relations to their times. There is in the ideal epic
always a broad strain of reflection, of the thought of prose, of quiet,
comprehensive summing-up of the main forces of life. The very
fact that the action is presented as occurring in the past detaches
it from our intensest interests ; which is still more obvious in the
"I" epic, because in this case it is evident on the face of the story
that the main person passed through all the vicissitudes of his
past, presumably triumphant, overcoming his troubles at least to
the extent of weighing and weaving into the fabric of his experi-
ence their significance — which is the only real triumph life offers.
But the dramatic form is entirely dependent upon suspense. By
conforming to the requirements of suspense, by transforming itself
in obedience to the dictates of it, the story, the "fable," becomes
the dramatic plot, amplified into the drama.

The conclusion might be drawn from this that the melodrama
must be the highest form of drama, for its purpose surely is to
produce the most lurid forms of suspense. But luridness repre-
sents strength only to crude minds prone to measure strength by
explosive violence of outburst, and not yet trained to the deeper
though soberer test of the quality of endurance. True dramatic
suspense is not a mere super added external sensational effect — a
stage trick, as it were — but an integral part of the very warp and
woof of the dramatic subject.

FOUR CLASSES OF REPETITION IN THE DRAMA

Repetition in the drama may be related to the poetic form, to
the manner and forms in which ideas are expressed, and to the
dramatic action itself. In most cases there is no real distinction
between the last two heads, the second properly being dependent
on the third; yet this division will presently justify itself by

511

6 MARTIN SCHUTZE

assisting us in defining our problem. In addition to these func-
tions, repetition serves as a signal to the spectator.

1. Repetition as poetic form. — Under the head of poetic form
belong all the repetitions, regular or not, called rhyme, rhythm,
meter, alliteration; and those involved in formal symmetry or
balance. Being common to all forms of poetry, they cannot have
specifically dramatic functions, and are therefore negligible.

The same is not the case with those infinite subtleties of repeti-
tion of sounds called sound symbolism. Although they have been
exploited principally in lyrical poetry, especially of the lastcentury,
their purpose being that of creating "atmosphere" (Stimmung),
yet we shall see that through this same function they fulfil a very
important office in creating suspense in a certain class of dramas.

2. Repetition for the purpose of rhetorical emphasis. — Under
the second head, that of forms of expression, belong a very great
number of cases of repetition of words or phrases serving the pur-
pose of emphasis, which yet produce no dramatic suspense because
they have no important bearing on the dramatic action. These
are the cases, usually called rhetorical, occurring in great numbers
in the dramas of the early stages of the rebirth of German litera-
ture, chiefly those of Lessing, the "Storm-and-Stress," including
Goethe's and Schiller's early dramas, and again in Grillparzer's,
Hebbel's, and Otto Ludwig's dramas. They are accounted for by
the purpose of vivacity of dialogue, vividness of expression, or any
stylistic peculiarity incident to speech and conversation in general ;
or characteristic, not of a particular dramatic character, situation,
or action, but of the general style or manner of a poet, or of a
"school" of poetry which in these instances is obviously Shake-
spearean. The term "rhetorical" is here used with a reservation,
because rhetorical utterance in its true sense should refer in the
drama to all forms of expression conveying iii the most impressive
and adequate manner the emotions, ideas, and general conception
of events, situations, and characters which the dramatist has in
mind. Dramatic technique, and the problem of suspense, should
therefore properly be regarded as parts of rhetoric.

Two examples from Lessing's Emilia Galotti representing this
form of repetition will show that, being common to all forms of

512

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 7

utterance, it has no specific and organic relations to the dramatic
form. In Act I, scene 6, Marinelli's invariable answer to the
anxious inquiries of the prince regarding the identity of Emilia
Galotti with the obscure woman who is to be married to Count
Appiani the same day, is: "Eben die." Finally, in desperation,
the prince breaks out: "Sprich dein verdammtes 'Eben die' noch
einmal, und stoss mir den Dolch ins Herz." Whereupon Mari-
nelli answers: "Eben die." In Act I, scene 4, Oonti, who painted
the picture of Emilia, says:

Wie viel geht da verloren! — Aber, wie ich sage, dass ich es weiss,
was hier verloren gegangen, und wie es verloren gegangen und warum es
verloren gehen mussen : darauf bin ich ebenso stolz, und stolzer, als ich
auf alles das bin, was ich nicht verloren gehen lassen.

In the latter case the painter repeats the word "verloren" because
he is excited, just as anyone in the same state of mind and situ-
ation would do. It is true there is a relation between the
painter's state of mind, and the beauty of Emilia Galotti which is
the cause of the subsequent tragedy, but the connection between
his repeated utterance of the word "verloren" and the tragic re-
sult of the train of events started by her beauty is too remote and
indirect to present itself with any degree of clearness to our minds.
Our interest is naively centered on a naturalness and vivacity of
utterance which does not stop to hunt up synonyms to introduce
variety. There is no suspense in this repetition.

3. Repetition as an element of dramatic structure. — It is there-
fore only the repetitions classed under the third head, those re-
lated to the structure of the drama, which hold the nucleus of
our problem. The problem thus resolves itself into the relations
between repetitions of certain parts of the drama and dramatic
motivation.1 Dramatic motivation, however, is governed by the
laws of association of ideas.

ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS IN THE DBAMA

Association of ideas is impossible without some form of repe-
tition. Thought consists in connecting different data of experi-

i The next study in this series on Romanticism, to be published presently, will be a de-
tailed study of the peculiarities of Romantic motivation. I have to limit myself in this
paper to a brief statement of the general forms of association.

513

8 MAKTIN SCHUTZE

ence by means of some elements contained in all of them, which
are perceived in some respect to be identical. This identity may
be inherent or ideal, or it may be incidental, imputed to an
external — i. e., actual or pragmatic — adjunct of some experience.
In accordance with this distinction, logicians since Aristotle have
divided association of ideas into two classes, characterizing the
one by similarity, the other by contiguity. In discursive thought
both forms of association are essential. In trying to single out
and define the essential elements of our consciousness, whether
they be abstract ideas, as "good" or "just," or concepts of con-
crete things, as "horse" or "cow," especially in the modern posi-
tivistic or pragmatic conception of reality, we have to collect and
subject to the tests of similarity and contiguity as many data as
are accessible to us.

There is a great difference between the objective and the psy-
chological aspects of these two categories, especially as regards
contiguity. Objectively, all data would come under the head of
contiguity which form essential parts in the description of an ex-
ternal object, say a horse. We form an objective definition of the
idea of a horse by applying the criteria of similarity and disparity
which are ideal, to all the data, the contiguous evidence, which
horses, as distinguished from all other objects of external reality,
furnish us. Psychologically, however, all those qualities come
under the head of contiguity which, whether inherent in the data
given or not, for some subjective reason induce certain universally
communicable conditions of consciousness in all normal persons.

As regards association by contiguity, it may be essential or
irrelevant. Irrelevancy in objective association by contiguity
would refer to the insignificant character of details of description
or definition adduced — such as, for instance, the average thickness
of horsehair established by elaborate measurements as part of the
description and definition of a common cart-horse — though this
item may be relevant for biological definitions. In psycho-
logical association, irrelevancy means lack of universal com-
municability of experiences — as, for instance, the insufficient
communicability due to that peculiar form of egotism called
sentimentality.

514

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 9

In the drama and in normal life the processes of association
are not discursive. Their purpose is not definition in terms of
discursive thinking, but the working-out, the organic unfolding,
of some complex state of passion ; or, if it please us to use the term
"definition," it is definition in terms of organic passional consist-
ency. This passional association, similarly as discursive associ-
ation, is subject to the criteria of similarity — including its
opposite, disparity — and contiguity. However, the processes
belonging to dramatic thinking being passional and dynamic,
instead of discursive and fixed, similarity and disparity take the
forms of correspondency and contrariety of passional reaction, or
agreement and contrast of emotional effect upon different char-
acters, the former, correspondency, producing the cumulative and
climacteric effects of similar passions and dramatic forces working
together; the latter governing the proper and plausible use of
dramatic contrast. The use of contrasts in characters, situations,
and actions is therefore not a mere artifice to produce an external
effect of diversity, but an inherent requirement of dramatic com-
position. Richness of texture, breadth of significance, universal-
ity of "appeal," depth of wisdom, in a drama depend upon the
wealth of definition, often miscalled suggestiveness, which governs
the right use of similarity and contrast in the selection and
arrangement of the structural parts of the drama. In Romeo and
Juliet we feel an essential bond of identity between the acts of
gentleness, devotion, humility, of the lovers ; but we find the same
bond, that of uncompromising affection, between Romeo's self-
control in the scene ending in Mercutio's death and in Tybalt's
self-abandonment to murderous hatred. Further, Mercutio and
Tybalt are similar in their love of a fight, their quick tempers,
their lack of regard for consequences; they are essentially oppo-
sites through Mercutio's good nature and Tybalt's fierce sullenness ;
yet all these traits have their roots in that lusty and potent
vitality of youth which is the ultimate bond of the unity of action
in this drama.

Dramatic association by contiguity takes place when two pas-
sional experiences are linked because through some accident of
time, place, or other circumstance they occurred in emphatic

515

10 MARTIN SCH^TZE

conjunction. The fragrance of lilacs amid which the lover first
kissed his lady will be fraught with potent associations for him as
long as his love lasts. This form of association occurring con-
stantly in normal intercourse, being in fact our principal means of
giving individuality and concreteness and vividness to our ideas
and emotions, is very important in the drama. A few cases in
which repetition is used to serve its purpose are: in Otto Ludwig's
Der Erbforster, "im heimlichen Grund" (nine times), charac-
terizing the scene of the murder; and "mit dem gelben Riemen"
(five times), individualizing the rifle with which the deed is com-
mitted; "Park" in Kleist's Hermannsschlacht, giving the con-
creteness of locality to Thusnelda's brutal plan of revenge;
"Gitterthor" in Grillparzer's Hero, serving to retain, through its
most prominent local adjunct, the first impression created by the
two youths from Abydos; and many others.

4. Repetition as a signal to the spectator. — Repetition, then,
is an essential part of the very warp and woof of dramatic struc-
ture. But it has, in addition, an important external function. The
average theater-goer, noting rather naively the sequence of events
on the stage as an engaging spectacle, without concerning himself
much with any underlying identities binding this sequence into
an organic process — unless some close personal interest be invol-
ved, in which case it is marvelous how speculative he becomes,
and with what lightning quickness — this normal person would be
greatly assisted in keeping his attention fixed on the structural
relations of the details passing in review before him, by some not
too obvious hints, some not too impertinent or officious sign-posts
now and then when the trail of association becomes dim or frazzled.
Repetition is such a sign pointing the association of ideas
from a thousand blind alleys leading to the dead walls of utter
darkness, upon the highroad of the poetic purpose. Any part of
a drama that is repeated with sufficient frequency and under cir-
cumstances arresting attention must acquire an emphatic eminence
among its less distinguished fellows.

Repetition thus inevitably performing both the more external
function of intensification of utterance and the essential function
of uniting the several parts of a drama into an organic structure,

516

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 11

it would be radically wrong to treat these two functions as sepa-
rate and different things, rather than as integral parts in the
working-out of the structural unity and the organic life of the
drama. Both of these functions must therefore be treated together,
except in a few cases when particular considerations make sepa-
ration necessary.

WHAT PARTS OF THE DRAMA CAN BE REPEATED

The parts of a drama which can be repeated are : whole scenes,
as Herod's two returns in Hebbel's Herodes und Mariamne; any-
thing coming under the head of action or dramatic event, and more
particularly ideas or objects expressed in the discourse ; and finally
single words or brief phrases, used as keywords. A study of the
entire subject of repetition would have to cover the whole of dra-
matic technique. In limiting ourselves to the repetition of words —
excluding synonyms, for, important though they are, their admis-
sion would prevent any possibility of delimitation — we have the
advantage of fixing our attention upon the most definite and ele-
mentary part of the dramatic structure, the part most easily dealt
with as to frequency of occurrence and structural relation^, and at
the same time serving as a means of prying open the whole problem
of dramatic suspense. The faculty determining the elaboration of
the dramatic dialogue is in the last analysis a quick and subtle sense
of words, consisting both of an imaginative vision presenting all
the possibilities of meaning, all the different facets, of a word at
once ; and of a gift of a keen dialectic, a verbal sagacity, seizing
at once upon the essential characteristic of each meaning. This
sense of words, so ready and fundamentally sound that it might
please itself in any fantastic extravagance, in any exuberant diva-
gation, without running the least danger of losing in the end its
sober, safe, and steady way, is the basis and justification of most
of Shakespeare's punning and skylarking in quest of "conceits."
Among the contemporaries, Ibsen has carried the dialectic use of
words in his dialogue to an astonishing degree of perfection.
Especially in his later works, as John Gabriel Borkman, a study
of his dialogue practically coincides with a study of his key-
words.

517

12 MARTIN SOHUTZE

REPETITION AND MOTIVATION

Any part of a drama — an action, an event, parts or the whole
of the conduct of a character, speeches, even external matters of
stage-setting, costumes, and so forth — is properly motivated if it
is organically related to a central idea dominating the whole play.
Whatever is inconsistent with this idea, whatsoever disturbs the
essential unity of action in a drama, can therefore bring about no
dramatic suspense, no matter how absorbing it may be in itself.

The term "dramatic suspense" expresses the attitude of antici-
pation on the part of the spectator with reference to the funda-
mental idea of a drama — i. e., the central interest of the dramatic
action. This interest presents a double aspect, the two sides of
which, though organically inseparable, yet have to be marked off
with greater precision than is usually done by writers on the drama.
They are: the organic consistency of the action and the cultural
value of it to mankind. The former calls for judgments of possi-
bility or probability or necessity — that is, of truth or reality on
any plane between the crudest literalism or naturalism and the
most attenuated and remote "idealism;" the latter, for judgments
of values, for appreciations of the actions represented, with refer-
ence to the cultural requirements of human life. They have to
be treated separately.

Under the first head our attention is centered on the funda-
mental forces of life as they actually are and operate. Whether
they are good or bad, beautiful or the reverse, attractive or not,
is irrelevant. They may be either external or psychological.

II. EXTERNAL MOTIVATION

The external forces determining the course of a drama may
have the mere significance of a "plot" appealing to a naive curi-
osity which is satisfied with a denouement, with the lifting of the
veil of uncertainty dimming £he eyes of the spectators, or more
commonly of the characters of the play, to the circumstances in
the net pf which they are entangled. These circumstances are
usually not of a deep significance, and, though they may produce
disastrous and even tragic results, are not intrinsically tragic.
They belong properly to comedy, and appear most commonly

518

REPETITION OF A WOED AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 13

as errors of some kind — mistaken identities, misunderstandings,
intrigues, false inferences, and so on. In Lessing's Nathan
der Weise, Act II, scene 7, and Act III, scene 8, the names
"Stauffen" and "Wolf," and in Act III, scene 7, the words
"Ebenbild" and "Bild" are repeated in a significant manner in
order to prepare us for the denouement. In Nathan, Act IV,
scene 6, the word "Brautkleid" is repeated as a false lead in
order to intensify expectation. In Kleist's Familie Schroffen-
stein the word "Finger" (the finger missing from the hand of
the body of the drowned child) is repeated a score of times to
arouse expectations as to a possible clearing of the mystery
surrounding the death of the child. In Kleist's Kathchen von
Heilbronn temporary suspense is effected by the word "Brief."
The word is repeated about seventeen times in a conversation
between Graf von Strahl and Kathchen. We know that the life
of the former might depend on his reading the "Brief." Again,
when the castle is in flames, Kunigunde requires that Kathchen
take from the burning castle the "Futteral" in which the "Bild"
of Graf von Strahl is supposed to be. In reality it contains
papers relating to Kunigunde' s claim against the count, which
she is supposed to have destroyed before her betrothal to him.
Kunigunde says: "Das Bild mit dem Futteral, Herr Graf von
Strahl! Das Bild mit dem Futteral!" and to Kathchen: "Geh,
Madchen, geh, schaff Bild mir und Futteral." The word is
spoken eleven times. It has the double effect of making us
anxious as to the safety of Kathchen, who is almost certain to
find her death in the flames in trying to recover the "Futteral,"
and of arousing suspicions as to Kunigunde's motives even before
we know the real facts of the case, because she appears singularly
cruel and selfish in sending Kathchen into the fire for picture
and case, and again for the case alone. This repetition partly
belongs under the head of psychological motivation. The word
"Handschuh," repeated fourteen times in Der Prinz von Horn-
burg, serves to bring about a partial denouement, the revealment
of Homburg's love for Natalie.

The repetition of a word is more significant when it is related
not so much to a mere denouement — that is, when its office is not

519

14 MARTIN SCHUTZE

so much to tease and satisfy curiosity — but serves to emphasize
and individualize an inevitable development toward an important,
triumphant or tragic, issue. The dramatist in this case does not,
as the artificer of "plot" and "denouement," expect us to make
more or less frivolous or clever, at any rate haphazard, guesses,
and to express ourselves yet outdone at the end by his ingenuity ;
he does not enter into a contest of clever guessing with his audi-
ence; nor are his issues to surprise us, though the manner and
time of their appearance may not always be anticipated; but he
rather expects to confirm our profoundest anticipations, to live up
to our loftiest sense of the eternal fitness, the deepest and direst
logic, of things.

Hebbel furnishes some telling examples of repetition belong-
ing here. His earliest one is that of "funf Tage" in Judith. It
occurs in Act III. The besieged citizens of Bethulia are trying
to determine how much longer they can resist the besieging army
of Holof ernes. One of them, the "Alteste," says:

"Liebe Briider, habt noch funf Tage Geduld und harrt der Hiilfe
des Herrn."

Judith : " Und wenn der Herr noch funf Tage langer braucht ? "

Der Alteste: "Dann sind wir tot ! Will der Herr uns helfen, so muss
es in diesen funf Tagen geschehen."

Judith (feierlich, als ob sie ein Todesurteil sprache): "Also in funf
Tagen muss er sterben."

Judith takes a vow to free her city by the assassination of
Holofernes. She goes to him, offering herself to him and prom-
ising that she will make him lord of the Jews. Toward the end
of her conversation with him she says:

"Auf funf Tage hab' ich genug [of undefiled food to eat], und in
funf Tagen bringt er's [Jehovah] zu Ende."

Holofernes: "Die Erlaubniss hast du [to remain alone]. Ich Hess
die Schritte eines Weibes noch nie bewachen. Also in funf Tagen,
Judith!"

Judith: "In funf Tagen, Holofernes."

In Otto Ludwig's Der Erbforster the words "gelbe Riemen"
("Gewehr mit dem gelben Riemen") and "heimlichen Grrund" are
repeated five and nine times respectively, the former identifying

520

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 15

the murderer and fixing our attention in a certain direction, and the
latter individualizing and giving a certain symbolic significance to
the scene of the murder. Some cases requiring mere mention are
the repetition of "Hitter" in the cave scene in Kleist's Schr off en-
stein; "Hunde" (twelve times) in Kleist's Penthesilea, "Erz-
bischof von Mainz" (cf. "der Mainzer" in II, 132) in Grillparzer's
Ottokar, I, 50; II, 19/20, 49/50; "Wo ist Margarethe nun,"
ibid., II, 520, and III, 469.

The most significant case of the repetition of a word, pointing
to the catastrophe by punctuating the decisive steps in the prog-
ress of the action, is that of "Licht" (and "Lampe") in Grill-
parzer's Des Meres und der Liebe Wellen. The word is repeated
more than thirty times in various associations, constantly assum-
ing additional, more complex, and more pregnant significance.
It is necessary to consider this case somewhat in detail, because
it substantiates an interesting conclusion. The frequent repeti-
tion begins in the fourth act, and its purpose is to lead the priest
to suspicion, thence to certainty, and finally to his murderous
decision. The temple guard insists that he has seen a man jump
into the sea in the morning, at Hero's tower, and that a light has
been burning in the latter all night, in violation of the rules.

1297 " Und dort in jenem Turme brannte Licht

Die ganze Nacht.' '
1299 ". . . . vermeiden,

Durch Licht und Flamme Bosgesinnten ....

Den Weg zu zeigen."

1304 " Sie wusst' es wohl, und dennoch brannte Licht."
1320 Tempelhuter : " Und sah' hinein, nichts schaut ' ich als ein Licht."
1328 Tempelhuter: "Ei Herr! und warum brannte denn das Licht"
1339 Tempelhuter: "Allein das Licht an jenem, jenem Fenster!"
1348 Priester: "Ruf mir lanthen."

Tempelhuter: "Aber, Herr, das Licht!"

The priest's suspicion is aroused, and he interrogates Hero about
the happenings of the night.

1433 Priester: ". . . . Man sah

In deinem Turme Licht die ganze Nacht."

The priest is now convinced and plans Leander's death.

1445 Priester: " Kommt dann die Nacht und siehst du wieder Licht P '

521

16 MARTIN SCH^TZE

The plans have been laid to make Leander's death certain if he
follows the summons of the light.

1791 Tempelhtiter [to the priest]: "Siehst du das Licht *

Hero arrives, speaking her longing for Leander in a monologue,
the first part of which is addressed to her lamp:

1798 "Noch ist's nicht Nacht, und doch geht alles Licht

Von dir aus . . . . "
and

1803: Hero: "Hier will ich sitzen, will dein Licht bewahren."

And in many other places: 1839, 1865 (twice), 1872, 1876, 1881,
and 1890 (after finding Leander's body) . This repetition is rein-
forced by a frequent repetition of "Lampe" in the same associa-
tions. The word "Licht" is closely associated with nearly every
step of the action descending to the catastrophe, its presence and
absence becoming almost a symbol of hope and disaster, life and
death.

A close relation to the progressing action of the drama is also
held by the word "Ring" associated with "Grab" in Hebbel's
Gyges und sein Ring, all in Act I, scene 1 ("Halle") :

". . . . ein K6nigsrwj7,

Und dennoch kannst du fur dein Konigsreich

Ihn dir nicht kaufen ....

Doch nie vernahm ich noch von diesem Ring . . . . "
Gyges: ". . . . Aus einem Grabe

Aus einem Grabe in Thessalien . . . . "
Kandaulus: "Duhast ein Grab erbrochen und entweiht."

Gyges proceeds to tell that he found the grave broken open
by robbers, and in it "Erblickte ich auf einmal diesen Ring"
The word is repeated about twenty-four times. This repetition
differs from that of "Licht" in two particulars. First, while it is
obvious that the repetition of "Licht" in Hero was deliberately
resorted to for the purpose of emphasis, there is no emphasis
intended in the case of the "Ring." It is incident to normal nar-
rative and colloquy; and yet, recurring as it does in conjunction
with gruesome or mysterious or suggestive associations, as " Konig,"
"Grab," deeds of violence, a mysterious origin, it does intensify,

522

KEPETITION OF A WOBD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 17

by limiting and qualifying the object of interest, our and Kandaulus'
state of suspense. In the latter case its function being psycho-
logical, will not be discussed here.

It might appear that in cases like the one of Gyges' "Ring,"
in which the intensifying effect of repetition is not primarily
intended, and where the dramatic interest is not centered upon the
word at all, but upon an object or idea named by the word, as in
"Licht" and "Ring" —that is where the repetition of the word is
incident to the progress of the dramatic action — we cannot regard
repetition as a means of suspense. It might be said that every
new emergence of the object and idea, accompanied by the word
signifying it, by marking a new step in the action of the drama,
must involve a partial denouement, a relief from previous tension
and uncertainty. But we have to consider that dramatic action is
not a sum of disjointed events or facts, which could be considered
and weighed individually, but an organism in which each part is
indissolubly connected with the whole. As the action progresses,
as the plot thickens, the relations of each part of the action, each
event and idea, to the whole constantly change, expand and multiply.
Each new step, while it may explain some object of dramatic con-
cern on the part of the audience, yet at the same time adds to
suspense until the final catastrophe. The dramatic possibilities
gather before our eyes as the thunderstorm upon the darkening
sky. Now and then there may be a moment of clearing, merely
to give way, in the next instant, to a still more portentous phase
of the expected storm.

The use of the word "Ring" in Gyges und sein Ring differs
in another respect from that of "Licht" in Hero. It conveys a
sense of an awful, fateful power, a magic potency, whereas "Licht"
though it has a slightly symbolic significance, as in Hero's mono-
logue, has no unearthly significance. It represents fate.

REPETITION BELATED TO DRAMATIC FATE

"Fate" is the collective term comprising the fundamental forces
directing the course of the dramatic action. Only in plays that
have merely a plot and denouement fate has no place, except as
the dramatist's private Jack-in-the-box contrivance for causing a

523

18 MARTIN SOHUTZE

momentary attack of the shivers to his audience. In serious drama
it abides in every detail, swaying the action step by step.

Dramatic fate has two aspects in accordance with the type of
drama in which it operates. In that class of dramas in which the
chief matter of interest is the concatenation of events — i. e., the
external action or story — "fate" is the collective name of all the
supreme external and mechanical forces of existence. In the psy-
chological drama, on the other hand, it embraces all the internal,
psychological forces — that is, the forces guiding, transforming,
controlling, the minds of men. External fate always appears in the
guise of extraneous violence opposing and thwarting the wills and
purposes of men, whereas psychological fate, being of the very
warp and woof of these wills and purposes, of the innermost essence
of personality, does not appear as a supervening force, but as the
abiding inner cogency, the inevitable intrinsic logic of things,
thrusting the conscious will which supposes itself ensconced in the
heart of personality, be it good or evil, outside the citadel whence
to make its valiant but futile assaults upon the Invincible. This
is the dramatic significance of the supreme Romantic article of
faith, "Personality is Fate," which combines in a paradoxical
conception of ultimate irresponsibility the opposites of absolute
freedom of the will and of an absolute subjective fatalism.

In Gyges und sein Ring both these forms of fate appear side
by side ; the preordained destruction of Gyges and his wife being
the external manifestation of fate, and its psychological operation
directing the course of Kandaulus.

At present we are concerned in detail only with external fate.
Representing, as it does, the external forces of life it must appear,
not directly, in propria persona, so to speak, as "fate," "Schicksal,"
but as something implied in external events and circumstances.
It is by this immanency of fate that the facts of reality become
symbolic. Only what is fraught with fate, and as far as it is so,
is symbolic.1 Symbolism is an abiding consciousness of inherent
structural or organic relations between the details of reality and

i The only fundamental distinction between "symbol" and "allegory " compatible with
historical usage seems to me this, that a symbol appears vested with the authority of fate.
From the "Storm-and-Stress" movement until the Romanticism of the present day, usage
has never wavered in this respect.

524

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 19

fate. The bald word "fate," "Schicksal," frequently repeated
as in Schiller's Wallenstein (over twenty times), causes not so
much suspense as rather a weary sense of poetic self -conscious-
ness and self-interpretation overdone. It is far more effective, in
a dramatic sense, in indirect, symbolic presentation.

The differences in the dramatic use of fate mark an important
line of development in the history of the German drama from
Lessing to Romanticism. In Lessing's Minna von Barnhelm
the word, or rather the object, "Ring," repeated about as frequently
as in Hebbel's drama, bears a relation to the external action of
Lessing's play analogous to that of "Ring" in Gyges. It serves
as a bond connecting different phases in the progress of the story.
In Lessing's play its function ends there; in Hebbel's it serves
the further purpose of giving the awful authority of fate to the
dramatic events and passions. Before the symbolic possibilities
of external circumstances had been rediscovered and their uses
exploited anew by the Romanticists, dramatists had no means of
enforcing the fate-begotten sweep and validity of their actions
upon their audiences, except by baldly giving them a name — a
proceeding too direct, too obvious, too devoid of suggestiveness,
and too monotonous to have much dramatic value. Schiller, who
greatly lacked the power of symbolizing, produced a strong,
though clumsy, symbol only once, in the Black Knight in Die
Jungfrau von Orleans; but he made almost no use of symbolizing
words. He rode, therefore, the word "Schicksal" nearly to death,
not because he "trieb das Schicksal," as Caroline Schlegel wittily
said of him — for every dramatist does that — but because, on
account of his deficient symbolic vision, his conception of fate
lacked variety and organic relation to reality.

Fate-symbolism was carried to its extreme limit, and to the
point of absurdity, in the so-called "fate drama" holding sway in
German literature during the decade beginning about 1815. In
Zacharias Werner's short play, Der vierundzwanzigste Februar,
the word "Fluch" is repeated about fifty- two times, in order to
drive home to the shuddering sense of the audience the demoniac
power dominating the course of events. In the same play the
words, "Messer," "Sense," "Hund," "Sohn," occur for a similar

525

20 MARTIN ScntiTZE

purpose. In Milliner's Die Schuld the words tellingly repeated are
"Schuld," "Rache," "Stahl," "Blut," "Tod," and "Mord." In
Kleist's Familie Schroffenstein, though not a fate drama proper,
in which the passion of hatred becomes a demoniac possession
taking the function of fate, the word "Rache" is repeated, at the
outset, about twenty-six times, and "Mord" about forty times.
In Grillparzer's drama Die Ahnfrau the words "Ahnfrau" and
"Dolch" are used in a similar manner as in the fate dramas
proper, though in a somewhat less lurid manner. There is one
instance of this romantic use of words in the repetition of "Traum"
in Lessing's Miss Sara Sampson (I, 4 and 7). The same word,
endowed with greater superstitious power, is repeated in Kleist's
Das Kdthchen von Heilbronn, where it is associated with the
words "Engel," "Marianne," and "eines Kaisers Tochter," like-
wise repeated.

In Richard Wagner's dramas the repeated words frequently
are the names of symbolic objects — objects endowed with super-
stitious, demoniac, or generally animistic powers. Some of these
are "Gold" in Rheingold, (about twenty times); "Schwert" in
Die Walkiire (about twenty -five times), and in Siegfried (about
thirty times) ; "Ring" in Siegfried (about twenty times), and in
Die Gotterdammerung (about forty-four times); "Speer" in
Parsifal.

SOUND-SYMBOLISM

In many of these cases of sensational repetition the mere sound
of the emphatic word, aside from the relation of its meaning or
the object designated by it to the dramatic action, is of consid-
erable significance. Words like "Fluch" "Rache," "Stahl,"
"Messer," produce, and are by the sensational writers intended
to produce, strong emotional effects. Nor is this sound symbol-
ism,1 if properly used, illegitimate in aiding and intensifying
suspense. Wagner in joining the meaning and sound of the

iThe Romanticists made much of this symbolism, as: A. W. SchlegePs Brief e iiber
Poesie, Silbenmaas, etc. (S. W., Vol. VII) ; Fr. Schlegel's Alarkos; Tieck's " 17" Romance of
Sir Wulf; Tieck's symphony prefacing his comedy, Die verkehrte Welt; Hoffman's Kreis-
leriana and Kater Murr. In lyrical poetry this sound-symbolism has, especially in the last
century, been a very prominent means, often overdone, of creating " atmosphere," Stimmungi
in German as well as in English literature, and in the French Symbolists of the second half
of the nineteenth century.

526

REPETITION OF A WOKD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 21

words with musical symbolism has in his Leitmotive made a
masterly use of repetition for the purpose partly of intelligibility
and partly of suspense. It is sufficient to refer to Brunhilde's
oath on the spear in Goiter d&mmerung, where meaning and sound
of the word "Spitze," emphasized by the sharp rise to the musical
pitch given the first syllable of the word, unite in startling dra-
matic significance.

FATE SYMBOLISM BY ANALOGY

There is a still subtler, but no less powerful, use of repetition to
accomplish fate symbolism, the typical example of which is found
throughout Grillparzer's Des Meeres und der Liebe Wellen, in
the constant recurrence of the words "Meer" and "Wellen."
This case is peculiar in being even less direct than those of the
fate dramas. In the latter the symbols of fate have a direct
causal connection with fate, being its tools. In Grillparzer's
drama, however, while the "Meer" ultimately brings about the
catastrophe, its more important function lies in a different direc-
tion. It was Grillparzer's express purpose to eliminate any guilt,
or at least any consciousness of it, in Hero. Her passion is to
take its course with the same elemental simplicity, directness,
inherent Tightness, with which the sea follows every fluctua-
tion of natural forces. The admission of consciousness of moral
issues, of any self-consciousness whatever, in Hero would have
thwarted his purpose. He chose the title, overlong and senti-
mental though it is, to suggest his purpose — as Goethe, in Walil-
verwandtschaften, used a simile taken from physical science to
emphasize the character of the passion depicted. The repetitions
of "Meer" and "Wellen" serve the purpose of reminding us
again and again of this idea, pointing the unswerving way of
destiny through all the tangle of individual initiative and psycho-
logical reaction. The intended effect of suspense upon the spec-
tator is produced through association by analogy. We anticipate
the course and issue of the master-passion, because we are made
to feel that the force which drives the waves of the sea shattering
upon the rocks by Hero's tower is similar to that which dashes
the lovers upon the battlements of settled conventions.

527

22 MARTIN SCHUTZE

Symbolic repetition, through its indeterminateness and sug-
gestiveness, produces, when properly used, an effect of general
atmosphere, a dramatic Stimmung, which at times, as in Hero, is
as potent, as mesmeric, as Stimmung in lyrical poetry. It is
worth while to draw the conclusion that Stimmung is not, as gen-
erally supposed, intrinsically lyrical, and that scenes of Stimmung
in a drama therefore are not to be set aside as lyrical, but that,
whenever in a drama it contains suspense, it is genuinely dramatic.
This is the melodramatic element which within certain limits is
indispensable to the drama, as Shakespeare shows. Without it
the drama lacks richness, color, atmosphere, and the necessary
warmth. It is chiefly through the want of it that Schiller's dramas
are "thin," or threadbare. It may, however, degenerate, as in the
fate drama, into mere sensationalism, analogous to the scare head-
lines of the yellow press, arousing wild forebodings unsupported
in the context by any additional detailed evidence giving distinct
significance to the alarming shriek of nondescript emotionalism.

III. PSYCHOLOGICAL MOTIVATION

In the cases so far discussed repetition is used to direct atten-
tion to the story, the sequence of events, and the issue of the
dramatic action. It is in these cases an instrument both for knit-
ting different events together and for calling our attention to what
is essential in them. It is an important part of the structure of
the drama, and at the same time of the evidence from which the
spectator draws inferences as to the issue of the action before him.
It is part of external, mechanical motivation, and is therefore
found most frequently in the drama of action, the highest form of
which is the so-called historical drama. It has also appeared in a
very important passional function, derived from the psychological
skill of dramatists trained in the school of Romanticism — the
function of engaging the emotions of the spectator.

We turn now to its use in affecting the relations of the
dramatic characters to each other — i. e., to repetition as part
of psychological motivation. The psychological drama was redis-
covered by Romanticism, and its modern uses were developed

528

REPETITION OF A WOBD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 23

under its influence. It soon gained ascendancy over the older
drama, surviving the fall of the Romantic philosophy of life by
annexing subsequent theories of life, chief among which is Evolu-
tionary Materialism, to its domain. The drama of Naturalism is
psychological, not objective or historical. Indeed, on surveying
the history of the drama, of the ages of Sophocles and Euripides,
of Shakespeare, of Calderon and Lope de Vega, of Moliere, of
Ibsen, it is difficult not to suspect that a supreme historical drama,
combining the breadth and exactness, the actuality, of history
with the subtleties and unity of psychology, of which we now and
then hear cheerful prophecies and encounter interesting though
misshapen specimens, is a chimera. However that may be, since
the rise of Romanticism the psychological drama has been the
dominant form of the drama. The most powerful attempt at a
historical drama since that time, Grillparzer's Kfinig Ottokar, is
psychological even to a fault, the direct influences bringing about
the downfall of the hero being on the whole rather paltry intrigues.
Shakespeare in Antony and Cleopatra, in which also the undoing
of a great historical character through self-indulgence is shown,
employs personal intrigue also as one of the inevitable incidents
of the situation. But he ignores it altogether in motivating
Antony's downfall, which is caused by more momentous, fateful,
"historical," forces than insidious schemes of base and con-
temptible characters.

In the evolution of psychological motivation in the modern
German drama we can distinguish three main stages. In the
pre-Romantic drama, the drama of Lessing, the "Storm-and-
Stress," and Schiller — who, although the ten last and most
important years of his activity coincided with the first high tide
of Romanticism, yet never comprehended its spirit — there is a cer-
tain amount of psychological motivation. Lessing, especially in
Minna von Barnhelm and Emilia Galotti, shows considerable
psychological knowledge, surpassing Schiller in the subtleness of
his analysis, and the greater freedom and naturalness of his con-
ceptions of personalities. Yet in all of these dramas the main
interest is absorbed by the events, the external sequence and issue
of the dramatic action. The characters serve merely the purpose

529

24 MARTIN SCHUTZE

of accounting for these events; that is, the characters themselves
are not the ultimate centers, but only the means of motivation,
subordinate to the story part of the drama. To be sure, the
" Storm-and-Stressers," especially Lenz and young Goethe, insisted
that character was the main concern of the serious drama ; yet these
theories did not bear artistic fruit until Goethe had outgrown the
heyday of his titanomania.

With the advent of Romanticism — or, rather, after Romanti-
cism had outgrown its first undramatic intoxication of transcen-
dentalism— the relations between characters and the action in the
drama became reversed. The characters or personalities now were
the final objects of the dramatic interest, the ultimate entities of
the drama; and, in turn, the events served merely the purpose of
motivation ; they were the screen of objective perception through
which alone it is possible in a drama to perceive personalities. All
reality, all external action and events, acquired a psychological
symbolism. A consistent, however one-sided, animistic view
of life discerned in all external phenomena manifestations of
personalities, hidden only in a measure sufficient to create the
sensation and suggestion of infinite possibilities of further reve-
lation. Novalis' theory that history must become a fairy-tale
before it has poetic value accords with the use Kleist makes of
actual and historical reality in Penthesilea, Kdthchen von Heil-
bronn, and Die Hermannsschlacht, in this respect that the final
test to which every part of the external action is subjected is
that of consistency with the psychological purpose. It finds
its dramatic application to historical subjects in Lessing's and
Grillparzer's demand that, however much historical events are
modified to serve the purpose of the dramatist, no liberties must
be taken with the conceptions of historical characters. This
psychological conception obtained, although a constantly growing
sense of reality added continually new data to the materials of
motivation, until the rise of biological materialism or the theory
of biological evolution, with its attendant literary movement of
contemporary Naturalism. Yet, in spite of a brief period of
materialistic bluster, Naturalism did not succeed in discarding
psychology. The dramatists of the preceding era had accepted

530

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 25

personality on the whole as a finality, troubling themselves little
with accounting for it, or at most doing so in a very general way.
They were content to rest their case upon phrases like "Character
is fate," or "Temperament is fate," or whatever changes might
be rung on the idea of the finality and ultimate validity of per-
sonality. The naturalists, in the first exaltation of a rash and
shallow materialism — as,' for instance, Hauptmann in Vor Son-
nenaufgang — tried to account for personality by a biological
milieu; i. e., by the material conditions determining its growth.
This environment, being removed from all control by the person-
ality produced by it, had in the first outburst of Naturalism to
serve, not only as fate, but also as the hero of the drama. The
possibilities of it as a hero were soon exhausted, however. Ibsen,
even in his most radical milieu-play, never forsook psychology;
and Hauptmann soon turned to psychological drama.

The final outcome of the development from a crass materialism
through a new Romanticism no less extreme to a sane and impar-
tial psychological Realism, the convolutions and ramifications of
which are easily traceable in spite of their complexity,1 was that
the psychological drama, instead of being replaced by a more
objective form, assimilated all that part of naturalistic technique
which made available the richest treasury of human experience
ever poured out before the eye and hand of man — the ever-
growing results of modern science.

The cases of repetition of words serving psychological moti-
vation are so numerous and various that only the most important
ones can be discussed individually. They will be presented as
much as possible in chronological order, treating each author
separately, in order to give the force of actual demonstration to
the historical survey given above. Only one type of repetition
will have to be discussed separately.

The only clear case in Lessing belonging here is the repetition
of "recht gern" by the Prince in Emilia Galotti, I, 8. The repeti-
tion of this expression of thoughtless complaisance when a human
life depends upon his decision, showing the preoccupation and

i 1 have tried to indicate the maiii lines of this development in a paper on " Natural-
ism," recently published.

531

26 MARTIN SCHUTZE

haste of the prince, produces a strong impression of the absorb-
ing, and therefore threatening, character of his passion for Emilia.
The frequent repetition of "Grobian" in Minna von Barnhelm,
I, 2, bears no important relation to the action of the play. It
is a secondary adornment intended to give vivacity to the char-
acters of the speaker and the person addressed, rather than part
of psychological motivation. It is related to the "rhetorical" use
of repetition in the narrow sense discussed above.

It was not until Kleist that repetition became very important.
In Die Familie Schroffenstein the fundamental idea determining
the entire course of the drama is a settled disposition of distrust
between two related houses, growing until it becomes a fateful
obsession drawing the venom of murderous hatred from every
happening, no matter how harmless, and endowing every action
of the supposed enemy, no matter how ingenuous and guiltless,
with a satanic intent. Years before the beginning of the action
of the drama the last two remaining branches of a powerful and
noble family had provided by solemn agreement that, in case either
house remained without a direct descendant, its property was to
accrue to the other. This agreement is assumed by certain mem-
bers of both houses to induce a desire for mutual destruction. It
has, therefore, an important relation to the psychological moti-
vation of the drama. At the beginning the church bailiff, in
explaining the existing circumstances to Jeronimus, says (p. 6):1

"Seit alten Zeiten

Giebts zwischen unsern beiden Grafenhausern
Von Rossitz und von Warwand einen Erbvertrag."

Jeronimus says:

"Das gehort zur Sache nicht."
Thereupon the "Kirchenvogt":

" Ei, Herr, der Erbvertrag geh5rt zur Sache."
Later Sylvester's wife says:

"Freilich wohl, man weiss
Was so besorgt sie macht: der Erbvertrag"

i Edited by Dr. Karl Siegen (Leipzig: Max Hesse).

532

REPETITION OF A WOBD AS A MEANS or SUSPENSE 27

Considerably later Jeronimus says to the count of the house:

"Ei, moglich war' es wohl, dasz Ruperts Sohn,
Der doch ermordet sein soil, blosz gestorben,
Und dasz von der Gelegenheit gereizt,
Den Erbvertrag zu seinem Gliick zu lenken,
Der Vater es verstanden, deiner Leute,
Die just vielleicht in dem Gebirge waren,
In ihrer Unschuld so sich zu bedienen,
Dasz es der Welt erscheint, als hatten wirklich
Sie ihn ermordet — um mit diesem Scheme
Des Rechts sodann den Frieden aufzuktinden,
Den Stamm von Warwand auszurotten, dann
Das Erbvermdchtnis sich zu nehmen."

The obsession of hatred and distrust is emphasized through
many other repetitions: The word "Mord," with variants "Mor-
den," "Mdrder," occurs in all about forty times. In the love-scene
between Ottokar and Agnes, Ottokar, remembering that he has
sworn to destroy the "Morderhaus" of Sylvester, says to Agnes:

"So branch' ich dich ja nicht zu morden!"
And Agnes asks: "Morden?" and later:

" Du sprachst von Mord."

"Mit wem sprachst du von Morde ?"

" Wollt ihr mich morden ?"

And Ottokar says: "Dich morden?"

Their state of mind makes it easy for those concerned to draw
rash conclusions from an apparent confession which finally turns
out to furnish no evidence except of their own mad readiness to
believe the worst. The word "gestanden" occurs twenty-six times.
The "Kirchenvogt" says (p. 7):

" Der eine, Herr, blieb noch am Leben, und

Der hat's gestanden"
Jeronimus: " Gestanden ?"

Kirchenvogt: " Ja, Herr, er hat's rein h'raus gestanden."
Jeronimus: "Was hat er gestanden ?"
Kirchenvogt : " Dass sein Herr Sylvester

Zum Morde ihn gedungen und bezahlt."
Jeronimus: "Erzahl's genau. Sprich, wie gestand er's ?"
533

28 MAKTIN

The " Kirchenvogt " admits the confession consisted only of the
one word, "Sylvester," and continues:

" Herr, welter war es nichts. Denn bald darauf
Als er's gestanden hatt', verblich er."

The word is repeated twenty times more in the progress of the
drama. It is further enforced by repetitions of "bekannt" and
"offentlich gesagt."

The word "gedungen," already mentioned, occurs five times in
connection with "gestanden," as, "Der eine hat's sogar gestanden,
du hatt'st ihn zum Mord gedungen" (p. 31).

The cause of the tragic results is the mistake made in the
false construction put on the tortured man's confession. Thus
the word "Irrtum" occurs, adding to suspense. Ottokar says
to Agnes:

" Denn fruchtlos ist doch alles, kommt der Irrtum
Ans Licht nicht, der uns neckt."

Later Agnes says:

" Was ist das fur ein Irrtum f
Ottokar: " So wie einer, kann auch der andre Irrtum schwinden."

The characters interpret their impulse of hatred as "Rechts-
gefuhl" (p. 5), justifying and confirming their course. Jeroni-

mus says:

"Bewaffne, wo

Ich's finde, das Gefiihl des Rechts, den frech
Verleumdeten zu rachen."

Ottokar's reply contains the two exclamations :

" Das Gefiihl des Rechts I " " Das Rechtsgefilhl I "
This word is used three other times. The word "Verdacht"
occurs nine times.

Likewise we find the word "Ahnung" ("ahnen"). Ottokar
and Johann speak of Agnes, the maiden they have seen in the
woods. Both begin to fear she may belong to the house of
Warwand. Ottokar says:

" Doch meine Ahnung $ "
Johann: " Du bast's geahnet"
Ottokar: "Was hab' ich geahnet }"

The word occurs four more times.

534

REPETITION OF A WOBD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 29

Johann has obtained possession of Agnes' "Schleier."

Ottokar "Wie kamst du denn zu diesem Schleier ?"
and repeats his question:

" Wie kamst du denn zu diesem Schleier, sprich ? "
Later:

"Nimm diesen Ring und lasz den Schleier mir."
Johann: "Den Schleier ?"

and later:

" Du nahmst das Leben mir mit diesem Schleier."

This word seems a kind of Leitmotiv for Agnes, and occurs
altogether ten times.

In Penthesilea the chief characters are also in the demoniac
grip of a single passion. It is desire, vaulting ambition, "Der
Wunsch," that possesses Achilles and Penthesilea as a madness
to their undoing. "Wunsch" is the ruling idea of the play. The
Greek general says :

" Die sucht, ob nicht ein schmaler Pfad sich biete
Fur einen Wunsch der keine Fliigel hat."1

Prothoe, one of the Amazons, to Penthesilea (p. 107):

"Um eines Sieges,
Der deine junge Seele niichtig reizt,
Willst du das Spiel der Schlachten neu beginnen ?
Weil unerftillt ein Wunsch, ich weisz nicht welcher,
Dir im geheimen Herzen blieb."

The queen answers (p. 108):

" Sind's meine Wunsche blosz, die mich
Zuriick auf s Feld der Schlachten rufen?"

Some scenes later, Penthesilea says (p. 122):

" Warum auch wie ein Kind gleich,
Weil sich ein fluchtiger Wunsch mir nicht gewahrt,
Mit meinen Gottern brechen?"

Later Prothoe says to her (p. 126) :
"Nicht ruhn wollt' ich, ....

Bis meiner lieben Schwester Wunsch erfiillt."

. 97, Siegen's edition.

535

30 MARTIN SCHUTZE

Toward the end of the drama, Meroe, another Amazon, says (p.

164):

" Sie zog dem Jiingling entgegen
In der Verwirrung ihrer jungen Sinne
Den Wunsch, den gliihenden, ihn zu besitzen."

This overmastering and unfulfilled desire is the fate of both
Penthesilea and Achilles. It is not an external force, but the
essence of their natures. It is the romantic psychological fate.
The priestess, not understanding Penthesilea, says (p. 124) :

"Unmoglich,

Das nichts von aussen sie, kein Schicksal halt,
Nichts als ihr thoricht Herz

and Prothoe, Penthesilea's devoted friend, who understands her,
answers :

"Das ist ihr Schicksal"

It is as if Kleist had deliberately chosen this opportunity to hurl
his interpretation of the powers ruling over life at the heads of
convention and tradition symbolized by the priestess. Later
Prothoe says to Penthesilea (p. 135):

" Welch ein Geschick auch liber dich verhangt sei,
Wir tragen es, wir beide!"

Achilles says to her (p. 144) :

"Vernichtend war das Schicksal, Konigin,
Das deinem Frauenstaat das Leben gab."

Later he says again (p. 153) :

"Dem Schicksal ist auf ewig abgeschlossen."

The herald brings Achilles' challenge to the queen with the words
(p. 157):

"Soforderter ....

Noch einmal dich in's Feld hinaus, auf dasz
Das Schwert, des Schicksals ehr'ne Zung', entscheide."

In Die Hermannsschlacht the word "Locke" is repeated to
give force to the motivation of Thusnelda's inhuman plot against
Ventidius, the Roman commander. Pretending to love her, he
has asked her for a lock of hair. Later we learn that this request
really was not prompted by sentiment, but by base vanity. His
fate rests upon Thusnelda's state of mind on discovering his true

536

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 31

purpose. The word occurs sixteen times. The portrayal of
Thusnelda's wrath is not without a concurrent brutality of race-
feeling in Kleist himself, characterized by a frequent repetition
of the word "Barm."

The phrase "Fanfare blasen" occurs in an impressive manner
in Kleist's Prinz von Hamburg, its purpose being to emphasize
Homburg's state of mind. One idea possesses him — the desire
to win Natalie; he pursues it with somnambulistic concentration.
He can win her only by distinguishing himself in an extraordi-
nary manner, by a great decisive victory. This ambition speaks
in the words "Fanfare blasen," which in Homburg's mind dis-
place the whole careful plan of battle by which the complete
destruction of the enemy is to be compassed.1

Feldmarschall: "Dann wird er die Fanfare blasen lassen" (p. 24).
After a slight interruption by the other characters, the prince
repeats :

"Dann wird er die Fanfare blasen lassen!" (p. 25).
The "Feldmarschall" is about to continue giving orders:

"Eh' wird er nicht Fanfare blasen lassen" (p. 26).
Rittmeister von Golz writes it down:

"Eh' wird er nicht Fanfare blasen lassen."
The "Feldmarschall" asks the Prince if he has written it down:

Prinz : " Von der Fanfare ? "

Hohenzollern: Fanfare! Sei verwunscht! Nicht eh' als bis
der . ..."

Later Homburg:

"Ja, allerdings! Eh' nicht.
Doch dann wird er Fanfare blasen lassen."

At the battle the prince gives orders for the attack before he
receives word from the other divisions of the army: "Z/ass Fan-
fare blasen!" (p. 36), and, in spite of remonstrances from his
friends, repeats, "Trompeter, die Fanfare!" (p. 37).

During his temporary hallucination the prince passes the open
grave prepared to receive his body after his execution. The word
"Grab" is repeated a number of times in order to emphasize the

1 Edited by Nollen (Boston: Ginn & Co.).

537

32 MARTIN ScntiTZE

part that associations aroused by it play in the psychological
motivation. This part is clearly contained in this line:

"Seit ich mein Grab sah, will ich nichts als leben" (p. 72).
This is one of the cases in which the sound of a word concurs with
its meaning in producing an effect of foreboding.

In Hebbel's dramas repetition for the purposes of psychological
motivation is used in a similar manner as in Kleist. Hebbel, how-
ever, has some subtleties and dramatic effects all his own, corre-
sponding to his peculiar conception of a barbaric eroticism — a
monster half ape half god, in whose worship Romanticism and
Naturalism have at all times met.

In Judith the word "Opfer" is used in a very interesting
manner. Hebbel's purpose was to have it clearly understood that
Judith, no matter how much she is fascinated by the primitive
force of Holof ernes, is not actuated by desire, even loathes the
sweetness of the desire that threatens to overwhelm her a few
times. The idea of sacrifice has to be emphasized throughout
the play to overcome any suspicion in the spectator that, partly
at least, Judith is seeking gratification rather than martyrdom.
Therefore the word "Opfer" is thrust at us at the outset. Act I
begins :

Holof ernes: "Opfer!"

Oberpriester: " Welchem Gott?"

Holof ernes : " Wem ward gestern geopfert ? "

Holof ernes: "Bringt das Opfer Einem, den ihr Alle kennt, und doch
nicht kennt."

Oberpriester: "Holof ernes befiehlt, dass wir einem Gott opfern
sollen," etc.

At the end of the drama, when we know how great Judith's sacri-
fice has been, she rejects the offer of a reward with the words:

" Wenn das Opfer verrochelnd am Altar niederstiirzt, qualt ihr's mit
der Frage, welchen Preis es auf sein Leben und Blut setzt ?...."

However, the force of Holofernes, the barbaric superman, does
play an important part in the conflict raging in Judith's mind,
and to emphasize this also, the word "Kraft" occurs frequently,
especially in the fifth act, just before the catastrophe. We are for
a time in doubt whether Judith's determination can hold out

538

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 33

against the fascination of this force in Holofernes. The word also
suggests the irony of fate in the situation of a strong man boast-
ing of his security when the shadow of death is already upon him.
In Golo und Genoveva, Siegfried, Genoveva's husband, suffers
from an obsession of distrust as mad and deadly as the characters
in Kleist's Familie Schroffenstein. His suspicion is so deep-
rooted and wilfully irrational that Golo says of him:

" Mein Widerruf bewirkte nichts,
Als dass er mir's nur um so fester glaubte."

Repetition in Golo und Genoveva is overdone to such a degree
that it is almost comical; as, for instance, "log" in Act IV, scene 6:

Golo: "Herr Graf, ich log."
Siegfried: "Du logst? ....

Doch gegen eine solche Lilge w&r

Sie schuldlos ....

Vulogst!"
Golo: "Ich log."
Siegfried: " . . . . Um niemals zu erfahren, ob mem Weib

Die Siinderin, ob du der Liigner warst."
Margaretha: Brav! Eins — zwei — drei ....

Ich log! zum dritten Mai! Nur fiigt hinzu:

Ich log den andern Beiden nach. Verschweigt

Warum wir logen.

Ihr straft mich Liigen.

Nur zu ! Ich log !

Two pages later, after Siegfried has become still more entangled
in his madness of doubt,

Margaretha: "Ihr seid ein Mann,
Den Keiner zu beliigen wagen wird "

Siegfried: ....

Margaretha: "Doch ob sie etwa unerlaubt gekiisst,
Es ist erlogen (zu Golo). Nichts fur ungut, Herr,
Ihr konnt ja selbst belogen sein!"

The hero of the play is Golo. The dramatic purpose of it is to
show how an erotic passion may not only lead a man into crime,
but corrupt his will until he knowingly chooses a career of crime.
Golo becomes in the end a deliberate criminal.
The last line in Act I reads:

Golo: "So leg'ich's aus, ich soil ein Schurke sein."
539

34 MARTIN SCHUTZE

Then in Act III, scene 10, after Genoveva has rejected his adul-
terous suit, putting him on his honor,

Golo: "Wer jetzt noch bleibt, der muss ein Schurke sein. Ich bin
ein Schurk'. Nun hab ich Schurkenrecht, denn auch ein Schurk' hat
Recht

At the end of this speech he forcibly kisses Genoveva. In the
following scene the word "Kuss" is repeated four times, referring
to Golo's action, in order to emphasize the dramatic importance
of it. This importance consists chiefly in the interpretation of
the kiss by others, especially by Siegfried, the victim of his mad
jealousy. To quote only two brief lines, in Act IV, scene 6:

Siegfried: "Ein Kuss auf ihre Hand?
Ich kiiss die Hand nicht wieder."

Another case of repetition in this drama is that of "Mord"
and "nichts" together, as: "Ein Mord, ein Nichts," in Golo's
speech of six lines concluding Act III. "Mord" occurs in this
passage five times; "nichts" four times. The repetition serves
the purpose of showing to what degree of evil and desperation
Golo has fallen.

In Maria Magdalena the only word repeated is "nicht," or
"nichts." It occurs in Act III, scene 2, in Klara's plea. The
keynote of the whole speech is: "I demand nothing; I have
nothing to live for now; only marry me to save me from shame
and death." It confirms in us the anxious expectation that she
will yield to the obvious suggestion of self-destruction arising
from her conviction that her life is hopelessly bankrupt. The
word "Gulden" repeated in Act I, scene 2, emphasizes a suspicion
of Karl's character and is interesting. For this suspicion, though
it later proves ungrounded, affects decisively the tragic course of
events.

The tragic conflict in Herodes und Mariamne consists in the
clash between the two principal characters. It is a tragedy of a
conflict between the pride of a loyal and intensely passionate wife
and a morbidly selfish, tyrannical husband. The tragic traits of
Herod's character are emphasized in the repetition of the words
"weiss" or "wissen," "Welt," "zittern;" those of Mariamne, in
"zittern," and her final tragic determination in the word "Tod."

540

REPETITION or A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 35

In Act I, scene 3, Herod has been called to Antonius to give an
account of the assassination of Mariamne's brother. Mariamne
has forgiven him the murder.

Herod es: " Ja! Antonius lasst mich rufen

Doch, ob auch wiederkehren, weiss ich nicht!"

Mariamne : " Du weisst es nicht ? "

Herodes: " Weil ich nicht weiss wie hart

Mich meine — deine Mutter bei ihm verklagte."

Herodes: "Gleichviel ! Ich werd's erfahren. Eins iiur muss ich
Aus deinem Munde wissen, wissen muss ich
Ob ich und wie ich mich vertheid'gen soil."

Mariamne: "Ob du — ."

In the ensuing dialogue Herod demands that Mariamne promise
on oath to kill herself if he should not return, because he wishes
to know whether she prefers him to the world ("die Welt,"
repeated four times in five lines). She refuses firmly, too proud
to pledge herself to do what she is resolved to do of her free
will. Herodes, thinking her love not great enough to give him
the comfort of complete sympathy, says:

" Die ~Liebe zittert !

Die zittert selbst in einer Heldenbmst ! "
Mariamne: "Die ineine zittert nicht I"

Herodes: "Du zitterst nicht " (accusing her of selfishness in opposing his
"Du" to her "Die meine").

Mariamne leaves him, and in a monologue, scene 4, Herod says:

"Heuf nicht I Doch morgen, tibermorgen ! —
Sie will mir nach dem Tode Gutes thun !
Spricht so ein Weib ? Zwar weisa ich's, dass sie oft,
Wenn ich sie schon genannt, ihr Angesicht
Verzog, bis sie es nicht mehr war. Auch weiss ich's,
Dass sie nicht weinen kann, das Krampfe ihr,
Was ander'n Thranengtisse sind! Auch weiss ich's, etc."

This insistence on entire certainty, in which Mariamne's integrity
and honor are ignored, joined with the egoistical contrast between
"the world" and himself, reveals the whole arrogant selfishness
of Herod, incapable of faith in others, which, conflicting with
Mariamne's passionate pride and love, brings about the catas-
trophe. Her pride is further emphasized by the word "rache"

541

36 MARTIN ScntJTZE

in Act II, scene 3, occurring four times in three lines.1 She
would not seek revenge for the murder of her brother, but for a
breach of the faith demanded and justified by her love and pride.
Suspense arises from the inferences suggested by this incident,
as to what she might be capable of doing should her pride be
deeply hurt by Herod. Still other aspects of Mariamne's pride
are contained in the repetitions of the words "schwur" (three
times in the same scene), "Trost" (ibid.). The scene is between
Mariamne and her mother who mourns for her murdered son,
Aristobulos, and is much disappointed on finding that Mariamne
is not in need of "consolation."

An extremely effective repetition occurs in Act IV, scene 8.
Mariamne, having learned that Herod, on his second departure,
has again given the command to have her killed in case he should
lose his life during his hazardous enterprise, has come to the
conclusion that he does not love her. In the frenzy of her
desperation she arranges a great festivity for the time when the
news of Herod's death is expected. She is dancing in a state
of hysterical excitement when Herod suddenly appears. She
addresses him:

Mariamne: "Der Tod I Der Tod ! Der Tod 1st unter uns !

Unangemeldet wie er immer kommt."
Salome [who desires Mariamne's death]: "Der Tod, fur dich. Ja wohl !

Sofiihlstduselbst!"
Mariamne: "Zieh' das Schwert !

Reich mir den Gif tpokal I Du bist der Tod !

Der Tod umarmt und kiisst mit Schwert und Gift."
Salome [to Herod]: "Die Kerzen haben dich betrogen;

Hier wird gejubelt tiber deinen Tod."

This ominous word continues to recur throughout this scene, the
last and climacteric one of the fourth act. Its chief purpose is
psychological in two directions: principally, to symbolize Mari-
amne's determination to die, but also to confirm, partly through
the insinuations of Salome, Herod's suspicions of Mariamne, which
the latter is too proud, too bitterly determined, even to make an

i Edited by R. M. Werner (Berlin: B. Behr, 1901), p. 249. See also "Rache" repeated
three times in three lines, earlier in the same scone, p. 243.

542

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 37

attempt of dispelling. It furthermore confronts the spectator
blankly with the inevitable issue of the situation.

There are a great many repetitions in Hebbel's Nibelungen;
but since they present no new type of repetition in psychological
motivation, it may suffice here simply to name the chief words.
They are: "Nebelkappe," "Gttrtel"( ten times), "Bid," "Drachen"
(Chriembild trying to influence Etzel) , "Falke," "Schuh" (in the
stone-throwing contest Siegfried outthrows his adversary always
by one "Schuh") ; and "liebte" (twice), "hasste," "Hass" (three
times), "versShnte," "Versohnung" (five times), in close juxtapo-
sition in Chriembild' s "Rache."

In Grillparzer's dramas the most obvious case of repetition
coming under this head occurs in Konig Ottokar*s Gliick und
Ende. The word "knieen" in various forms occurs at the end of
Act III in line 6141 twice; after that in IV, 69, 70, 71, 108, 110,
195, 196, 200, 479 (twice), 480. This word, repeated over and
over again to Ottokar, or within his hearing, by his army, by the
burgomaster and citizens of Prague, his subjects, and finally by
his adulterous wife and Zawisch, her paramour, becomes an intol-
erable taunt, lashing him on to his now mad and hopeless revolt,
to the brutal, lawless execution of Meerenberg, and to his final
undoing. In a similar manner Sappho goads herself into fury by
the repetition of the word " Undank" : Sappho, IV, 18, 27, 30 (three
times), 102, 108. Speaking the word the first time inadvertently
in her plaint over Phaon's desertion, she is arrested, at the sound
of it on her own lips, by the emotional possibilities of itv as it
were. She fairly gloats over it in her self-abandonment to wrath,
her rage gradually rising to a point where her actions, beginning
with the determination to exile Melitta, take the tragic turn. In
addition to this, the repetition forces upon us the inference that
by putting her claim to Phaon's loyalty on the ground of grati-
tude she unconsciously acknowledges defeat.

To return to Ottokar, other cases of repetition are "feierlich"
with "Gelubde" (I, 345, 347, 360, 557), emphasizing Ottokar's
willingness to use any pretext to attain his ambitious ends; "O
Hand von Schnee," etc. (II, 157, 158, 162, 165, 364, 561), mark-

i Lichtenheld's edition (Cotta).

543

38 MARTIN ScntiTZE

ing the gradual acquiescence of the queen in Zawisch's suit, and
generally foreshadowing the part she is to play ; further Ottokar's
repeating, "Die Schwache macht versohnlich" (III, 224, 229),
showing that Ottokar's yielding is not prompted by a sense of
right, but merely by momentary exhaustion, and suggesting that
as soon as there is sufficient incentive again, he will return to his
iniquitous ways.

In Ein Bruderzwist in Osterreich the word "Spiel" is sig-
nificant. In Act III Rudolph, speaking of Matthias, says:

uMein Bruder ist nicht schlimm, obgleich nicht klug,
Ich geb' ihm Spieh&um, er begehrt zu spielen"

Julius replies:

"War's Spiel, dass eigner Macht er schloss den Frieden ?"
" Ist's Spiel, dass er den Herren apielt im Land ? "
Rudolph: "Du spielst mit Worten, wie er mit der Macht."

And again, p. 107,1 " HeldenspieZ." This word, accounting as it
does for the most significant weakness, lack of stability, in Matthias
(and also, though in a different manner, in the other, actual or
possible, pretenders to the throne of Austria) , foreshadows the
disastrous part he is to take in the affairs of a country that needs
firmness and sober persistency in its ruler more than any other
quality. The triviality and irrelevancy of the Hapsburgians is
further brought to our notice in the repetitions of the word
"Kreis" ("im Kreise drehen") on pp. 43 (twice), 44, 64 1. i.a

Three distinct ideas are interwoven to form the tragic compli-
cation of Das Goldene Vliess. They are the traditional fate
attached to the thirst for gold, symbolized in the fleece laden
with an accumulating weight of curses. This idea influences
the external action directly, requiring external motivation. It is
emphasized chiefly by the repetitions of the words "Vliess" and
"Fluch." The other two ideas are the relations between civiliza-
tion and barbarism, and the purely personal conflict between Jason
and Medea. Of these the former, though it appears as a psycho-
logical conflict, will be discussed later,3 because the interest attach-
ing to it primarily involves a much broader general question, the

i Cotta edition. 2 Edited by August Sauer (Gotta).

3 Under the head of " Dramas with a Purpose."

544

REPETITION OF A WOBD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 39

psychological conflict being merely one of its reflexes. But the
personal relations between Jason and Medea are purely and ulti-
mately psychological. Medea, in pouring out her bitterness to
Kreusa, characterizes Jason thus, repeating the same words ten
lines farther on: "Du kennst ihn nicht, ich aber kenn ihn ganz."
This line, framing, as it were, through repetition her indictment
of Jason, gives a weight to it for the attention of the spectator,
which pursues him, compelling him to apply her interpretation
of Jason's motives to his acts, note his deterioration step by step,
and draw inferences as to the probable direction of his course.

Otto Ludwig uses repetition very extensively. The most em-
phatic cases of it will be treated under a different head. There are,
however, some very good ones in Die Makkabcter1 which belong
here. The leading idea in this play is that Judah is chosen by
the Lord to restore the historic splendor of the house of Israel.
The faith of the people in the chosen of the Lord, actuating all
the chief characters, including Judah himself, becomes the funda-
mental psychological motive of the play. It is emphasized by a
repetition of the word "Judah." This name occurs through-
out the play with greater frequency than would be required by
ordinary speech; e. g., seven times on p. 176. This extraor-
dinary repetition produces in us the feeling that the salvation of
the whole people depends upon this one man. We gradually asso-
ciate a growing sense of a superhuman prominence and power with
Judah. This feeling is enhanced by these repetitions: "Gross"
(Act I, pp. 174, 175; four times); "Mann" (1, 174, 175; five times);
and again in the same association (I, 187; four times); "Krone
David" (emphasizing the historical mission of Israel; I, 179; four
times; including "Konigskrone," once). Associated with this
within sixteen lines: "Kranz," in "Kranz die Krone" (twice) ;
and "Hut," " Hohenpriesterhut," "Aaron's Hut" (four times).
"Hut" and "Krone" often recur later in the same scene; "Volk,"
"Better," " Retter-Volk," together (I, 183; twice); "Volk" alone
frequently; "Krone" again in the same association, later in I, 188
(four times) ; "will's" ("Der Herr will's") (II, 201, 203; thirteen
times). Minor repetitions are: "Tempel" (II, 196; five times),

i Edited by Adolpli Bartels (Leipzig: Max Hesse).

545

40 MABTIN SCHUTZE

emphasizing the religious nature of the struggle; "Freundschaft"
(three times), "fluchen" ("eignem Kinde," twice) (five times),
emphasizing the pre-eminent and irreconcilable character of the
conflict.

Of the repetitions in Wagner the following belong here:
"Ftirchten," in Siegfried (about twenty-five times), foreshadow-
ing Siegfried's careless and ingenuous nature which ultimately
causes his death; "verthan" and "versungen," in Die Meister-
singer, to characterize the weight of philistinism in the master-
singers with which Walther's free spontaneity has to contend.

REPETITION PER SE

There are a number of cases where psychological motivation
is achieved, not by the meaning nor by the sound of the word,
but principally by the mere fact that a person repeats the same
word. Such a repetition, whether in the form of quick iteration,
or interrupted by varying intervals of silence or of other words
or events, indicates a certain emotional state of the speaker, or
reveals a certain emotional effect produced by another person,
thus interpreting also the latter's conduct; or it induces an emo-
tional reaction in the person in whose presence the repetition
occurs. The range of emotions that can be expressed by such
repetition and the reactions caused by it is unlimited. It reaches
below and above the normal, including, to give a few instances,
joy, hate, terror, enthusiasm, love, passion, impatience, concern of
any kind; disappointment, dejection, melancholy, despair, desper-
ation, malice, stubbornness, and so forth. In Kleist's Familie
Schroffenstein, Jeronimus, related to both the hostile houses, goes
to Rupert on an errand of reconciliation. At this time the herald
sent by Rupert to Sylvester to declare a war of extermination has
been slain by the mob assembled before Sylvester's palace. The
news of the deed has aroused all the evil passions in Rupert.
He receives Jeronimus with these words (Act III, scene 2) :

" . . . . Vielleicht hast du

Auftrag' an mich, kommst im Geschaft des Friedens,
Stellst selbst vielleicht die heilige Person
Des Herolds dar ?— "

546

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 41

Jeronimus: "Des Herolds ? — Nein. Warum ?
Die Frag' 1st seltsam."

During the progress of this scene Rupert gives way to an almost
satanic hatred of his adversaries. Toward the end, with ominous
emphasis, he says:

" Was ist ein Herold ?"
Jeronimus: " Du bist entsetzlich —
Rupert: "Bist du denn ein Herold ?"
Jeronimus : " Dein Gast bin ich, ich wiederhol's und wenn

Der Herold dir Dicht heilig ist, so wird's

Der Gast dir sein."

We see the murderous plan soon to be executed forming in
Rupert's hate-ridden mind. The word is repeated frequently
afterward: pp. 59 (twice), 64 (twice), 66, 67 (twice), 76; but in
these later cases it is not so much the repetition as the meaning
of the word which produces the intended effect of showing the
extent of Rupert's malice in this violation of one of the most sacred
laws of war.

In Otto Ludwig's Erbforster the word "durchforsten" is used
in a similar way. The disastrous quarrel between the forester
and Stein arises over the question of thinning out (durchforsten)
a certain forest. The repetition of "durchforsten" (about twenty
times) in Act I, scene 1 (pp. 102 ff., 111-28), which is peculiarly
insistent, marks, and intensifies as well, the obstinacy of the twa
men. This effect is reinforced, with reference to the forester, by
his manner of repeating the word "Herr" three times on p. 103,.
and again three times on the following page, where it has a dif-
ferent meaning, yet essentially the same dramatic effect. These
repetitions are supported by a number of others which, on account
of their organic connection, are quoted here rather than under the
preceding head, where they belong: " Vom Vater zum Grossvater,"
p. 130, p. 133 (five times); "Recht" p. 130 (six times in a short
passage, harking back to: "Aber der Herr hat doch allemal recht,
weil er der Herr ist" p. 103) ; and again, p. 165, three times, and
in other places throughout the play; "Bauernmoral," p. 117 (four
times; "redlich,"' p. 117 (four times); "wenn und aber," pp. 133,
134, 165, 171, 172. The psychological condition from which the

547

42 MAKTIN SCHUTZE

disastrous course of events takes its rise is an obsession of a simi-
larly blind force as in Kleist's Familie Schroffenstein. The old
"Forster," whose father and grandfather have had his position
before him, regards it as his right and duty (opposed to the ego-
istical "Bauernmoral") to impose his will regarding the conduct of
his office even upon his employer. He declines to reason about
the matter, to consider the "wenn und aber," insisting on
nursing his feeling of resentment over his discharge which
is the result of his quarrel with his master, He feels himself a
victim merely of a brute force residing in an order of things which
he symbolyzes by an invidious repetition of the word "Herr."

The extravagant use of repetition in this play comports well
with the subject of it, which is a purely emotional condition. At
the root of the disaster is temper. Repetition here combines the
two functions of being a consistent form of expression on the part
of the "Forster," and of conveying to the audience a sense of his
extraordinary mental condition and the fatal external consequences
likely to spring from it.

In Grillparzer's Medea occurs a case of repetition revealing,
not a state of mind in the speaker, but in the person addressed,
and arousing an important partisan reaction in the sympathies of
the spectator. Medea, trying to please Jason, has learned a song.
She has to repeat the words, "Ich weiss ein Lied," a number of
times before Jason, absorbed in his interest in Kreusa, takes
cognizance of her (Medea, II, 281, 292, 295). '

IV. PLAYS WITH A PURPOSE ("TENDENZ")

The point of view thus far taken in analyzing the dramatic
action has been that of causality. The only relations between
the parts and the dramatic whole considered have been those of
actual fact, establishing a plausible consistency, either of external
sequences of events, or of internal, psychological processes. The
only faculty appealed to in the spectator has been assumed to be
that of sane and critical inferences from external evidence or
psychological data. But in judging a serious drama another
faculty comes into play — the faculty of appreciation, or judgment

i Edited by A. Lichtenheld (Cotta).

548

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 43

of values. These values may be either ethical or aesthetic. Both
of these will have to be treated under separate heads.

1. The ethical values of a drama. — There is a school of writers
and critics who demand that no appreciation of ethical values is
to enter into the judgment of art and literature. They would
rest content with a presentation of a plausible sequence of events,
external or psychological, disregarding their ethical values esti-
mated in terms of individual, social, generally human, historical
interests. (Whether these interests are ultimately to be accounted
for by utility, or absolute ideal validity, or a compromise between
the two, does not matter here.) But it is evident, and has always
been the result worked out by the intellectual activity of the dif-
ferent eras of literary and cultural thought, that the more com-
prehensive, the more complete, the more universal the range of
human interests embodied in works of literature is, the more
intense, potent, and enduring is their appeal. No dramatic action
and no psychological problem or conflict have vital significance
for the world unless they have far and deep-reaching ethical bear-
ings. Supreme art is impossible, no matter how clever it is,
without supreme ethical significance. This significance, or value,
of a drama is therefore one of the two fundamental criteria of
excellence and power, the other being that of intrinsic consistency,
already considered. Neither can take the place of the other.
No ethical purpose, however high, can uphold a drama lacking
dramatic consistency, any more than a building badly constructed
will resist ruin because it is dedicated to some high service. Nor
can supreme skill expended on flimsy and perishable material give
enduring value to it. Perfect harmony between construction and
ethical value produces perfect art.

In the supreme drama the moral values residing in the dramatic
data, and adding substance to the objects of our suspense, form an
integral part of the structure and organism of the drama, and par-
ticularly of motivation, so completely that analysis of the one
necessarily covers the other also. But in the great majority of
serious dramas the purpose exceeds the structural capacity. They
are the so-called dramas-with-a-purpose. In these the ordinary
methods of motivation are thwarted and diverted by an extraneous

549

44 MARTIN SCHUTZE

guiding idea. For, the ethical purpose being dominant in the
poet's mind, the sequence of events or the psychological processes
cannot be the ultimate goal of his motivation. They are merely
helps, intermediate supports, enabling him to reach his final aim.
No matter, therefore, how great a share of our attention is
absorbed by the interest of story — external motivation — or the
psychological interest — internal motivation — our expectancy is
not directed primarily toward these, but toward the dramatist's final
attainment of his purpose toward which they are devised to lead.
These dramas, which are called didactic or allegorical or symbo-
listic or problematic according to the literary methods followed
in their composition, form a mixed class, partly overlapping the
other two classes. It is hardly necessary to point out that among
those influenced by Romanticism the dramas of purpose as a
rule intersect the class characterized by psychological motivation.

The question may be asked how an ethical purpose can pro-
duce dramatic suspense. In a drama of this class we are always
dimly conscious and morally certain that the dramatist is prepared
to lead the action to his purpose, whether his theme or characters
will or no. We feel that we have fallen in with a personally con-
ducted party. All the routes and stopping-places have been
arranged before the start; all lateral avenues of disconcerting
spontaneity have been closed and sealed. Every little glimpse of
the poet's intention will therefore bring our speculations within
closer range of the dominant interest embodied in the drama, and
thus intensify our suspense.

In none of the cases under consideration has the purpose been
put on an absolute philosophical ground, for the good reason that
a dramatist of any insight could not assume such a ground in an
existence without absolute values and with all its ideals indis-
solubly bound up with pragmatic interests. It is always found to
rest upon a lower ground, where the ethical interest is more or
less mixed with a personal and passional one, with a more or less
prejudiced preference, as patriotism, race-prejudice, religious or
any other kind of partisanship, affinity with certain types of char-
acter and temperament, and so forth. Considered from the point
of view of the ideal, of a universal art these personal preferences

550

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 45

might seem, and some of them undoubtedly are, in a measure cor-
rupt. As regards the national interest, however, it is certain, and
has been emphasized in modern times since Herder by every com-
petent writer on the subject, that all supreme dramatic art has had
its root in the national life in which it flourished, and has there-
fore never been quite without patriotic or racial, and even chau-
vinistic, bias. Respect and sympathy cannot be withheld even
from the idiosyncrasies engendered by a warm-hearted, full-blooded
participation in the potent influences surrounding us at every step
we take.

Schiller in Wilhelm Tell appealed to the patriotic interest of
his German contemporaries, trying to teach them, through the
example of the Swiss republicans, the needed lesson of national
unity. The repetition of the word "em" ("einig") throughout
the play, culminating in Attinghausen's dying words (IV, 2, 2452) ,
"Seid einig, einig, einig," had a powerful effect upon the Ger-
mans of those days of disunion and weakness. But nowadays,
political union having been accomplished and patriotic passion
satisfied, cooler consideration divests the word of a potency not
genuine, because not sufficiently related to the fundamental struc-
ture of the play.

Lessing's Nathan der Weise presents an example of an extreme
reaction against the religious intolerance of his time, prompting
him to give an unfair representation to the Christian, as opposed
to the Jewish and Mohammedan religions. In I, 5, "gehorchen"
and "meint der Patriarch" are often repeated to show the abject-
ness of the monk and to dispose us unfavorably toward the repre-
sentatives of Christianity. The same purpose is served by the
repetitions of "Rat," "Scheiterhaufen," "Holzstoss," "ein Pro-
blema," and especially the words recurring very often: "Thut
nichts, der Jude wird verbrannt," emphasizing the cold-blooded
cruelty of the Christians. The repetition of "Jude," "ganz
gemeiner Jude," by Al-Hafi to protect Nathan, serves to charac-
terize the Christians unfavorably and the Mohammedan favorably.

In Prinz von Hamburg Kleist made an attempt to rid the prince
of the arbitrary individualism characteristic of his own and his
Romantic contemporaries' more youthful view of life, and of the

551

46 MAETIN SCHUTZE

heroes of his earlier dramas, by making him bow to the authority
of law. The issue of the play depends upon the interpretation of
certain parts of martial law. The word "Gesetz" is significantly
repeated toward the end of the drama (about six times, pp. 105,
106, 113, 115, Nollened.).

A very important case of purpose emphasized by repetition
occurs in Hebbel's Agnes Bernauer. Albrecht, son and heir of
Ernst, duke of Bavaria, has married Agnes, the daughter of a
burgher of Augsburg. The nobles and estates of the duchy are
incensed over the mesalliance, and the duchy is brought to the
brink of a revolution. When neither Albrecht nor Agnes proves
amenable to his urgent request to save the country by dissolving
their union, Duke Ernst has Agnes abducted and, after the
formality of a trial, put to death for high treason. Albrecht col-
lects an army, defeating his father's forces. Ernst himself is
taken prisoner. The tragic conflict is between the raison d^tat
and personal loyalty to the beloved wife, between the duties of
Albrecht as an individual and as a citizen, the most important
citizen, of the state. When Albrecht learns that his father, the
duke, has been captured, he, who has been killing whomever of
his father's chief followers he could overtake, commands (V, 8,
pp. 82, 83):

"[Man] soil ihn freilassen! Gleich!"

Nothaft von Wernberg: "Ei, das kommt wohl morgen auch fruh
genug!"

Albrecht: " Gleich I sage ich. Mensch, ftihlst du's denn nicht auch?"

Nothhafft von Wernberg: " Eh' er Urf ehde geschworen hat und uns
wenigstens die Kopfe gesichert hat?"

Albrecht (stampft mit dem Fuss): "Gleich! Gleich! Gleich!"

This sudden halt in the midst of his headlong career of revenge,
jeopardizing the lives of himself and his faithful followers, brings
home to us his abiding respect for law and order, symbolized by
the person of the ruler. It prepares us for the turn in the course
of the dramatic action. This effect is further intensified by the
repetition of the words "Gottliche und menschliche Ordnung"
(V, 9) and"Gewalt" (p. 84):

Ernst [to Albrecht]: " . . . . Aber wenn du dich wider gdttliche
und menschliche Ordnung empSrst . . . . "

552

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 47

Albrecht: " Gdttliche und menschliche Ordnung! Ha, ha ! Als ob's
zwei Regenbogen waren, die man zusammengeftigt und als funkelnden
Zauberring um die Welt gelegt hatte ! Aber die gdttliche Ordnung rief
sie in's Leben .... Die menschliche . . . . (er tritt Ernst naher) die
menschliche .... !"

And in the next scene (V, 10, p. 86) the imperial herald, in pro-
nouncing the ban of the empire over him, again repeats: "in
deinem Trotz wider menschliche und gottliche Ordnung . . . . '
Another repetition referring to the purpose of the drama is that
of "Gewalt" (V, 10, p. 87):

Albrecht: "Soil ich mich vor der Gewalt demtithigen ....?"
Ernst: "Gewalt? Wenn das Gewalt ist, was du erleidest, so ist
eine Gewalt, die alle deine Vater dir anthun, eine Gewalt, die sie selbst
sich aufgeladen, und ein halbes Jahrtausend lang ohne Murren ertragen
haben und das ist die Gewalt des Rechts !...."

This example may suffice for Hebbel. But before passing on
it is necessary to point out that of all the dramatists of a higher
order he is the one most persistent and immoderate in attempting,
by way of a false (a "faked") background, to extend the reach
of the central ideas of his plays far beyond their intrinsic struc-
tural validity, and that he more than others offers examples of
words repeated to emphasize his special purpose.1

The most numerous cases in Grillparzer's dramas are found in
Libussa. The fundamental conflict in the play is between two
theories of government: the old patriarchal one, deriving the
authority of the ruling class from a mystical unity with the cosmic
order of things, and exacting from the subject classes a childlike
confidence and reverence; and the ideal of modern constitutional
liberalism, basing the distribution of authority on a definite
Declaration of Rights. Secondary conflicts are those between
feministic and reactionary ideals of an absolute right to be en-
forced without compromise by a mere appeal to the sense of
justice of the governed, on the one hand, and a practical, deter-
mined, persistent method, preferring for the time being a possible,
partial good to an impossible whole, on the other; and finally be-
tween obsolete privilege and modern democratic equality. The

1 As, for instance, the continuous cursing of the Jew in Golo und Genoveva, II, 5 ; the
allusions to Christ and the Slaughter of the Innocents in Herodes, and so forth.

553

48 MARTIN ScntiTZE

mystical union between life and the cosmic forces, between tra-
ditional authority and the natural needs of men, is symbolized by
"Kleinod," "Giirtel," "Kette," "Gold" (opposed to "eisern," cf.
the legend of the Golden Age), "Krone," and by the opposition
of "Bauer" and "Fiirst," all repeated throughout the play. The
aversion of " Libussa" (and Grillparzer) to constitutional liberal-
ism is emphasized through the very insistent repetition of the
word "Recht," as, for instance, pp. 121,1 157, 158, 180 ("Gerech-
tigkeit," "gerecht," "Unrecht"), 186 ("Recht," "Unrecht"),
etc.2 But the most significant word is "Mann," often opposed to
"Frau," because man — the modern, liberal man — stands at the
center of the whole purpose of Libussa; see, for instance, p. 160
(three times) ; p. 161 (four times, reinforced by repetition of
" eisern," "Eisen") ; p. 163 (three times, and opposed to "Frau"
and " Weib"); p. 164 (three times); p. 174 (three times); and
so forth.

In Medea the well-ordered, ample simplicity of civilization is
opposed to the disarranged narrow complexity of barbaric minds
in these words spoken by both Kreusa and Medea: Medea (I, p.
86), "Ein einfach' Herz," and Kreusa (III, 247), "Ein einfach'
Herz und einen reinen Sinn."

2. The aesthetic interest. — Every drama appeals to a certain
extent, and to an extent increasing in proportion to the culture of
the audience, to the literary sensibilities of the latter. This
interest, often called sophisticated, is within certain limits
thoroughly legitimate. It is only the naturalists and literalists,
demanding the highest degree of "imitation of nature," of "illu-
sion" attainable, who ignore the obvious fact that art means no
more than representation only to crude and rudimentary forms of
aesthetic intelligence; whereas to artists, and to those who have
entered into its spirit, it means presentation, at first hand, of con-
ceptions none of which ever existed or can exist in nature except
in inchoate and rudimentary forms, and in confusing and hope-
lessly jumbled conglomerations, stimulating, teasing, and feeding
the artistic intellect, but not satisfying it until they are selected

1 Edited by August Sauer (Cotta).

2 Cf. Ein Bruderzwist in Osterreich, pp. 66, 100, and elsewhere. This play appears in
many ways as a preparation for Libussa.

554

REPETITION OF A WORD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 49

and transformed in accordance with what somehow we know to
be the fundamental canons of art. To suppose that a crude and
naive mind, because it can recognize certain realistic landmarks
in the background of a drama, or certain realistic traits in the
characters, or the actuality of the facts and events represented,
can form a truer judgment of the merits of a drama than a person
more deeply cultured and more conscious of himself — provided
he has not dulled his spontaneity nor corrupted his originality by
overburdening his memory — means merely making a virtue of
ignorance and dulness. It is like conditioning the eligibility of
jurors in an important criminal case upon a stupidity and indo-
lence sufficient to maintain and protect a state of complete igno-
rance concerning facts of general repute, and current interpreta-
tions of that and similar cases.

Art cannot exist without considerable conventions, though it
must be without makeshift truths and ideals. But it is obviously
absurd to suppose that the artistic reality of a work of art is
diminished by the fact that the audience or spectators are con-
scious of its being artistic.

The aesthetic interest is that of the critic and cultured person
concerned with the artistic — i. e., constructive — purposes of the
dramatist. The subject of it is not the question of how the action
is to proceed, but why the dramatist made it proceed as he did.
That this interest must produce a certain suspense is obvious;
though it must be admitted that, being less primitive, less con-
cerned with the foundation needs of life, it is far less potent than
in the previous cases. There is no drama in which this interest
does not propose questions to the thoughtful spectator. In
Grillparzer's Medea, in the scene between Medea and Kreusa
ending in the quarrel and the breaking of the lyre, we cannot
help comparing our opinions thus far formed concerning the logic
of Medea's and Kreusa's characters with the applications of it
made or promised by the dramatist's control of the action. We
cannot, for instance, help weighing Medea's words: "Dukennst
ihn nicht, ich aber kenn ihn ganz," and her state of mind be-
spoken by them as well as their effect upon Kreusa, and trying to
ascertain how far our conclusions agree with the poet's, and, in

555

50 MARTIN SCHUTZE

case of disagreement, to what extent we still would find the
dramatist's solution of his problem acceptable and capable of en-
gaging our serious attention. Or in Kleist's Hamburg, one of
our perfectly legitimate, though called sophisticated, interests in
the prince's character would prompt a desire to anticipate, as soon
and as accurately as possible, how and why the poet would man-
age a rehabilitation of the prince without violating the intrinsic
probabilities of the situation. It is through this interest alone
that we attempt to enter the sanctum, that we try to participate,
at least by reflection, by Anempfindung, in the creative labor of
the poet's mind. The acknowledgment of the legitimacy of this
interest opens a deep, varied, and fascinating vista of a subject
not even touched by students of the drama — the subject of the
deliberate, conscious communication from poet to audience, his
dramaturgic flirtations, so to speak, with the spectators.

Among the modern German dramatists it is especially Grill-
parzer who resorts to such a variety of clever and subtle artifices
in order to project his shy, and yet intense and pointed, appeals
to his audiences beyond the direct and literal scope of the language
of his dramas that one is tempted at times to analyze his motiva-
tion chiefly from this point of view. To be sure, in the highest,
the world-art, this personal element is supposed to be drowned
entirely in a deep flood of objectivity, but do we not, now and
then, find even Shakespeare himself engagingly wigwagging to
us across the tempests and the gay splendor of his plays?1

Before concluding, a few words should be said regarding the
use of repetition in the contemporary drama. Without going
into detail, it should be pointed out that, owing to the Romantic
character of the contemporary drama, including, as shown above,
the naturalistic drama, the technical use of the repetition of a
keyword has remained essentially unchanged. Two examples
may suffice: one from the first and most extreme drama of
Naturalism, to wit, the drunken shouts of the old peasant in
Hauptmann's Vor Sonnenaufgang, pointing to the catastrophe ;
and the other from one of the subtlest modern psychological

1 For instance, in the monologue on the stage in Hamlet, or Theseus' speech about
lunatics, lovers, and poets at the beginning of the fifth act of A Midsummer Night' » Dream.

556

REPETITION OF A WOBD AS A MEANS OF SUSPENSE 51

dramas, the word "Liebe" in Sudermann's Johannes, repeated
more than a score of times for the purpose of psychological moti-
vation and development.

There is one new form of repetition found in the dramas of
Maeterlinck, which, though not strictly belonging to the subject,
yet, both because Maeterlinck is deeply influenced by German
Romanticism and because he in his turn is influencing the modern
German drama, should find brief mention. It is the reiteration
of words and phrases by those of his characters representing sim-
ple folk and children. This repetition expresses a gaucherie, a
fate-ridden helplessness and resignation, such as are found among
the poor and lowly, whom the march of history has passed by.
The modern reactionary Romanticists — W. B. Yeats, for instance
—are fond of these folk and their often very engaging, though
ineffectual, wisdom, and have endeavored to make them available
for the modern drama. Maeterlinck, by a stroke of genius, seems
to have selected precisely the kind of words and phrases most
fitted for this neo-Romantic individualization.

SUMMARY

It is generally supposed that Romanticism, being essentially
lyrical, contributed nothing to the development of the drama.
The main result of this study may be interpreted as an addition
to our understanding of the very essential dramatic services of
Romanticism. The psychological subtlety, wealth, and depth of
the modern drama would have been impossible except through
the extension of our knowledge of the passional side of our mental
processes which we owe to Romantic emotionalism. This exten-
sion went on in two directions, giving force and variety to the
relations between the characters of the play — i. e., developing
psychological motivation — on the one hand, and fundamentally
changing those of the audience to the play, on the other.
Romanticism taught the dramatist how to offer his audience a
deeper and more poignant satisfaction than his less emotional
predecessors. The subjects of the latter could be resolved, in
their more trivial forms, into a tale, or into a riddle or puzzle, a
mere sop to curiosity, surrendered to a shallow appetite by the

557

52 MARTIN SCHUTZE

device of the denouement; or, in their more dignified form, into
the inevitable issue of the course of an external fate. The
Romantic dramatist, however, perceived that the emotional
nature of his audience demanded stronger fare; that there was
before him a collective being abounding in a surprising passional
capacity, and clamoring for an opportunity to expend some of his
emotional energy. The only opportunity of this kind in the
dramatic spectator could be that of passionate participation in the
dramatic action, of an intense self -identification with the dramatic
characters. This the Romantic dramatist set out to accomplish,
aiming at a sort of magic, a mesmeric obsession of the minds of
his audience. And one of his principal means of imposing,
intensifying, driving home this obsession was the tireless, recur-
rent keyword.

The Romanticists went to an extreme at first, and many of
them never returned to moderation, believing that this sympa-
thetic, or magnetic, or hypnotic — i. e., the immediate emotional
—effect of their dramas took the place of all the more quiet,
sober, universal verities on which a work of art must be based in
order to be enduring. Historical development, as always, soon
drew the true balance, showing that a passionate personal interest
of the audience in the action of a drama, while it cannot take the
place of the more objective parts of poetic truth, is yet a funda-
mental and integral part of the constructive conception of the
modern drama, adding force and a greatly intensified sense of
passional reality and intimacy to the dramatic action.

MARTIN SCHUTZE
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO

558

FRENCH WORDS IN LA5AMON

In estimating the influence of French on English, various
scholars have compiled lists of French words in early Middle
English texts. Thus in A Student's Pastime, pp. 98-102, Skeat
has a list of seventeen1 French words in the Laud Chronicle (E),
and of a large number in Old English Homilies, first series. For
the Ormulum, see Kluge, Englische Studien, XXII, 179 if. ; for
Genesis and Exodus, see Fritzsche, Anglia, V, 43 ff.

The number of French words in La^amon's Brut Sir Frederick
Madden in 1847 roughly estimated to be, in the earlier text, less
than fifty, "of which the later text retains about thirty and adds
to them rather more than forty" (Vol. I, p. xxii). Madden's sub-
joined lists make no pretense at completeness, nor are they wholly
accurate.2 His figures, however, seem to have been somewhat
widely accepted as authoritative: cf. Green, Short History of the
English People (1874), chap, iii, §1; Koch, Historische Gram-
matik der englischen Sprache (1882), Vol. I, p. 17; Jusserand,
Literary History of the English People (1895), p. 219; Toller,
Outlines of the History of the English Language (1900), p. 223 ;
Brooke, English Literature (1901), p. 42. On the other hand,
Skeat, Principles of English Etymology (1891), second series,
p. 8, and Emerson, History of the English Language (1894),
p. 162, give the number of French words in both texts as about 150.

The inaccuracy of Madden's statement was noted by Sturmfels,
Anglia, VIII, 207 (1885), and illustrated by lists of words in
Morris, Historical Outlines of English Accidence (1872), p. 338.
These lists, however, even in the revised edition by Kellner and
Bradley (1895), need considerable correction. One word, tumbel,
does not occur in La^amon. The following obviously belong else-
where: avallen=afallen < OE. afellanj bolle, 'bowl,' 14298 < OE.

i To Skeat's list should be added : acordedan (1119), canceler (1137), due (1129), sot- in
sotscipe (1131), sotliche (1137), treson (11&5) ; cf. also de in titles (1104, 1106).

2 One word, haleweie (1. 23071), Madden's own later etymology (Vol. Ill, p. 501) would
exclude.
559] 1 LMoDBEN PHILOLOGY, January, 1907

2 B. S. MONROE

bolla; iburned ^ OE. byrne; crucche 19482 <^ OE. crycc; ieled
3194:1 =iheled 29991 < OE. gehcelan; martir is an OE. borrowing
directly from Latin ; so are mile, munstre, muni, must, nonne, pal,
salmes, scole; talie <( OE. talian; tavel ( OE. tcefl; temple ^ OE.
tempel ( Ijat. ; tunne^OIZ. tunne; t0arcfe<(OE. weard. More-
over, La^amon uses some twenty French words not recorded in
the Morris lists.

In the interests of definiteness and convenience I have prepared
the following new list, adding in parenthesis the French form from
which apparently La^amon drew, and appending references to
lines of the text. The list is, I believe, complete; perhaps one or
two words are open to question. Words marked with a star are
not recorded by Morris; words and forms in italics occur only in
the later (B) text. Abbreviations used are AF.= Anglo-French;
BS.=Bradley-Stratmann's Middle English Dictionary; KL.=
Kluge and Lutz's English Etymology; Matz.— Matzner's dic-
tionary to his Altenglische Sprachproben; NED.— A^ew; English
Dictionary.

abbey (abbeie) 29717, 29721.

admirail (a(d)miral, -ail) 27668, 27689.

*alaski, 'release,' (alaski(e)r > Fr. lacher) 8838.

anued, 'annoyed,' (anuier) 2259.

appostolie, 'pope,' (apostolie, not OE. apostol) 29614.

archen, 'ark,' (arche) 26, 8965. BS., KL., and Matz. derive
from OE. earc, an early common Teut. borrowing from Lat. The
palatalized form suggests Fr. influence. This is the view of NED.,
which, however, admits that OE. earc may have > arche in some
dialects.

*ariued (ariver) 16063.

*8ermi (armer) 15313, armede 8655.

(h)arsun, 'saddle-bow,' (arcon) 2263.

aspide, 'espied/ (espier, AF. aspier) 19737. Of Teut. origin,
OHG. spehon.

astronomie ( astronomie ) 24298 .

atyr, noun (atirer, verb) 3275. Of Teut. origin (KL.); still
doubtful (NED).

*Aueril, 'April,' (Avril) 24196.

560

FRENCH WORDS IN LA^AMON 3

balles, 'balls,' 17443, 24703. Native Tent. (OE. *beallu; cf.
bealluc) according to NED., which adds: "In the later ME.1
spelling balle, the word coincided graphically with Fr. balle, 'ball,
bale/ which has hence been erroneously assumed to be its source."

barun (barun) 16921, barunes (gen. sing.) 5319.

biclused, 8698, etc., is rather OE. beclysan direct from Lat.
Forms in u are OE.; later forms in o (as in 8698 B) are due to
Fr. (NED).

*bttraie (-tra(h)ir) 8923.

*botten, 'bats,' 21513, 21593. BS. derive from OFr. batte
and KL., though mentioning OE. batt, prefer the same derivation.
Skeat, Notes on Eng. Etymology, s. v., prefers Eng. origin and
the plural in -n somewhat strengthens this view. Later forms in
-s imply Fr. influence.

bunnen, 'boundary,' (bunne) 1313.

cacchen (cachier) 31501, cahte 4547, icaht 10843.

canele, 'cinnamon,' (canele) 17745.

canones (canon) 21861, 24289.

cantel-cape, 29749, an ecclesiastical garment mentioned in
Chron. E. 1070. Cantel is OFr. cantel; cape in La^., as shown by
cope of the later text, is<(OE. *capa=ON. kapa; cf. next word.

cape, 13097, 29559, capen, 7782, 30849. The usual derivation
from OFr. cape is doubtful. The form cope of the later text
points unmistakably to OE. *capa=ON. kapa. This ^ NE. cope,
whereas Fr. cape ^ NE. cape.

"cardinal (cardinal) 29497.

*castel (castel) 188, etc.; frequent in earlier texts; probably
for this reason omitted from Morris' list.

catel, 'chattel,' (catel) 30673; also in the form ca5el 10023,
10261, through influence of eSel; cf. a8el=e8el 20201.

changede (changer) 3791.

chapel (chapele) 26140.

cheisil, 'linen,' (chaisel) 23761.

Coheres, 'countenance,' (chfcre) 18936.

cheueteine (chevetaine) 5879.

i Laj. is pretty early.

561

4 B. S. MONROE

*clserc, 9899, etc., borrowed early from Lat., the forms later
coinciding with those from Fr.

cloke (cloke) 13097.

conseil (conseil) 2324.

contre (contre") 1282.

coriun, 'a musical instrument,' 7002. Wace has corun, choron
(Madden, III, 473).

cri (cri) 11991, etc., cry 27034.

crune (corone) 4251, etc.

cruneden (coroner) 31935, icrouned 892.

delate (delai) 17480.

*deolful (doel-; -ful is Eng.) 6901, 11996.

dotie, 'dote,' 3294. KL., Skeat, and NED. explain ME. doten
as = MDu. doten, whence according to NED. OFr. re-doter is
borrowed.

dubben, to 'dub' a knight, (adober) 22497, dubbede 30105,
idubbed 19578. Generally assumed to be Fr. (NED.) ; cf. Skeat,
Notes, s.v.

due (due) 86, etc.

duszepers, dosseperes, 'the Twelve Peers,' (douze pers) 1622.

eastresse, 'territories,' (estre) 3583.
(h)seremite (eremite) 18763, etc., armite 18800.
*essel, 'bolt, bar,' (aissel) 18992.
eyr ( (h)eir) 8990, 23115.

failede (faillir) 2938.

*false (fals) 31550, etc., ualsest 30182.

falsie (falser) 23967, faulsede 30406.

*feste, 'feast,' (feste) 14425.

flum, 'river,' (flum) 542, 1299.

fol, 'fool,' (fol) 1442, etc.

folie (folie) 3024.

*gingiuere, 'ginger,' (gingibre) 17746.

ginnen, 'deceit,' (for engin — Fr. engin) 1323, etc. BS. com-
pare ON. ginna, 'deceive.'

562

FRENCH WOBDS IN LA^AMON 5

gisarme, 'halberd,7 (gisarme) 1567, etc.

grace, (grace) 6616.

granti (granter) 14152, grantede 4789, etc.

guyse (guise) 19641.

gyle (guile) 3198, 16382.

*hardiere 4348, *hardieste 4181, 14470, comparative and
superlative of hardi <( OFr. bardie, wbicb is of Teut. origin.
Hardeliche, 1529, etc., given by Morris, may possibly belong
here. Preferably, however, this word is derived, as by Matz.,
from OE. heardlice. The forms in the later text result perhaps
from a running together of Fr. and Eng.

hiue 790, apparently a ME. airal; \eyd(JL€vov. Madden, III, 447,
equates OFr. hui, huye, and translates 'sound.' This explanation
Morris seems to have accepted. Stratmann refers hiue to OE.
heof and Matz., s.v. hif, follows Stratmann.

honure ((h)onour) 6084.

hostage ( (h)ostage) 8905, etc.

hurtes, 'blow, injury,' (hurte) 1837.

ire, yr, adj., 'angry,' 18597. For irre<(OE. yrre, possibly
influenced by Fr. Ire (whence NE. ire). Matz. is doubtful: "afr.
ire, oder steht es fur irre, ags. yrre, woneben afries. ire sich
findet?" NED. reports no occurrence of ire before 1300.

istored, 'stored,' (estorer) 13412.

kablen, 'cables,' (cable) 1338.

lac, 'lake,' 1280. NED. derives from Fr. lac; KL. pronounce
it an early Lat. loan-word — OE. lagu, 'ocean'; Matz. remarks:
"wenn nicht, wie fr. lac, entlehnt aus lat. lacus, wenigstens urver-
wandt mit demselben, und spater mit ihm zusammengefallen."
Of. also Skeat, Notes, s.v. lake. The word seems to be OE., the
sense 'lake' to be Fr.

latimer, 'Latiner, interpreter,' 14319. Though Madden prints
latimer in the text, he has latinier in the glossary, in the list of
French words, Vol. I, p. xxii., and in a quotation, Vol. Ill, p. 354.

563

6 B. S. MONROE

The OFr. word was latinier, later corrupted into latim(m)ier
(NED.); an Anglo-Fr. form latymer is listed by Skeat, Notes,
p. 420.

lauede (laver) 7489. OE. had lafian, which in ME. became
indistinguishably confused with a ME. lave < Fr. laver.

*legat (legat) 24501, 29735.

legiun (legion) 6024.

leon 1463, Hun 4085, lion 4085 (leo(n) ).

*lettre (lettre) 4496.

licoriz (lycorys) 17746.

*lire (lyre) 7003; lire occurs in Wace, 3767. From this
passage La^. seems to have taken over bodily choron (see coriun
above), lire, and sat^rion.

lof, 'luff,' (lof ) 7859, etc. Of. NED. Skeat regards the word
as Eng.; ME. lof.

machunnes, 'masons,' (machun, whence Fr. mac.on) 15465,
15478. Skeat suggests Teut. origin.

mahum, 'god, idol,' (mahom) 230, etc.

male, 'mail(-bag),' (male) 3543.

manere (maniere) 894, etc.

mantel (mantel) 14755, 15274.

marbre-stone (marbre) 1138, 1317. The forms marme-, mar-
mon- of the earlier text are ^ OE. marm-, marmon-, borrowed
from Lat.

maumet 29221 = mahimet 14585 (mahumet) ; cf. mahum.

messagere (messagier) 8299.

montaine (montaine) 1282, 25673 B.

nonnerie (nonnerie) 15642.
note (note) 7000.

olifantes, 'elephants,' (olifant) 23778.

paide, 'pleased,' (paier) 10535, ipaid 2340, 3265.
pais, ' peace,'* (pais) 480, etc.
*paisinge, 'peace' 11664.

564

FRENCH WORDS IN LAJAMON 7

paise, 'make peace,' 8783, 8839.

paradis (paradis) 24122.

pare 1432. OFr. pare, ultimately connected with OE. pearruc,
'enclosure,' (Chron. A. 918); cf. BS., KL., Skeat, Principles of
Eng. Etymol, I, p. 221, and NED.

jpass?', 'pass,' (passer) 1341.

pensiles, 'standards,' ( pen (o) eel) 27183.

pilegrim (pelegrin) 30730, etc.

parses, 'purses,' (borse) 5927, occurs as early as 1050; cf.
Kluge, Eng. Studien, XI, 65, 36, XXI, 335; and see putte below.

porz, 'ports,' occurs once in the phrase porz of Spaine, 24415.
OE. port <( Lat., influenced by Fr. spelling.

postles, 'posts,' (postel) 1316. Morris has only postes 28032
=OE. post < Lat.

pouere, 'poor,' (povre) 22715, poure 2565, etc., pore 22715,
etc.

*prelat (prelat) 24502.

*primat (primat) 29736.

prisune (prison) 1016.

*priue-men (priv£) 6877.

processiun (procession) 18223.

*prude, 'pride,' (prut) 11715, etc, prute 19409.

*prute, 'proud,' 7682, etc., proute 8136, etc., pruttest 20870.
Both noun and adj. occur in late OE.; perhaps for this reason
omitted from Morris' list.

*purpras, 'purples,' noun (purpre) 2368, 5928.

putte, 'put,' 18092, 30780, occurs as early as 1000 (KL.);
apparently ^ OFr. bouter. Phonology similar to that of porses
above.

riche 128, etc., a running together in form and meaning of
OE. rice, 'powerful,' and OFr. riche, ;rich,' itself a borrowing
from Teut.

riches occurs only in 8091 where Stratmann, Eng. Stud. Ill, 269,
would read rechels, ' incense '< OE. recels, rycels. So of course
BS. This makes better sense than Madden's 'riches' < OFr.
richesse. Nor does ^eftes of the later text give any help; that

565

8 B. S. MONBOE

seems rather =a9(5eles madmes of 8094. Rich- of richesse is of
Teut. origin.

rollede (roller) 22287.

route (route) 2598.

salteriun, 'psaltery,' 7001; adaptation of Wace's satSrion; cf.
s.v. lire, above; cf. OE. saltere,

sarui, 'serve' (servir) 3959, etc., saruede 4855, etc..

*scamoiene, 'scammony,' (scammonie) 17741.

scapie, 'escape,' (escaper) 826, etc., also a fuller form, ascapede
1611, etc., achaped 18269.

scare, 'mockery,' 5835, etc. ; BS. with query derive from OFr.
escar.

scarn, scorn (escarn) 17307, etc. Of Teut. origin. ScsBrninge
2791.

scurmen, 'fence,' 8144, probably OFr. (Bjorkman, Scandina-
vian Loan-Words in ME., p. 128) ; cf. Anglo-Fr. eskermir (Skeat,
Notes, p. 454). Here seems to belong sceremigge 8144.

sesellecS, as- 'sail,' (as-saillir) 6146.

seine, 'ensign,' (signe) 9282; cf. OE. segn <( Lat.

seint (saint) 32, etc.

senaht (senat) 25388.

senaturs (senateur) 25337, etc.

seruise (servise) 8071, 8097 B.

seruuinge 8097, 8114; cf. s.v. sarui.

sire (sire) 22485.

siwij 'follow,' (sewir) 1387, siwede 16437.

soffri, 'suffer,' (soffrir) 24854, isoffred 6268.

sot, 'fool,' (sot; occurs in late OE.) 1442, etc., sotten 17309,
sottes 21806.

sot-liche 1970.

sot(h)-scipe 3024, 23178.

*spiares, 'spies,' (derivative of espier, which is of Teut. origin)
1488, etc.

*streit, 'hostile' (Madden), (estreit) 22270.

sumunen, 'summon,' (somoner) 424.

566

FRENCH WORDS IN LA^AMON 9

timpe, a musical instrument, 'tympan' (Madden), 7003,=
timpan 'drum' of BS.? Madden' s reference to Roquefort, Po&sie
FranQ. ed. 1815, p. 116, I have been unable to look up.

[tr]esur, 'treasure,' (tresor) 28834.

*trinet5es, 'Trinity's/ (trinite"; cf. AF. trinitet, Skeat, Notes,
p. 464) 29533.

truage, 'tribute,' (truage) 7189, etc.

tumbe, 'tomb,' (tumbe) 6080.

ture, 'tower,' (tur) 6056, etc., tour 19293, etc.

turne, 'turn,' (torner) 12734, torne 3069, teorne 25574, etc.,
tornde 46, etc., torneden 4586, turnden 1843, etc.; also late OE.

vrinal (urinal) 17724, 17727.

vsi, 'use,' (user) 10068, vsede 24293.

waitep (waiter) 23077.
*wasten (waster) 22575, etc.

weorre, ' war,' 170 etc., OFr. werre <^ Teut. ; also as verb
weorrede 20191.

ymages (image, AF. ymage) 18206.

SUMMARY. — Counting all the words in this list, we have in the
A text of La^amon, usually retained in B, 94 words of French
origin ; in the B text only, 64 words of French origin ; a grand
total of 158. From these figures, however, certain deductions are
to be made: clserc and porz are better regarded as OE. borrowings
from Latin; in the case of balles, botten, cape, hardeliche, and
ire, weight of evidence favors native origin; riches is possibly a
corruption. Hence these more accurate totals: in A and B, 87
words of French origin; only in B, 63; in all 150.

B. S. MONROE

CORNELL UNIVERSITY

567

NACHRICHT VON J. WIMPFELINGS DEUTSCHLAND

While collecting material for a republication of Jacob
Wimpfeling's Tutschland, which Hansz Michel Moscherosch
caused to be printed in 1648, one hundred and fifty years after
it was written, I ran across an account of this defense of Strass-
burg and the Rhine by Adam Ritter, of the year 1752, which
attracted my attention as an exceedingly rare bit of German
philology for those days.

Ritter reviews Wimpfeling's Germania, giving a detailed out-
line of the work, and then adds a few remarks of his own about
the language of Wimpfeling which I thought worthy of preser-
vation.

ERNST Voss

UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN

Nachricht

von

J. Wimp flings Deutschland

zur Ehre der Stadt Straszburg etc.

mit einigen Anmerk. zu der teutschen Sprache begleitet

von

Adam Daniel Richter,
Rector der Schule uff St. Annaberg. 1752.

(Altes und Neues von Schulsachen gesamlet von M. Joh. Gottl. Bieder-
mann, R. Achter Theil. Halle, 1755. S. 28-41.)

Berlin, Nc. 4506.

Jacob Wimpfling, ein Theologus und Historicus, von Schlettstatt im
Elsas, hat, nebst seinen verschiedenen gedruckten Schriften, auch eine
Abhandlung von der Stadt Straszburg zuriicke gelassen, welche, weil er
solche schon im Jahre 1501 aufgesetzet, aber nicht selbst dem Druck
ubergeben, 147 Jahre hernach von Hansz Michel Moscheroschen zum
Druck befordert worden. Wir wollen aus dieser kleinen Schrift, dann
sie betragt nicht mehr als 6 Bogeii in Quart gedruckt, weil sie sich doch
etwas selten gemacht, einen kurzen Auszug geben^ und selbigen mit
einigen Anmerkungen von unserer Muttersprache begleiten. Der Titel

569] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, January, 1907

2 EENST Voss

dieses kleinen Werks 1st folgender: Tutschland Jacob Wympfflingers von
Schlettstatt zur Ere der Statt Straszburg vnd des Rinstroms. Unter
disem Titel, auf dem Titelblatte, steht ein Wappen, in dem Schilde
liegt ein Balken oben von der Linken bis unten zur Rechten, tiber
demselben ist ein Helm oben mit einer Krone, zu beyden Seiten ist
Laubwerk, liber der Krone steht ein Federbusch, zu beyden Seiten
neben diesen Wappen ist zur Linken eine Miinze mit einem Engel,
dessen Fliigel zugethan sind; dieser halt ein Creutze gerade vor sich,
desgleichen zur Rechten eine Mtinze, mit einem ausgeschlagnen Adler-
fltigel. Unter diesen Wappen stehet: Jetzo nach 147 Jahren zum Truck
gegeben durch Hansz Michel Moscherosch, und zu Ende unter einer
darzwischen geschlagenen Linie: Getruckt zu Straszburg bey Johann
Philip Mtilben und Josias Stadeln, 1648. Moscherosch hat solcher
kleinen Abhandlung eine Zuschrif t an den Rath zu Straszburg vorgesetzt,
darinnen er Wimpflingen lobet, dasz er treulich und einfaltig schriebe,
offenherzig und recht von einer Sache rede. Auch versichert er, dasz er
des Verfassers Worte fleiszig in Obacht gezogen, und seines Wissens oder
Willens nicht einen Buchstaben davon noch darzu gethan habe, dasz
man also die zu Wimpflings Zeiten im Ober-Elsas gewesene Mundart
daraus ersehen konne. Zu Ende der Zuschrift steht auf einer ganzen
Seite wieder ein Wappen, welches darinne von dem auf dem Tittelblatte
abgehet, dasz der Balken im Schilde schrag von der Rechten zur Linken
liegt, dasz statt des Laubwerks hier zwey Lowen auf beyden Seiten den
Schild halten, und dasz die Federn uber Helm und Krone hier von einer
Seite zur andern rand oben herum auf recht ausgebreitet stehen.

Dergleichen Zuschrift an den Rath zu Straszburg hatte Wimpfling
seiner Abhandlung selbst auch vorgesetzt unter folgendem Titel: Den
Groszmachtigen, Edelen, Meyster und Rat der lobl. Statt Straszburg,
vvinscht Jacobus Wimpfling von Sletstatt, Selikeit und Merung des
gemeynen Nutzes. In der Zuschrift selbst nennet er den damaligen
Rath solcher Stadt hoch beriemte Rathsherren, f iirsichtige vnd Vernunf t-
weise Herren, Meyster und Rath, und sagt, weil viele meyneten, es
ware Straszburg und andere Stadte am Rhein ehemals dem Konige in
Frankreich zustandig gewesen, auch viele Straszburger selbst mehr dem
K6nige in Frankreich, als dem deutschen Reiche, geneigt waren, so wolle
er erst mit wahrscheinlichen Vermuthungen, ferner mit glaubwurdigen
Zeugnissen, und denn mit den bewahrtesten Geschichtschreibern dar-
thun, dasz Straszburg und die andern Stadte des Rheins, niemals den
Franzosen zugehoret. Solche Zuschrift ist gegeben vsz dem Kloster des
H. Sant Wilhelmen in der Vorstatt, vff den xiiii Tag Octobris MCCCCC.
im Ersten.

Die Abhandlung endlich selbst ist in zwey Bticher abgetheilt. In
dem ersten Buche beweiset er seinen Satz mit Vermutigung, darnach

570

NACHBICHT VON J. WIMPFELINGS DEUTSCHLAND 3

mit glaubwiirdigen Geziigen, und dann mit den bewertesten Geschicht-
schreibern. Vorhero sagt er noch dasz nie kein Franzos romischer Kayser
gewesen; er erzehlet ferner, aus welchem Lande die vorigen Kayser her-
gestamt, und dasz das Land, zwischen Frankreich und dem Rhein
mitten inne, zu Deutschland gehore. Die erste Vermuthung, welche er
nun vorbringt, ist: Pipinus, Karoli M. Vater, konne kein Franzose
gewesen sein, weil die Deutschen damals im Spriichwort gesagt: Du
magst das oder das Ding nit tun oder zu wegen bringen, wann du glich
werst als wisz als Ktinig Pipis. Denn die Deutschen wtirden nicht den
Namen eines Franzosen so ofte im Munde ftihren. Seine andere Ver-
muthung, dasz Karolus M. ein Deutscher gewesen, nimmt er daher, weil
derselbe deutsche Bticher geschrieben, und den Monaten und Winden,
auch seinen Sohnen und Tochtern deutsche Namen gegeben. In der
dritten Vermuthung sagt er, Kayser Karl der Grosse hatte sich allezeit
in Deutschland aufgehalten, daselbst Kirchen und KlOster gestiftet,
Stadte und Schlosser gebauet, hatte sich auch in Deutschland, vor sich
und die Seinigen, sein Begrabnisz erwahlet, welches er alles, wenn er ein
Franzose, nicht wtirde gethan haben. In der vierten und letzten Ver-
muthung halt er fur unglaublich, weil es die Schwaben, Bayern und
Franken nicht wiirden zugelassen haben, dasz die Franzosen jenseit des
Rheins Stadte erbauet, Herrschaften und Obrigkeiten gehabt, wol aber
hatte Pipinus, Karoli M. Vater, ein Deutscher, iiber die Franzosen
geherschet.

Nimmehro ftihret er sieben Zeugnisse, oder Geztigen an, mit welchen
er seinen Satz noch weiter behauptet. Der erste ist Innocentius JJJ,
in dem Capitel venerabilem, de Electio. Die andern sind lustinianus
in 1. 1. ff. de Censibus. Ammianus Marcellinus, Vrbanus II, in dem
Concilio zu Claremont, Eneas Sylvius in seiner Europa. Marcus
Anthonius, Sabellicus in der Geschichte der Venetianer, und Cornelius
Tacitus von Deutschland. Von denen bewahrtesten Geschichtschrei-
bern nennet er den Suetonium in dem Leben Augusti, und beweiset aus
dem selben, dasz an den Staden des Rinns, auf welchen Straszburg
gelegen, niemals Franzosen gewohnet, und dasz also diese Gegend zu
Deutschland, aber niemals zu Frankreich, gehoret hatte.

Zu Ende dieses Buchs hat er noch eine Entschuldiguug der Gilgen
halb in der Mynz angefuget. Denn weil etliche glaubten, dasz die
Gilge, welche auf denen Mtinzen der Stadt Straszburg gepragt stiinde,
ein Beweis ware, dasz Straszburg ehemals unter der Herrschaft des
KOniges von Frankreich gestanden, so antwortet er darauf , dasz niemand
diese Vermuthung mit einem tiichtigen Zeugnisz wiirde bestatigen
konnen; hernacher, dasz denen Franzosischen Mtinzen drey Gilgen, auf
der Straszburger Mtinze aber nur eine gepragt, und dasz der Konig von
Frankreich drey Gilgen in den Panern und Schilten, Straszburg aber

571

4 ERNST Voss

nur erne in den Pfennigen fiihre. Straszburg habe auch ein ander
Stritt Paner, nemlich ein rote Strosz durchgezogen und zerteilende ein,
wisz schinende Felt. Auch ware dieses Geprage auf den Straszbur-
gischen Miinzen noch nicht gar alt, dieweil die Straszburger ehedem einen
Engel, Adler, Vittich, oder sonst ein ander Bildnisz auf ihre Mtinzen
geschlagen, deren noch viele vorhanden waren. Es hatten aber auch die
rflmischen Kayser vielen Edelen in Deutschland Gilgen, manchen eine,
andern auch mehrere, in Schild und Wappen gegeben, und ebenso
konten sie, als Herren der Stadt Straszburg, denen Straszburgern eine
Gilge in ihre Munze verliehen haben. Endlich ware das Geschlecht
Karoli M. bey den Franzosen, in dem Konige Ludwig, der Konigs
Lotharii Sohn gewesen, erloschen, und die Regierung auf einen Haupt-
mann, genannt Hugo Capucius, oder Zschappeler, den das gemeine Volk
fur eines Metzigers Sohn gehalten hatte, gekommen.

Nun folget das andere Buch, welches in sieben und zwanzig kleine
Abschnitte getheilet ist, wir wollen eines ieden seine Ueberschrift herset-
zen. 1) Von der Einhellikeit. 2) Von Lieb des gemeynen Nutzes. 3) Von
Ftirsichtikeit des Kriegs. 4) Von vermydung zu vil Stoltzikeit. 5) Von
Friintschaft der Nachgebaren. 6) Von der Gerehtikeit gegen den Vsz-
landigen. 7) Von der Behablicheit zu der gemeynen Schatzkammer.
8) Von der Gerehtikeit in der Stat. 9) Von dryerhand Stadt, (Standen)
so in eyner Stat notturfftig sint. 10) Von Fursichtikeit. 11) Etliche
eins fursichtigen Rattsherren Eigenschafft. 12) Von Jarlichen Geschich-
ten. 13) Ein mittliden mit den groben Vngelerten. 14) Die Nutzbar-
keit der Latinischen sproch. 15) Von einer Vahtschul, darin die Kind,
nachdem sie die ersten Ruchwerk der buchstablichen Geschrifft ergrif-
fen, gelert wiirden anzesehen, (d. i. anzurichten). 16) Ein Ebenbild der
Furs ten und ander Stett. 17) Von schaden des Miisziggands vnd
Vngelergkeit. 18) Von dem Gotsdienst. 19) Von eim Cantzelprediger.
20) Was durch Lieb willen des Gotsdiensts zu straffen sig. 21) Von den
guten Burgern. 22) Von Anwisung der Kind. 23) Von Ziehung der
Dohter. 24) Der Edelen und Burgers Sun, warin sie vnderwisen werden
sollen. 25) Durch zwey Ding wurt Straszburg sellig, deren eins Doctor
Johannes Keisersperg, vwer allerwisester vnd redlihster Prediger, dick an
siner Predig bestymbt. 26) Die VbertrSffung der Statt Straszburg.
27) In welchen weg Gott und sine Mutter dise Stat beschirmen werden.

Nach diesen Abhandlungen folget der Beschlusz von Wimpflings
Zuschrift an den Rath zu Straszburg, darinnen er sagt, dasz er ihnen
solche Schrift iibergebe, mit vorhergegangenem Beyfall ihrer Mitbriider
vnd Stine, Herrn Jacob Merschwin und Sebastiani Brant, nicht dasz er
einen Mangel an ihrem Regimente tadeln, sondern dasz er alien Stadten
und Gemeinden, und ihren Kindern, die solche Dinge lesen wurden,
niitzlich seyn wollte. Auch erhellet zugleich aus diesem Beschlusz, dasz

572

NACHBICHT VON J. WIMPFELINGS DEUTSCHLAND 5

er diese seine kleine Schrift selbst hat wollen in Druck geben, da er
schreibt, sie wiirden es nicht ungtitig nehmen, dasz er dieses Lob ihrer
Stadt und ihre Freyheit, ihren Burger, Johanni Prysz, durch seinen
Druck auszubreiten, nicht habe versagen wollen.

Zu Ende hat der Herausgeber, Hansz Michel Moscherosch, noch eine
kleine Nachricht von Jacob Wimpflingen angehangt, welche Caspar
Hedio, Doctor im Mtinster zu Straszburg, im vierten Theil seiner
Chronick, am 722 Blatt erzehlet, aus welcher wir nur noch anmerken
dasz Jacob Wimpfling zu Schlettstatt nicht wie sonst erzehlet wird,
1450, sondern 1449 gebohren, dasz er von Jugend auf in guten Ktinsten,
erstlich zu Schlettstett, unter Ludewig Drigenberg, dem Schulmeister,
hernach zu Freyburg etc. wohl erzogen, und unter seinen Schtilern
Jacob Sturm, von den Edelen, der ftirnehmste gewesen. Pabst Julius
habe ihn frey gesprochen, als seine Feinde ihn zu Rom verklagt, dasz er
den Augustiner-Orden verachtet, und zwar habe solches der Pabst gethan
auf Unterhandlung Jacobi Spiegels, Kaysers Maximiliani Secretarii, der
des Wimpflings Schwester Sohn war. In seinem Alter habe sich
Wimpfling zu Schlettstatt, bey seiner Schwester Magdalena, aufgehal-
ten, ware bey 80 Jahr alt worden, hatte oft die Worte gebetet: Du mil-
ter Jesus bisz griadig mir armen Sunder, der ich des gemeynen iiutzens,
Einigkeit der Cristen, der H Geschrifft, vnd dasz die Jugend recht
vferzogen, ein Liephaber bin, und ware endlich den 16 Wintermonat
1528 gestorben.

Wir wollen numehro bey dieser kleinen Schrift einige Anmerkung
wegen der deutschen Sprache, und zwar erstlich, was die Rechtschrei-
bung derselben anbelangt, machen. Hier finde ich nun, dasz in den
meisten Wortern fur den Doppellaut ei nur ein i stehet, als das Rich fur
Reich, schribt fur schreibt. Deszgleichen ist in den meisten WOrtern fur
den Doppellaut ii der Doppellaut ie, und zwar am meisten vor dem
h oder d, oder wenn der Mittlauter vor oder nach ein h haben solte, als :
beriemten fur bertihmten, fiert ftir ftihrt, Brieder fur Brtider, Gemiet fur
Gemiith. In sehr vielen WOrtern stehen statt des Doppellauts au nur
ein u, als das Husz ftir Hausz, der Gebruch fur Gebrauch. Offte stehet
ein a ftir e, als antweder fur entweder; ein e ftir a, als hetten fur hatten;
ein e ftir a, als die Zel ftir Zahl; ein e ftir ie, ein i ftir ey, als Bispel ftir
Beyspiel; ein i ftir ti, als er winscht fur wtinscht; ein i ftir ie, als dise
ftir diese; ein i oder ie ftir ti, als vszgeschittet ftir ausgeschtittet, hietten
ftir htitten; ein ou ftir au, als gloubten ftir glaubten, das Houbt ftir
Haupt, ow ftir au, als die Fro wen fur Frauen, gehowen ftir gehauen; ein
u fur o, als die Sunne ftir Sonne, der Sun ftir Sohn, ein ti ftir eu, als
frtintlich ftir freundlich; htit ftir heute; ein ti ftir ei, als verluht ftir
verleihet, uw fur eu, als nuwe ftir neue; ein y fur ein i oder ei, als
gewynen fur gewinnen, myn ftir mein, Nyd fur Neid, y fur ey, oder ti, als

573

6 ERNST Voss

fryen fur freyen, die Myntz fiir Mtinz, y fur ie, als die Glyder fur
Glieder.

Hernach ist in denen Wortern wo ein sch stehen soil, das ch ordent-
lich weggelassen, als der Smeichler fur Schmeichler; oft steht ein d fiir
t, als under fiir unter; ein d fur th, als Dorheit fur Thorheit, detten fiir
thaten. Statt der Sylbe em steht meistentheils zu Anfange der Worter,
die Sylbe ent, als entpfangen fiir empfangen; g steht bisweilen fiir h, als
friig fiir friihe; ofte ist es auch gar weggelassen, als Einhellikeit fiir
Einhelligkeit, so wie das h in den meisten Wortern, als meren fiir mehren,
on fiir ohne. Vielinals steht nur das h wo ein ch seyn solte, als Fniht
fiir Frucht, das Keht fiir Recht, Dohter fiir Tochter. So mangelt auch
sehr oft das k, sonderlich wenn es fiir den Doppellaut ei hatte stehen
sollen, als Nutzliheit fiir Nutzlichkeit. Wenn ein m oder n seyn solte,
ist ein mb, als stymbt fiir stimmt, nembt fiir nennet. Auch findet sich
manchmal p fiir b, als liep gehept han fiir lieb gehabt haben, t fiir d,
oder tt fiir t, als sint fiir sind, lutter fiir lauter, v fiir f, als der Vynd fiir
Feind, v fiir au oder eu, als Vffruhr fiir Aufruhr, vch fiir euch, vw fiir eu,
als Trvwe fiir Treue; w stehet bisz weilen fiir h, als die Ruw fur Ruhe,
und ze fiir zu, als ze werden fiir zu werden.

Nun wollen wir auch etliche alte Worter, alte Endungen, Bedeutung
und Wortfiigung derselben mit anmerken. Ofte ist das Bindewort dasz
weggelassen, viele vermeynen, vwer Stat etwan gewesen sin in Henden
der Kiinige von Franckrich. So mangelt auch vielmals, wie in den
angezogenen Worten, in Henden fiir in denen Handen, das bestimmte
Geschlechtswort, oder das absonderliche Bestimmungswort zu, als : dasz
auch wir selbs solchs falschlich war (zu) sin vermeynen. Seit ist soviel,
als sagt, sygen oder sigen, so viel als sind. Es kommen auch mit unter
viele *Verbeissungen als Oberkeit fiir Obrigkeit, *Einschiebsel, als
Vermuthigung fiir Vermutung, *Stutzungen, als ein Tiitsch fiir ein
Deutscher, *Vorsatze, als Gezier fiir Zierde. Die andere vermehrte Zahl-
endung hat ofte ein en, und solte auf ein t ausgehen, als: ihr hatten
fiir ihr habet. Regniren ist fiir regieren, anfahen fur anfangen; Ab-
tilcken ist so viel als vertilgen, absetzen: die ir nochmals vszgetrieben
vnd abgetilckt haben, etlich vnniitz Franckeisch Kiinig. Dick heiszt viel,
Liitiicher sind die Lytticher, lyt fiir liegt, vere fiir ferae, lutter heisst
deutlich, Staden das Ufer, Stadt der Stand, ordo, Stat, vrbs, Liitt, die
Leute, Sperrung heisst die Verhiitung, Gilge die Lilie, Piefelvolck das
gemeine Volk, dryg, dreye, eine Strosz, ein Balken, Behalffung, Beforde-
rung, vszrichten, verderben, ist es geschehn vnd vszgericht vmb Kiinig-
rich. Prof and ist Proviant, Beharrader ist baar Geld, nervus rerum
gerendarum; den Krieg beharren heisst den Krieg fortsetzen. Die Vile,
die Menge, das Nom, der Diebstahl von nehmen : dasz durch Roub vnd
nom die rich werden mogen. Vffsatz, Aufruhr, Vffsetzer, Aufriihrer,

574

NACHRICHT VON J. WIMPFELINGS DEUTSCHLAND 7

Wiedertriesz, Verdrusz, Behiibliheit, Beforderung, Giildt, Vergeltung,
Geschenke, die Geistlichen namen in grosse Gtilt. Durachten ist verach-
ten, offene Wesen, das gemeine Wesen, die Blast, Bliithe, das angebiir-
lich Teil, Erbtheil, von Geburt. Runt tragen, heiszt kund machen,
Vffgand, das Wachsthum, wager heiszt besser, wer es nit wager dasz,
etc. Gebresten, Gebrechen. Vahtschule, von vohen oder vahen, anfan-
gen, ist eine Anfangsschule, darinnen die Leute im Lateinischen und
andern Wissenschaften zu hohern Schulen und Academien zubereitet
werden. Ruchwerk sind die ersten Anfangsgrimde, die Ruchwerck der
buchstablichen Geschrifft. Ich gethan ftir ich darf, vester so viel als
grosser: dasz die Zel der Pfaffen vester gemert werde. Rattsherschen-
stadt, Rattsherrenstand, flissen, befleissigen. Stupfer ist ein Verfuhrer;
welche sint Stupfer der vnluterkeit. Gediirren, sich getrauen, damit er
offentlich reden gediirr, d. i. sich zu reden getraue. Lyden heiszt die
Glocken lauten, gebannender Obent, heiliger Abend. Entfor, Nachricht,
damit sie dem Statthalter Christi entfor geben. Lugen, sorgen, die
Eltern sollen lugen, dasz die Kind vnderwissen werden. Ferner ist
abtiigen abgewOhnen schampere Bildung, Putz im Anzuge, doraffter
lauffen, herum laufen, dtinen, thun, die Eltern die solchs dtint. Endlich
heiszt gediirsten und getaren so viel als dtirfen, vnd von dem die Myster
nit abwichen gedurstn, d. i. dtirften. Nit getar ich sagen, nicht darf ich
sagen, Husz hubliheit, heiszt Hauszhaltigkeit.

Bey der Wortforschung wollen wir noch folgende Herleitung der
Worter angeben. Der Rhein wird geschrieben Rin, und kommt also von
rinnen, geschwinde fliessen. Austrasia heisst die hohe Strasse, und
komt von oh, hoch, welches in au verwandelt, und dem Worte Strasse.
Schoffen, die Schopfen, von schaffen, machen, verrichten, die Bohmen
sagen noch itzo: was schafft der Herr? Vberhangk, itzo iiberhand, von
der Wage, wo die grossere Schwere der einen Schale uberhangt. Hoch-
fort die Hoffarth, von hochfahren, furnehme Leute fuhren auf einem
mehr erhabenen Wagen. Nachgeburen, nachbarn, von nach und buren,
bauen, einer der hernach neben den andern sein Haus gebauet. Schtiren,
die Scheuren, von zusammeschtiren, zusammeschutten. Vffrehtikeit, die
Aufrichtigkeit, von uff, auf, und recht, reht, aufrichtig also, der auf das
Recht sieht, sagt und gesteht, wie das Recht es fordert. Huffe, der
Hauffe, daher kommen noch die Huffen bey den Feldern, eine oder viele
Huffen Feld; weil, wenn einer ein nach einem gewissen Maasz angewie-
senes Stticke odes Feld gut machte, er an dem einen, oder an beyden
Enden desselben die ausgegrabenen oder zusammen gelesenen Steine
auf Hauffen zusammen "schuttete, und dadurch solches Feld gleichsam
reinigte. Ruchwerck Anfangsgriinde, vielleicht von roh, als: er ist noch
roh in dieser Wissenschaft. Die Freyht, auf die Freyht gehen, komt her
von freyen kaufen, denn viel Tochter machten reich. Ftiroben, Feyer-

575

8 ERNST Voss

abend, von fur und Abend, der vor dem heiligen Tage vorher gehet.
Litferikeit, Leichtfertigkeit, von leicht und fahren, wenn einer leichte
und dahin zu fahren verwegen 1st, ohne Schaden und Ungltick zu beden-
ken. Dorheit, Thorheit, von dem Gott Dor. Liberien, Liberey, Biblio-
thec, vielleichte von liber, das Buch, und etwan dem deutschen Worte
reyhe, wo die Bucher nach der Reihe stehen.

Endlich sehen wir aus dieser ganzen Schrift, dasz der Verfasser ein
geschworner Feind der Franzosen, und dasz zu seiner Zeit Johannes
Keisersperg der weiseste Prediger in Straszburg, Friedrich Tunawer
Ketzermeister daselbst, und ehemals Thomas und Vlricus zwey hoch-
gelehrte Geistliche in Straszburg gewesen.

676

Modern Philology

VOL. IV April, igoj No. 4

LITERARY FORMS AND THE NEW THEORY OF THE
ORIGIN OF SPECIES1

In the summer of 1903 I found in the Report of the Smithso-
nian Institution for 1901 a brief paper2 reviewing a new theory
of the origin of species that at once arrested my attention. It was
the now famous Mutation Theory of Professor Hugo DeVries. It
dealt with certain features in the development of new species of
plants strikingly similar to processes which I had reluctantly been
forced by the evidence to assume as true of the origins of certain
forms of the drama in mediaeval and early modern times. Not
being a botanist, I could not judge of the soundness of the views
of Professor DeVries, though the reasoning seemed to me valid
and the experiments conclusive; but I took the first opportunity
to consult the botanists and zoologists I knew, and learned
essentially this:3

That the way for DeVries's doctrine of mutations had been
prepared by many investigators, who had demonstrated that the
processes mainly relied on by Darwin for the transformation of
one species into another could not produce the results;* that new

1 This paper was first presented before the English Club of Princeton University in Feb-
ruary, 1905, and later repeated at the University of Chicago.

2 "The Mutation Theory of Professor DeVries," by Charles A. White, The Smithsonian
Report for 1901, pp. 631-40.

3 Many articles in the magazines have since expounded the theory of DeVries and pre-
sented the attitude of scientists toward it. The best discussion that I have seen, however,
is that of T. H. Morgan, Evolution and Adaptation, pp. 287-99 ; see also pp. 340-413.

4 See Morgan, op. cit., especially chap, v and the references given there.

577] 1 [ MODERN PHILOLOGY, April, 1907

2 JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY

species of plants had actually come into existence under DeVries's
personal supervision; that his experiments had been successfully
repeated by other investigators; and that his work marked an
epoch in the history of natural science fairly comparable with that
of Darwin.

All of us know, when we stop to think of it, that the doctrine
of evolution did not begin with Darwin. Long before his day
students of the forms of life upon earth had held that all forms
had been derived by differentiation from other forms, and that all
went back ultimately to a simple form having infinite possibilities
of development. This view had many adherents: botanists, zoolo-
gists, geologists, and even poets, like Tennyson, adopted it. But
it remained only a theory which intelligent men might believe if
they would, until Darwin, on the basis of an unexampled collec-
tion of facts and with a simplicity and candor rarely approached,
made it a doctrine that must be accepted by all men not already
committed by age to other views of the processes of creation.
Before him all had been vague. He called attention to definite
variations which might result in change of species and indicated
the cause that had determined the direction of the change. The
variations were matters of everyday experience, and the cause,
when pointed out, seemed so familiar that everybody became a
Darwinian. Most people, indeed, after the fashion of most
people, became more Darwinian than Darwin himself. In the first
place, they gave to his views a simplicity and a certainty which
his appreciation of the complexity and difficulty of the problem
would have made it impossible for him to accept; in the second
place, they gave to them a rigidity that would have been incom-
prehensible to him, and made of them, as it were, articles of faith.
In the vague, swirling chaos of genera and species and varie-
ties Darwin distinguished two types of variation : one, that which
is now known as "fluctuating;" the other, that which he called
"chance variation," and which DeVries indicates more definitely
as "mutation."1 Fluctuating variation is that by which indi-

1 For DeVries's theory in general cf., besides the works already cited, H. DeVries, Die
Mutationstheorie (Vol. I, 1901; Vol. II, 1903) and Species and Varieties; Their Origin by
Mutation (1905) . For fluctuating variations, see especially Species and Varieties, chaps, xxv
and xxvii, aud Morgan, op. cit., chap. viii.

578

LITERARY FORMS AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 3

vidual differs from individual, oak leaf from oak leaf, race-horse
from cart-horse; that variation, in short, which makes one indi-
vidual a little better than another and enables a careful breeder
to improve his stock ; that which has changed the original sixteen-
petaled chrysanthemum of Japan to the huge blossom we see at
the annual flower show. What Darwin called "chance variations"
and DeVries "mutations" are those sudden and unaccountable
differences which, occasionally occurring, lift the individual entirely
out of his class. Darwin recognized that both sorts of variations
occurred, but he ascribed no great importance to the latter; and,
considering the state of science at that time, this was not only
natural, but probably desirable. Mutations had been carelessly
observed and treated as insignificant curiosities, whereas the work
of gardeners, breeders of horses, breeders of dogs, breeders of
pigeons, had been carefully recorded. The improvement possible
by taking advantage of these fluctuating variations was then and
is now astonishing. It is not strange, therefore, that Darwin laid
stress almost entirely upon the possibilities of these scarcely per-
ceptible variations, especially since his doctrine of natural selec-
tion seemed to make Nature as careful a breeder as Man.

Since Darwin, many investigators have shown that the limit of
fluctuating variations is quickly reached, and that in them lies no
possibility of crossing the line that divides species from species.
DeVries has gone a step farther. He has not only pointed out the
distinction between species and hybrids and varieties, and the limi-
tations of fluctuating variation; he has also developed a theory of
the way in which new species come into existence and has verified
his theory by actually observing the birth of the new species.
The theory is briefly this:

Mutation forms a special division of the kinds of variation. It does
not occur flowingly, but in steps, without transitional stages, and it occurs
less frequently than do the common variations, which are continuously
and constantly at hand. The contrast between the two kinds at once
appears if one conceives that characters of an organism are made up of
definite elements or units (Einheiteri), sharply distinguished from one
another. These units combine in groups, and in related species similar
groups recur. Every addition of a unit to a group constitutes a step,
originates a newsgroup, and separates the new form sharply and definitely

579

4 JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY

as an individual species from the one out of which it has been produced.
The new species is at once such, and originates from the former species
without apparent preparation and without gradation. Each attribute or
character of course arises from one previously present, not by normal
variation, but by one small yet sudden change.1

But what has this to do with the development of literature?
Literature is not a plant or an animal; it develops in accordance
with the laws of its own existence.

No one, I think, is more ready than I to recognize that litera-
ture is not an organism of any kind ; that principles true of the
development of plants and animals have no necessary validity for
works of art. But the whole process of human thought -has,
whether we like it or not, been transformed by the theories of
Darwin. "Evolution," "adaptation to environment," "struggle
for existence," "survival of the fittest," are not merely words: they
are conceptions — powerful, dominating conceptions. We may
misunderstand them, misuse them, deny them; the one thing we
cannot do is to speak, or even think, as we should if they had never
existed. We know that literature and art and social life are not
plants or animals, and that they have their own laws of existence ;
but even if we try to keep steadily before us the fallacy residing
in such terms as "organism" and "evolution," it is practically
impossible to speak or think of any unified body of facts showing
progressive change as men habitually spoke and thought before
1860. That we should still speak and think as if the needs of
human thought could be met by a mere chronological record is not
to be wished ; but it is equally undesirable that in our attempts to
understand the processes of life we should accept for our own
particular problem a formula whose only claim to attention is that
it seems to solve another problem. This we have been doing,
even when we were not conscious of it.

Thus, when, some fifteen years ago, I began to study the origins
of the modern drama, I was not conscious of the influence of Darwin ;
but I believed, as we all believed, that all things came into existence
gradually, by almost imperceptible modifications of something that
had existed before. The problem before me therefore seemed to be

i Die Mutationstheorie, Vol. I, Preface, translated by White, with modifications.

580

LlTERAKY FOKMS AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 5

the problem of collecting the evidence of these gradual and scarcely
perceptible changes. When all the evidence was in hand, it
appeared that, in this case at any rate, the conditions of change
had been very different from what the theory presupposed. There
was no gradual accumulation of scarcely perceptible variations,
changing the non-dramatic into the dramatic so insensibly that
the moment of the change could not be indicated. On the contrary,
there was a large amount of variation of non-dramatic form which,
however wide the variation, never resulted in drama; and then
with absolute suddenness came the drama, created at one moment,
created without any reference to the futile variations that had pre-
ceded. These variations I call futile, not because they lack inter-
est or possible significance, but because they did not and could not
develop out of their own class. There was the ritual of the mass,
capable, as many scholars — Alt and Schaff and Klein and David-
son1— have shown, of developing into drama. But it did not
develop. There was epic poetry, which even in the days of the
English Cynewulf, as Cook2 has clearly shown, was dialogic and
vivid, and dealt with material that later was made the subject of
plays. There were sermons, which, as Rand3 has pointed out,
discussed the subjects discussed in the liturgical drama, and which
used dialogue to heighten effect — sermons which would have been
drama if they had not remained something else. But all these
promising variations remained just what they were : the mass never
became anything but the mass; epic poetry gained vividness, yet
it remained epic poetry; sermons grew interesting, but they did
not originate the drama; estrif and debat and epic comedy and
tragedy almost crossed the line, but they did not actually cross
it. There were many things which to us seem capable of becoming
drama; the only valid test of development is what actually hap-
pened. Antiphones might become more antiphonal; sermon, epic
comedy, estrif, debat, might develop a more lively dialogue ; none

1H. Alt, Theater und Kirche, pp. 328-33; P. Schaff, History of the Christian Churchy Vol.
HI, p. 534 ; J. L. Klein, Geschichte des Dramas, Vol. IV, pp. 10 ff . ; C. Davidson, Studies in the
English Mystery Plays, pp. 6 ff.

2 A. 8. Cook, Journal of Germanic Philology, Vol. IV, pp. 421 ff.

3 E. K. Rand, Modern Philology, Vol. II, pp. 261 ff . For dramatic elements in the popular
ballad, cf. G. M. Miller, University of Cincinnati Bulletin, No. 19 (Ser. II, Vol. II).

581

6 JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY

of them, as a matter of fact, became drama; none of them varied
beyond its class.

But these things look very much like the drama, and good men
and true have been deceived by them. Perhaps the only way in
which we can avoid deception is to begin with the mediaeval drama
when it was unmistakably drama, and carefully go back to the
time when it came into existence. We shall thus be able to see
exactly what were the effective changes. If we begin with the
fifteenth century, we find three generally recognized types of the
drama : mystery, miracle-play, and morality. They begin at quite
different times ; they are sometimes confused in modern histories,
but they are not confused in the records, and their separate histo-
ries can easily be distinguished. The morality did not exist much
before the fifteenth century ; the miracle-play is not to be discovered
before 1100; the mystery, or liturgical scripture-play, is at least
two centuries older. Its beginning can be clearly traced. By
one simple and definite movement, which will be discussed in a few
moments, it came into existence. Before that movement there was
no liturgical drama ; as soon as the movement occurred, the drama
existed, simple and slight, to be sure, but as clearly drama as it
ever became in the whole course of its development.

Let us retrace rapidly the development of the great dramatic
cycles, commonly called mysteries. In England in the fifteenth
century they consisted of three main groups of scenes : ( 1 ) certain
scenes from the Old Testament, such as the Creation, the Fall of
Man, the Death of Abel, the Deluge, the Sacrifice of Isaac, etc. ;
(2) a group of New Testament scenes concerning the Birth of
Christ — e. g., the Annunciation, the Journey to Bethlehem, the
Birth, the Visit of the Shepherds, the Three Kings (or Wise Men
of the East), the Flight into Egypt, the Slaughter of the Inno-
cents, the Presentation in the Temple; (3) a second New Testa-
ment group, concerning the Death and Resurrection, such as the
Entry into Jerusalem, the Last Supper, the Capture, the Trial, the
Crucifixion, the Resurrection, the Walk to Emmaus, Doubting
Thomas, etc. Special variations need not concern us now, for this
is the general type. Tracing backward the history and form of
these groups, we find that they are real groups, each developed

582

LITERARY FORMS AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 7

for the most part out of a single germ. Similar investigations of
the French and German cycles would show that, though structur-
ally somewhat different from the fully developed English cycles,
they go back to the same simple forms and are derived from the
same germs. Of these germs or embryos, two — the play of the
Three Kings1 and that of the Visit of the Women to the Sepul-
cher — can be traced back to the tenth and eleventh centuries — the
latter, indeed, to the very beginning of the tenth.2 As absolutely
no other forms of the drama are to be found so early in the Middle
Ages, we may feel a high degree of confidence that in studying the
origin of the Visit to the Sepulcher — i. e., of the Easter trope,
"Quern quaeritis in sepulchre?" — we are studying the origin of
the drama in mediaeval Europe.

The conditions under which this trope became drama may be
briefly sketched. Under the impetus originated by Charlemagne
there was a movement affecting almost all forms of human thought :
the system of education was remodeled ; new life manifested itself
in the theory of music and in the practice of it; decorative art
made especial progress in ivory-carving, in the illumination of
manuscripts, in the decoration of church walls and pulpits and
altars; above all things, as the intellectual life of the times was
almost entirely confined to the clergy, the liturgy of the church
was developed as it had not been for centuries and was not again
for centuries to come. The service of the church was in the main
fixed and unalterable ; but there grew up a practice of unauthorized
additions or elaborations, permitted in the churches, but never
adopted by the church. These additions were at first elaborate
melodies without words, attached to the final syllable of the Alle-
luia; later there were also introduced sentences interwoven with
the authorized text of the ritual or introductory to certain parts
of it. All these elaborations, musical or literary, are called

1 The germ of the Visit of the Shepherds is also very early, but as yet we lack evidence
that its dramatic development preceded that of the Three Kings. In any event, it came into
existence as a trope in the same way and apparently at the same time as the Easter trope,
" Quern quaeritis in sepulchre?" Our main argument is therefore in no wise subject to doubt
because of possible future discoveries concerning the development of the Visit of the Shep-
herds.

2 For the origin and development of the Three Kings, cf. H. Anz, Die lateinischen Magier-
spielen; W. Meyer, Fragmenta Bur ana,' for the Visit to the Sepulcher, cf. C. Lange, Die
lateinischen Osterfeiern, and L. Gautier, Lea Tropes, or E. K. Chambers, The Mediaeval Stage.

583

8 JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY

"tropes." The sole purpose in introducing them was to add
beauty or lend emphasis to the portions of the service to which
they were attached; and at various times and places every impor-
tant feature of the mass was ornamented with them — Gloria, Kyrie,
Sanctus, all received this decoration. Among these numerous
additions is the one of special interest to us, a trope of the Introit
of the Easter Mass. It was only one of several tropes of the
Introit, and, though like most of them it was antiphonal, it seems
not to have been dramatic, but only an antiphonal lyric, as long
as it remained connected with the mass.

It consisted of only four sentences, sung in alternation by the
two halves of the choir:

Int[errogatio\. Quern quaeritis in sepulchre, o Christicolae?
R\esponsio]. lesum Nazarenum crucifixum, o caelicolae.
[Responsio.] Non est hie; surrexit sicut praedixerat. Ite, nuntiate
quia surrexit de sepulchre.

RESDBBEXI.1

Although as yet only an antiphonal lyric, this trope clearly
had the capacity for becoming drama, and this soon occurred.
Early in the tenth century it was transferred from the mass to
the service of matins and placed between the third Responsory
and the Te Deum (which closes the service). At the same time
was added the one element necessary to change it into drama ; the
sentences were sung, not by the two halves of the choir, but by
two priests impersonating the angels at the tomb and three other
priests impersonating the three Marys. The significant point is
that here the drama came into existence at a single bound and
not by insensible gradations. The elements composing it had
existed in the church for ages; every sentence spoken by the women
or the angels can be found in slightly different form in the liturgy,
and antiphonal singing was almost as old as the church itself —
perhaps older; but the change to drama was not caused by any
gradual approximation of antiphon to drama. The possibilities
were present, and it was, as we have seen, a time of change, of
variation; and one of these variations suddenly produced drama.

Just here it needs to be remembered that definitions of the

i Resurrexi is the beginning of the Introit ; what precedes is the trope.

584

LITERARY FORMS AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 9

drama based on Sophocles and Shakspere and Moliere will not
serve for the drama in its simple, elemental forms. The features
that seem essential to distinguishing it from other forms of liter-
ature, and the only essential features, are: the presentation of a
story in action, and the impersonation of the characters concerned
in the story. Dialogue, though important and usually present, is
not essential; the pantomime makes no use of speech, the mono-
logue develops its situation without the participation of a second
actor.

The form of drama thus developed grew almost beyond belief;
it was enormously expanded as literature by the addition of words,
antiphons, hymns, which, though greatly increasing the beauty
and attractiveness of the performance, did not change its character;
it was also enormously developed as drama by interesting and
significant action ; it joined with other dramatic nuclei to compose
the most elaborate and extensive dramatic form the world has ever
seen; but in character, in type, in essentials, it remained always,
even to the end of its existence, seven hundred years later, precisely
what it was in its origin. It did not change into anything else;
no other dramatic form seems to have originated from it.

The second form of the drama that arose in the Middle Ages
had a history as definite and as independent as that of the first.
This form was the miracle-play, properly so called; that is, the
dramatization of a legend setting forth the life, or the martyrdom,
or the miracles of a saint. Before this type of drama appeared
there had been recited, as regular features of the church service,
narratives of the lives of the saints containing every feature later
presented in drama. And attempts have been made by several
scholars to show that out of the modifications to which these
legends were constantly subject, particularly out of the farced
epistle, the miracle-play arose. But the ordinary modifications of
the legend and its presentation in the church have very definite
limits, which, however wide their variation, they do not pass.
None of these gradual variations caused legend or farced epistle
to become anything other than legend and farced epistle. The
change by which the miracle-play actually came into existence
was simple and sudden and without visible preparation. The

585

10 JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY

drama — the liturgical drama — had been in existence for two hun-
dred years; it had been very effective in the presentation of its
material; at the same time, legend was interesting and important
to every person or organization that had a patron saint — and there
was none without. Legend was therefore cast in dramatic form,
and at once the new type of play, the miracle-play, came into being.
So far as the evidence shows, there was no gradual transition of
liturgical play to miracle-play, or of undramatized legend to drama.
When once the necessary elements came together, the new species
existed ; a moment before, and there was nothing like it ; the com-
bination was made, and the new species was complete.

In all cases in which there is really the development of a new
form of plant life, the change seems, as DeVries points out, to be
accomplished, not by the insensible accumulation of minute dif-
ferences, but by the addition of a definite unit. Forms fluctuate
by small gradations through a wide range ; they seem almost ready
to change into something else; but if this is their principle, they
invariably return to the type to which they belong. Change of
species, when it really occurs, is due to the presence of a new unit,
determining a new character.

This seems to have been true of the two forms of the drama we
have thus far examined. It is perhaps even clearer for the form
that next developed. Not very many years ago it was customary
to derive the morality -play from the mystery-play; not because
there was any evidence for it, for there was none ; but merely
because Darwinism had unconsciously imposed itself upon us.
We disregarded chronology ; we accepted superficial resemblances
as vital — all because, as it now seems to me, we were so impressed
by the beautiful simplicity and effectiveness of Darwin's two great
ideas that we were ready to distort the facts in our own field of
investigation into harmony with these great ideas. But for some
such preconception no one would have attempted to explain the
origin of the morality-play by citing as transitional forms mystery-
plays a hundred years later than the morality.

In essential characteristics the morality is very simple, and
its origin can be very definitely traced. During the last three
centuries of the Middle Ages the ruling form of literature was

586

LlTERAEY FORMS AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 11

the allegory. By this time the dramatic method had clearly
shown, in both mystery and miracle-play, its capacity for reaching
a large and miscellaneous audience and for moving it as no other
form of literature could move it. The combination of this favorite
form of literature with this most effective mode of presentation
was made, and the immediate result was the morality-play.

The relation of this type of play both to that which preceded
and to that which followed has usually been misunderstood because
of failure to distinguish essential from unessential characteristics.
This failure appears in the standard definition of the type of play.
The definitions of Collier, Klein, Ward, and Creizenach are in
practical agreement in regarding as the essential feature of the
morality-play the fact that the dramatis personae are entirely, or
at least principally, abstractions, personifications of virtues, vices,
single traits of character. But such a definition obviously does
not enable us to distinguish moralities from plays of entirely
different types. Personifications of virtues, of vices, of nations,
of classes of people, were used in the drama of the thirteenth
century; they were treated in no way differently from the simple
human beings who moved through the play. They did not in
any respect modify or tend to modify the type of plays in which
they appeared. In later times abstractions, personifications of
single qualities, have been the special feature of plays that we
can hardly, by any stretching of terms, call morality-plays. Ben
Jonson's "humour" comedies are not morality-plays, but they
contain scarcely a character that is not the personification of a
single quality. Moliere, Ibsen, Dumas fils — every man who writes
a problem-play, marshals his abstractions, his simple men of a
single quality. But their plays are not moralities. On the other
hand, morality -plays exist in which some of the dramatis personae
bear personal names, and are very vividly conceived, not as mere
abstractions, but as living types of the qualities they embody ; but
no increase in the number of humanly named or vividly drawn
characters could alone change a morality-play or an allegory into
anything else. The Red Cross Knight and Una and her milk-
white lamb are definite and charming, and some of their adven-
tures are as exciting as any in the range of old romance: they

587

12 JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY

have an interest apart from the allegory ; but none the less, if you
look to the allegory, it remains allegory, for all the interest and
charm of the surface-meaning.

The distinction of the morality-play, as of all allegory, lies
not in its dramatis personae, its characters, but in its technique.
The specific quality is that nothing really is what it seems, or is
presented as it actually occurred or would occur. Is Christian,
the hero, weak in faith, full of gloomy doubts and fears, and beset
by sharp temptations to evil and unbelief ? It is not so presented
in the allegory; there he passes through the Valley of Humilia-
tion, and Apollyon straddles clean across the whole breadth of the
way and fights with him. There may be action in allegory, there
may be action in morality-play — conceivably as much as in any
other species of play whatever; but the action is always, from the
very nature of the case, allegorical, symbolical; it is never direct,
simple, actual.

Let us take the morality-play made familiar to us all of recent
years by Mr. Ben G reefs company of players — the moral play of
the Somonynge of Everyman. In it is set forth that, when a
man dies, neither kindred nor friends nor riches, nor beauty nor
strength of body or mind, will avail him, but only the good he
has done and the mercy of God. Parts, if not the whole, of this
theme may be capable of presentation simply, directly. The point
to observe in regard to the presentation of it in the morality-play
is that it is conceived under symbols, metaphors, and presented
throughout by means of a symbolic technique. God calls Dethe
and bids him summon Everyman to undertake a pilgrimage.
Dethe does this bidding, warning Everyman to bring his account-
books with him that he may make his reckoning before God.
Everyman is afraid to go alone, but Felawship and Cosyn and
Kynrede, greatly as they have loved him, refuse to bear him
company when they learn his destination. Goodes (Riches)
also says that he will not go, and avows that he has done Every-
man much harm. Good-dedes would willingly accompany him,
but cannot until Knowlege has led Everyman to Confession, who
counsels him and gives him the "scourge of penaunce." As the
blows of the scourge fall upon Everyman, Good-dedes is released

588

LlTERAKY FORMS AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 13

from her sickness and weakness and is ready for the journey.
Everyman then puts on the "garment of contrycyon," and starts
out accompanied by Knowlege and Good-dedes. Dyscrecyon,
Strengthe, Beaute, and Fyve-Wyttes set out also; but when they
come to the grave, Beaute deserts him, and then Strengthe and
Dyscrecyon and Fyve-Wyttes. Knowlege remains to direct him,
but Everyman comes into the presence of God accompanied only
by Good-dedes.

Symbolic technique is in use throughout: in the application
to Felawship and Cosyn and Kynrede and their refusal, in the
advice and guidance of Knowlege, in the garment of contrition.
It is obvious that no introduction of concrete figures, no increased
vividness of portrayal, no intensity or liveliness of action, could
make this anything but a morality-play, unless at the same time
the technique were changed — unless, for example, Everyman's
change of heart after his interview with Confession were shown
us by direct methods and not by the symbolic method of clothing
him in the garment of contrition — and similarly throughout the
play. Nor could the simple, direct presentation of the events of
scripture and legend which constituted mystery and miracle-play
develop into anything approaching this by the mere introduction
of Contemplatio explaining the action and commenting on its
significance in place of the holy doctor, St. Augustine, or by the
introduction of Ecclesia and Synagoga as representing Christians
and Jews, or even by that of Justice and Mercy, Truth and Peace,
arguing before the throne of God the Father the question of the
necessity of the damnation of the human race and the possibility
of saving it by the vicarious atonement. So far as their use in
these plays is concerned, Contemplatio is as real a figure as St.
Augustine, Ecclesia and Synagoga as real as Moses and St. Peter,
Justice and her sisters as real as God the Father or Jesus: the
names they bear do not determine the nature of the characters.
So long as such figures talked and acted in accord with the
technique of mystery and miracle-play — that is, so long as their
talk and action were to be interpreted in the first intention — so
long these plays did not and could not give birth to the morality-
play. The morality-play is dramatized allegory. The moment

589

14 JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY

the single unit of allegory is added to drama as a formative unit,
the morality-play comes into existence with its peculiar technique,
with all its characteristic qualities.

I have devoted so much time to these three forms of the drama
because in them we find pure, unmixed types, and because the
facts in regard to their origins are so clear. It is rare indeed to
find in literature forms or species so definitely distinguished as
these from other species of the same genus. But in other instances
in which the species is sharply and clearly distinguished from
others, the origin seems to have occurred also by a single move-
ment, by the addition of a single character-unit. It is thus with
the pastoral drama, which came into existence in Italy in 1472
with the Orfeo of Poliziano. It is thus in France and England
with the farce, which existed full-blown the moment of the first
dramatization of a fabliau. It is thus with the romantic comedy
of the sixteenth century ; with the Chronicle History ; even, I think,
with modern comedy and tragedy as distinguished from classical.
In later times the origins of certain forms of the novel can, I
believe, be shown to be as sudden, as clearly due to a single definite
mutation. And besides these literary types, certain other literary
forms exhibit similar phenomena. Blank-verse did not come into
existence gradually by the increasing carelessness of poets in
regard to rhyme. It was created suddenly, by a single move-
ment. The heroic couplet originated quite as suddenly. Chaucer
wrote heroic couplets, and there they were. They were not pre-
pared for by poems growing more and more "couplety " and more
and more "ten-syllabled." Heroic verse has two distinguish-
ing units or characters, "decasyllabicness" and "coupletness,"
and each is an absolute unit or character — that is, is incapable
of degrees.

In the fact just stated lies, I fancy, the whole explanation of
the phenomena we have been discussing. Certain literary forms,
if they come into existence at all, must come by a single, simple
mutation, for the entirely sufficient reason that their very existence
depends upon the presence of an absolute unit. The doctrine of
mutations — the new theory of the origin of species, not by the
gradual accumulation of insensible differences, but by a sudden

590

LITERARY FORMS AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 15

definite change — so far as it is true of literary forms, is true not
because it has been demonstrated for species of plants, but because
certain literary forms, like certain species of plants, owe their dis-
tinctive character to the presence of one essential element.

That other literary forms may not come into existence by
insensible gradations I am not prepared to say. "Literary form"
is a very vague term; "literary species" is equally vague. We
know, of course, that after a literary form comes into existence it
may undergo many and wide variations ; whether these variations,
if gradual, are always of the kind the botanists call fluctuating—
that is, whether they never result in the production of a distinctly
new form or species — I cannot say. The histories of literature,
of course, teach us that they constantly do so result ; but then the
histories of literature teach us that it is only by such insensible
variations that new species originate, and this we have just found
to be untrue. The histories of literature were all written under
the influence of a doctrine which caused the writers to overlook
some of the facts and to distort others. He who would now study
the origins of literary forms must re-examine the evidence ; must
inquire to what extent mutations have been confused with fluc-
tuating variations; to what extent variations which bear some
resemblance to the new form, but in reality have no genetic rela-
tion to it, have been forced into the line of its ancestry because
the doctrine of evolution was supposed to need them. If it be
true that in literature forms originate in both ways, let us find it
out and proclaim it. It makes no difference to us whether both
modes of origin are true for botany or not. We students of litera-
ture have in reality, as no doubt all of you have been insisting
throughout this discussion, nothing whatever to do with botany;
our problems are with the facts of literature. Our case is merely
that we, like the thinkers in all fields of thought, have come under
the pervasive, dominating influence of a great zoological theory,
and under this influence have been blind to some of our facts,
have distorted others, and have allowed ourselves to substitute
catchy phrases for a real understanding of the processes that
should have engaged our attention. We are now, in this discus-
sion, using another great zoological theory to free ourselves, if it

591

16 JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY

may be, from the one which has so subtly and powerfully distorted
our thought. This new theory is admirably fitted to serve us as
liberator. It denies categorically the fundamental ideas of the
other; it offers us, as a substitute, a mode of origin not merely
radically different from it, but in any particular case absolutely
incompatible with it. A new form either comes into existence
suddenly or it does not. In literature either mode seems possible.
It is for us to find out in each case what are the facts.

But again you ask: "Could we not do this without the aid of
DeVries's theory?" The answer, I fear, must be: No; the proof
that we could not is that we did not. "Can we not lay aside all
theories and merely collect the facts of literary development, and
then inquire what they mean?" We cannot. The whole history
of science tells us in unmistakable tones that no man who merely
collected facts and then inquired their meaning has ever succeeded
in dealing with any problem but the very tiniest. Theory, hypoth-
esis, is absolutely essential, even if it were not unavoidable.
Without it we cannot see all the facts. Again and again in the
history of science a field of inquiry has seemed absolutely
exhausted; there is not a bit of straw, much less a head of
wheat, left for the gleaner; a man has then come along with a
new theory, and suddenly the exhausted field has to be harvested
anew, and it yields as abundantly as if it had never before been
visited.

But even if we could free ourselves without aid from
another science, it is well that we should free ourselves by a
conscious effort, in order that we may perhaps remain free and
not merely pass from unconscious subjection to one great theory
to equally unconscious subjection to another. It is even well, I
think, that we should know the theories of other sciences and
consciously try to apply them to our own. They are at best but
analogies, it is true, but they may be suggestive in the highest
degree. By resemblance, or even by absolute difference, they may
direct our attention to phenomena which the unaided eye might
never see.

In conclusion let us spend a moment or two with the seven laws
stated by DeVries; some of them are very suggestive. His fifth

592

LITERARY FORMS AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 17

law is: The same new species is produced in a large number of
individuals. Does this occur with literary forms? Surely; the
same movement that produced the earliest form of the drama which
we discussed, the liturgical play, or dramatic trope, of the begin-
ning of the tenth century, produced other dramatic tropes of pre-
cisely the same species, but with different subject-matter;1 and
it is not probable that all miracle-plays or all moralities are derived
by imitation from one original individual, or that only one man
ever independently thought of dramatizing a fabliau and thus
producing a farce. The seventh law is that mutations take place
in nearly all directions. This was certainly the case when the
dramatic trope came into being. It was an age of troping.
Tropes — that is, insertions in the authorized liturgy — were com-
posed by the hundreds, and of all conceivable varieties. Most of
them had no such characteristic feature as to constitute a new
form of art, and these perished without being recognized as any-
thing but tropes; but some, as we have seen, became drama.

In connection with this law DeVries teaches us that natural
selection acts, not as a directing, propulsive force, but as a sieve.
It certainly does so in literature. The path of literary history is
strewn with variations that left no progeny. It is even true that
occasionally very beautiful forms stand absolutely isolated, because
the conditions were not favorable for their reproduction. Such
are, I believe, the plays of Adam de la Hale and the famous
Sponsus. In these particular cases the unfavorable condition
seems to have been the lack of other writers of sufficient skill and
power to do the same sort of thing; for the moment you cease to
deal with the kind of literature that any man and every man can
produce, you have to take account of the presence or absence of
genius.

Another interesting feature of the development of new species
by mutation is the fact that particular species seem to have special
periods of mutation. During these periods, variations, mutations
resulting in new species, are produced in great abundance. At
other times the species seems to be quiescent, producing no new

iThe Christmas trope, "Quern quaeritis in praesepe," is the most interesting and
important ; cf . Anz, op. cit.

593

18 JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY

species, but only the normal fluctuating variations which diverge
from the original type only to return to it immediately. For this
phenomenon, as indeed for the phenomenon of mutation itself,
the botanists are not yet ready to assign a cause. In the field of
literature we find an analogous phenomenon, and the cause of it
almost suggests itself, it is so obvious. The age in which the
drama originated from the liturgical trope was, as we have seen,
an age of unexampled variation in the service of the church ; the
age in which the miracle-play originated saw the development of
other new forms of treating the legends of the saints; the age
which gave us the morality produced other types distinct from
it, but carelessly grouped with it; in like manner the farce, the
history-play, the pastoral, romantic comedy and tragedy were not
isolated phenomena. And in each case we can find a probable
cause of the period of productiveness, of variability, in the fact
that each follows hard upon, and is part of, a great intellectual
or artistic movement. The liturgical play originated, as we have
seen, in the first intellectual revival of the Middle Ages, in the
renaissance begun by Charlemagne and Alcuin. The miracle-play
appears immediately after the great intellectual revival of the
eleventh century; the morality originates not more than a gen-
eration after the fourteenth -century renaissance of France and
England; the pastoral, the history, and the other species cited,
all connect themselves with various phases of the dawn of modern
culture.

These and other generalizations and theories of sciences may
be suggestive and valuable to us, if we use them only to stimulate
our own thought and our perception of the facts in our own field ;
if we are careful not to substitute analogy for explanation of
process, the application of a formula for real mastery of the phe-
nomena; if we remember that the new combinations of literature
are not strictly analogous to those of biology, for they are combi-
nations of previously existing elements ; nor to those of chemistry,
for they always betray their components; nor to those of physics,
for they are after all not merely mixtures of the old elements, but
new substances with new qualities and characters.

Bearing these warnings in mind, we might consider other laws

594

LITERARY FORMS AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 19

for literary forms drawn up in imitation of the seven given by
DeVries for plants; but this paper is already too long. More-
over, its purpose has been fully accomplished if the analogies we
have been discussing have aided us at all in freeing ourselves
from the unconscious influences which distort our vision and our
thought.

JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO

595

THE INFLUENCE OF ITALIAN ON EARLY ELIZA-
BETHAN DRAMA

The influence of Italian drama on the beginnings of regular
tragedy and comedy in England has long been accepted as a gen-
eral principle, but few attempts have yet been made to determine
its precise extent and character. The problem is not an easy one,
for English drama developed under complex conditions, and it may
be difficult, or even impossible, to decide whether a particular ele-
ment was suggested by a foreign model (and if so, by which) or
arose independently. The comfortable view of a previous genera-
tion of scholars, that each nation created its own type of tragedy
or comedy, and eschewed the dramatic experiments made by its
neighbors, falls to the ground in the light of fuller knowledge.
English drama followed in the main the same phases of develop-
ment which had been previously gone through in Italy and France.
We need not, of course, conclude from this that English dramatists
merely imitated their predecessors on the Continent, but it seems
worth while to inquire what progress the modern drama had made
in Italy where it had its birth, and how far English drama was
directly indebted to its example. So far as this article goes, I
shall restrict the inquiry to tragedy and comedy ; as to the Italian
origin of the Masque I have already spoken in another place;1 and
the Pastoral Drama seems also to call for separate treatment.

I. ITALIAN TRAGEDY

The early history of Italian, as of English, tragedy includes on
the one hand the Latin drama, and on the other the loosely knit
popular plays in the vernacular made on the plan of the Sacre
JRappresentazioni; but it would be difficult to establish any con-
nection between Italian and English tragedy at this early stage.
It was the later developments of Italian drama with which English
courtiers and scholars came into contact. It has been usual to
date the beginning of Italian tragedy based on classical models

i Publications of the Modern Language Association, Vol. xxii (1907) pp. 140 ff.
597] 1 [MODBBN PHILOLOGY, April, 1907

2 JOHN W. CUNLIFFE

from Trissino' s Sofonisba (1515) ; and its influence was undoubt-
edly great, but it was more on the literary than on the dramatic
side. Although it was held in high esteem — praised, indeed, by
a contemporary critic as superior to the CEdipus Tyrannus — it
went through six editions before it received its first representation
in 1562 at Vicenza on a stage designed by Palladio. Trissino's
real claim to remembrance rests upon his invention of blank verse
and its establishment as the characteristic measure of tragedy.
uVoi foste il primo," writes to him Palla Rucellai, "che questo
modo di scrivere in versi materni, liberi dalle rime, poneste in
luce." The adoption of the unity of time was a precedent of more
doubtful advantage, and in the main Italian tragedy developed
under other hands and on other lines. Sofonisba is based on
Greek models; the predominant influence of Italian tragedy
before and after Trissino is undoubtedly that of Seneca. The
dramatist who brought Italian tragedy back to its original bent
was Giambattista Giraldi Cinthio, whose Orbecche (1541) was
the first modern tragedy placed on the stage. In the collected
edition of his tragedies he speaks of himself

come quegli che dopo tanti secoli h6 rinovato 1'uso dello spettacolo delle
tragedie, il quale era poco meno che andato in oblivione; che ancora
che il Trissino sia stato primo di tutti & comporre lodevole Tragedia
in questa lingua, non fu per6 introdotta in scena la sua Sophonisba.

Giraldi openly declared his preference for the Roman as against
the Greek model, and in the Orbecche he employed Seneca's sensa-
tional horrors and supernatural machinery (Nemesis and "Furies
fell") with tremendous effect on audiences at home and abroad.
Orontes dies on the stage, and Giraldi justified this departure from
classical tradition, not by appealing, as he might have done, to the
authority of Seneca, but by a special interpretation of the passage
in Aristotle as to ei> TO> (f>avepq> Odvaroi. Seneca's practice was,
however, his plea for the restriction of the chorus to a lyrical inter-
lude at the end of each of the five acts into which, again following
the Roman custom, he divided his tragedies. It was, indeed,
Giraldi' s misfortune that as a classical scholar he was too submis-
sive to the authority of the ancients. He was sometimes inclined,
as he himself said, "to depart from the rules of Aristotle and con-

598

INFLUENCE OF ITALIAN ON ELIZABETHAN DRAMA

form to the customs of his own time ;" but even in such departures
he falls back on "the example of the ancients," and claims only as
much liberty as Aristotle would himself allow. As early as 1543
he wrote a tragedy (Altile) with a happy ending, the action
extending over two days. Of his nine extant tragedies, all but
one of which seem to have been put on the stage, only two — Cleo-
patra and Didone — have classical subjects, and these are almost
modern in the prominence given to the heroines and the importance
of the love-element. Giraldi's subjects are, in fact, all of a romantic
character. The plot of the Arrenopia is similar to that of Greene's
Scottish History of James IV ', being indeed taken from the same
source, one of Giraldi's own novels (III. i in the Ecatomithi).
But Giraldi had not the courage to treat a romantic subject with
the freedom required for the romantic drama, or he would have
filled a much bigger place in the history of Renascence tragedy.
A university lecturer and secretary of state, he clung to the clas-
sical models admired by the court circle to which he ministered;
and the consequence was that he never succeeded in creating a
truly popular drama. It is not surprising that an audience which
endured the tedium of Giraldi's tragedies for five or six long hours
in a cold theater failed to conceive any great enthusiasm for the
new form of art. Canigiani, the Medicean ambassador at Ferrara,
who was present at such a performance in 1568, writes with bitter
irony that the tragedy was perfect in every part, since it attained
both the ends of tragedy set forth by Aristotle — anger and com-
passion ; it inspired the spectators with anger at the poet and with
compassion for themselves.

In spite of a certain stiffness in Giraldi's handling of his sub-
jects and the aridity of his tragic style, it is surprising that no
trace of direct contact between his plays and the Elizabethan
drama has been discovered, especially as his novels were well
known, and were laid under liberal contribution for dramatic pur-
poses. Whetstone's Promos and Cassandra stands in the same
case as Greene's James IV: it is founded on a story which Gir-
aldi himself had dramatized, but the plot is taken from the novel,
not from the play. I am far from being convinced of the sound-
ness of the conclusion that Shakspere had seen Giraldi's dramatic

599

JOHN W. CUNLIFFE

version — an inference made by the late Richard Garnett "from a
minute circumstance. Cinthio's play, not his novel or Whetstone's
adaptation of it, has a character named Angela, whose name dis-
appears from Measure for Measure, but. who bequeaths Angelo
as that of her brother, whom Cinthio calls Juristi, and Whetstone
Andrugio." A parallel between Giraldi's Cleopatra and Shak-
spere's play on the same subject, first pointed out by Klein, and
discussed more recently by Bilancini1 and Milano,2 seems also not
beyond the bounds of coincidence. Yet that Giraldi's develop-
ment of Renascence tragedy had an influence in England there
can be no doubt; and a direct connection may be established
through the work of Giraldi's successor and the continuator of his
school of tragedy, Ludovico Dolce. Dolce, like Giraldi, "loved
the Muses better than they loved him," • as an Italian critic has
said: he had even less of the divine spark than his master; but
he was a persevering toiler for the erudite stage after the manner
of Seneca, whose tragedies he translated. He was a diligent
adapter of the classics, and among the tragedies he made over was
the Phoenissae of Euripides, his own version bearing the title of
Giocasta. This was in turn translated by George Gascoigne and
Francis Kinwelmersh, acted at Gray's Inn in 1566, circulated in
manuscript form (a copy still survives in the British Museum),
and printed in the three editions of Gascoigne's works in 1573,
1576, and 1587. As is shown in the edition of the Jocasta just pub-
lished in Messrs. Heath's "Belles Lettres" series, where the Italian
and English versions are printed side by side, the Englishjxlay is,
except in the choruses, a literal rendering of Dolce, and it is not
a little strange that it should have passed as a translation from
the Greek of Euripides till 1879, when its true origin was pointed
out by Professor J. P. Mahaffy. Its connection with the Greek
text is not even at second hand; for there is little doubt that
Dolce, who knew no Greek, used the Latin translation of Euripides3

1 Giambattista Giraldi e latragediaitaliananelsecoloxvi: Studio crtfo'co (Aquila, 1890).

2 Attilio Angeloro Milano, Le tragedie di Giambattista Cinthio Giraldi Nobile Ferrarese
(Cagliari, 1901). For the loan of this pamphlet, which I found difficult to obtain, I am /
indebted to the courtesy of Dr. Ferdinando Neri, whose La tragedia italiana del cinque-
cento (Firenze, 1904) is the best treatment of the whole subject I have seen.

3 For evidence on this point see my Introduction to the edition of Jocasta just men-
ioned, p. zxviii.

600

INFLUENCE OF ITALIAN ON ELIZABETHAN DRAMA 5

published at Basel by R. Winter in 1541. As a poet, Dolce
seems to have been better known in England than Giraldi; for
some of his sonnets were translated by Lodge, and Gismond of
Salerne, acted at the Inner Temple in 1567-68, bears obvious
signs of indebtedness to Dolce 's Didone. I need not enlarge on
this point, as ample proof was afforded in my paper on the subject
in a recent issue1 of the Publications of the Modern Language
Association. It is sufficient for our purpose to establish the fact
that court tragedy in England was in its beginnings in direct
contact with court tragedy in Italy, which had preceded it, and
probably suggested it. The subjects and general style of treat-
ment were due in part to Italian example, in part to the authority
of Seneca, to which both were indebted. One feature in particular
we may safely ascribe to the practice of the Italian court — the
allegorical representations between the acts called by the English
dumb shows and by the Italians intermedii. These preceded in
Italy the rise of the vernacular drama in its more regular forms.
We find them, for instance, at the performance of the Menaechmi
at Ferrara in 1491 — first, a Morris dance with torches; second,
Apollo with the nine Muses; third, a Morris dance of peasants
with instruments of labor. The Italians seem to have added these
diversions to all comedies and to some tragedies, and they were
an exceedingly popular feature of dramatic performances at the
various courts; even so enlightened an example of Renascence
culture as Isabella Gonzaga took more interest in the intermedii
than in the plays. Indeed, they are held to have contributed to
the downfall of the Renascence drama, and we find Grazzini at a
later date (prologue to the Strega, 1582) complaining that, instead
of intermedii being made to suit the comedies, playwrights were
now called upon to make plays to suit the intermedii. By con-
fining the dumb^ shows to tragedy, and connecting the allegory
closely with the plot, the English courtiers gave them greater use-
fulness and significance; but there can be no question of their
Italian origin. As a contemporary writer pointed out,2 the inter •-
medii were of interest to foreigners who did not understand the

1 Vol. XXI, pp. 435 ff.

2 See preface to d'Ambra's Cofanaria, acted at Florence in 1565. The passage is sum-
marized by Creizenach, Geschichte des neueren Dramas, Vol. II, p. 302.

601

6 JOHN W. CUNLIFFE

language of the play, and this feature of the performance would
be likely to make more impression on their minds than any other.

II. COMEDY

The indebtedness of English to Italian comedy is more easily
established, and may be dealt with more briefly. The references
to Italian actors in Elizabethan England are almost always in con-
nection with comedy, which would naturally form the main part
of their repertory. One writer applauds the versatility of these
Italian strollers ; another condemns the lasciviousness of their plays.
Probably most of the references are to the partly improvised corn-
media deW arte, the influence of which on the Elizabethan stage
awaits fuller investigation; but we have also recorded examples
in England of the commedia erudita. Stephen Gosson, himself
the author of "a cast of Italian devises called The Comedie of
Captain Mario," in the days of his Puritan reformation (Plays
confuted in Five Actions, 1582) complained of the "baudie com-
edies" translated out of the Italian which were corrupting the
London stage. A passage in The Schoole of Abuse shows that
Gosson appreciated the advance on Plautine comedy made by the
new Italian comedy of manners:

The lewdenes of Gods is altered and changed to the love of young men :
force to friendshippe; rapes to marriage: wooing allowed by assurance of
wedding, privie meetinges of bachelours and maidens on the stage, not
as murderers that devoure the good name ech of other in their mindes,
but as those that desire to bee made one in hearte. Now are the abuses
of the worlde revealed, every man in a playe may see his owne faultes,
and learne by this glasse, to amende his manners.

For this advance Ariosto was mainly responsible, and it was
undoubtedly a great advantage for Elizabethan playwrights and
the Elizabethan public to come into contact with his graceful and
facile wit. Gascoigne was again the intermediary, his version of
the Suppositi being acted and printed along with the Jocasta,
at the dates given above. I am inclined to agree with Professor
Gayley1 and with Mr. John Dover Wilson2 that sufficient impor-
tance has not been attached to the influence exercised by Gas-
coigne's translation of Ariosto's comedy. The fact that it is a

i Historical View of English Comedy. 2 Essay on John Lyly (Cambridge, Eng., 1905).

602

INFLUENCE OF ITALIAN ON ELIZABETHAN DRAMA 7

translation is no doubt the main reason why it has been neglected;
and it must be acknowledged that a close comparison of the Eng-
lish version with the Italian leaves Gascoigne little claim to
originality. In the main he was content to select what he wanted
from Ariosto's prose or verse — there are two versions in Italian —
and the slight additions and alterations he made are not always
improvements. But his prose is quick and easy, and it was no
small merit to bring Ariosto's comedy within the reach of Eliza-
bethan England in such attractive guise. Ariosto shared the
reverence of his time for the ancients, but he was too true an
artist and had too great natural wit to allow classical tradition to
cramp his genius. He adapted himself to the form of classical
comedy with marvelous ingenuity, and made the transition to
modern conditions easy for his successors in England ; for in Italy
Renascence tragedy and comedy alike came to early decay. His
characters are indeed types, but they are types of enduring
interest and significance. The parent who marries his daughter —
for money and position; the aged suitor oblivious of his own
defects ; the indulgent and easily hoodwinked father who provides
funds for his son's extravagances at college ; the student who pays
more attention to his love-affairs than to his classes; the knavish
servant who aids and abets him in his follies — all these are
dramatis personae who have not yet disappeared from the comic
stage, because they have not yet disappeared from society. In
Ariosto's comedy, and Gascoigne's translation of it, they lack
individual traits, but they are consistently and truthfully drawn
in their main outlines. The dialogue is sprightly, the jests well
turned, the plot cleverly constructed. The "substitutions" or
disguises which gave the play its Italian title (the English trans-
lation Supposes is a blunder) formed a staple device in English
romantic comedy throughout its history.

CONCLUSION

In addition, then, to its characteristic means of expression—
f prose for comedy and blank verse for tragedy — and certain
externalities of form — the five acts, chorus, and dumb show of
tragedy — Elizabethan drama owed to Italian example other

603

8 JOHN W. CUNLIFFE

advantages not so easily particularized: in tragedy, restraint and
dignity ; in comedy, graceful and sprightly satire of contemporary
life. The debt can best be realized by comparing the court
tragedies founded on Italian examples with the looser contem-
poraneous plays of a more popular type, such as Damon and
Pythias; and by placing our native English comedies, such as
Gammer Gurtorts Needle, or those founded directly on classical
models, such as Ralph Roister Doister, alongside of Gascoigne's
Supposes. The advance made in comedy is then evident enough ;
and it seems to have been sufficiently appreciated by the Eliza-
bethans themselves, as the evidence adduced above shows. An
even more striking proof is to be found in the fact that first the
author of The Taming of a Shrew and then Shakspere in his
redaction of the play turned to Gascoigne for motives and inci-
dents which Ariosto had invented or made current on the modern
stage.

JOHN W. CUNLIFFE

Me GILL UNIVERSITY
Montreal, Canada

604

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE"1

As early as 1874 Schonbach concluded his work on the Ger-
man planctus with the words:

Ich habe mit voller absicht mich von der untersuchung der franzosi-
schen und englischen Marienklagen feme gehalten, nicht als ob sie mir
nicht wichtig genug erschienen und ihre untersuchung nicht lehrreich
ware, einfach deshalb, weil das vorliegende material auch nicht im
entferntesten zureicht. es mtissen daher die beztiglichen publicationen
abgewartet und die losung dieser fiir die vergleichende litterargeschichte
gewiss bedeutungsvoller aufgabe muss einer spateren zeit vorbehalten
werden.2

Since then E. Wechssler has made a study of the Romance
planctus.3 It is hoped that the present discussion of the English
planctus may in the future help to make more easily possible
a comparative study of the planctus as a class. It is, how-
ever, not the aim of the present discussion to establish relations
between the English planctus and those of other languages,
though such correspondences as I have noticed will incidentally
be pointed out. Both Schonbach and Wechssler, in their treat-
ment of the planctus in the vulgar tongues, began with the Latin
as a starting-point; their work had to do largely with the dis-
covery of the sources of the individual poems. Some work of
this kind has already been done in connection with certain of the
English planctus.4 It is not the purpose of this paper to push
forward the investigation along these lines. Nor have I attempted
the still more difficult task of determining the relation of the
English planctus to the earliest Greek planctus,5 though certain
peculiar agreements of phrase between it and some of the English
planctus entice one to attempt to discover by what indirect and

1 For valuable suggestions and assistance in this study I am glad to acknowledge my
indebtedness to Professor John M. Manly.

2 Die Marienklagen, p. 52.

3 Die romanischen Marienklagen (Halle, 1893).

* See Planctus Nos. V and VI, pp. 4 and 5, of the present discussion.

5 See Wechssler, Die rom. Marienklagen, pp. 7ff. ; A. Linder, Plainte de la Vierge
(Upsala, 1898), Introd., pp. clii ff.
605] 1 [MODERN PHILOLOGY, January, 1907

2 GEORGE C. TAYLOR

crooked ways such phrases ever made their entrance into the
English poems. The larger and more general question still,
the relation of the planctus as a form to the drama as a whole,
lies beyond the limits of our study ; their relation, as a form, to
the contemporaneous1 English drama naturally finds treatment
here. The chief purpose of this study is to discuss the several
nondramatic English planctus in their relation to each other, and
more especially to ascertain the relationships of these to those
portions of the miracle-plays which contain the laments of Mary
for Christ.

SECTION I

Before proceeding to the discussion of relations, it seems
advisable, in order to aid in some degree the comparative study
constantly going on in the field of the planctus, to give a brief
description of each of the English poems. They are arranged as
nearly as possible in order of date.

A. NON-DRAMATIC PLANCTUS

I. The Assumption of Our Lady,* 11. 36-42 (Cambr. Univ.
MS G 9. 4. 27. 2). — The lament of Mary is only a brief portion
of the narrative, introductory to the Assumption legend proper,
but its motives3 stamp it as unquestionably belonging to the
planctus genre. Among the ME non-dramatic and dramatic
planctus it belongs by itself, and is related to the others only in
so far as they all go back to a common and as yet undiscovered
ultimate source. It is deserving of notice here, chiefly because
it is, so far as I have been able to discover, the oldest planctus
in English, the Assumption dating not later than 1250.4 Here-
tofore, the long and better-known planctus of Cursor Mundi,

1 For the more general question of the planctus in its relation to the development of the
drama, see Schonbach, Die Marienklagen, especially pp. 51 f. ; Creizenach, Geschichte des
neueren Dramas, Vol. I, 221, 239, 241, 242, 347, 350; Wechssler. especially pp.98ff.; Milchsack,
Die Oster- und Passionsspiele, pp. 92 ff. ; Petit de Julleville, Lea mysteres, Vol. I, 58; R. Otto,
Modern Language Notes, Vol. IV, p. 213; Meyer, Fragmenta Burana, pp. 67 ff.; Linder,
Plainte de la Vierge, Introd., pp. cxc ff.; Neil C. Brooks, Journal of Germanic Philology, Vol.
Ill, pp. 415 ff.; Chambers, The Mediaeval Stage, Vol. II, pp. 39, 75, 129; for other references
see Chambers, Vol.11, p. 39, notes.

2 Edited in 1866 by Rev. J. Rawson Lumby, EETS ; re-edited in the same publications
by G. H. McKnight, 1901. For the same version in the Cursor Mundi, and for other versions,
see McKnight's edition, Introd., pp. lii, liii.

3 See below, pp. 9 ff . * McKnight, Introd., p. Ivii.

606

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE" 3

11. 23945-24658, has been considered the oldest1 example. The
date of this poem Frohlich sets at "mithin schon 'ca. 1300."2
The Assumption planctus is so brief that it may be quoted entire :

Cambr. Univ. MS G 9. 4. 27. 2
"Alas my sone" seide heo
"Hu may me line? hu may pis beo?

Hu may ihc al Pis sorege iseo?

Ne cufe ihc neure of sore^e nojt,

Mi leue sone, wat hastu pogt ?

Hu schal ihc lyue bitmte £e?

Leue sone, what seistu me?"

II. The Sorrows of Mary* (Fairfax MS).— Date, about 1300.
Though in certain particulars not typical of the class of poems
known sometimes as the Dispute between St. Bernard and Mary,
this planctus must be considered as belonging to that type.4

III. "Stond wel moder under rode."5 (MS Harl. 2253).—
Date, about 1307 .6 The two versions in MS Harl. and Digby
vary considerably in arrangement of material. Boddeker7 merely
calls attention to two additional stanzas of Harl. not contained
in Digby, and concludes from this that Digby must be the earlier
version. The regularity, however, of the rhyme scheme in Harl.
and the blunders in the rhyme of Digby lead me to conjecture
that Digby is based on Harl.

This planctus, though about the most striking of all those in
English, seems to have no close and direct relation to any of the
later poems, dramatic or non-dramatic. Though not directly
affecting the drama, it is to be noticed that it belongs to that form
of poetry which, without actually becoming drama, is highly dra-
matic and is closely akin to the drama as a form — it belongs among

i Walter Frohlich, De Lamentacione sancte Marie (Leipzig, 1902), pp. 11 ff.

2J6id., Introd., p. x.

3 Cursor Mundi, 11. 23945-24658, ed. Morris, EETS. For the other MSS of the Cursor
which contain this planctus, and for the discussion of their relation, dates, etc., see H. Hupe,
Cursor Mundi, Part VII, pp. 59 ff., EETS.

* See p. 5, n. 1, below.

5MS Harl. 2253, ed. T. Wright, in Specimens of Lyric Poetry, No. XXVII, Percy Soc.,
Vol. IV; and in BOddeker's Altengl. Dicht., p. 206. MS Digby 86, ed. in Anglia, Vol. II, pp.
253 ff., and in Minor Poems of Vernon MS, Vol. II, p. 763, EETS.

6 -Spec. Lyric Poetry, Percy Soc., Vol. IV, Pref., p. 1.

T Altengl. Dicht.

607

4 GEORGE C. TAYLOB

the "estrif" or "debat" poems1 so much in vogue at this date.
Planctus Nos. V and VI belong also to this class, but Stond wel
moder is the most typical representative of the class; in its per-
fectly regular apportionment of the first three lines of each stanza
to Christ and the last three to Mary during the entire dialogue
portion of the verse, it adheres more strictly than the other planctus
to one of the conventions of the strife poems — the exact and even
balance of part against part.2

IV. The Medytacyun of the Sorrowe that oure Lady had for the
wunde in her sone Syde (MS Harl. 1701 ).3 Date about 1315-30.*
The planctus in the English Meditations is to be found in the
following portions of the poem: 11. 789-806, 809-18, 829-34,
837-39, 846-50, 835-944, 949-52, 975, 976, 991-1008, 1014,
1015, 1019-32, 1035, 1036, 1039-42, 1047-50, 1059-60, 1073,
1074, 1090-1110, 1115, 1116. There is no definite evidence of
relationship between this and the other English planctus in verse.
It agrees closely, however, with the scattered prose laments of
Mary found in the translations of portions of Bonaventura's
Meditations.6 Certain agreements between this prose work and
the planctus of the Hegge Plays point to the conclusion that
either it, or some other translation of the Meditations, or the
Latin original was in part the source6 of the Hegge planctus.

V. The Dispute between Mary and St. Bernard.1 — The date
of MS Rawlinson, from which Frohlich prints, is "die mitte des

1 The Debate of the Body and Soul is perhaps the best-known and most widespread
example of the scores of religious poems in ME which took on this conventional form.

2 For an interesting parallel see the Dialogue between the Infant Christ and Mary, in
Balliol MS 354, Anglia, Vol. XXVI, p. 246, into which many planctus motives have unquestion-
ably worked their way.

3 Meditations on the Supper of Our Lord and the Hours of the Passion, by Bonaventura,
drawn into English verse by Robert Manning of Brunne, ed. J. Cowper, EETS, pp. 25 ff. For
other English translations and for the relation of the English Meditations to the Latin, see
Cowper, Introd., p. xii; Boiss-Brahl, Catalogue of MSSinBrit. Mus., pp. 163 ff. ; see also The
Privity of the Passion, ed. Horstmann, Richard Rolle of Hampole, Library of Early English
Writers, Vol. I, pp. 198 ff. For the planctus in Bouaventura's works see Wechssler, Die rom»
Marienklagen, pp. 14, 27 ; A. Linder, Plainte de la Vierge, Introd., p. clxiv ; and for the entire
Meditationes Vitae Christi as source of Arnoul Greban's Passion Play see Wechssler, pp.
66-76; for its relation to the Italian Laud, Donna del paradiso, see the same, pp. 49 ff.

* Meditations of Bonaventura, EETS, title-page.

5 Library of Early English Writers, Vol. I, pp. 198 ff .

6 See below, p. 23 for further discussion of this.

7 De Lamentacione sancte Marie, Walter FrOhlich, pp. 63 ff. For the discussion of
authorship, editions, other English versions and their relation to Latin and French sources,

608

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MAKIAE" 5

14. jahrh's."1 This planctus bears no close relation to any other
planctus except No. VI.2

VI. Disputation between Mary and the Cross (Vernon MS).3
-Date, about 1350.4

VII. Christ's Testament or Deed of Feoffment* (MS Reg. 17,
CXVII).— Mary speaks 11. 379-81, 387, 388, 400-412, 424-34.
This planctus is especially interesting, as only in this one case
does the form make its way into the Testament of Christ, of which
there are in ME more than a hundred versions of various forms
and of various lengths. It illustrates the fact that the planctus
has by this time found its way into two independent forms of
poetry : first into the Assumption of Mary? and secondly into the
Testament of Christ. It will not be surprising, therefore, to find
that it has made its way also into the drama.

VIII. I. Filius Eegis Mortuus Esf (Harl. MS 3954).-
The date of the MS is 1420.8 Refrain: "Filius Regis mortuus

and for versions in other languages, see Frfthlich, pp. 5-36, 54 ff. For the discussion of the
Latin and Romance planctus of this type see Wechssler, pp. 17 ft'., 23 ff., 35 f., 49 ff. ;
A. Linder, Plainte de la Vierge, Introd., pp. clxix ff.

1 Frohlich, p. 7 ; for the dates of the other MSS see pp. 7 ff. FrOhlich's discussion of the
relations of the versions of the planctus of this particular type in English is in the main
correct, but it is in one respect misleading. His statement is as follows : " Zwar haben wir
schon in dieser altesten englischen Marienklage die Form des Dialogs ; allerdings noch nicht
in der ausgepragten Form der jftngeren, sondern entsprechend der Jateinischen Quelle
erstreckt sich der Dialog nur ilber den Eingang des Gedichtes, indem er hier bloss zur Einlei-
tung ins eigentliche Thema dient: die Passion Christi, welche dann begleitet von den
erneuten Schmerzensausbrtichen der Maria von dieser in ununterbrochener Folge vorge-

tragen wird Noch ist der Anredende nicht als Person wie spater der St. Bernhard

eingefuhrt sondern der Dichter richtet gleichsam von sich aus die Rede an die Jungfrau
Maria." The questioning of the imaginary person or writer, as it may be, does not, as
Frohlich suggests, appear only at the beginning of the poem, but continues throughout the
entire Cursor version, though at less frequent intervals than in the other versions. The
speeches of the questioner begin at 11. 23987, 24047, 24215, 24377, 24467, 24581, 24641.

2 Wechssler, p. 22, refers to Richard Rolle's " Meditatie de Passione Domini," Eng. Stud.,
Vol. VII, pp. 454 ff., as an English version of the same theme. I see no reason to believe,-
however, that Mary spoke any portion of Rolle's lament. He is possibly referring to the
Lamentacion of oure lady (Herrigs Archiv, Vol. LXXIX, pp. 454 ff.). This belongs very
evidently to the planctus class.

3 Minor Poems of the Vernon MS, Vol. II, pp. 612 ff., EETS. For the same in Royal MS,
18 A 10, see Morris, Legends of the Holy Rood, EETS. See Brandl, Pauls Grundr., Vol. II,
p. 642, for Latin source. For this type in Latin and Italian see Wechssler, pp. 13, 36.
For the relation of the English version to th<; " mittel-niederlandische " version see Holthau-
sen, Anglia, Vol. XV, pp. 504 ff., and for the further relation of the English version to the
Latin and Provencal versions see Holthausen, Herrigs Archiv, Vol. CV, pp. 22 ff: Holt-
hausen seems to be unfamiliar with Wechssler's contributions on this point.

* Brandl, Pauls Grundr., Vol. II, p. 642.

& Minor Poems of Vernon MS, Vol. II, pp. 650 ff., EETS. 6 See No. I.

i Edited by Furnivall, EETS, Polit., Relig., and Love Poems, pp. 204 ff., with a com-
panion-piece bearing the same title ; re-edited by him in 1903. 8 Ibid., p. 204.

6 GEOKGE C. TAYLOB

est," during the first part of the poem. In the latter part it
changes to "resurrexit non mortuus est."

IX. II. Filius Regis Mortuus Est1 (MS Lambeth 853).—
Date, about 1430. The planctus proper begins with 1. 12, and
continues throughout the remainder of the poem.

X. The Lamentation of the Virgin2 (MS Camb., Pub. Lib.
Ff . V. 48) . — Date, fifteenth century.3 The poem is marked by the
refrain: "For now Hggus ded my dere son, dere," with slight
variations in stanzas 8, 9, 11. This is the best example in English
of the elaboration into an independent poem of one of the most
conspicuous and most frequently recurring motives* of the general
planctus class.

XI. The Compleynte of the Virgin before the Cross5 (MS
Phillipps 8151).— Date, 1413-46.6 The poem consists of an
elaborate planctus, a monologue by Mary throughout. It is not
especially similar to any of the dramatic or non-dramatic planctus.
The author very frankly admits that the poem is a translation:
"Ceste Compleynte paramont feut translatee au commandement de
ma dame de Hereford, que dieu pardoynt!"7

XII. A Lamentation of the Virgin* (MS Bibl. Publ. Cant.
Ff. 11, 38, fol. 47) . — The planctus proper begins with stanza 2.
The refrain of the first nine stanzas is, "The chylde is dedd that
soke my breste;" in the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth it is
changed to, "The chylde is resyn that soke .my breste." The

1 Furnivall, EETS, op. cit., p. 205.

2 Reliquiae Antiquae, Vol. II, p. 213. Another version of the same poem in different dia-
lect is printed by Thomas Wright in the notes of the Chester Plays, Vol. II, p. 207, with the fol-
lowing remarks : "The lamentation of Mary is a common subject of English verse in manu-
scripts of various dates. One or two short examples will be found in the Reliquiae Antiquae.
The two following, which have not been previously printed, will serve to give a notion of
the manner in which this popular subject was treated." There is only one example in Eel.
Ant. of a short planctus, and that one is the same poem as this, merely another version of
it as here edited by Wright. Did he edit the two himself and not notice that they were the
same? The only other piece of verse in the Rel. Ant. which contains a planctus is the Burial
of Christ, Vol. II, p. 124. This is not a planctus, but a play containing one.

3 Ibid., p. 212.

* See below, motive No. 12, p. 10. For another example of this tendency to expand one
motive into a complete poem, see No. VI.

SHoccleve's Minor Poems, Vol. I, p. 1, EETS. See for the same version with additional
stanzas, Vol. Ill, Introd., pp. xxxvii ff .

tlbid., p.l.

i Ibid., p. 8. See M. P. of H., Vol. Ill, Forewords, p. x, for French source.

s Chester Plays, Vol. II, p. 204, Shaks. Soc.

610

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MABIAE" 7

spirit and tone of this planctus put it in a class by itself. The
first stanza, unlike any part of any of the English poems, is
illustrative of its general secular character. It runs:

Lystenyth, lordynges to my tale,
And ye schall here of oon story
Ys bettor than owthyr wyne or ale
That ever was made in thys cuntre;
How Yewys demyd my sone to dye,
Eche oon a dethe to hym they dreste,
Alias ! seyde Mary that ys so fre,
The chylde ys dedd that soke my breste.

The poem could almost be called a religious ballad, and would
have taken well if it had been sung in the streets.

XIII. Nowel, el el etc.1 (MS Sloan, No. 2593).— Date, about
the time of Henry VI.2

XIV. "Mary moder, cum and se."3 — The MS containing
this poem is assigned to the latter half of the fifteenth century.*
For the most part similar to No. XIII.5

XV. Mary Moder cum and see.6 — The date of the Balliol MS
is early sixteenth century.7 For the most part similar to Nos.
XIII, and XIV.

XVI. C. XXXVIIP (Fairfax MS Add. 5465, Brit. Mus.).
-Written not later than 1490 by Gilbert Banister.9 The

planctus consists of the sayings of Mary scattered through a
poem written to be sung by three persons. The author in a
dream sees the scene of the crucifixion and Mary weeping.
Mary's words are directed sometimes to the author, sometimes
to Christ. Kefrain: "My feerful dreme neuyr forgete can I."
The poem is very confused and obscure in design if read as a
poem and not as a song adapted to singing by three persons.10

1 Christmas Carols, ed. T. Wright, Percy Soc., Vol. IV, No. VIII; ed. also by him in
Songs and Carols (printed for the Warton Club, 1856), p. 65.

2 Christmas Carols, Percy Soc., Vol. IV, p. 4.

3 Songs and Carols, No. XXXIII, ed. T. Wright, Percy Soc., Vol. XXIII.
*Ibid., pref., p. 1. 5 See below, p. 16.

6 " Die Lieder des Balliol MS 354," Anglia, Vol. XXVI, p. 240. T Ibid., p. 94.

s " Die Lieder des Fairfax MS," Herrigs Archiv, Vol. CVI, p. 64. 9 Ibid., p. 50.

10 For its similarity to No. XVII in this respect and others, see below, p. 17.

611

8 GEORGE C. TAYLOR

XVII. Who cannot wepe com lerne of me1 (MS O. 9. 38.
Trin. Coll. Cambr.). Refrain: "Who cannot wepe com lerne of
me." This planctus, like No. XVI, is confused in design, the
confusion arising from the fact that, like No. XVI, it was perhaps
intended to be sung by more than one person.2

XVIII. Die Lieder des Balliol MS. 354, No. CII.3— The
date of the Balliol MS is the beginning of the sixteenth century.4
Refrain :

O! my harte is woo, Mary she sayd so

for to se my dere son dye. And sones haue I no mo.

XIX. Die Lieder des Balliol MS. 354, No. CHI.5— The
greater part of this short poem consists of the writer's lament for
Christ. L. 8, however, and perhaps 11. 8-14, belong to Mary.

XX. Die Lieder des Fairfax MS. C XXXIII?— Strictly
speaking, this is not a planctus, for in it Mary has nothing to say.
It contains, however, many details common to the class. If all
the speeches of Mary were cut out of Planctus No. V or No. VI,
we should have left in each case a poem very similar to this.7

B. DRAMATIC PLANCTUS

XXI. York Plays.8

a) Play No. XXXIV. Christ Led up to Calvary, 11. 143 ff.,
202 ff.

6) Play No. XXXVI. The Mortificacio Christi, 11. 131 ff.,
148 ff., 157 ff., 170 ff., 181 ff., 261 ff.

c) Play No. XLIII. The Ascension, 11. 179 ff., 202 ff.

1 Hymns to the Virgin and Christ, p. 126, EETS.

2 See p. 17 for its relation to No. XVI ; for its relation to No. XXV see p. 30.

3 Anglia, Vol. XXVI, p. 262. * ibid. , p. 94. 5 ibid., p. 263.
SHerrigs Archiv, Vol. CVI, p. 61.

7 The influence of the planctus on poems not belonging to the general type, though dif-
ficult to determine with certainty or exactness, would be worth the study. Examples of the
influence of the planctus upon poems of a different type are to be found in the dialogues
between the Infant Christ and Mary, published in Christmas Carols, Percy Soc., Vol. XXIII,
p. 50; Songs and Carols (published for the Warton Club), p. 48; Anglia, Vol. XXVI, p. 247;
The Legend or Life of St. Alexius, p. 19 (EETS, in same volume as Be Domes Daege). Some
of the many laments of sinners scattered through the various collections of ME religious
poetry and laments made by characters other than Mary in the miracle plays, contain
echoes of the planctus.

8 The York Mystery Plays, ed. Miss Lucy T. Smith

612

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE" 9

XXII The Towneley Plays.1

a) Play No. XXII. The Scourging, 11. 315 ff.

b ) Play No. XXIII. The Crucifixion, 11. 309 ff., 361 ff., 382 f,
406 f., 424 f.

c) Play No. XXIX. The Ascension, 11. 298 ff., 348 ff., 372 ff.

XXIII. The Chester Plays.2

Play No. XVII, The Crucifixion, 11. 239 ff, 331 ff.

XXIV. The Hegge Plays.3

a) Play No. XXVIII, The Betraying of Christ, p. 286.
6) Play No. XXXII, The Crucifixion of Christ, pp. 321, 322,
323, 326, 327, 328.

c) Play No. XXXIV, The Burial of Christ, p. 336.

d) Play No. XXXV, The Resurrection, pp. 347, 348.

XXV. The Digby Burial of Christ,4 11. 450 ff., 456 f., 470 ff.,
477 ff., 515 ff., 556 ff, 565 ff., 567 ff., 603 ff., 612 ff., 793 ff,
802 ff, 813 ff, 820 ff, 823 ff.

SECTION II

Schonbach,5 largely for the purpose of discovering the Urtypus
of the German Marienklagen, begins his discussion of the subject
by giving a list of the most common motives in the German
planctus, with references to the particular poems in which they
occur. It will be convenient to make a somewhat analogous list
of the motives of the English planctus, with, however, a far dif-
ferent end in view. The great variety of types present in English,
and the fact that the Latin sources so far discovered for certain
of them" belong to distinctly different types, make it clear that the
search for the Urtypus of the English is about the same as the
search for that of the Latin planctus as a whole.7 The list of

lEd. Pollard, EETS.

2 Ed. T. Wright, Shaks. Soc., Vol. I.

3 The Coventry Mysteries, ed. J. O. Halliwell, Shaks. Soc., Vol. II.

* The Digby Mysteries, ed. F. J. Furnivall, New Shaks. Soc., Series VII, Vol. I, p. 171. Ed.
also by him in EETS, and by Wright and Halliwell, Rel. Ant., Vol. II, pp. 124 f.

5 Die Marienklagen, pp. 2 ff. 6 See Nos. V and VI.

7 That SchOnbach should have found in any one Latin planctus the Urtypus for the
German is, when we consider the number of German planctus (see SchOnbach, pp. 1 ff.)
little short of miraculous. Wechssler fails to discover such for the Romance planctus as a
whole. See his work, pp. 76 f., and 97. For this question see also R. Otto, M. L. Notes,
Vol. IV. 213.

613

10 GEOBGE C. TAYLOE

motives1 is given here rather with a view to facilitating a compari-
son of the English planctus each with each; with the added pur-
pose of demonstrating with clearness and certainty the close
agreement in general subject-matter of the non-dramatic planctus
as a whole with those portions of the miracle-plays in which Mary
laments for Christ.

TABLE OF MOTIVES

1. John asks Mary to come and see Christ on the cross: XIII, 1 ff.;
XIV, 1 ff.; XV, 1 ff.

2. Mary's narrative of the capture and trial of Christ: II, 24017 ff.
V, 145 ff., 185 ff., 200 ff.; XVIII, 5 ff.

3. Allusions by Mary to the child Christ and his early history: VI,
63 ff.; VIII, 13 ff.; XI, 71 ff.; XXV, 630 ff., 718 ff.

4. Mary cries out to Christ about her sorrow and asks him to relieve
her: II, 24179 ff.; VIII, 27 ff.; XI, 162 ff'.; XII, 30 ff.; XXI (6), 261 ff.;
XXII (&), 369 ff.; (c), 298 ff.; XXIII, 61 ff.; XXIV, (page) 322; XXV,
740 ff.

5. The wounds and suffering of Christ: II, 24083 ff.; Ill, stanzas i,
iv, v; VI, stanzas i, ii, iv, v, vi, vii, xxiv, xxv, xxxi; IX, 88 ff.; XI, 127 ff.;'
XII, stanzas v, vi, viii, ix; XVII, 8 ff.; XXII (6), 309 ff.; XXIII, (page)
61; XXIV, (page) 326; XXV, 662 f.

6. Christ's innocence: VI, stanza iii; XXIV, (pages) 286, 321; XXV,
726 ff.

7. Christ's beauty: II, 24077 ff.; V, 305 ff.; VII, 411 ff.; XXII (&),
323 ff., 361 ff.; XXV, 643 ff.

8. The unthankfulness and unkindness of man to Christ: XI, 227 ff.;
XVI, stanza ii; XXV, 709 ff.

9. How her mourning caused Christ his greatest sorrow: II, 24064 ff.;
V, 262 ff.

10. Symeon's prophecy of the sword of sorrow which should pierce
her heart: II, 24329, 24383; III, stanza ii; VI, 328 ff., 367 ff.; VII, 370 ff.;
IX, 16; XI, 50 ff.; XXI (a), 147 ff. (6), 159 ff.; XXIV, (page) 287; XXV,
500 ff.

11. She never knew sorrow before: II, 24365, 24373; III, stanza vii.

12. No mother ever felt such sorrow: IV, 809 ff.; X, stanzas i ff.;
XXV, 505 ff.

13. She was Christ's mother, father, brother, etc.: II, 24194 ff.; IV,
997 ff.; VI, 340; IX, 40 ff.

i In preparing such a table it seemed best to adopt a principle of division which would
include only the most common and frequently occurring motives ; in no case is a motive
listed which does not occur in at least two different planctus, however frequently it may
occur in the Latin, German, or Romance poems.

614

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MABIAE" 11

14. Her sorrow for Christ— general: 11,23999,24089, 24196,24346, 24431,
24539; V, 233 ff.; VI, 352 ff.; VIII, 13 ff ., 37 ff., 105 ff.; IX, 13 ff.;XI, 78 ff.,
37 ff.; XVII, 7 ff., 21 ff.,25 ff.; XVIII, Refrain; XXI (6), 131 ff.; XXII (6),
383 ff.; XXIV (pages), 286, 321, 326, 336; XXV, 450 ff., 470 ff., 478 ff., 520 ff.

15. Allusion to Gabriel: II, 24526 ff.; IX, 45 ff.; XXII (6), 434 ff.;
XXV, 490 ff.

16. Allusion to Judas: XII, stanzas ii, iii, iv; XXV, 526 ff.

17. Allusion to the Jews: II, 23996 ff., 24149 ff.; VI, 94, 221, 363; IX,
112 ff.; XII, stanzas v, vi, vii; XIX, stanza iii; XXII (6), 406 ff.; XXV,
648 ff.

18. Her wish to die: II, 24124 ff.; Ill, stanza Hi; V, 313 ff., 333 ff.,
345 ff., 632 ff.; VII, 429 ff.; VIII, 31 ff.; IX, 49 ff., 52 ff., 79 ff.; XI, 120 ff.;
XV, stanza iv; XXI (6), 157; XXII (6), 424; XXIII, (pages) 61, 64;
XXIV, (pages) 321, 323; XXV, 702 ff., 749 ff.

19. Her wish to kiss Christ: II, 24446 ff.; VI, 90 ff.; XXIV, (pages)
327, 336; XXV, 489 ff., 640 ff., 692 ff.

20. Christ comforts Mary: II, 24229 ff.; Ill, (in the first part of each
of the first nine stanzas); V, 435 ff.; 490ff.; IX, 32ff.; XIV; XXI (6),
144 ff.; XXII (a), 321, (6), 447 ff.; XXIV, (pages) 323 ff.

21. Mary asks Mary Magdalene to help her: V; VII, 387 ff.

22. Mary asks the women to weep with her:1 XI, 47 ff.; XXII (6), 395;

XXIV, (pages) 347 ff.; general theme of X.

23. Narrative of the taking down of the body: II, 24479 ff.; IV, 560 ff.;

XXV, 435 ff.

24. Mary caresses the body: II, 24493 ff.; IV, 625 ff.; XXV, 694 ff.

25. Mary requests that Christ shall not be buried: II, 24551 ff.; IV,
991 ff.; V, 658.

26. Mary refuses to leave the body: II, 24553 ff.; IV, 947 ff.; V, 400 ff.;
XXI (6), 181 ff.; XXV, 555 ff., 567 ff., 580 ff., 800 ff.

27. Mary desires to be buried with Christ: II, 24555 ff.; IV,999ff.;

V, 664 ff.; XXV, 700 ff., 806 ff.

28. Mary refuses to be comforted: XXI (6), 148, 170; XXIV, (pages)
326,327; XXV, 612 ff.

29. Mary asks, "Where shall I go?": II, 24209; V, 361, 631; VII,
379; IX, 132; XI, 190 ff.; XXI (c), 189; XXV, 751.

30. Mary bids Christ farewell: IV, 1039 ff.; XXV, 826 ff.

31. Mary intrusts herself to John: IV, 1014 ff.; V, 465 ff.; XXI (c),
202 ff.; XXII (c), 372 ff.; XXIV, (page) 327.

32. The signs and wonders at Christ's death: II, 24410 ff.; V, 90 ff.;

VI, 374 ff.; VIII, 44 ff.; IX, 124 ff.; XII, (page) 206; XVIII, stanza v.

33. Mary about Christ's resurrection: IV, 1003 ff., 1025 ff.; V, 449 ff.,
/ 635 ff.; XII, stanza xii; XXI (c), 179; XXII (c), 347 ff.; XXIV, (page) 348;

XXV, 515 ff.

i For the liturgical origin of this motive see Wechssler, p. 16.

615

12 GEORGE C. TAYLOR

SECTION III

There remains for consideration the discussion of the more
close and intimate relationship, first, of the non-dramatic planctus,
each to each, and, secondly, of certain of these to the dramatic
planctus, Nos. XXI, XXII, XXIII, XXIV, XXV. It is well to
bear in mind that in a field of investigation such as this it is very
difficult to arrive at very certain and definite conclusions as to
relationship. When we consider how common and conventional
a form of literature the planctus is in mediaeval literature, and
how, owing perhaps to a common remote origin, certain simi-
larities exist even among different planctus which could have
had no possible influence upon one another, it is not difficult to
understand why one should be exceedingly cautious about assert-
ing direct and intimate relationship of poem to poem. Only in
cases, then, where striking similarity both of detail and the
expression of it, or similarity in the arrangement of details, is to
be observed, are we at all justified in conjecturing a case of direct
relationship. Even in such instances we have still to be uncertain
of the exact relationship, since it is impossible, with our present
knowledge of the subject, to say what Latin or French planctus
as yet undiscovered may explain the agreements, or what other
English planctus still unedited may stand as the intermediate step
or steps between those planctus apparently most closely related.

A. RELATIONS OF CERTAIN OF THE NON-DRAMATIC PLANCTUS

Nos. V and VII. — Lines 345-400 of V agree closely in sub-
stance, and occasionally in phrase and rhyme, with VII. The
version of VII, however, found in the Vernon MS1 agrees far
more clbsely with V than does that found in MS Rawlinson2
edited by Frohlich, and more closely also than does that of MS
Tiber. E. VII.3 The other versions of V are not accessible to
me, but the agreements between VII and the Vernon version
are of such nature as to indicate that there is a very close and
intimate relation between the two. I quote the parallel passages
from Vernon and VII side by side:

l Minor Poems of the Vernon MS, Vol. I, pp. 297 ff . 2 See p. 4.

3 Ed. Horstmann, Richard Rolle of Hampole, Library of Early English Writers, Vol. II
pp. 274 ff.

616

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MAKIAE"

VERNON MS DISPUTE

"I criede: 'Maudeleyn, help now—
Mi sone hath loued ful wel the:
Preie him that I dye now,
That I nout for-geten be !
Seost thow, Maudeleyn, now,
Mi sone is honged in a tre.
Git alyue am I thow,
And thou ne preyest not for me ! '

"Maudeleyn seide: '/ con no red,
Care hath smiten myn herte sore ;
I stonde, I see my lord neih ded,
And thi wepyng greueth me more.
Cum with me! I wol the lede
In to the temple her be- fore.
Mi Mournynge is bothe feeble and

fede,
ffor thou hast now I-wept ful sore/

"Ich askede the Magdaleyn:
* Where is that place,
In pleyn in valeye or in hille,
(Ther) I mai me huyde for eny cas,
That no serwe come me tille ?
He that al my loye was,
Now deth of hym wol don his wille;
Con I me no beter solas
Then for to wepe al my fille.'

"The Maudeleyn cumfortede me

tho,
To lede me thenne, heo seide was

best.

Care hedde smiten myn herte so
That i migte neuere haue no rest.
4 Soster, whoderward that I go,
The wo of hym is in my Brest :
While my sone hongeth so,
His peyne is in myn herte fest.

" ' I seih my sone, (my) ffader dere
Heige hongen vp-on a tre;
I hedde blisse whon I him bere,
And now deth for-doth my gle:
Scholde I leten him hongen here
And lete my sone al-one be?

CHABTA CHBISTI

* Mary magdalan, helpe thou me !
hy do my sone dye on yon tre.'
Magdalan sayd : ' I can no nother

rede

I knele & se my lorde nere dede;
ffule grete soro has smyten my

harte,
And git me rewes thi payn(e)s

smarte;

ffor me were lewer to dy onone
than for to se the make this mone.
Cumme with me I I sail the bryng
ffro this wo & this mornyng
In-tylle a tempull here be-fore;
ffor thu has wepyd here full sore.'
My moder answerd to magda-

layn:

' Walde thou af me a-way so f ayn ?
I had gret ioy wen I hym bare:
Suld I now lewe hym hanga(n)d

thare,

And sofur hym so for to be,
that was my myrthe & al my gle ?
Magdalan, for soothe vnkynde I

were

to go away & lefe him there,
thefore the drose here lyf I wyll,
ffor hys syght had, I neuer my fyll;
Sum-tyme wen he lokyd me on,
It was my most ioy of ilkon.
he was the fayrest that euer was

borne,
& now es crowned with a garland

of thorne!'"

617

14 GEORGE C. TAYLOR

VEBNON MS DISPUTE

Maudeleyn, thenne vndkynde I

were,
Gif he schulde honge & I schulde

fle!

" * Vnder the Cros leuen I-schille
And seo my sone hongen ther-on;
Of sigt I hedde neuere my fille,
Whon I loke(d) hym vuon.'
I bad hem gon wher was heore

wille,

The Maudeleyn and eurichon :
1 And my-seluen be-leuen I wole,
ffor I nil fle for no mon ! "

I find, after comparing the two passages, that Horstmann has
also noticed the similarity. He has little to say on the point.
His words are: "the discourse with Magdalen, added by the poet.
It was taken up by the Charta Christi in MS Reg. 17 CXVII."1
Frohlich,a discussing the relations of the various versions of the
Dispute between Mary and St. Bernard, says in regard to this
dialogue between Mary and Magdalen:

Leider lasst sich nicht mit voller Sicherheit sagen, welche Fassung
hier die ursprunglichere Lesart liefert, da die Vorlage ftir diese und die
folgenden Strophen, d. h. also flir das Zwiegesprach zwischen Maria
und Magdalena, laut einer Anmerkung Horstmann's in seiner Ausgabe
(EETS, 98, S. 314) die Charta Christi im MS Reg. 17 CXVII, gewesen ist,
welches MS mir leider nicht zuganglich war.

Evidently Frohlich interprets Horstmann's words to mean that
the passage from MS Reg. is the original of the corresponding
passage in the versions of the planctus. Horstmann does not
say this in his note. On the contrary, since the dialogue in the
St. Bernard poem is so much more elaborate than the MS Reg.
dialogue, and the rhyme scheme seems to follow that of Vernon
rather than the reverse, one might be led to suppose that if
Vernon and Reg. do not go back independently to a similar
original, Reg. is based on Vernon. The dialogue, moreover,

i Minor Poems of Vernon MS, Vol. I, p. 814.
2De Lamentacione Sancte Marie, p 21.

618

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE" 15

occurs, as already mentioned, in MS Rawlinson;1 it occurs also
in MS Tiber. E. VII. The date of the version of MS Rawl. is
probably earlier than 1350 ;2 that of MS Tiber, about 1350 ;3 while
the Vernon MS version dates shortly after 1350. Since Vernon
is the latest of the three, if the dialogue of the Charta Christi
of MS Reg. were the source, we should expect Vernon to agree
in its rhyme scheme with Reg. less closely than the earlier
versions of Rawlinson and Tiber., whereas, as a matter of fact,
it agrees more closely.

Nos. VIII and IX. — It is hardly necessary to mention the
agreements between these two planctus, since Dr. Furnivall in
printing them placed them side by side for comparison. They
bear the same title: Filius Regis Mortuus est. These words
constitute the refrain of IX throughout. The refrain of VIII is
similar to that of IX in the first seven stanzas; after stanza vii it
changes to "Resurrexit, non mortuus est," with a slight variation
in stanza ix. Stanza i of IX agrees very closely with stanza i of
VIII. The first line of stanza ii of IX is the same as the first
line of stanza ii of VIII. A few phrases4 of stanza iii of VIII
are present in stanzas iii and v of IX. After this point the two
become separate and distinct. IX becomes a regular monologue
planctus. VIII, on the contrary, after line 49, takes on some-
what the character of the St. Bernard type, the author and Mary
conversing together. It is difficult to determine whether it is to
be classed as one of that type or with XVI and XVII, where the
author also converses with Mary, but not in the regular balanced
fashion of the St. Bernard poems.

Nos. VIII and XII. — The agreement in this case merely con-
cerns the refrains. In VIII — as has just been mentioned — the
refrain is "Filius regis mortuus est" for the first seven stanzas;
after that point, ' ' Resurrexit, non mortuus est. ' ' In XII the refrain
is, for the first nine stanzas " The Chylde ys dedd that soke my
breste." After stanza ix it changes to "The chylde ys resyn that
soke my breste," with slight variations. To say that the writer
of XII was familiar with VIII would perhaps be going too far,

i See FrOhlich, p. 63. 2 FrOhlich, p. 7. 3 ibid.

*Cf. VIII, 28, 29, 32, with IX, 29, 30, 54, 55.

619

16 GEORGE C. TAYLOR

but 1. 38 of VIII, which reads "For he is dede, that soke my
pappe," in close proximity to the refrain "Films regis mortuus
est," 1. 36, suggests that he may have been.1

Nos. XII and XVII. — These two planctus are entirely unlike
in substance and tone. They are characterized, however, by a
very minor but striking agreement. XII, 11. 33-41, reads as

follows :

O Yewys, evyr worthe yow schame!
Of my rycches ye have me robbydd ;
Ye thoght ye had a full gode game,
When he my sone with buffettes bobbydd.
Yf he felte sore, nothyng he sobbydd,
For all yowre werkys full well he wyste.
My yoye, myn herte, ye all to-robbydd;
The chylde ys dedd that soke my breste.

XVII, 11. 7-11, reads:

Ihesus, so sche sobbed

So here sone was bobbed

And of hys lyue robbed

Seynge thys wordys as y sey the

Who can not wepe con lerne of me.

This same rhyme, bobbed, robbed, sobbed occurs at the end of each
stanza of XVII, as part of the refrain. Whether the writer of
either poem was familiar with the other it is impossible to say.
The agreement may be a mere coincidence. Perhaps in both
poems we have an echo of some well-known planctus of the day.
It is barely possible, however, that if XVII is later than XII,
XII in this particular directly affected XVII.

Nos. XIII, XIV, XV. — The first two planctus are so similar
that they might very well be classed as different verses of one and
the same poem. The Sloan MS 2593, in which XIII is preserved,
is earlier2 than the MS of XIV; but a comparison of the rhyme-
scheme of the two leads me to believe that XIV is the basis for
XIII, though it is possible that the reverse is the case. The
rhyme-scheme of XIII is aaab, carried out consistently through
the entire piece. The rhyme-scheme of the first stanza of XIV is

1 For the further discussion of the refrains of VIII, IX, and XII in connection with XXV,
see pp. 29 f .

2 See above, p. 7.

620

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE" 17

also aaab; the other stanzas have the scheme aaaa, 6666, cccc, etc.,
throughout. This, together with the fact that XIV contains
practically all the subject-matter of XIII and three stanzas besides,
suggests XIV as the source of XIII.1

Only in the first two stanzas does XV agree with XIII and XIV.
The two stanzas read:

Thys blessyd babe yat thou hast born,
Hys blessyd body ys all to torne,
To bye vs a gayn yat were for lorne,
Hys hed ys crownyd with a thorn

Crownyd ! alas, with thorn or breer,
for why shuld my sun thus hang here !
To me thys ys a carefull chere.
Swet son, thynke on thy moder dere!

It is XIII in this case which is apparently used as a source. Note
the rhyme-scheme aaaa, 6666. The stanzas obviously agree with
stanzas ii and iv of XIII, and stanzas ii and iv of XIV. In using
Mary moder, cum and se as a title, however, XV is like XIV, rather
than like XIII. Perhaps the writer of XV was familiar with both
XIII and XIV.

XVI and XVII. — The relationship in this case, though one
rather of form » than of substance, is so marked that we cannot
afford to pass it by without comment. The first agreement lies
in the fact that in XVI and apparently in XVII the vision of
Mary 2 comes to the author. At the end of XVI the writer awakes ;
at the end of XVII Mary "vanyschyd a -way." Secondly both
poems have an apparently confused and disorderly arrangement
of subject-matter, the descriptive passages of the author and
Mary's words being so mixed and jumbled that it is sometimes
difficult to ascertain which of the two is speaking. This is to be
in part accounted for in XVI by the fact that the planctus is to be
sung3 by three voices. Furnivall does not say in his print of
XVII whether it was written to be sung. Thirdly, each consists
of four stanzas, of very unusual metrical form and rhyme-scheme.

1 The reference to John by he in 1. 9 of XIII, when John has not been mentioned by
name, would help to substantiate this hypothesis.

2 See the first two lines of the stanzas quoted below.

3 See Herrigs Archiv, Vol. CVI, p. 64.

621

18 GEORGE C. TAYLOR

It is in metrical form and rhyme-scheme that the most striking
agreement is noticeable. I quote the first stanza of each.

XVI

My feerful dreme neuyr forgete can I /

Me thought a madynys childe causles shuld dye.

To caluery he bare his cross with doullfull payne

and ther vppon strayned he was in euery vayne

A crowne of thorne as nedill sharpe shyfft in his brayne

his moder dere tendirly wept and cowde not refrayne

myn hart can yerne and mylt

when I sawe hym so spilt

alas all for my gilt

thoo I wept and sore did complayne

to se the sharpe swerd of sorow smert

hough it thirlyd her thorough oute the hart

so rype and endless was her payne

my feerful dreme neuyr forgete can I.

XVII

Sodenly A-frayd, halfe wakynge, halfe slepyng,

and gretly dysmayd, A woman sate wepyng,

With fauour in here face far passynge my reson;

And of here sore wepyng this was the encheson:

Here sone yn here lappe layd, sche seyd, sleyn by treson:

yf wepyng myjt rype be, hit semyd then yn seson.

Ihesus, so sche sobbed,

so here sone was bobbed

And of hys lyue robbed;

Seynge thys wordys as y sey the,

" Who can not wepe, com lerne of me."

Finally, the general tone of XVI is similar to that of XVII.

That one man wrote them both is impossible ; to say that the
writer of the later planctus was familiar with the earlier would be
indulging in mere conjecture ; that they are, however, related, after
some fashion, is very clear.

B. RELATION OF THE NON-DRAMATIC AND DRAMATIC PLANCTUS

In the discussion of the relationships of the various non-dra-
matic planctus it was difficult to reach positive conclusions ; in the
discussion of the dramatic planctus in their relation to the non-
dramatic it is just as difficult to obtain definite results. In no case

622

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE" 19

can we say with absolute certainty that any one of the non-dra-
matic planctus discussed in Section I has made its way into any
of the miracle-plays. There are, however, correspondences of
non-dramatic and dramatic planctus, which at least suggest that
the dramatic are, in certain cases, drawn from the non-dramatic.
We will therefore discuss, with a view to determining their rela-
tions to the non-dramatic planctus, each of the dramatic ones:
Nos. XXI, XXII, XXIII, XXIV, XXV.

XXI-Forfc and XXIII- Chester. — These planctus give evi-
dence of no close relation to any other. If they were ever inde-
pendent planctus, as they may very well have been, their form
was in all probability different from what it is at present. They
have become thoroughly assimilated by the plays of which they
form a part, their stanzaic form and rhyme-scheme being similar
to that of the matter immediately preceding and following.
Whether they are adaptations of some Latin, French, or English
poem, or whether they were composed by authors who were familiar
with many planctus, yet followed none in particular, is a matter
of speculation.1

XXII-Towneley. — The relationship of the Towneley laments to
the non-dramatic planctus is, in part, similar to that of Chester
and York. In the case of Towneley, as in the case of Chester and
York, there is no evidence that any of the known independent
planctus or any parts of them have made their way into the plays.
I can discover no agreements in phrase or rhyme sufficiently sig-
nificant to warrant the hypothesis that the writer or adapter of
the Towneley laments was familiar with any of the particular non-
dramatic English poems. Certain portions of the laments in
Towneley, however, differ very considerably from Chester and
York in one respect: they have not, on the whole, become so
thoroughly assimilated by the plays in which they occur as to give
us ground for supposing that they were composed by the author
of the plays. In the case of Towneley, a and 6, the general met-
rical form and rhyme-scheme of the play do not remain undisturbed
by the occurrence of the planctus, as in Chester and York. It

1 This theory conflicts with the generally accepted view that the planctus forms the
starting-point of the Passion Plays. For the discussion of that point in connection with
the English Plays, see below, p. 32.

623

20 GEOKGE C. TAYLOB

looks very much as if some independent planctus1 had been incor-
porated in the play. The irregularities, moreover, of meter and
rhyme in XXII 6, and the very noticeable repetition of similar
motives in different verse forms, suggest that we have there a
combination of more than one planctus.

"KKTV—Hegge. — The planctus in the Hegge plays manifest
even greater variety of stanzaic form and of rhyme-scheme than
Towneley. And in this cycle more than in any of the others the
planctus are, so to speak, fragmentary, being introduced in small
portions at various points in the plays dealing with the subjects of
the Betraying ofClirisi, the Crucifixion, the Burial,and the Resur-
rection. XXIV b and XXIV c are alike in stanzaic form ; XXIV c
and XXIV d are unlike b and c, and a is unlike d. XXIV a is the
only planctus in Hegge which has the form of an independent lyric.2
Its stanzaic form differs from that of the passage immediately pre-
ceding it. XXIV 6, c, and d, consist of short speeches by Mary
which fit in here and there in the plays, contributing to the running
narrative of events. In the case of XXIV a, 6, c, and d there is a
sufficient number of conventional planctus motives to enable one
to say with certainty that they belong to the planctus type, but in
them more than in York, Towneley, Chester, or Digby, is intro-
duced matter not typical3 of the planctus.

The Hegge planctus are therefore more unlike the independent
lyrics than those of any other plays. And it is far more difficult
to explain them as reworkings of one or more independent lyrics
than in the case of those in the other cycles. It is, of course, pos-
sible to suppose that the author of the Hegge Crucifixion play,
XXIV 6, skilfully introduced planctus motives into the dramatic
narrative; that because of the popularity of the planctus in this
play he introduced other motives at unusual and out-of-the-way
points of the narrative, such as those occupied by XXIV a and d.

1 Note the monologue character of XXII 6, especially 11. 382, 406, 424, where Mary's
speeches, though alternating with John's, are not in actual dialogue relation to them.

2 Mary laments when Mary Magdalene informs her of Christ's capture ; in no other
English dramatic or non-dramatic verse planctus is Mary introduced speaking at this point
of the narrative.

3 In XXIV 6, p. 322, immediately after Christ has spoken to the repentant thief at his
side, Mary tells him that he has spoken to everyone except her. See also Ebert, Jahrbuch
filr roman. und engl. Literatur, Vol. V, p. 63 ; A. Linder, Plainte de la Vierge, Introd., p. dxvi.

624

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE" 21

If such was the case, if without precedent in this the author of
the Hegge plays in which the planctus occur adapted and arranged
them as he did, he, in this respect, displayed very considerable
inventive skill. But this is hardly probable.

There are reasons for believing that the Hegge planctus in
their order and arrangement, and in part in their substance, were
influenced by some Latin version of Bonaventura's Meditations,1
or by some English prose or verse translation of it. As suggested
above, there are two planctus in Hegge, XXIV a and XXIV d,
which occur at a point in the gospei narrative at which no other
dramatic or non-dramatic English planctus in verse occurs, and
deal, moreover, with a theme not common to any of them. The
first occurs at the end of the Hegge Betraying of Christ, where
the capture of Christ is announced to Mary, and consists chiefly
of a prayer of Mary to God to help Christ in his need.2 In the
Meditations (p. 202) she also prays to God the Father to help
Christ; and, though the two prayers are not similar enough to
warrant the supposition that the prose is the immediate source of
Hegge, the similarity3 of substance is somewhat suggestive. I
quote the two passages:

RICHARD ROLLERS TRANSLATION OF THE MEDITATIONS

Wirchipfull fadir of heuene, ffadir of mercy and of pete, I comend
in to youre handes & your kepynge my moste dere sonne, Ihesu, and I
beseke yow that ye be noghte cruelle to hym, for ye are to all othire
benynge & mercyfull. O endles fadire, whedire Ihesu my dere sonne
sail nowe be dede ? Sothely he did neuer ill to be dede fore. Bot, rygt-
whise fadyr of heuene, sene ye will the redempcyone of manes saulle,
I be-seke yowe, lorde, that ye wolde ordeyne it one another manere than
this: ffor all thyng es possibill to yowe. I pray yow, holy ffadire, if it

1 For the planctus in this form see pp. 4 f . The Latin version of this is not at present
accessible to me. Of the many English translations but two are accessible; one, in verse,
by Robert Manning of Brunne, and the other, in prose, supposedly by Richard Rollo. Each
deals with about the same narrative material. The prose translation, however, carries the
narrative past the point where the verse breaks off, and is therefore, for the purpose of
comparison with Hegge, the more important. It includes the narrative of events concerned
with Christ's death from his prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane to his talk with the pil-
grims of Emmaus, and is interspersed with much dialogue, common in substance with the
dialogues in Hegge which occur in the narrative of the same events.

2 In VII, Mary prays to God to let her die with Christ, but does not pray to him for Christ.

3 See the praypr of a similar character in the verse Meditations, 1. 455» Meditations of
Bonaventura, EETS.

625

22 GrEOBGE C. TAYLOR

be likynge to yowe, that my dere sone Ihesu be nott don to dede, but
delyuer ye hym fro dede & ffro the handes of synners, and gyfe me hym
agayne. For he for obedience and reuerence of j^owe helpes nott hym-
selfe, bot forsakes hym-selfe witterly, as mane that myght nother helpe
hyme-selfe ne cowthe. There-fore I pray yowe, if it plese yowe, that ye
wolde helpe hyme.

HEGGE

O ffadyr of hefne ! wher ben al thi behestys

That thou promysyst me, whan a modyr thou me made?

Thi blyssyd sone I bare betwyx tweyn bestys,
And now the bryth colour of his face doth fade.

O good fadyr! why woldyst that thin owyn dere sone xal sofre al this?

And dede he never agens thi precept, but evyr was obedyent;
And to every creature most petyful, most jentyl, and benygn i-wys,

And now for alle these kendnessys is now most shameful schent.

Why wolt thou, gracyous Fadyr, that it xal be so?

May man not ellys be savyd be non other kende?
Yet, Lord Fadyr, than that xal com forte myn wo,

Whan man is savyd be my chylde, and browth to a good ende.

Another Hegge planctus, XXIV d, deals also with a theme
to be found only in the planctus of the Bonaventura type. It
occurs in the play of the Resurrection, where Christ, rising out
of hell, tells how he has "harrowed" it. Continuing without
interruption, he turns to his mother and comforts her. Mary
replies joyously. In the prose Meditations, p. 213, immediately
following a section entitled, " How oure lorde went to hell ; f yrste
aftire his ded," occurs a section entitled, "The rysyng up of owre
lorde Ihesu, and how he apperid firste to his modire, our lady,
saynte Marie." In this section, after a prayer by Mary to Christ
in which she asks him to come to her, Christ appears and
addresses her. The two passages read:

MEDITATIONS

"Come agayne now, thou my wele-belouede sone. Come, my lorde
Ihesu. Come, thou onely my hope. Come to me, my dere childe." And
whylles scho prayed thus with louely teres: sodeynly come oure lord
Ihesu in clothes whyte as any snawe, his fface schynyng as the sone, all
specyouse, all gloryouse & all full of Joye, and said to his modire:
"Haile, holy modire" And as sonne scho turnede hir & said: "Art thou

626

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE" 23

my dere sone Ihesu?" & with that she knelid downne & wirchyped hym:
and he lowly Enclyned and toke hir vp, & said: " My dere modire, ya,
/ am your sone, & I am resyne, & I am with yowe." Then rose they vp
to-gedire, & scho halsede hym & kyssede hyme, and tendirly and loue-
andly lened one hyme, and he tendirly & mekly helde hir vpe.

HEGGE

Salve, sancta parens ! my modyr dere I
Alle heyl, modyr with glad chere!
ffor now is aresyn, with body clere,
Thi sone that was delve depe.
This is the thrydde day that I yow tolde,
I xuld arysyn out of the cley so colde, —
Now am I here with brest ful bolde,

Therefore no more ye wepe.
Maria.

Welcom, my Lord! welcom, my grace!

Welcome, my sone, and my solace!
I xal the wurchep in every place, —

Welcom, Lord God of myght!
Mekel sorwe in hert I leed,
Whan thou were leyd in dethis beed,
But now my blysse is newly breed, —

Alle men may joye this syght.

The agreement is, in this case, more marked than the one first
cited, and suggests, when considered with other points of simi-
larity between the entire prose translation and the Hegge plays
XXVIII to XXXIX, that the author of the Hegge planctus, or the
author of the sources from which he may have borrowed, was
familiar with the Meditations of Bonaventura in some shape or
form, or with some work based upon it.1

The many translations of Bonaventura indicate that his work
was popular and well known in England before the days of the
Hegge plays. If the Hegge plays were affected by Bonaventura's
Meditations in the particular instances discussed above, the
question at once arises: Does the influence of the Meditations
upon Hegge extend beyond these instances ? 2

1 For an instance of another striking agreement, see The Coventry Mysteries, p. 282, the
prose Meditations, p. 200, and the verse Meditations, 11. 377 tf., where an angel appears to
Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane and announces the result of the conference in heaven
held concerning his death.

2 No complete Latin version of the Meditations is accessible to me, but the incomplete
outline of the work given by Wechssler, Die rom. Marienklagen, pp. 67-74, suggests some

627

24 GEOBGE C. TAYLOR

XXV-Digby. — This is the highest development of the dramatic
planctus in English; it is the only planctus which constitutes a
play in itself, rather than a subsidiary part, and is suggestive of
direct relations with several of the independent lyric planctus.
It is with the last point that we are concerned here.

The author of Digby was probably familiar with a very con-
siderable number of planctus. With just how many and with just
which particular poems, it is of course impossible to say. Digby,
by reason of its very numerous motives, very naturally agrees with
hundreds of planctus in various languages, and there are also in
Digby many vague echoes of other poems which it would be use-
less to cite here as proof of Digby 's relationship with specific
poems. Such agreements, as already suggested, count for next
to nothing in establishing direct relationships between such highly
conventionalized forms of literature, unless they are accompanied
by further peculiar agreements of phrase or peculiar agreements
of arrangement and order of motives. And such agreements both
of thought and form, it seems, are to be detected upon comparing
certain of the independent planctus with Digby. The independent
lyrics which show most definite agreement with Digby are Nos.
II, VIII, IX, XII, XVII.

The extent of Digby 's indebtedness to No. II, if indebtedness
it is, is more considerable than to any of the other planctus. No.
II concerns itself with the events previous to, during, and after
the crucifixion. Digby, on the contrary, deals with the events
after the crucifixion. We should expect Digby, therefore, to
resemble only the latter part of the Cursor planctus, say the part
beginning with 1. 24478, where Joseph and Nicodemus appear
and take Christ down from the cross. This, however, is not the
case; portions of the Cursor planctus preceding 1. 24478 remind
one much of Digby. The first and most obvious agreement between
the two is Mary's attitude toward those who wish to bury Christ.
Not once, but time and time again, does she beseech them to let
her have him with her a little longer.1 In both, her insistence on

notable agreements between the subjects and their arrangement in the entire cycle of Hegge
and in the Meditations. Wechssler finds in the Meditations the source of almost the entire
Passion Play of Arnoul Greban.

iThis motive occurs in other planctus (see Table of Motives, p. 11), but is not emphasized.

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MABIAE"

this point1 is marked in the extreme. It is not the mere occurrence
of the motive in each, but its elaboration and the very striking
emphasis placed upon it, which suggests close relationship.

The second agreement is the elaboration in each of another
motive very common to the planctus type — Mary's wish to die.2
Here again it is the special emphasis of the motive, and the pecu-
liar method of its elaboration in each, which call for attention.
In each Mary calls upon Christ to let her die with him, reproaches
Death for not taking her with her son, and beseeches the Jews to
slay her, each of the three subdivisions of the motive3 receiving
much emphasis.

CUBSOB MDNDI
(11. 24128-87)

mi dere sone na-thing sa squete.
wiltow thi moder here for-lete.
to dey grace thou me giue.

Thou dede vn-meke with-outen

make

That earful folk is wone to take ,
Thou spare me nogt as frende.
if thou me sparis I can na rede,
lete me deye I prai the dede.
me sone with for to wende.

Na-thing mai pay bot thou.
whith mi sone thou take me now.
& late vs deye sammen.
my squete sone mi leue mi life,
harde hit is to dreye this strife,
me liste ful litil gammen.

na graither gate of gammen is

here;
bot late thi sorouful moder dere

DIGBY

(11. 754-73)

O crewell deth ! no lenger thou me

spare !
To me thou wer welcom, & also

acceptabill;
Oppresse me down at ons, / of the

I haue no care.
O my son, my saveyour, / & loye

most comfortabill,
Suffere me to dy, / with yow most

merciabill !
Or at lest lat me hold you / a while

in my lape,
Which sum-tym gaue yowe the

milk of my pape !
O ye wikkit pepill, with-out mercy

or pitee !
Why do ye not crucyfye & hinge

me on the crosse ?
Spare not your nayles / spare not

your crueltee !
Ye can not make me to ron in

greter losse

iln the Cursor this occurs 11. 24553 ff., and 24578 ff.; in the last case it is elab-
orated very extensively. In Digby it occurs 11. 480 ff., 556 ff., 567 ff., 603 ff., 802 ff., 813 ff.,
820 ff., 823 ff.

2 See Table of Motives, p. 11.

3 This peculiar elaboration of the motive probably has its origin in some Latin source,
inasmuch as the same motive is elaborated in almost exactly the same fashion in the German
planctus printed in SchOnbach, Die Marienklagen, pp. 55 ff., 11. 151 ff.

GEORGE C. TAYLOR

CURSOR MUNDI
that ho with the mote wende
take me with the a-pon thi rode
syn we ar bath an flesshe & blode
lets us bath sammen ende.

ye iewes that kindelis al this care.
I prai you at ye me no§t spare,
ye waful & ye wode.
sin ye my sone wirkis this wa.
dos me that ilk then ar we twa
nailed on a rode.

Aither on rode or other paine.
this wrecche moder to be slaine.
hit is na force I-wisse.
vn-reuthfulli ye wirk vn-rijt.
the werlde ye reue the sunne of

ligt.
& blindes me mi blisse.

ye sla the life & hope of alle.
on quam sal I now cry & calle.
I redeles out of ro.
how salle I Hue this waful life,
thus stikid in with stoure of strife,
quat is me best to do.

bot to the dede make I mi mane,
for haue I now na nother wane,
of bote ware thou me best,
walde thou be kene thi mijt to

kithe
thou slas mi childe sla me than

squithe
Then migt thou make me rest.

bot dede alias qui dos thou squa.
qua yernis the thou fleis ham fra.
quen squete hit ware to squelt.
& folowes ham atte the walde fle.
& louis alle atte louis nojt the.
this werlde vn-eyuen is delt.

DIQBT
Than to lesse my son that to me

was so dere !
Why sloo ye not the moder / which

is present her ?
Dere sone! if the Iwes / yit will

not sloo me,
Your gudnes, your grace, I besech

& praye,
So call me to your merycy, of your

benignitee !
To youre mek suters ye neuer saide

yit naye;
Then may ye not your moder, in

this cavse delaye.
The modere, with the child desires

for to reste;
Remembere myn awn son / that ye

sowket my breste

630

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE"

CURSOR MUNDI
Mi squete sone I on the cry
thi sorouful moder do now mercy,
that wont was to be milde.
be nojt squa harde at thou ne

here.

the mourning of thi moder dere.
& think thou art my childe.

thou do thi moder with the to deye.
& lete vs bath to-geder dreye.
bath our wa & wele.
mugt I the anes welde in arme
hale me think of al mi harme.
that I ware ilka dele.

The third point of similarity consists of a somewhat similar
treatment in each of an unusual motive, each planctus using in
the development of the motive a somewhat similar touch of style
or rhetorical device. The device consists of beginning a phrase
or clause with the last word of the phrase or clause immediately
preceding.

CURSOR MUNDI DIQBT

(11. 24188-93, 24206-8, 24353-58,
24490-93, 24503-8, 24515-23)

24187-93

mu%t I the anes welde in arme
hale me think of al mi harme.
that I ware ilka dele.

mu$t I the welde in armis mine.
& suffer sum part of thi pine,
ful wele me ware that sithe.

24206-8

ful wa is me ; me is ful wa.
was neuer moder mare waful squa.
my hert is out of state.

24353-58

with-outen cros. the cros I bare,
that crossed was. was al mi care.

(11. 694-716)

To kisse, & swetly yow imbrace ;

Imbrace, & in myn armes hold;

To hold, & luke on your blessit
face;

Your face, most graciose to be-
hold;

To beholde so somly, euer I wold;

I wold, I wold, still with yow bee;

Still with yow, to ly in mold,

Who can not wepe, com lern at me !

My will is to dy, I wald not leve ;

Leve, how suld I ? sithen dede ar
yee.

My lif were ye! noght can me
greve,

So that I may in your presence bee.

631

GEORGE C. TAYLOR

DlGBY

Me, your wofull moder, her may

yese;

Ye se my dedly sorow & payn, —
Who can not wepe, com lern at

mee! —

To see so meke a lambe her slayn ;
Slayn of men that no mercy hadd;
Had they no mercy, I reporte me

see;
To se this bludy body, is not your

hart sadd ?

Sad & sorowf ull, haue ye no pitee,
Pite & compassion to se this cruel-
tee?
Crueltee, vnkindness! O men most

vnkind!
Ye that can not wepe, com lern at

mee!

CURSOR MONDI
quen I on him be-helde.
thai stokid him with a spere with

wrange
that thorou mi hert I felde hit

strange
my-self I mu^t nogt welde.

24491-93

Quen I him had in armis falde
that squete flesshe bath drye &

calde
be-haldande on his woundis.

24503-8

on him mi heued I shoke & saide
vn-semeli leue sone artow graide
quat has thou saide or wrogt.
quether euir thou did ani feloni.
or ani maner of plijt for quy.
nai nay ne dide thau nogt.

24515-23

here in mine arme I halde the dede
alias quat is me best to rede.
I am a wrecche of alle.
alias quare is mi mikil mirth
of joy that I. had in my birth,
squa ferli doun to falle.

Me is ful wa. wa is me

to grete is turnid alle mi gle.

na blis mai make me blithe.

Other instances of the rhetorical device above mentioned occur
in Cursor, 11. 24171 and 24542:

"Thou slas mi childe sla me than squithe"
"mi leue was dede. dede was mi life"

The fourth point of agreement between Digby and the Cursor
planctus is only a slight one, perhaps of no importance if con-
sidered by itself, but taken in connection with the other agree-
ments it is of some significance. The refrain, "Who can not

632

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE" 29

wepe com lern at mee," used in Digby, 11. 669-715, may have
been suggested by 11. 24440-41 of Cursor Mundi. The lines in
the Cotton MS read:

Qua ne wist forwit quat weping we (re),

Do list to me and thai mai here,

The Fairfax MS reads:

qua-sim of sorou nane has here,
herkin to me & ye mai lere.

When the refrain is first used in Digby, it takes the form, "Who
that can not wepe, at me may lere" (1. 637), and then changes
to the form given above as the regular refrain.

Fifthly, the prevailing rhyme-scheme of Digby is similar to
that of the Cursor planctus. The prevailing rhyme of the play
is aaab, cccb, up to 1. 112. After that point and including the
planctus it is aab, cc6, which last is the rhyme-scheme1 of the
Cursor planctus.

Finally, Digby has more motives in common with this planctus
than with any other.

With No. VIII Digby agrees slightly in two particulars. The
first is an agreement merely of substance, but of substance so un-
common in the planctus type that it becomes a distinguishing
characteristic of the poem in which it occurs. I quote the two
passages, calling special attention to the lines in italics:

FILIDS REGIS DIGBY

(11. 13-24) (11. 626-35)

" The kynges sone," sche seyd, " is He shrank not for to shew the

dede! shape

Hyest in heuene his fader is; Ofverreye man at his circumcision

I am his moder thorowe his man- And ther shed his blude for mannys

hede, hape.

In bedlem I bare your alderes Al-so at my purification,

blisse, Of hym I made a fayre oblation,

In circumsicion I saw hym blede, Which to his fader was most

That prince present I-wys. plesinge.

In a tempille, as lawe gan lede, For fere, than, of herodes persecu-

Tirtildovys I offerid a-bouyn al tion,

this;

i There are variations of this rhyme in the Digby planctus, especially in those portions
in which the refrain occurs, 11. 669 ff.

30 GEORGE C. TAYLOR

FILIUS REGIS DIQBY

In-to egipt I fled, as m(o)der his, In-till egip(t)e fast I fled with

And lost hym, & fond hym at a fest him —

Ther he tornyd water in-to wyn His grace me gided in euery

I-wis; thinge, —

And nowe; filius regis mortuus & now is he dede! that changes

est" my cher !

The second agreement concerns the possible source of a very
remarkable refrain1 of a portion of Digby:

Yet suffer me to holde you here on my lape
Which sum tym gaf e you mylk of my pape

In Filius Regis occur the lines:

What wonder is it thowe I be wo
For he is dede that soke my pappe ?
His cors-is graue I come nowe fro
That sumtyme lay quyke on my lappe.

Only twelve lines separate this passage from the one quoted above
from Filius Regis as parallel with Digby, while the first occur-
rence of this refrain in Digby is in the line immediately preceding
the Digby parallel. The two agreements, either of which without
the other would mean little, suggest, when taken together, Filius
Regis, No. VIII, as one of the possible sources of Digby.

No. XII merely illustrates the use of a refrain somewhat similar
to the variation of the refrain used by Digby and just discussed at
the end of the preceding paragraph. The refrain of XII runs:
"The chylde ys dedd that soke my breste," and "The chylde ys
resyn that soke my breste." The refrain in Digby runs: "Remem-
bere my dere sone that ye sowkit my briste."

No. XVII is characterized by the refrain: "Who cannot wepe
com lerne of me," used, as before mentioned, also in Digby.2

It is possible then that the author of Digby was familiar with
the four independent planctus. The only fact that in every case
makes against his familiarity with these specific examples is, that
in that day old material, when adapted by an author, generally,

1 See 11. 625, 752, 759, with variation U. 772, 779.

2 See p. 29 for the possible source of this refrain in Cursor Mundi planctus. After
noticing the agreement of the refrains of No. XVII and Digby, I found that it had been
already noted by Dr. Furnivall.

634

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MARIAE" 31

in great part, retained its old form; we should therefore expect
to find whole passages taken over bodily from any planctus used
as a source. The author of Digby, however, possessed the gift
of being able to give to old material a new form. And, indeed,
certain portions of the planctus display very considerable rhetori-
cal and stylistic skill, approximating real poetry more closely than
anything else of the class in English. Of one thing we may be
reasonably certain : the author was familiar with several planctus,
and threw together two or more in order to make this unusually
long one.1 With just which ones he was familiar must be left for
further study. But until other planctus come to light, which may
help to make matters clear, it is not unreasonable to suppose that
he probably did know some of these under discussion, and of
these most probably some version of the Cursor Mundi planctus.

CONCLUSION

The Planctus Mariae has contributed very generally to the
growth and development of the passion-plays in English. In only
a few instances, however, has it been possible to discover the
particular planctus which directly affected the planctus portions
of the drama. In York and Chester they became so thoroughly
assimilated with the great body of the play in which they occur
that it is not possible to say whether they were once independent
lyrics, or were written, along with the rest of the plays, by a drama-
tist who was familiar with these themes in the religious poetry of
the day. In Towneley it seems possible that independent lyric
planctus were introduced, without being made to conform thor-
oughly, as in the case of York and Chester, to the rest of the play.
In Hegge they have become more thoroughly part and parcel of
the drama than in any of the other plays; the author introduces
into them, besides the conventional motives, other turns of thought
and fancy, as he sees fit, according to the need of the dramatic
situation. In Hegge, however, more definitely even than in the

i The constant repetition of similar motives argues for this. Still more suggestive are
the various rhymes employed in the different portions : 11. 478-617 have one meter and rhyme ;
11. 618-718, another; and 11. 719 ff., still another. After 1. 833 the meter and rhyme fall back
into the regular rhyme of the play, similar to that in 11. 478-617. Especially in the two por-
tions, 618-718 and 719 ff., where the refrains come into use, is the rhyme irregular, the regular
rhyme asserting itself only occasionally.

635

32 GEORGE C. TAYLOR

case of Digby, the influence of a particular planctus is to be
observed. Digby shows signs of having drawn from more numer-
ous lyrics than the cyclic plays.

We may conclude with a word about the generally accepted
theory that the planctus forms the starting-point of the passion-
plays. Wechssler states this theory more positively and more
sweepingly than the other historians of the drama.

In Italien ist das vulgarsprachliches Drama tiberhaupt aus den Dich-
tungen der Laudesen und zwar speziell aus den Marienklagen erwachsen.
Und in den Landern, welche anders als Italien schon zuvor ein vulgar-
sprachliches geistliches Drama entwickelt haben, beruhen wenigstens die
Passionsspiele auf unserer Litteraturgattung. Im friiheren Mittelalter
gab es keine anderen Dramatisierungen der Leidensgeschichte als die
Marienklagen.1

Whatever the truth may be in other languages as regards the origin
and development of the passion-plays, when considered in connec-
tion with the English plays as we have them, this theory cannot
be accepted without at least certain qualifications. The date of
composition of those plays in which the planctus are present is so
late that it seems very improbable that it is, in its present form,
the germ of the play around which other materials gathered. Is
it not more probable that the play was based on some model, dra-
matic or otherwise, and the planctus portion written along with
the rest of it? Since at the time when the cyclic passion-plays
and the Digby play were written this form of the lyric was already
in vogue in England, it is very natural that those portions of the
plays which dealt with Mary and Christ should be affected by it.
In the case of Digby only do we seem to have the actual develop-
ment of a planctus into a play. If the planctus are cut out of the
cyclic plays, fairly complete plays are left; Digby would not be a
play without the planctus. Yet even in the case of Digby we
have, in all probability, not an instance of the planctus expanding2
so as to include the narrative of events leading up to it. It is
more probably the dramatization of some prose or poetical compo-
sition which included alike the preceding events and the planctus

i Die rom. Marienklagen, p. 98. See further on this point Creizenach, Vol. I, pp. 241 ff. ;
Meyer, Fragmenta Burana, pp. 67 ff. ; Chambers, Mediaeval Stage, Vol. II, p. 40; Schonbach,
Die Marienklagen, pp. 51 ff. ; A. Linder, Plainte de la Vierge, Introd., pp., cxc ff.

2 Chambers calls Digby an "elaborate planctus," Med. Stage, Vol. II, p. 129.

THE ENGLISH "PLANCTUS MABIAE" 33

as well. Such a composition was the Meditations of Bonaventura.1
Such was, in a sense, the Greek Gospel of Nichodemus B. itself.
How many others of this kind existed in Latin or in the vulgar
tongues during the early Middle Ages no one knows. From some
such tracts as these it is easy to see how a play like Digby could
directly or indirectly be produced. Indeed, the explanatory remark
preceding the prologue of Digby, though not by any means conclu-
sive proof that this is the case, certainly suggests it. It reads:

" The prologe of this treyte or meditatoun off the buryalle of Christe
and Mowrnynge therat."

The theory that the planctus forms the germ or the starting-point2
of the passion-plays, though true perhaps when applied to the
early periods of the drama in its development, does not seem to
apply to such late compositions as the English plays. In certain
instances it seems that the writer inserted into his compositions
the lyrics ready-made. In certain cases he seems to have followed
compositions which include the lamentations of Mary without being
in themselves planctus. In no case is there any conclusive proof
which goes to show that the planctus is, in the English passion-
play, the original portion from which the rest of the play was
expanded.

GEORGE C. TAYLOR

UNIVERSITY OP COLORADO

iFor others of this type see Wechssler, pp. 6 ff. ; Linder, Introd., pp. cliv ff.
2 Weehssler's most significant discovery of the Meditations of Bonaventura as the source
of the Passion Play of Arnoul Greban does not harmonize with his own general theory.

637

THE SPENSERIAN STANZA BEFORE 1700 '

This attempt at a history of the Spenserian stanza and its
imitations began as a study in early Romanticism. Its justification
must rest upon its fulness of treatment and upon the importance
of two details. No one has hitherto made more than a tentative
list of users and imitators of Spenser's stanza, and no one, not
even Mr. Saintsbury in his History of English Prosody, Vol. I,
has noticed the metrical interest of the "Mirrour for Magistrates."
Nor, though many must have come upon the passage, has anyone
seemed to have been impressed with Dryden's acknowledgment of
his debt to Spenser.

The peculiar characteristics of the Spenserian stanza are its
linked quatrains and its final alexandrine. Since Spenser's time,
except for the Italian sonnet and the French ballade (both
imported forms), the linking of quatrains has not been very popu-
lar in English verse. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries,
however, it was a frequent device. Chaucer used the ababbcbc in
several poems, notably in the ninety-seven stanzas of his "Monkes
Tale." Presumably Chaucer got it from the Old French, where
it was a fairly common form, and he was followed in its use by
Lydgate and others in the fifteenth century. C. Davidson notes
also that the stanza was a favorite of the Coventry plays. Of
Spenser's contemporaries, Samuel Daniel, in the dedication of his
" Tragedy of Cleopatra," makes the only use of it that I have been
able to find; Spenser himself does not use it, unless we count the
first eight lines of "November" in the "Shepheards Calender."
Spenser's followers, as we shall see, were almost certain, in cases
where they did not keep his stanza exactly, to omit the linking of
the quatrains; so that that feature of the Spenserian stanza which
seems to have appealed to the nineteenth century as one of its
chief beauties has been most often ignored by mere imitators.

The history of the final alexandrine is very different ; its use

1 This paper presents only the general conclusions of a study which the writer hopes
ultimately to publish at length, with full tables and references.

639] 1 [MODEKN PHILOLOGY, April, 1907

2 EDWARD PAYSON MORTON

is the most certain mark of Spenserian influence, even where that
influence is at second or even third hand. Although Spenser was
not the first to use a stanza ending with a line longer than the
rest, he certainly set the fashion, and we may confidently ascribe
to his example even such stanzas as Carew's "Good Counsel to a
Young Maid," where the first lines are tetrameters, and the last a
pentameter.

Outside of the "Faerie Queen," Spenser uses a final alexan-
drine only in the last stanza of "January" in the "Shepheards
Calender;" in six of the sonnets prefixed to the "Faerie Queen;"
and in sonnets X and XLV of the " Amoretti." Spenser's follow-
ers, however, tried the alexandrine on all sorts of stanzas: the
elegiac quatrain, the familiar ababcc, the rhyme royal, the pttava
rima, and even the sonnet.

The source of Spenser's alexandrine has not yet been traced
satisfactorily. Professor Skeat, in the Athenaeum,1 ascribes it to
Surrey's use of it with the fourteener in Tottel's "Miscellany"
(1557). A fatal objection to that source, it seems to me, is that
in all the uses of the "Poulter's Measure" in Tottel the alexan-
drine is followed by the septenary, and is not a final longer line.
For a prior use of alexandrines merely Spenser did not even have
to go to Tottel, as he must have been familiar with Sidney's
quatorzains in alexandrines.

Guest, in his History of English Rhythms, Book IV, chapter
vii, says:

In his "Lamentacyon" for the death of Henry the Seventh's Queen,
written in 1503, Sir Thomas More uses the ballet-stave of seven, and
often gives six accents to the last verse of the stanza. This verse always
ends with the words "and lo now here she lies." It must have been often
convenient to wedge this section into a verse of six accents; and as the
poet's rhythm is in othe r respects loose, I consider the Spenser-stave
owing rather to the tumbling rhythm of the period, than to any design of
introducing novelty into English versification.

The poem in question consists of 12 rhyme- royal stanzas, each
ending with a refrain "and lo now here I lye." In 8 of the stanzas
the syllables preceding this refrain number either 4 or 5; in
stanzas 6, 7, 9, and 10 the syllables number 6, as follows: "My

!May6, 1893, p. 5746.

640

THE SPENSERIAN STANZA BEFORE 1700 3

palace bylded is;" "The mother's part also;" "Thy mother never
know;" "Farewell and pray for me." Sir Thomas More wrote
other poems in the rhyme-royal stanza, but never elsewhere ends
with an alexandrine.

So far as I am aware, no one has hitherto commented on the
forerunners of Spenser's stanza to be found in the "Mirrour for
Magistrates." In the edition of 1559, "Henry VI," attributed to
William Baldwin, is in forty absolutely regular stanzas, rhyming
aabb. To be sure, this is not a stanza ending in an alexandrine,

but it is a stanza ending in a longer line, and in a versification
that cannot by any stretch be called "tumbling." Eleven other
"legends" in this edition of 1559 are attributed to Baldwin, all of
them in the rhyme-royal stanza, with a total of about 350 stanzas.
These stanzas are also regular, not to say monotonous, in their
scansion, for the variations number only five, namely, two Latin
lines, one doubtful alexandrine, and two undoubted ones — all at
the ends of stanzas. The regularity of the versification of these
poems helps to put beyond a doubt the conclusion that the final
septenary of the stanza of "Henry VI" was intentional.

In 1574 John Higgins issued an addition to the "Mirrour for
Magistrates," with 16 legends, to which in 1575 he added another,
"Lord Irenglas." In 1587 he republished his part, and added 24
legends (including "Burdet" in Part III). Of these 41 legends,
numbering over 1,000 stanzas, 33 legends, with about 900 stan-
zas, have the rhyme royal rhyme-scheme. Like Baldwin, Higgins
clung to the rhyme-scheme, although he varied his line-lengths
and his measures. For example, in 2 short envoys the lines are
all alexandrines instead of pentameters; in 2 legends he uses a
perfectly regular anapestic tetrameter, one of them followed in
the envoy by 3 stanzas which run ababbcc. Higgins also tried a

5 6

few experiments in other stanza-forms ; in 5 legends the rhyme-
scheme is ababbccc (the rhyme royal with an added line — a
rhyme-scheme sometimes used, as we shall see, by Spenser's fol-
lowers) ; the 2 stanzas of "Laelius Hamo" rhyme ababcc; in
"King Varianus" the scheme is aabbcdcd; in "C. C. Caligula,"
ababbcbcb; and in "Emperor Severus" he switches from ababccc,

641

4 EDWARD PAYSON MORTON

in the first 6 stanzas, to ababbccc in the remaining 17. Higgins
was so obviously an experimenter in meters that it is worth while
to see how far he was either systematic or consistent in carrying
out his experiments.

Of the 41 legends, with their more than 1,000 stanzas, 28
items, numbering about 500 stanzas, are almost mechanically
regular. In addition, 8 of the legends in the rhyme royal stanzas
(about 150 stanzas) are practically regular, except that 22 stan-
zas end in an alexandrine, and 15 in an alexandrine couplet.
There are left 8 legends in the rhyme-royal stanza, and 3 others,
altogether about 400 stanzas, in which there is considerable
irregularity.

Of the 309 stanzas in the 8 legends in rhyme-royal stanzas, 94
are erratic; that is to say, occasional alexandrines appear in stan-
zas that are pretty certainly meant to be in pentameter, or
occasional pentameters in stanzas meant to be in alexandrines.
Even these stanzas, however, tend pretty clearly to fall into four
groups. The smallest group — of stanzas of uniform length of
line — numbers 44 stanzas, of which 15 are erratic. The next
group — stanzas with a long final line — numbers 65 stanzas, of
which 22 are erratic. Stanzas ending in a long couplet number
92, with 22 erratic. The largest group — of stanzas which end
with a shorter line or lines — numbers 102 stanzas, with 31
erratic.

The only one of these legends which is hard to scan is "Pin-
nar," the shortest of them, and in its envoy Higgins himself says:

"Though thus unorderly his tale hee tell No fyner fyled

phrase could scape my handes." The other legends scan easily,
and the lines are clearly and obviously pentameters, alexandrines,
or septenaries, as the case may be. As a rule, where there might
be some doubt about the scansion, Higgins has helped us out by
his printing. For example, in a certain passage the -ed of the
preterite and the past participle was spelled out in the sixteen
cases in which it counted in the scansion; in the same passage
the fact that this ending was not counted in the scansion was
indicated forty-one times by -de, -d^ -t, -te, or -d. Other instances
are "wandring," "enmies," "H'is," and "T'have sav'de."

642

THE SPENSERIAN STANZA BEFORE 1700 5

The conclusion is unavoidable that Higgins knew how to write,
and did write, regular meter, so that we must look upon his mix-
ing pentameters, alexandrines, and septenaries in the same poem
or stanza as either carelessness or experiment. When we consider
in how many legends Higgins wrote regular, unvarying stanzas,
and in how few he lacks regularity; when we remember that his
looseness is (except in one short legend, for which he apologizes)
a matter of length of line, and almost never of how a particular
line shall be scanned, it seems to me that we must look upon
Higgins as a deliberate experimenter. So far as I know, though
my search has not been exhaustive, Higgins was the earliest
versifier to take liberties with the rhyme-royal stanza. It is
barely possible that Gascoigne had Higgins in mind when, in
1575, he wrote: "I will next advise you that you hold the just
measure wherewith you begin your verses."1

Only 3 of Higgins' legends with the ababbccc rhyme-scheme
have much variety of combination — "Londricus," "C. I. Caesar,"
and "Emperor Severus" - — 81 stanzas in all, of which 21 are
regular pentameter, 55 end in a longer line, and only 4 (all in
" Caesar") end in a long couplet. The one salient fact is that in
these legends Higgins preceded Spenser in the device of adding
a line to a stanza already popular, and in making that added
line, in more than five-eighths of the cases, a longer line. It
does not follow, of course, that Spenser owed his stanza to Hig-
gins' example ; even if we could show that he did, it would still be
true that Spenser, and not Higgins, knew how to use an added
alexandrine consistently and as a definitely artistic element of his
stanza. The evidence is clear, however, that as early as 1574 at
least one man in England was consciously, though more or less
carelessly, experimenting with English stanzas in the direction
in which Spenser was later to come upon our finest native verse-
form.

Spenser's stanza was certainly not much used by his contem-
poraries. The only instance I have found is a poem of nineteen
stanzas published in January, 1595, and called "Cynthia." Its
author, Kichard Barnefield, says in his preface that it is " the first

1 Certain Notes of Instruction, 3.

643

6 EDWARD PAYSON MORTON

imitation of the verse of that excellent Poet, Maister Spencer, in
his Fayrie Queene"1 John Davies of Hereford seems to have
been attracted by Spenser's rhyme-scheme, for he used it in three
poems between 1602 and 1607, to the number of 1,270 stanzas,
but in pentameters throughout. In 1655 Robert Aylett twice
gave the "Contents" of poems in single stanzas with Spenser's
rhyme-scheme, but also in pentameters throughout. The only
other poem of this sort that I know of is Tom Hood's "Plea of the
Midsummer Fairies," published in 1827.

After "Cynthia," the next use of the regular stanza that I have
found is by the Platonist, Dr. Henry More, who used it in 1642
in his "Song of the Soul," a poem of 1,099 stanzas. He accounts
for his use of the stanza in his "Epistle" to his father, prefixed
to his Philosophical Poems, by saying: "You having from my
childhood tuned mine ears to Spenser's rhymes, entertaining us
on winter nights, with that incomparable piece of his, The Fairy
Queen, a Poem as richly fraught with divine Morality as Phansy."2

Though there were many contemporary criticisms of Spenser's
poetry, comments on his stanza are as rare as uses of it. I have
been able to find only two — one by Ben Jonson and the other by
Gabriel Harvey. Drummond of Hawthornden reports that Jon-
son said of Spenser: "his stanza pleased him not, nor his matter."
Harvey's comment is in his own handwriting in his copy of Gas-
coigne's Certain Notes of Instruction, now in the Bodleian. To
Gascoigne's advice to "hold the just measure wherewith you begin
your verse," Harvey added: "The difference of the last verse from
the rest in everie stanza, a grace in the Faerie Queen."3 Harvey,
it may be added, did not once imitate either Spenser's stanza, or
Spenser's sonnet.

It is rather remarkable that neither of the Fletchers, nor
Browne, who were Spenser's chief followers in the first quarter of
the seventeenth century, used Spenser's stanza, and that Browne,
though as ardent and as obvious a Spenserian as any, did not even
imitate his versification. His only approach to Spenser's stanza

1 Arber, English Scholar's Library, Barnefield, p. 44.

2 Second edition, Cambridge, 1647. This preface does not appear in the first edition, 1642.

3 Cf . Gregory Smith, Elizabethan Critical Essays, Vol. I, pp. 49 and 539.

644

THE SPENSERIAN STANZA BEFORE 1700 7

is a section in the fifth eclogue of the "Shepherd's Pipe"
(11. 47-136), where nine stanzas, in pentameters throughout,
rhyme ababbcbcdd.

Giles Fletcher's sole imitation of Spenser's stanza is the stanza
of his "Christ's Victory and Triumph," which runs ababbccc.

Of the anonymous "Britain's Ida" Mr. Gosse says that it "is the
only other known poem in that stanza."1 Unfortunately for Mr.
Gosse, Giles Fletcher himself wrote his earlier "Canto upon the
Death of Eliza" in that stanza; his brother Phineas wrote in it
"To my Beloved Thenot," and the second of his "Piscatory
Eclogues;" T. Robinson used it in his "Life and Death of Mary
Magdalene;" and Edmund Smith (d. 1710) used it in "Thales,"
first published in 1750 or 1751. In another comment on this
stanza Mr. Gosse says that it is "the nine-lined one of Spenser,
compressed into an octet by the omission of the seventh line, and
so deprived of that fourth rhyme which is one of its greatest tech-
nical difficulties."2 Mr. Gosse's supposition is plausible, but, con-
sidering that Spenser apparently formed his stanza by adding a
line to a recognized form, and that Phineas Fletcher made a stanza
by adding an alexandrine to the ottava rima, it seems just as
likely that Giles Fletcher, following the example of five of the
legends in the "Mirrour for Magistrates," simply added an alex-
andrine to the common rhyme royal.

In contrast with his brother Giles, Phineas Fletcher experi-
mented with a final alexandrine in no fewer than thirteen stanza-
forms, from the triplet to an elaborate ten-line stanza. He length-
ened the last line of the triplet, of the rhyme royal, and of the
ottava rima; and he added an alexandrine to the heroic quatrain,
to the ababcc stanza, to the rhyme royal, and to the ottava rima.
Moreover, he tested most of these forms by using them in long
poems.

Phineas Fletcher is the only one of the Spenserian imitators
I have noticed who made anything more than a sporadic use of
feminine rhymes as an integral part of his stanza-structure. In
his "Elisa," which rhymes ababbcc, all but four of the one hundred
stanzas have feminine rhymes in the 6-lines (though there are

i Jacobean Poets, p. 150. 2 ibid, p. 139.

645

8 EDWARD PAYSON MORTON

only thirty-eight feminine rhymes in the c-lines, and eight in
the a-lines). A stanza from Milton's "Ode," followed by one
from "Elisa," will show the effect of the feminine rhymes:

This is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the son of Heaven's eternal king,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

—"On the Morning of Christ's Nativity," st. 1.

Look as a stag pierced with a fatal bow,
As by a wood he walks securely feeding, —
In coverts thick conceals his deadly blow,
And feeling death swim in his endless bleeding,
— His heavy head his fainting strength exceeding —
Bids woods adieu, so sinks into his grave;
Green brakes and primrose sweet, his seemly herse embrave.

—"Elisa," st. 1.

Toward the middle of the century Francis Quarles tried various
Spenserian imitations, but, like so many others, did not once use
the regular stanza. He perhaps preceded Phineas Fletcher in
writing the triplet ending in an alexandrine (as a stanza, not as a
variation of the couplet). Quarles seems also to have been the
first to lengthen the last line of the then popular dbdbcc stanza.
Of his other ventures, two are probably accidental variations of
the lengthened ottava rima introduced by Phineas Fletcher.

In 1650-51, in the preface to "Gondibert," Sir William Daven-
ant, speaking of Spenser's language, made a criticism which has
often been repeated in one form or another: "the unlucky choice
of his stanza, hath by repetition of rime, brought him to the
necessity of many exploded words." Possibly Edward Philips
had Davenant's objection in mind when he said, in 1675, in his
Theatrum Poetarum: "How much more stately and majestic in
epic poems, especially of heroic argument, Spenser's stanza ....
is above the way either of couplet or alternation of four verses only,
I am persuaded, were it revived, would soon be acknowledged."1

i Preface, pp. 2, 3.

646

THE SPENSERIAN STANZA BEFORE 1700 9

Dr. Henry More, Sir Richard Fanshawe, and Robert Aylett had
all used Spenser's stanza, the latest of them twenty years before
Philips wrote.

Two years later, in 1677, appeared "Ripley Reviv'd," by
Eirenaeus Philalethes. If, as some have always thought, and as
Professor Kittredge thinks extremely likely, Eirenaeus Philalethes
was George Stirk (or Starkey), who died of the plague in 1665,
"Ripley Reviv'd" must have been written before that year, and
probably much earlier, for (again on the authority of Professor
Kittredge, who kindly furnished these items) Starkey mentions
"Ripley Reviv'd" specifically before 1654. In this book are
many bits of verse, among them two imitations of Spenser, one in
fifteen regular stanzas (p. 371), and the other (p. 88) in thirteen
stanzas, whose formula is ababcbcbb. As the book is very rare, I

give two stanzas from each passage:

Now for a close of this most secret Gate,

Whereat few enter, none but they who are

By Gods grace favour'd; its not luck ne fate

That in disclosing this can claim a share:

It is a portion which is very rare,

Bestow'd on those whom the most High shall chuse,

To such the Truth I freely shall declare.

Nor ought through Envy to them shall refuse,

Nor with unwonted Riddles shall their hopes abuse.

Of uncouth subjects now shall be my Song,
My mind intends high wonders to reveal,
Which have lain hidden heretofore full long,
Each artist striving them how to conceal,
Lest wretched Caitiffs should these Treasures steal:
Nor Villains should their Villanies maintain
By this rare Art; which danger they to heal,
In horrid Metaphor veiFd an Art most plain,
Lest each fool knowing it, should it when known disdain.
— "An Exposition upon Sir G. Ripley's Fifth Gate."

And now my Muse, let it not irksome seem
To Thee of Natures Mysteries to sing
Those hidden mysteries which many deem
Nought but delusions with them for to bring.
This is th' opinion of the vulgar rude,
647

10 EDWARD PAYSON MORTON

To whom there's hardly any selcouth thing,

But seems a Juggling trick, that would delude

Their fancies with an empty wondering;

Therefore against it they with thundering words do ring.

There is a fiery Stone of Paradise,

So call'd because of its Celestial hew,

Named of ancient years by Sages wise

ELIXIR, made of Earth and Heaven new,

Anatically mixt; strange to relate,

Sought for by many, but found out by few;

Above vicissitudes of Nature, and by fate

Immortal, like a Body fixt to shew,

Whose penetrative vertue proves a Spirit true.

—"An Exposition upon the Preface of Sir G. Ripley."

In 1679 Dr. Samuel Woodford used Spenser's stanza in the
Epoda to his "Legend of Love," as he called his paraphrase upon
the Canticles. He also experimented with two or three rhyme-
schemes which had already been appropriated by the Spenserians.
The rhyme-scheme of the "Purple Island" (ababccc) he used in
four poems, each time varying the line-lengths. In two poems he
used the ababcc stanza, with a final alexandrine; in "Si ignoras
te," however, his lines run 545456, and in "David's Elegy,"
545556. Aylett, Starkey, and Woodford seem to be the only men
of the seventeenth century who used both the regular Spenserian
stanza and imitations of it. Aylett and Woodford are interesting
also as among the very few Englishmen between Milton and
Warton who wrote sonnets.

Two passages from Woodford' s preface are worth quoting:

The Legend further of Love I have stiled it, for honours sake to the
great Spencer, whose Stanza of Nine I have used, and who has Intituled
the six Books which we have compleat of his Fairy Queen, by the several
Legends ....

Among the several other Papers that we have lost of the Excellent
and Divine Spencer, one of the happiest Poets that this Nation ever bred,
(and out of it the World, it may be (all things considered) had not his
Fellow, excepting only such as were immediately Inspired) I bewail
nothing me-thinks so much, as his Version of the Canticles . For doubt-
less, in my poor Judgment, never was Man better made for such a Work,
and the Song itself so directly suited, with his Genius and manner of

648

THE SPENSERIAN STANZA BEFORE 1700 11

Poetry (that I mean, wherein he best shews and even excells himself, His
Shepherds Kalender, and other occasional Poems, for I cannot yet say the
same directly for his Faery Queen, design'd for an Heroic Poem) ....

The noteworthy points in these sentences are the praise of the
"Shepheards Calender," with which chiefly Spenser won his repu-
tation in his own day, and the doubt of the greatness of the
"Faerie Queen" as a "heroic poem"-— i. e., an epic. WoodfordV
comment, indeed, leads us directly toward the attitude, not only
of the early eighteenth century, but also of the Romanticists. The
early eighteenth-century poets who used Spenser's stanza made it
a vehicle for political satire — led thereto presumably by Spenser's
use of allegory. Sir Kenelm Digby's "Observations on the 22d
stanza in the 9th Canto of the lid Book" goes to show how
ready men were to seize upon the political aspect of the allegory.
The Romanticists, from Thomson down, although they have not
used the stanza for satire, have also not used it for epic purposes,
but have rather paid especial attention to its pictorial capabilities.
When we talk today about the uses of the stanza since Spenser, we
speak of the "Castle of Indolence," of the "Revolt of Islam," of
the "Eve of St. Agnes," of the descriptive passages of "Childe
Harold," or of the few stanzas at the beginning of the "Lotos
Eaters." Indeed, may we not agree that the "Faerie Queen" as
an epic is something of a tour de force, inasmuch as the qualities
for which generation after generation has praised and loved it are
not those qualities which are considered indispensable in an epic ?
To say, then, that Woodford's criticism of the "Faerie Queen" is
also that of later centuries is not to claim for him any especial
acuteness of perception ; it is merely to point out that the critical
judgments of the Restoration and Augustan periods were not so
directly opposed to those of the nineteenth century as is generally
assumed. The pseudo-Classicists were hardly more alive to the
defects of the "Faerie Queen" than we post-Romanticists; they
were only less appreciative of its really great qualities — qualities
which would not have suited what those generations had to say,
any more than the Spenserian stanza would serve as a substitute
for the ottava rima in "Don Juan."

In 1687 appeared "Spenser Redivivus; containing the First

649

12 EDWARD PAYSON MOETON

Book of the 'Fairy Queen.' His Essential Design Preserved, but
his Obsolete Language and Manner of Verse totally laid aside.
Delivered in Heroic Numbers by a Person of Quality." This
Travesty has often been cited to show how little that generation
thought of Spenser, but I think that its importance has been
greatly overestimated. In 1729 James Ralph published a poem
in heroics called "An Imitation of Spenser's Fairy Queen, by a
Young Gentleman of Twenty." In 1774 appeared Canto I,
"attempted in blank verse" to the length of eighteen pages; and
in 1783, Cantos I-IV, also "attempted in blank verse." These
four attempts to modernize Spenser's versification are, however,
the only ones I have been able to find. Over against them we
must put the many admiring references to him, as well as the
really surprising number of poems both in his stanza and in
variations of it.

John Dryden followed others, Davenant most closely, in think-
ing the stanza of the "Faerie Queen" unsuited to epic purposes.
In the dedication to his translation of the Aeneis (1697) he says,
apropos of Spenser and Cowley: "They both make hemistichs
(or 1/2 verses), breaking off in the middle of the line. I confess
there are not many such in the Fairy Queen; and even those few
might be occasioned by his unhappy choice of so long a stanza."
We may balance this, however, with one of the most interesting
details of Spenser's influence in the seventeenth century —
Dryden's specific acknowledgment that he got his alexandrine
from Spenser. In this same dedication he says:

In the meantime, that I may arrogate nothing to myself, I must
acknowledge that Virgil in Latin, and Spenser in English, have been my
masters. Spenser has also given me the boldness to make use sometimes
of his Alexandrine line, which we call, though improperly, the Pindaric,
because Mr. Cowley has often employed it in his Odes. It adds a certain
majesty to the verse, when it is used with judgment, and stops the sense
from overflowing into another line.

A few pages farther on Dryden recurs to the subject in the
following passage:

When I mentioned the Pindaric line, I should have added, that I take
another license in my veases: for I frequently make use of triplet rhymes,
and for the same reason, because they bound the sense. And therefore I

650 *

THE SPENSERIAN STANZA BEFORE 1700 13

generally join these two licenses together, and make the last verse of the
triplet a Pindaric: for, besides the majesty which it gives, it confines the
sense within the barriers of three lines, which would languish if it were
lengthened into four. Spenser is my example for both these privileges
of English verses ; and Chapman has followed him in his translation of
Homer. Mr. Cowley has given in to them after both; and all succeeding
writers after him. I regard them now as the Magna Charta of heroic
poetry, and am too much an Englishman to lose what my ancestors
have gained for me.

Dry den's saying that "Spenser is my example for both these
privileges" is puzzling, for in Spenser's "Mother Hubberds Tale"
I can find no triplets and no alexandrines. If Dryden thought
that in "May" of the "Shepheards Calender," Spenser was trying
to write in heroic couplets, there is some slight warrant for his
statement, inasmuch as in its 317 lines there are three triplets.

Dryden's mention of Cowley, and of "Pindaricks" as a com-
mon name for alexandrines, leads one to wonder if Cowley was
not also indebted to Spenser. His Pindaric strophes commonly
end with an alexandrine, and as he plainly declared he was not
trying to reproduce either Pindar's words or his meter, but merely
his general effect, we can hardly trace his alexandrines to Pindar.
The only evidence I can find is an interesting, but for our pur-
poses rather inconclusive paragraph from his essay " On Myself,"
which runs:

I believe I can tell the particular little Chance that filled my Head
first with such Chines of Verse, as have never since left ringing there:
For I remember when I began to read, and to take some Pleasure in it,
there was wont to lye in my Mother's Parlour (I know not by what acci-
dent, for she herself never in her life read any Book but of Devotion) but
there was wont to lye Spencer's Works; this I happened to fall upon, and
was infinitely delighted with the Stories of the Knights, and Giants, and
Monsters, and brave Houses, which I found every where there: (Tho my
Understanding had little to do with all this) and by degrees with the
Tinkling of tne Rhyme and Dance of the Numbers, so that I think I had
read him all over before I was twelve years old, and was thus made a Poet
as irremediably as a child is made an Eunuch.

In a little more than a century between the first publication of
the " Faerie Queen" and 1698, my last entry before 1700, there
were Spenserian poems or imitations in forty-seven different years,

651

14 EDWARD PAYSON MORTON

with only two long gaps, one of nine and one of fifteen years.
When we consider that the disciples of a poet are rather more
likely to show the master's influence in their style and phrase,
and general attitude, than in mere copying of meters, such imita-
tion in nearly half the years of the century is in itself a notable
record. These poems, which are by forty-three different poets,
number nearly one hundred and fifty. Twenty poems, including
the "Faerie Queen," are in the regular stanza, and are by Spen-
ser, Barnefield, More, and Fanshawe, who wrote only the regular
stanza, and Aylett, Eirenaeus Philalethes, and Woodford, who
wrote both the regular stanza and imitations of it.

Of the remaining poems, ten, by six poets, imitate only the
linking of the rhymes ; a dozen more, each by a different poet, end
a short-line stanza with a pentameter, and John Donne once used
a final septenary. We have left over a hundred poems in nearly
fifty stanza-forms, by a score of poets, all of whom confined their
imitations of Spenser's verse to the use of a final alexandrine.

In quantity, the number of regular stanzas is about equal to
the number of stanzas which have the final alexandrine. Poems
which merely link rhymes number about half as many stanzas;
and the poems which have the final long line, not an alexandrine,
number only 197 stanzas — about one-fortieth of the whole
number.

The use of a given stanza in a long poem tests not only the
poet's facility, but also the fitness of the stanza for continuous
use. Fourteen of the poems in our list run to a length of a hun-
dred or more stanzas each; five of them are regular Spenserian,
four by John Davies of Hereford imitate the rhyme-scheme only,
and the remaining five — Giles Fletcher's "Christ's Victory and
Triumph;" Phineas' "Appollyonists," "Elisa," and "Purple
Island;" and the anonymous "Miserere" — are each in a different
stanza-form. It will be observed that all of these poems are,
except for the final alexandrine, in pentameters, and that they are
all in stanzas of seven, eight, or nine lines.

The true Spenserian stanzas of the seventeenth century are all
but forgotten — I have no doubt that many of my readers are sur-
prised at their number and length — and the work of thetFletchers

652

THE SPENSERIAN STANZA BEFORE 1700 15

is remembered rather than known. Indeed, the one Spenserian
imitation in this century that can fairly be called both great and
familiar to the present generation is Milton's "Hymn on the
Nativity," which owes to Spenser only its concluding alexandrine.
And yet, when Mr. Swinburne used Milton's stanza in his "Ode
to Victor Hugo" —the only other instance I know of, except the
lone stanza in Gray's "Ode for Music" (1769) — he carefully
reduced the alexandrine to a pentameter in every one of his
twenty-four stanzas.

That so little of this imitation of Spenser has proved of lasting
greatness or popularity is not to be charged against the vitality of
Spenser's influence. In the first place, we must not forget that,
except for the sonnet, of all our verse-forms the Spenserian stanza
is by far the most elaborate in common use. Indeed, when we
stop to think, we find that, although our English stanza-forms
number more than a thousand, the ones that have been much used
in relatively long poems are very few. Outside of "Isabella"
and "Don Juan" the ottava rima has been used most often
in translations from the Italian; since the "Rape of Lucrece"
the rhyme royal has been almost untouched; the "Venus and
Adonis" stanza, for a century enormously popular as a vehicle
for short songs, has been almost unused in extended poems;
the elegiac quatrain, more used than any of the others, is so
much shorter than Spenser's stanza that a comparison of use
seems hardly fair. All of these stanzas go back at least to
Elizabeth's time; to them we have added in later times the
stanza of "In Memoriam," and perhaps that of Fitzgerald's
"Omar." In fact, blank verse and the heroic couplet are now, as
they have been for three hundred years, the standard forms for
long poems, so that, although one might name a considerable list
of successful long poems in other forms, it is hard to find more
than a few instances of each kind. In such a list the Spenserian
stanza would almost certainly stand first.

In the second place, because of the constantly increasing sup-
ply of current literature, and the considerable additions which
each generation makes to the already large mass of what we call
our "classics," all but the greatest writers of a past generation

653

16 EDWARD PAYSON MORTON

tend more and more to be forgotten. It follows that we are
increasingly likely to judge of a generation, or even of a century,
by the five or ten writers whose fame was greatest in their own
day. It often happens, therefore, that we hastily assume that a
minor poet of real sweetness and power was of as little impor-
tance to his own generation as he is to the present one.

I do not wish to be thought of as pleading for a revival of
interest in hitherto neglected authors; I do not profess to have
rediscovered even one poet or poem which the present generation
culpably ignores. But I do wish to insist that we are too likely
to dismiss as insignificant a man whose name is to most of us
only a name; such a man, for instance, as Dr. Henry More, the
Platonist. Of course, every student of seventeenth-century
English literature knows his name, though relatively few of us
are familiar with his work. Now, Dr. Henry More was a man of
much repute in his own generation, and the fact that he chose to
put his most serious work into the Spenserian stanza meant much
more toward establishing or continuing a Spenserian tradition than
even such a poem as the "Hymn on the Nativity." If, then, the
men who imitated Spenser's versification during the seventeenth
century were, many of them, of much more prominence in their
own generation than they are likely to seem to us, it follows that
a list of names such as we have here means that Spenser's influ-
ence before 1700 was as constant and as profound as that of all
but Shakespeare and Ben Jonson.

EDWARD PAYSON MORTON

INDIANA UNIVERSITY

654

SOME FEATURES OF STYLE IN EARLY FRENCH
NARRATIVE POETRY (1150-70).— Concluded

IV. THE TIBADE LYRIQUE, OK COUPLETS IN MONOBHYME

One of the noticeable characteristics of early French narrative
poetry is the tendency to repeat the rhyme of one couplet in the
following couplet or couplets. Usually this repetition is confined
to two successive couplets, but occasionally three couplets, or even
a larger number, are so connected. The natural supposition would
be that the thought of the passage prompted this union, that the
lines were connected by the same rhyme because they represented
one idea, completed one and the same sentence. A glance at the
poems, however, is sufficient to disprove this theory. The majority
of couplets in monorhyme contain two sentences. A few hold even
three. Therefore it is not continuity of thought which prompts
continuity of rhyme. The cause is not to be sought for within.
It lies without, in the conscious imitation of a literary fashion.
The narrative poet is borrowing this feature of style from other
forms of verse, from poems composed in strophes.

It is hardly necessary to recall that the primary form of a lyric
strophe is a monorhyme, for the question of the primitive lyric
form may not be pertinent in the third quarter of the twelfth
century. What is essential in the present discussion is to notice
that the epic strophe, which derives ultimately from the lyric, was
in assonance or monorhyme in all mediaeval French literature.
Popular songs in their original form may have been known to the
educated classes of France who fought the Second Crusade. We
have no proof either way. But it is certain that the same genera-
tion was familiar with a very large body of epic material, and it
is therefore more than probable that the poets who began to narrate
historical or pseudo-historical events toward 1150 were influenced
by the epic style of verse. Back of them indeed, in the eleventh
century or earlier, Romance narrative poetry followed at times the
epic model. Witness the Provencal Boethius. So the Passion

655] 1 [MoDEBN PHILOLOGY, April, 1907

2 P. M. WARREN

du Christ and the Vie de St. Leger, which are intended to rhyme
in couplets throughout, are apparently affected by the same influ-
ence and, by linking two couplets together, offer occasional pas-
sages in monorhyme or assonance. So with a few specimens of
romantic Latin poetry which belong to this early period. The
octosyllabic quatrains of the Verna feminae suspiria (the verse
of the Passion)1 fail to preserve their independence against the
inroads of the monorhyme laisse, while Marbodius' Descriptio
vernae pulchritudinis2 joins the hemistiches and verse-endings of
two successive lines in what we might call "tirades lyriques." In
these instances of Latin poetry which celebrate the return of spring
we might perhaps see an imitation of the popular lyric strophe.
The average testimony, however, points rather to the authority
of the epic laisse.

For it is quite surely due to the pressure of the epic laisse,
and not to the form suggested by a primary lyric strophe, that
the two most important narrative poems of the first period of French
literature — poems written, it would seem, by contemporaries of
Marbodius — the Vie de St. Alexis and Alb&ric's Alexandre, were
cast in the epic mold. And if we may safely argue from them, it is
probable that the variations in the couplets of the didactic poetry
of the first quarter of the twelfth century were due to epic influence
directly, or to unknown Latin poems which may have transmitted
that influence indirectly. Philippe de Thaun's verse, while surpris-
ingly independent of this generally recognized suzerainty, yields
occasional homage to it in passages of varying length (Comput,
715-18, 1123-26, 1891-94, 2161-66, 2187-96, 2345-54, etc. ;Besti-
aire, 237-40, 475-82, 509-12, etc.), while the St. Brandan, which
now and then inclines toward assonance (21-24, 29-32, 44-47),
more often seeks to connect its couplets by monorhyme verse (83—
86, 281-84, 484-87, 754-57, 1280-83, etc.).

We cannot discern, however, in the few examples of the "tirade
lyrique" which are scattered through the Latin and vernacular
poetry of this early epoch, any intention on the part of their
authors to employ assonance or monorhyme as a part of their style.

iSee Zeitschrift fur deutsches Alterthum, Vol. XIV, pp. 492, 493.
2 See Migne's Patrologia Latina, Vol. CLXXI, col. 1717. Marbodius died in 1123.

656

FEATURES OF STYLE IN EARLY FRENCH POETRY 3

You would say that they stumble on its use by accident, led
unconsciously to it by the dominance of the epic laisse. And
when a whole generation has gone by and we reach the romantic
revival which follows the Crusade of 1147, we find its first narra-
tive poet, Geoffrei Gaimar, similarly indifferent in his treatment
of monorhyme. A few examples of it may be found in his Estorie
des Engleis (91-94, 149-52, 841-44, 961-64, etc.), but with one
or two exceptions they are confined to the first and less artistic
part of the chronicle — the first four thousand lines — and may be
set down to the credit of convenience rather than to any deliberate
purpose. Nor may any more serious reason be attributed to the
presence of the two passages in the first translation of Marbodius'
Lapidarius1 (359-62, 371-74), or the one in the D6bat du corps
etde rame (839-42).

But with Wace and his Brut we enter upon a new conception
of the "tirade lyrique." Wace was ever self-conscious; he took
his vocation seriously; he studied his words and his rhythm; he
strove after style. With the object of perfecting his poetic art,
he gladly received every traditional component of literary expres-
sion and tried to improve upon it, to embellish it. For instance,
there was no other reason for preserving the "tirade lyrique," at
the time when the Brut was written, than an artistic one. By
1155 the weight of epic example had been decidedly lessened
through the increasing importance of narrative, didactic, and
lyric verse, and it had become the fortune of these kinds in turn
to react upon the style of the epic. Its borrowings from them of
transposed parallelism and dramatic dialogue show this. There-
fore, when we find the author of the Brut making free use of
couplets in monorhyme, we may be allowed to infer that he does
so consciously, of his own express volition, and not through a
negative concession to sterile imitation.

In the matter of direct repetition we saw that Wace made a
means of expression his own which had been bequeathed to him
by older poets. So again with his legacy of couplets in mono-
rhyme. In his possession they became an important attribute of
poetic style. He increased their artistic effect by subjecting them

1 Edited by L. Pannier in Les lapidaires francais au moyen Age (Paris, 1882).

657

2 F. M. WARREN

1 See Zeitschrift filr deutsches Alterthum, Vol. XIV, pp. 492, 493.

2 See Migne's Patrologia Latino,, Vol. CLXXI, col. 1717. Marbodius died in 1123.

656

FEATURES OF STYLE IN EARLY FRENCH POETBY 3

1 Edited by L. Pannier in Les lapidaires franQais au moyen Age (Paris, 1882).

657

6 F. M. WARREN

Troyes.1 All of these poets reveal a moderate use of the "tirade
lyrique," corresponding to the manner of the Brut or Thebes.
Still it is clear that Gautier d'Arras found this feature of style less
in favor when he wrote Ille et Galeron than when he composed
tirade, for there is a striking difference between these poems in
the number of passages so treated. Furthermore, the fragments
of Thomas' Tristan, which furnish perhaps fourteen instances all
told, contain quite as many examples of the complex kind as of
the simple.

With Chretien de Troyes this leaning toward the variation
established by the Brut or Thebes is still more pronounced, while
the proportion of both kinds taken together steadily decreases.
If we set the total number of "tirades lyriques" in tirec at twenty-
five, we note that fully three-fourths of them belong to the com-
plex variety (cf. firec, 209-12, 219-22, etc.). The amount of
both kinds in Cliges is smaller than in tirec, and two examples
only are of the simple rhyme (cf. Cliges, 969-72, 4209-12).
This ratio rises in la Charrette, while the totals diminish still fur-
ther. The lowering process continues in Twain until of the
twenty-five "tirades lyriques" of Erec but ten remain. Quite the
opposite, however, is revealed by a study of the rhymes in Guil-
laume d* Angleterre. There we approach the proportion of tirec,
not only in the total number of simple and complex passages, but
also in the ratio of the two kinds to each other. This fact might
be used as additional evidence in support of the contention that
Chretien's least romantic poem was written early in his career.

With the "tirade lyrique" as a basis a like inference might be
drawn in regard to the chronological order of Thomas' Tristan
and the Douce Folie. Over against fourteen instances, about
equally divided between the two kinds, in the three thousand and
more lines of Tristan, we set eight examples in the thousand lines
of the Folie, of which five are in simple rhyme and three in com-
plex. The relatively larger number of such passages in the Folie,
together with the greater proportion of simple rhymes, might
indicate the priority of the shorter poem.

II have been writing " Troies," but the usual spelling is now "Troyes," and should
be followed.

660

FEATURES OF STYLE IN EABLY FRENCH POETRY 7

Other romantic compositions of this period which show famili-
arity with the use of the "tirade lyrique" include the romance of
Floire et Blanchefleur — both versions — where the proportion of
both varieties and the relative proportion of simple and complex
kinds approach the ratio of the Brut, and the verse Roman des
Sept Sages, which shows a relatively smaller number of simple
rhymes (simple: 2402-5, 3928-31; complex: 235-38, 1061-66,
2832-35, etc.). The Roman du Mont- Saint-Michel,1 written by
G-uillaume de Saint-Pair about the year 1170, presents a fair num-
ber of these passages, almost without exception of the simple vari-
ety. On the other hand, the romance of the Comte de Poitiers,2
of approximately the same date, divides its few examples (nine?)
of the "tirade lyrique" quite impartially between the two kinds.

As is well known, this feature of style continued in use during
the whole mediaeval period of French literature. But it never
again enjoyed the popularity which it had possessed in the days
of Wace and his contemporaries. The writers who flourished in
the seventies of the twelfth century, as Marie de France, show it
quite as much favor as was manifested by the authors of the Brut
and Thebes. Marie's lais contain a fair number of couplets in
monorhyme, of which the larger part belong to the complex vari-
ety. Her Espurgatoire, however, which in certain respects seems
earlier than the lais, prefers the simple rhyme. So does the
anonymous lai of Desire, uncertain in date.

The romantic poem of Amadas et Ydoine, which apparently
furnishes a corrective to the superficial moral of Cliges, offers a
considerable number of these passages, without making a distinct
choice between their kinds, simple or complex. This mannerism
forms also a noticeable feature of Partonopeus de Blois* probably
written during the eighties, and of Ipomedon,' its contemporary,
a poem which borrowed the names of its characters from Thebes
and derived some suggestions for its style from tineas. A gene-
ral impression of the "tirade lyrique," gained from a survey of
Partonopeus and Ipomedon, is that there is a return to the simple
form of rhyme of the earlier period.

i Edited by Fr. Michel (Caen, 1856). 2 Edited by Fr. Michel (Paris, 1831).

3 Edited by G. A. Crapelet (Paris, 1834).

*Hue de Rotelande's Ipomedon, published by E. KOlbing and E. Koschwitz (Berlin, 1889).

661

8 F. M. WARREN

In summarizing, therefore, we may safely conclude that the
notion of combining two or more couplets in rhyme was borrowed
by narrative poetry from the epic laisse, in assonance or mono-
rhyme. For a time this imitation undoubtedly observed an exact
correspondence of the tonic syllable. The predominance of epic
poetry would have enjoined this correspondence. When the influ-
ence of the epic became weakened through the rise of lyric and
narrative verse after the Crusade of 1147, the poets of the new
school in their seeking for artistic effect would have found a vari-
ation for the pure cadence of the line by bringing together rhymes
on the same tonic vowel still, but tonic vowels which were pre-
ceded by i, instead of a consonant, or were followed by mute e.
Wace may have been the inventor of this variation, though his
claim to it could be disputed by the author of Th&bes. Wace
might have received hints from the lines of Everard and Samson
de Nanteuil. Whether he did or not, and whether he was the
inventor or not, he cultivated the "tirade lyrique" with more
enthusiasm than any other writer. In his Hou he even went to
extremes. After the Brut and Th&bes the younger poets employed
both simple and complex rhymes as they wished, and some openly
preferred the variation to the original form. Chretien de Troyes,
however, did not care for either, and used the "tirade lyrique"
less and less with each succeeding poem. But he could not
destroy its popularity altogether, and couplets in monorhyme
continued to appear, though with less frequency and with a pref-
erence for the simple consonance, throughout the whole period
of mediaeval poetry.

V. THE BROKEN COUPLET

In the Romania of 1894 (Vol. XXIII, pp. 1-35) Paul Meyer
published an important study on "Le couplet de deux vers." In
this article he called attention for the first time to the two schools
of narrative poets which flourished almost side by side in the third
quarter of the twelfth century — schools which would be chiefly
differentiated by their handling of the narrative couplet. The
older, influenced more strongly by poetic tradition, considered the
couplet as indivisible, expressing but one thought. The phrase

FEATURES OF STYLE IN EARLY FRENCH POETRY 9

which began with the couplet should end with it, or should end
with the second line of some following couplet, and not with the
first line of that couplet. In M. Meyer's words: " II y a des
phrases de deux, quatre, six vers, il n'y en a pas de trois, de cinq,
de sept."

On the other hand, the other, and younger, school, struck by
the monotonous regularity of rhythm which this fusion of thought
and line produced, would seek to vary the monotony by breaking
the traditional mold. A sentence begun with the first line of a
couplet would be finished on the first line of the following couplet
or couplets, or one begun with the second line would finish with
the first or second line of succeeding couplets. In this way
phrases of three, five, or seven lines would be formed, and inci-
dentally overflow between the couplets would appear. The leader
of this later school would be Chretien de Troyes.

The truth of M. Meyer's discovery was so self-evident that his
statements were neither called in question nor confirmed by more
detailed investigations. And, indeed, the facts assembled in the
preparation of this present paper show that practically nothing is
to be added to his conclusions. But any study of poetic style
during the sixth and seventh decades of the twelfth century would
be quite incomplete without a reference to this striking feature of
versification, and if reference is made at all, it should be fairly
comprehensive. For this reason I take the liberty of supporting
M. Meyer's arguments with additional statistics.

Absolute exactness in arriving at the number of broken coup-
lets in any given poem seems to be impossible. Even an approxi-
mate calculation is quite unsatisfactory, because any two readers
will certainly disagree with each other, and also with the editor
of the text, whose opinion of its meaning is represented by his
punctuation. Furthermore, the same person reading the same
poem at different times will vary to some extent in his count,
because he is often forced to give an interpretation to the author's
meaning, and cannot maintain precisely the same exegetical atti-
tude on all occasions. The power of subjectivity is too strong for
scientific accuracy. Therefore I do not pretend to present other
than relative results.

663

10 F. M. WARKEN

I have, however, attempted to combine with the study of the
broken couplet the consideration of the sentence which follows
the break in the couplet, and have roughly computed the propor-
tion of three-line phrases thus formed to the whole number of
sentences which follow the break, whether formed of an odd or an
even number of lines. The results of this particular computation
may aid in throwing light on the style of the individual author,
even though they may be useless for general deductions as to
literary style. If we assume that the original idea of the couplet
was to express a thought in two lines, and afterward in four, six,
or eight lines, we may suppose that, when this primary concep-
tion was abandoned by the poets, they would still show traces of
its hold on them in their formation of sentences which contained
an odd number of lines. The earliest phrase which consists of an
odd number of lines would logically be the three-line sentence, or
a slight extension of the primitive couplet of two lines. It would
therefore seem probable that the earliest poems which use the
broken couplet would present the greatest proportion of three-
line sentences. Or, in other words, we might expect to find that
the poems which show the lowest percentage of broken couplets
would offer the greatest ratio of three-line phrases. As a matter
of fact, this proves to be the case in the larger number of instances.
But the exceptions are many, and a rule for the phenomenon can-
not be formulated. The style of the author seems to be the decid-
ing factor here.

If we now turn to the first period of French literature, we find
that the poems which were composed in lines rhyming two by two,
the regular narrative couplet, contain but scattered instances of
the broken couplet. Philippe de Thaun's Comput might be cred-
ited with eleven breaks, of which six would be followed by sen-
tences of three lines, while his Bestiaire would give five, four of
which are followed by three-line phrases. As these poems run
over three thousand lines each, the percentage of such forms —
less in either case than six-tenths — is extremely small, and may
be due to accident or to copyists. The same results are reached
in an analysis of St. Brandan, where there appear to be but two
broken couplets. Neither of these is followed by a three-line

664

FEATURES OF STYLE IN EARLY FRENCH POETRY 11

sentence. The principle of one couplet to one thought is clearly
held by these early writers.

Not so with the authors of the literature after the Crusade of
1147, or those perhaps who just preceded it. The Vie de Ste.
Julienne1 has nine broken couplets — 1.4 per cent. — of which five
are followed by sentences of three lines. The Vie de St. George2
contains four broken couplets, 1.7 per cent. It does not contain
the three-line phrase. The Debat du corps et de V&me may count
up twelve broken couplets — 2.3 per cent. One-third of the sen-
tences following the break consist of three lines. The first trans-
lation of Marbodius' Lapidarius shows fifteen broken couplets —
3 per cent. The three-line sentences following give a proportion
of 33 per cent.

Much greater interest, however, is attached to Geoffrei Gaimar' s
treatment of the couplet. His Estorie des Engleis, the first long
poem after the Crusade of 1147, has already afforded us a glimpse
of artistic desire in the matter of transposed parallelism and direct
repetition. Its handling of the couplet is quite as significant.
The first 4,000 lines of the Estorie contain about 4.5 per cent, of
broken couplets, with slightly over 37 per cent, of three-line
phrases after the break. The last 2,500 lines "rise to 7.8 per cent,
of the former and fall to less than 33 per cent, of the latter. This
increase of broken couplets may not be ascribed to chance. It is
accompanied by another change in versification. In the first 4,000
lines we noted eight overflow verses to the thousand; in the last
2,500, only two and a half. These statistics, inconclusive as they
may be each by itself, when taken together may be considered as
indicative of a change of style on the part of Gaimar, under the
pressure of external influences which entirely escape us.

Next in date to Gaimar comes Wace. Possibly his religious
poems preceded his chronicles. The versification of two of them,
at least — St. Nicolas and the Conception — would point that way.
Each contains about 2 per cent, of broken couplets, and 50 per
cent, of three-line sentences after the break. On the contrary,
in the imperfect edition of Ste. Marguerite, we would count 7

1 Published by Hugo von Feilitzen in the Ver del Julse (Upsala, 1883).

2 Published by V. Luzarche with Wace's Vie de la Vierge Marie (Tours, 1859).

12 F. M. WARREN

per cent, of broken couplets, two -thirds of which are followed by
three-line phrases — an unusually high ratio. Wace's chronicles,
however, do not reveal any growing fondness for the new rhythm.
The first 3,000 lines of the Brut yield 5.5 per cent, of broken
couplets, with 30 per cent, of three-line sentences ; and the remain-
ing 12,000, 3.5 per cent, of broken couplets, and 37 per cent, of
phrases in three lines. The octosyllabic part of Rou, later than
the Brut by five years and more, reduces the percentage of broken
couplets to 3, and of three-line sentences to 27.5. The sentences
in Rou are noticeably long, but we may conclude from these
figures that Wace adhered quite steadily to the use of the tradi-
tional couplet, despite a temporary vacillation.

The Roman de Thebes is a probable contemporary of the Brut.
We have seen how its author developed the form of transposed
parallelism. He remained satisfied with that effort, and shows
but little interest in varying his rhythm. A proportion of 3 per
cent, for broken couplets, and 52 per cent, for three-line sentences
following the break, may be called normal, if we take Wace as a
standard.

Other poems of the fifties or early sixties may include the Vie
du Pape Gregoire,'with a percentage of 5.5 in broken couplets
and 42 in sentences of three lines; the Sept Sages, in verse, with
3.5 per cent, of broken couplets and less than 37 per cent, of
three-line phrases; the Douce Folie Tristan, with its 3.4 per cent,
of broken couplets and 35 per cent, of three-line sentences — in
these particulars much like the Sept Sages; and the first version
of Floire et Blanchefleur, with 5.5 and 29 per cent., respectively.
On the other hand, the Vie de Ste. Marie VEgyptienne furnishes
but a fraction over 1 per cent, of broken couplets and 40 per cent,
of three-line sentences; while Marie de France's Espurgatoire,
with its rise from 2 per cent, of broken couplets in the first 1,000
lines to 4.6 in the last 300, and its fall from 70 per cent, of three-
line phrases to 43 per cent, in the same sections (an average of
3.2 per cent, for the one, and 54 for the other for the whole
poem), illustrates the persistency of the original conception of
the narrative couplet.

In general, then, the poems already cited, whether dating from

FEATURES OF STYLE IN EARLY FRENCH POETRY 13

the early fifties, as Gaimar's chronicle, or from the late sixties, as
Wace's Rou and probably Marie's Espurgatoire, show a relatively
low percentage of broken couplets, 7 or under, and a relatively
high percentage of three-line sentences which follow the break in
the couplet, 27 per cent, or over. Consequently, whatever their
exact date may be, we may safely treat them as products of the
older school of versification, which still considered the couplet
rhyming in pairs as a sentence complete in itself. They are the
poems, also, which reflect the ideas of poetic rhythm that pre-
vailed at the beginning of this the first Romantic School of French
literature — ideas which they inherited from the earlier period of
Henry I. Yet these very poems were contemporaneous in great
part with other, and on the whole more romantic compositions,
which either chafed against the old laws of rhythm or broke away
from them entirely.

The longer works which endured with visible impatience the
primary conception of the narrative couplet are but two in num-
ber, and yet they occupy a leading place in the literature of this
period. They mark what may be called a transition between a
fairly strict observance of the unity of the couplet and a free
disregard of it. They are the Tristan of Thomas, and the lin6as.
So far as the fragments of the former romance reveal the attitude
of its author toward this feature of style, we may infer that he
was held to the old ideas by the influence of his models, or by the
poetic training of his early years. His poem would show 9.4 per
cent, of broken couplets and 38 per cent, of three-line phrases
following the break. The lines of the I£n6as, however, indicate
greater progress toward the free treatment of the couplet, with
their 12 per cent, of broken couplets and their 35 per cent, of
three-line sentences.1

iThe unreliability of such statistics is strikingly illustrated in the case of the first
poem, Tristan. The brilliant editor of Thomas' verses, M. Joseph B6dier, cuts my per-
centage of broken couplets quite in half. Yet a second and a third reading of the text
of M. B6dier's edition leave my count of broken couplets practically the same, though the
percentage of three-line sentences rose from 18 in the first reading to 38 in the last. A second
reading of £n6as, on the other hand, raieed the percentage of broken couplets from 11.3 to
12.2— not a wide discrepancy — and reduced the proportion of three-line sentences from 40
to 35.4 per cent. Experience would show that the computation of broken couplets varies
less with different readings than the count of three-line sentences. The great difficulty in
determining what are sentences of three lines lies in weighing the strength of connectives,
such as "car," "et," and "mais," which sometimes begin a new sentence, but more often

667

14 F. M. WAKKEN

With these greater poems of the period of rhythmical transi-
tion may be classed the lais of Marie de France, which, however,
do not come perhaps within our time limits. Taking the lais as
a whole, we reach an average of about 10 per cent, for broken
couplets and 34 per cent, for three-line sentences which follow the
break. But, analyzing the lais separately, we find that the pro-
portion of broken couplets ranges from 1.6 per cent, in Chaitivel
to 16.5 in Deux amants, while of three-line sentences after the
break Chaitivel offers none and Laustic 75 per cent. Among the
more important lais the one of Guigemar shows 10 per cent, of
broken couplets and 25 per cent of three-line sentences following
the break; Frgne, 13 and 30 per cent, respectively ; Lanval, 9 and
35; Yonec, 8 and 63; Milun, 13 and 50, and Eliduc, 10 and 38.
The variation among the different lais in sentences of three lines
is much greater than the variation in broken couplets.

The next stage in the evolution of the narrative couplet seems
to be reached toward the year 1165 in the works of Gautier
d' Arras and Benoit de Sainte-More, both of them court poets of
the second generation. The first composition of Gautier's pen
which has come down to us is the romance of Oracle. Notwith-
standing a division of the poem into three parts by the author
himself, each part controlled by a different purpose and apparently
dedicated to a different patron, and notwithstanding the fact that
the last part is supposed to have been written a number of years
after the first two, there is no appreciable variation throughout
the whole romance in the treatment of the couplet. The propor-
tion of broken couplets constantly remains at 18.5 per cent., and
of three-line sentences at slightly over 31. If we compare these
figures with those derived from a reading of Gautior's other

continue an old one. With so much latitude allowed, subjective interpretation of an
author's meaning is bound to play a prominent part and influence the resultant reckoning.
— After the statement made above in regard to the relatively wide difference between my
count of broken couplets in Thomas' Tristan and the one made by its distinguished editor,
I think it due to us both to print the lines where 1 still find breaks in the couplet, over and
above those enumerated by M. Bedier on pages 33 and 34 of the second volume of his Tristan.
These are : 2, 4, 16, 24, 75, 143, 343, 373, 425, 555, 597, 665, 667, 713, 911, 955, 957, 1098, 1112, 1120, 1148,
1203, 1229, 1245, 1249, 1253, 1255, 1313, 1331, 1359, 1417, 1461, 1551, 1607, 1623, 1715, 1735, 1737, 1763, 1773,
1811, 1829, 1841, 1859, 1869, 1891, 1941, 1945, 1947, 1995, 2003, 2005, 2027, 2035, 2051, 2077, 2191, 2223, 2281,
2283, 2349, 2375, 2393, 2473, 2529, 2553, 2563, 2611, 2635, 2659, 2663, 2754, 2971, 2997, 3045, 3113, 3135.
I do not find breaks at 1741, 1777, or 2063. M. Bedier's 289 and 561 are evidently typographical
errors for 287 and 551. I fail to identify his 1451 and 1453, which seem out of place.

668

FEATURES or STYLE IN EARLY FRENCH POETRY 15

romance, Tile et Galeron — assumedly later than the first two parts
of Oracle, and differing from that poem in certain features of
style, such as transposed parallelism — we find the percentage of
broken couplets is identical with the percentage of Eracle, while
the ratio of three-line phrases falls to 20 per cent. It should also
be stated that, while Oracle offers as many as forty instances of
overflow verse, Ille et Galeron presents barely ten. Consequently,
a considerable difference may be said to exist between the versi-
fication of the two poems. Whether this difference was merely
accidental, or was due to a change in the author's environment,
cannot, of course, be determined.1

Gautier d' Arras, therefore, is fairly consistent in his treatment
of the broken couplet, though not consistent in the matter of three-
line sentences and overflow verse. But Benoit de Sainte-More,
his contemporary, may rightly be accused of great vacillation, par-
ticularly in his Roman de Troie. So far as may be determined
by the text of Joly's edition, that celebrated romance presents
three phases of treatment in regard to the broken couplet. The
first 8,000 lines show a ratio of 9.5 per cent. — or the proportion
observed by the fragments of Tristan — with 34 per cent, of sen-
tences in three lines. With the ninth thousand this percentage is
raised to 15 for the one and falls to 20 for the other — not far from
the rhythm of Ille et Galeron. Some 4,000 lines retain this
average. The main body of the poem— lines 12,000 to 28,000—
increases these figures to 21.5 per cent, for the broken couplets,
and lowers them to 15 per cent, for the three-line sentences. The
remaining 2,000 lines return to a percentage of 15 in broken coup-
lets, and give the very low proportion of 11 per cent, for the sen-
tences of three lines. The reasons for such exceptional variations
are not apparent. It is possible that Benoit, of the generation
next to Wace, properly belonged to the transition period of this
feature of style, and should therefore be classed with Thomas, the
author of $neas, and Marie de France. But his avoidance of the
three-line phrase, after the first fourth of Troie, is much more
pronounced than any other poet's. It seems to be peculiar to him,

1 The figures given for tirade were those obtained by a second reading. The first read-
ing showed 0.5 per cent, less in broken couplets and 4 per cent, less in sentences of three lines

669

16 , F. M. WARREN

individual, and not induced by outside influence. Unfortunately,
the Chronique des Dues de Normandie adds but a fraction to our
knowledge of Benoit's manner. In that long narrative he quite
steadily maintains a slightly lower percentage of broken couplets
— 13.7 — than he had adopted for the closing lines of Troie, and
one slightly higher — 13 — for the sentences of three lines.1

We now come to Chretien de Troyes, to whom M. Meyer
assigns the leadership in the new school of versification. And it
is only necessary to glance at his J^Jrec in order to assure our-
selves that this primacy is well bestowed. For the first 2,000
lines of that poem we note a percentage of 15.5 of broken couplets
and 28 of sentences of three lines. In these particulars, and in
overflow also, we might find a likeness to Gautier's Oracle. But
with the third thousand of ^Erec the ratio of broken couplets rises
to 25.6 per cent., and the proportion of three-line phrases falls to
23 per cent. With the fourth thousand, and for the remainder
of the poem — almost 4,000 lines — broken couplets form 37 per
cent, of the whole, while the ratio of three-line sentences follow-
ing the break is 20 per cent.2

The other poems of Chretien which belong to the same period
of his career as the Erec do not vary in their use of this feature
of style from the manner observed in the last 4,000 lines of that
romance. The average of broken couplets in Cligds is 33 per cent.

*A re-reading of the first half of Troie, in tbe two volumes of M. Constans' edition,
now at hand, changes these computations, particularly in regard to the three-line sentence
which follows the break in the couplet. The first 7 JKX) lines of this critical text (instead of
the first 8,000 in Joly) would show a percentage of 10.5 in broken couplets and 39 in the
sentences of three lines which follow. In the next 3,000 lines the percentage of broken
couplets rises to 16.8, and the percentage of three-line sentences falls to 27.6. In the next
5,000 lines (10,000-14,882) the percentage of broken couplets reaches an average of 21.2, while
three-line sentences form 32 per cent, of all those which follow the break. The general
conclusion as to Benoit's attitude toward the broken couplet, which is given above, would
seem to be confirmed, but the inference that he avoided three-line sentences is quite surely
a mistaken one so far as Troie is concerned. This poem would belong to the class repre-
sented by Gautier's Eracle.

2 These figures were furnished by a second reading of J6rec. They differ from the results
of the first reading as follows: 0.5 per cent, less in broken couplets for the first 2,000 lines, 4
per cent, more for the third thousand, and 0.5 more for the remainder of the poem. The
difference in the proportion of three-line sentences reached by the two readings is much
greater, and illustrates again the uncertainty of such computations. For the first 2,000 lines
it was 0.7 per cent, less at the second reading, for the third thousand 7 per cent, more, and
for the rest of the poem 12 per cent. more. That the second reading may come nearer to the
real manner of Chretien would seem to be indicated by his subsequent handling of the
couplet in his later poems.

670

FEATURES OF STYLE IN EARLY FRENCH POETRY 17

(37 in the first 1,000 lines) ; in la Charrette, 34; in Guillaume
d' Angleterre, 34, and in Twain, 32. The percentage of three-
line sentences in Cliges is 19; in la Charrette, 16 (but in the
part ascribed to Godefroi de Laigni, 20) ; in Guillaume d'Angle-
terre, 20 (with a steady fall from 23 per cent, in the first 1,000
lines to 16 in the final 300), and in Twain, 18. The ratio of
overflow verses in these later poems is about the proportion
observed by ]£rec. So that, if we make due allowance for errors
and uncertainties, it is plain that, after a slight hesitation in the
first 3,000 lines of ISrec, Chretien settled down to a definite
scheme of varying the rhythm of the narrative couplet and delib-
erately broke every third one throughout his compositions. As
to the length of sentence which should follow this break, he
seems to have allotted to the three-line phrase a proportion of
about one in five. His innovation becomes all the more striking
when we compare his high percentage of broken couplets to the
moderate increase made by Gautier and Benoit over the propor-
tion of Eneas.

It would seem also that the other court poets of the time
considered Chretien too daring, and sided with temperate Gautier
and Benoit. The author of the Comte de Poitiers, assigned to
the years around 1170, observes an average of 17 per cent, for
broken couplets and 27 per cent, for sentences of three lines.1 A
slightly higher percentage, but still one which remains within the
limits set by Benoit, is found in Amadas et Ydoine, of uncertain
date, but probably not many years younger than Cliges. Its pro-
portion of broken couplets is 20 per cent. ; of three-line phrases,
25. Overflow verse runs as high as twelve in a thousand, thus
exceeding even the ratio of Twain.

From the testimony of these few witnesses we may infer that
Chretien's pre-eminence as a versifier was not admitted by his
contemporaries. Indeed, certain poems of the seventies or early
eighties react quite decidedly against the liberty taken even by
Gautier d' Arras and Benoit de Sainte-More. The Roman du

1 Tne Comte de Poitiers is thought to have been written by two different poets. The
so-called second part of the romance presents 3 per cent, less of broken couplets than the
first part, and 2.5 per cent, less of three-line sentences. It does not furnish any examples of
overflow verse, while the first half rivals the ratio in firec.

671

18 F. M. WARREN

Mont-Saint-Michel (about 1170) reverts to the older manner
entirely, with its 5.3 per cent, of broken couplets and 49 of three-
line sentences. De David la prophecie1 (1180) is still more
traditional, with 2.5 and 52 per cent., respectively. Partonopeus
de Blois allows but 4.5 per cent, to broken couplets, and 45 per
cent, to sentences of three lines. Ipomedon is only less reaction-
ary with its 10 per cent, of broken couplets and 32 per cent, of
three-line phrases. Neither of these romantic poems indulges to
any extent in overflow verse.

Finally, the Breton lais not ascribed to Marie de France
belong in great measure to the older school, whether because of
Marie's example in this respect, or because of the assumed reac-
tion against too free a handling. Melion offers 3 per cent, in
broken couplets and 87 per cent, in three -line sentences; le Cor,
5.7 and 17.5 per cent., respectively (a quite exceptional ratio
between the broken couplet and the three -line phrase) ; Tydorel
and Graelent, 7.5 and 55 per cent. ; Tyolet, 9 and 48 ; Desire, 10
and 42; Epine, 12 and 50; Guigemar, 15 and 33, and Doon, 17
and 32 — variations in broken couplets which are all included
between the minimum of Rou and the maximum of Troie.
Ignaure and the Mantel, obviously much later, come under
Chretien's influence with 33 and 27 per cent., and 42 and 18 per
cent., respectively.

From the facts thus obtained we would suppose the history of
the narrative couplet in the twelfth century to read somewhat as
follows: At first a strict adherence to the primary conception of
one couplet for one thought; then, toward the fifth decade, a
slight deviation from this conception in practice, but not in prin-
ciple. Representatives of this state would be found in the Ste.
Julienne, St. George, and Wace's St. Nicolas and Conception.
With Geoffrey Gaimar we enter on a new era, which is marked by
a desire to vary the monotony of the rhythm without destroying
the mold in which it was cast. The proportion of sentences of
three lines remains high, and would characterize the spirit which
governed this innovation.

With Wace, on the other hand, there is no progress. After a

i Published in Zeitschrift filr romanische Philologie, Vol. XIX, pp. 189-234.

672

FEATUKES OF STYLE IN EARLY FRENCH POETBY 19

temporary concession to Gaimar's idea — if it be his — at the begin-
ning of the Brut, he returns to the old standard, and maintains
it throughout the rest of that poem. In the JRou he shows him-
self an even stronger partisan of the traditional couplet, but lowers
the ratio of three-line phrases through the adoption of longer
periods. What he evidently wished to defend was the couplet in
itself, not the general status of old-time versification. In this
respect he was not so genuine a conservative as the author of
Thebes, whose proportion of broken 'couplets is low and of three-
line sentences high, as they should be. We therefore consider
this unknown poet a real exponent of the traditional manner,
breaking the couplet only when necessary to give expression to a
more extended thought. With him we would class the authors
of the Sept Sages, Floire et Blanchefleur, the Douce Folie Tristan,
and Marie de France's Espurgatoire — poems which probably cover
the sixth decade of the century, contemporaries of Wace's later
verse.

Meanwhile the notion of the couplet which had been championed
by Gaimar was gaining headway, especially in romantic literature.
In Thomas' Tristan, the Eneas, and the first part of Benoit's
Troie, it presents what we might call a natural development — a
larger, but still moderate, proportion of broken couplets, a con-
stantly high ratio of sentences of three lines. With these poems
may be classed Marie de France's lais. This stage marks the
limit beyond which the old style of narrative verse could not
safely go. The poets who belong to it vary their rhythm in
order to emphasize their thought. They do not break the couplet
wantonly.

But that an attempt was being made to do so, and that a con-
flict over the narrative couplet was in progress, seems clear from
the vacillation manifested in the larger part of Troie by Benoit de
Sainte-More. If the critical text which is being established by
Constans does not seriously affect the worth of our data, we may
see in Troie an author disturbed in his art by this literary strife,
wishing to ally himself with the winning side, but uncertain as to
the side. And so he breaks the couplet with increasing frequency
and avoids the three-line period, until, either his judgment or his

673

20 F. M. WARREN

own artistic instinct prompting, he settles down to a fairly mode-
rate employment of the broken couplet. But the concomitant of
short sentences he never recovers.1

Benoit wavers. His contemporary, Gautier d' Arras, less ingen-
uous than Benoit, chooses his position and abides by it. Eclectic
here as elsewhere, Gautier gives us the impression of a man who
does not wish to offend anyone. His use of the broken couplet
is considerably freer than its use with the common-sense school of
Thomas and the l£n6as, but in his first poem he maintains a high
ratio of short sentences after the break in the couplet. And when
he lowers that proportion in Tile et Galeron, without touching the
percentage of broken couplets he had set for himself, we are quite
sure he felt that the time was propitious for him to do so; for
Benoit, and Wace even, had set the example. Who will not say
that Gautier realized that the middle road to fortune was the safest
for the honest traveler?

Now, what was this occult force which occasioned good Benoit's
perturbations and kept the prosody of the fearful Gautier at an
unusual level of consistency ? Quite probably, it was the authority
of Chretien de Troyes, whose ISrec had just found favor with the
patrons of literature in France and England. For an analysis of
Chretien's versification reveals the fact that it was in JErec that
he changed his position as a .versifier. There from a radical
representative of the modified old school he became the founder
of the new. He begins lErec with a proportion of broken couplets
which but slightly exceeds the ratio adopted by the author of
En&as. But no sooner does he have his subject-matter well in
hand than he increases this proportion, and quickly reaches the
ratio which he preserved for the remainder of his writings.2 The
same steadiness is noticeable in Chretien's treatment of the
three-line sentence which follows the break in the couplet. Should
this supposition be valid — and it rests on quite as good a basis of
validity as the larger part of our accepted theories regarding the
literature of the twelfth century — then ^rec would have come to

1 The first half of Constans' text indicates a normal use of the three-line sentence. See
above, p. 16, note 1.

2 It is understood that Perceval is not included in this analysis, because of the unrelia-
bility of the Mons MS, the only one which has yet been printed.

674

FEATUKES OF STYLE IN EARLY FRENCH POETRY 21

Benoit's notice while he was in the very midst of Troie, arid would
have preceded both poems of Gautier d' Arras. The presence of
this sudden change in JErec would also furnish an argument for
those who claim that ISrec was Chretien's first long poem.1

After Chretien, and during his career, there are perhaps four
ways of handling the couplet: the traditional way, which held its
own for a time, particularly in didactic and historical poetry, and
received occasional recruits from romantic literature ; the developed
form of the traditional way, as represented by Tristan and the
$n6as; the moderate employment of the new rhythm established
by Chr6tien, which was adopted by Gautier d' Arras and the author
of Amadas et Ydoine; and, finally, the blind imitation of Chre"-
tien's excesses in prosody, which seems to be the standard for all
kinds of verse in the first half of the thirteenth century. But
during the great poet's literary career his followers were few in
number, and it is not likely that his days were so prolonged as
to enable him to witness the triumph of the rhythm he had so
persistently advocated.

F. M. WARREN
YALE UNIVERSITY

1 My own impression, from studying the literature of this period, is that Chr6tien began
his series of romances with one notion of composition firmly in mind, and this notion was to
limit the length of court poems. Thebes, £neas, and Tristan— which I think are earlier than
firec — not to mention a chronicle like the Brut, all violated his conception of proportion.
He intended to give them all a model in JSrec. The idea of wrecking the traditional struc-
ture of the couplet and its accompanying short sentence would seem to have come to him
afterward and during the process of composition. To this desire for symmetry in length I
would ascribe the addition of the Joie de la cour episode to j£rec, the extended introduction
on Alexander and Soredamour in Cliges, and the moderation of Godfrey de Laigni in ending
la Charrette. Gautier d' Arras follows him in this reform — it is hardly possible that Chre"-
tien could have followed Gautier— follows him to the extent of making his two poems
practically equal. Amadas et Ydoine, the answer to Cliges, exceeds it somewhat, but by
this time Chretien himself had wearied of his reform and was about to return to the old
measure in Perceval.

675

STUDIES IN CERVANTES

I. "PERSILES Y SIGISMUNDA"

II. THE QUESTION OP HELIODORUS

In my last article1 I said that Cervantes had a more cogent
reason for "daring to compete with Heliodorus" than the tradi-
tional one of merely aiming to follow some revered classical model.
For he realized that the romance of Theagenes and Chariklea
was, at the very time when the Persiles was being composed,
hardly considered by the popular mind as the work of a noted
ancient; in no sense did it take rank among the learned with
those standard Greek and Latin writers who have always served
in the study of classic literature. It was rather an intrinsic part
of contemporary Spanish fiction, and so was classed with such
romances as were current at the time. To confirm this, it will be
best to begin with specific proofs, and then proceed to such gen-
eralities as may strengthen the conclusion reached.

In one of the most charming plays which have come from the
pen of Lope de Vega, namely his amusing comedy La dama boba2 —
written about the time that Cervantes was busy with his Persiles—
the plot turns on the wholly different character of two sisters,
Nise and Finea.3 The former is an excellent type of the blue-
stocking or bachillera of the times, though not by any means
wholly without feminine charms; she is simply a devourer of all
kinds of literature, with a marked predilection for romance and
poetry — and young poets also. Finea, on the other hand, is
wholly illiterate, arid Lope, with his characteristic skill in por-

1 Modern Philology, Vol. IV (1906), p. 17.

2 An autograph MS of the play is preserved in the Biblioteca nacional at Madrid. It
is signed and dated April 28, 1613. All my citations will follow the reading of the MS, the
punctuation being my own. The text in the edition of the " Biblioteca de autores espanoles "
is very incorrect. (Vol. I of Comedias escogidas de Lope de Vega, pp. 297 ff.)

3 pues, Nise bella es la palma : And the father says a little later :
finea un roble, sin alma resuelbome en dos cosas que quisiera ;

v discurso de razon. pues ia vjrtud es bien que el medio siga,

Nise es muger tan discreta, que finea supiera mas que sabe,

sabia, gallarda, entendida, y Nise menos.

quanto nnea encogida, V<se! 238-4.1

boba, indigna y ynperreta.

-Act I, vss. 122-28.

677] 1 [MoDBEN PHILOLOGY, April, 1907

RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

traying the nature of women, emphasizes this contrast at the
first appearance of the sisters. Nise, the bachillera, has sent her
maid out to fetch what is apparently her favorite book. This is
no other than the romance of Theagenes and Chariklea, the work,
as she tells her maid, of "Eliodoro, griego poeta divino." But
the maid, who has taken a peep at the contents to learn what
could be of such absorbing interest to her mistress, does not see
why the author should be called poet. "Poeta?" she says, "pues,
me pareci6 prosa." Such ignorance affords Nise an opportunity
to extol the merits of the story, and her praise gives some idea of
the popularity which the novel must have enjoyed among the
readers of romantic tales.1 And later, when the ignorant sister,
the poor dama boba, has become clever and alert through the
intervention of love, the father of the two girls hopes that Nise
the learned may also have the benefit of a similar cure for her
eccentricities. But he realizes that her particular infirmity can-
not be remedied by such simple means ; for nothing could be far-
ther from the proper conception of a woman's duties than Nise's
unwarranted fondness for novels, sonnets, and poets in general.
The distracted father then gives a r6sum6 of the bachillera' s favo-
rite books, and in the rather lengthy list our Historia de dos
amantes sacada de lengua griega has the foremost place.2 After

i The scene is near the beginning of Act I :

Nise y Celia, criada.
Nis I diote el libro? | Cel \ y tal quo obliga

a no abrille ni tocalle.
Ni I pues, porque? | Celi \ por no ensucialle,

si quieres que te lo diga :

en candido pergamino

vienen muchas flores de oro.
Nis | bien lo mereze Eliodoro,

griego Poeta diuino.
Celi | poeta? pues, pareziome

prosa. Ni I tanbien ay Poessia

en prosa. Crli | no lo sabia :

mire el principio, y cansome.
Ni | es que no se da a entender

con el artificio griego

hasta el quinto libro, y luego

todo se viene a saber,

quanto precede a los quatro.

Cel | en fin, es poeta en prosa.
Nis | y de una Historia amorosa,

digna de aplauso y teatro.

ay dos prosas diferentes,

Poetica y historial :

la historial, lisa y leal,

cuenta verdades patentes

con f rasi y terminos claros ;

la Poetica es hermosa,

varia, culta, licenciosa

y escura, aun a ingenios raros :

tiene mil exornaciones

y Retoricas figuras.
Celi | pues, de cosas tan escuras

juzgan tantos? | Nis \ no le pones,

celia, pequefia objection ;

pero asi corre el engafio

del mundo. — Vss. 274-308.

2 Otavio speaks :
No son gracias de marido
sonetos : Nise es tentada
de academica endiosada,
que a casa los ha trahido.
quien le mete a una muger
con Petrarca y garcilaso,
siendo su virgilio y Taso
ylar, labrar, y cosor?
ayer sus librillos vi,
papeles y escritos varies ;

pense que debozionarios,
ydesta suerte lehi :
Historia de dos amantes
sacada de lengua griega,
Ri mas de Lope de vega,
galatea de cerbantes,
el Camoes de Lisboa,
los Pastores de Belen,
Comedias de don guillen
de Castro, liras de Ochoa,

678

Canzion que Luis velez dijo
en la Academia del duque
de Pastrana, obras de Luque,
cartas de don Juan de Arguijo,
cien sonetos de Liflan,
obras de Herrera el diuino,
el libro del peregrine,
y el picaro de Aleman ;
mas yo os canso : por mi vida,
que se los quise quemar.

—Act III, vss. 73-102.

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 3

weighing the manner in which Lope introduces this romance,
is fair to assume that so prominent mention of it would hardly
have been justified, had the story referred to not been well known
to the audience to which Lope constantly appealed ; no playwright
has ever known better than he how to keep in touch with the
varied interests of the masses for whose favor he chiefly wrote.

Only a few years later than the date of the play La dama boba,
another reference to the Greek romance can be found. It occurs
in the already mentioned novela,1 Las fortunas de Diana, also by
Lope de Vega, written about 1620 for his mistress, Dona Marta
de Nevares Santoyo (the Amarilis of so many of his writings), and
published in 1621. It is a story told solely for her entertainment,
hardly more than a mixture of improbable episodes, and treated
with no great skill. But its manner recalls some of the features
of the Greek romances and their imitators. So much Lope
himself admits, for in this particular story he first mentions
Heliodorus and, indirectly, Achilles Tatius as fit models to be fol-
lowed;2 and a little later he asks the reader's pardon for the man-
ner in which he develops the plot, justifying it by an appeal to
the style and method of the author of Theagenes and Chariklea*

The popular love for the Greek romance may be further mani-
fest from other testimony;4 for somewhat later than the period
under consideration the influence of Heliodorus, at least, still
made itself felt. In the third decade of the seventeenth century
the poet Montalbdn turned the adventures of Theagenes and
Chariklea into a drama, and after him Calder6n was also tempted

iln the previous article, op. cit., p. 10.

2"Asi, ahora en estas dos palabras . . . . se fundan tantos accidentes, tantos amores y
peligros, que quisiera ser un Heliodoro para contarlos, 6 el celebrado autor de la Leucipe,
y el enamorado Clitofonte." (Obras no dramaticas de Lope de Vega [" Biblioteca de autores
espafioles,"] p. 2, col 2.)

3 " Quien duda, .... que tendrd vuestra merced deseo de saber qu6 se hizo nuestro
Celio, que h& muchos tiempos que se embarc6 para las Indias, pareciendole que se ha descui-
dado la novela? Pues sepa vuestra merced que muchas voces hace esto mismo Heliodoro
con Teagenes, y otras con Clariquea (sic), para mayor gusto del que escucha, en la suspen-
sion de lo que espera." (Op. cit.< p. 10, col. 2.)

*In Cesar Oudin's reprint of Heliodorus (Paris, 1616) this testimony may be found in a
prologue al curioso lector : " . . . . pues no auia para que cansarse en querer alabar una
obra tan celebre y tan gustosa de suyo, que no aura nadie, por rustico y cafio que sea, que
si una vez se diere a leerla, no se vaya comiendo los dedos por acaballa, y si vuiera necessi-
dad de algun encarecimiento, no me faltaran palabras para ello," etc.

679

4 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

to make a play out of the material which Heliodorus offered.1
The Greek romance had thus been before the Spanish people in
various forms for more than a hundred years. In the eighteenth
century many readers continued to be fond of that type of story ;
perhaps because the age of reason did not penetrate into conser-
vative Spain sufficiently to undermine the characteristic Spanish
love for all literature of imagination and sentiment. This, at
least, explains the fact that a wholly new translation of Heliodorus
was printed,2 while the version by Mena went through another
edition.

But it is possible to explain why the romance of Heliodorus
became popular in Spain from the very character of fiction in the
sixteenth century. Let us begin with the list of works which
stood especially high in the esteem of Nise, the bachillera of
Lope's play La dama boba. While there is no reason for
believing that Lope made a deliberate selection of every title of
that list, inasmuch as he may have been guided in part by the
exigencies of rhyme, nevertheless, the popularity of the authors
selected must, in some cases, have influenced his choice. In look-
ing over the list, however, one is impressed at once by the pre-
dominance of verse. Of prose works which can be said to repre-
sent distinct types of fiction born on Spanish soil and reflecting
the life of Spanish society, there is a single one, the rogue-story.
But the novela picaresca, with that immense gap of almost fifty
years between the appearance of the Lazarillo in 1554(?)3 and
Aleman's Guzman de Alfarache in 1599, had not become a litera-
ture of considerable dimensions at the turn of the century. Nor

1 (a) Segundo tomo de las Comediasdel doctor Juan Perez de Montalban (Madrid, 1638).
The sixth play is entitled: Teagenes y Clariquea (Los Hijos de lafortuna) ; cf. Barrera, Cata-
logo del teatro antiguo, etc., on Montalban, p. 267. (6) Tercera parte de Comedias de don
Pedro Calderon de la Barca (Madrid, 1664). The fourth play is bis Los Hijos de lafortuna;
cf. Barrera, op. cit., on Calder6n, p. 51. It does not seem to me that Calder6n took even the
suggestion to write his play from Montalban. The romance itself may have been the first
cause. Mena's translation says: "Qu6 fortuna ha sido la vuestra? dixo Theagenes. No
querais que os la diga, seflor, respondi6 Gnemon; .... dejemosla para los que representan
tragedias," etc. (edition of 1787, Vol. I, p. 27). Lope also seems to have thought the material
fit for the stage ; cf . above p. 2, n. 1.

2 By F. M. de Castillejo (Madrid, 1722). The prologue of the last edition of Mena's
translation (1787) reiterates the praise which had been bestowed upon Heliodorus by Huet
in his TraiU de Vorigine des romans (1671).

3Cf. Foulch6-Delbosc's edition, in the "Biblioteca hispanica" (Barcelona and Madrid,
1900) ; restitucidn de la edicidn principe.

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 5

could it have gratified the different tastes of all the readers of
fiction. As a realistic sketch or reflection of some elements of
peninsular life in a bald, unidealized form, the rogue-story could
not satisfy the craving, common to every form of society, for a
kind of fiction which appeals to the heart and the imagination.
Women especially have at all times — in Lope's no less than our
own1 — demanded a literature of sentiment. This the rogue-story
was certainly not.

As regards the pastoral novel, which is represented in Nise's
list by the Galatea of Cervantes, the conclusion is equally unsat-
isfactory. Here we have a type which is not only of foreign
extraction, but one which never grew to be representative of Spanish
society. As an exotic plant, and while there was nothing better
to take the place of the romances of chivalry, the pastoral novel
appealed to the cultured element in the peninsula, above all to
the higher circles, which were more subservient to conventions
and etiquette. But its unnatural sentiments, its limited interpre-
tation of life, never gave it a far-reaching or lasting vogue ; the
very absence of all virility brought about its decline in popular
favor.2

Two other prose works in the list are Lope de Vega's sacred
pastoral, Los pastor es de Bel6n, which stands quite alone in its
religious character, and his Peregrino en su patria. The latter
composition, which approaches a love-story in some particulars,
must nevertheless be classed with the romans tfaventure, in which
the love between hero and heroine is so frequently lost sight of
amidst a host of unheard-of episodes. Thus the motley disposition
of the main plot — the sequence of shipwreck, captivity, escape,
and chance reunion, which characterizes the fate of the lovers —
allies the Peregrino in type with the main work of Nise's library,
namely that of Heliodorus. In placing the latter at the head of
the list, Lope seems to have acted deliberately ; for no other work

1 Lope is fond of presenting this type of woman, common in his time. In the Fortunas
de Diana there is mention of a girl " que era en extreme bachillera y hermosa, y picaba en
leer libros de caballerias y amores," etc. (op. cif., p. 9, col. 1).

2 The sterility and lifelessness of the pastoral novel were fully recognized in Cervantes'
day. See his charming characterization of that type of fiction in his Coloquio de los perros,
where Berganza contrasts the impossible existence of the shepherds of fiction with the real
pastoral life. Cf. Obras de Cervantes (" Biblioteca de autores espafioles"), p. 229, col. 1.

681

6 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

of fiction of the sixteenth century surpassed the romance of Thea-
genes and Chariklea in genuine feeling or nobility of sentiment ;
no other story could have appealed with equal force to the numer-
ous class of sentimental readers to which Nise and her kind
belonged. It is not my purpose to extol unduly the novel of
Heliodorus ; for it is certain that, from the modern standpoint, few
books of fiction are more tedious or less satisfying; few books
derive their reputation so completely from the influence they once
exerted upon great minds of the past, and through them upon the
later course of the novel. Nevertheless, by comparison with the
general literature of the sixteenth century during which the Thea-
genes took its place in the history of Spanish fiction, the excel-
lence of that story of adventure, and its consequent influence,
become manifest.

After a lapse of three and a half centuries, the long per-
spective allows us to observe two phenomena: the gradual falling-
off of the older literature, and the effort to produce something
new to give voice to the awakening spirit of the Renaissance in
Spain. The former is shown by the decay of that greatest type
of fiction, the romance of chivalry, and the second, by the natural
effort unconsciously put forth by writers, to create something
which would take its place in the affections of the people. Of all
the efforts, the creation of a love-story — that is, one which appeals
especially to the sensibilities of the reader — has a predominant
interest ; for the spirit which dictates it is based upon one of the
fundamental needs of human nature, namely that of distraction
and entertainment.1

Cervantes has said in an exquisite passage2 explaining the spirit
in which he offers his novelas to the public:

Mi intento ha sido poner en la plaza de nuestra republica una mesa
de trucos, donde cada unopueda llegar d entretenerse sin dafio de barras:
digo, sin dafio del alma ni del cuerpo; porque los exercicios honestos y
agradables antes aprovechan que dafian. Si; que no siempre se esta en
los templos, no siempre se ocupan los oratorios, no siempre se asiste & los

iCf. Menendezy Pelayo, Origenes de la n&vela (Madrid, 1905), p. ccxcvi; no one who
reads this extraordinary book can fail to profit by its wealth in ideas and abundance of
material; also p. v, of the Bosquejo histtirico sobre la novela espaflola, by D. E. Fernandez
de Navarrete, Vol. II of Noveli&tas posteriores d Cervantes, "Biblioteca de autores espafioles."

2 O&rcw, op. cit., p. 100.

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 7

negocios, por calificados que sean: horas hay de recreaci6n, donde el afli-
gido espiritu descanse: para este efeto se plantan las alamedas, se buscan
las fuentes, se allanan las cuestas, y se cultivan con curiosidad los jardines.

Now, of all fiction which is confessedly written for entertainment,
none is more in demand than the romance which tells of the love
of man and maid ; it is the one type which is reborn with a peren-
nially fresh interest. But at the time of which I am writing, it
was impossible to break entirely with the adventure-story which
had captivated the imagination of the people for centuries. There-
fore, no novels of the times are merely love-stories, and almost all
are modifications of the adventure type. Even Cervantes never
freed himself from that earlier manner of romancing, based upon
irrational chance incidents. Nevertheless, he justly claims to have
been the first to write short stories (novelar) in Spanish, because,
out of the various types with which he appears to have experi-
mented,1 he first and most successfully evolved a novel truly Span-
ish, with sentiment predominating over adventure. Up to his day
the novela had played only an unimportant part in fiction ; a lack
of conciseness in the portrayal of character, and flimsiness in pre-
senting national customs or manners, frequently prevented it from
being either artistic or alive. But the unsuccessful struggle of
the novela during the sixteenth century to gain a thoroughly
national existence proves that the genius of the Spanish Renais-
sance was incapable of confining itself within such limited dimen-
sions. The manner of the romance of chivalry was not easily
exchanged for the succinct style of Boccaccio. Therefore, the
more characteristic love-stories which were written during the
formative period of the sixteenth century were bound to take a
lengthy form.

But were any efforts successful in filling the gap in fiction ? Did

1 It would be difficult to define the term novela, if it were taken as inclusive of every
type contained in the collection by Cervantes. The best of the novelas— as a love-story— is,
in my opinion, the ilustre fregona. In the gitanilla and the espanola inglesa episodes of
the adventure type play a large part, while the amante liberal and the dos doncellas are good
examples of a pure conte d'aventure, in which chance and everything that is unlikely are
given a prominent share. In the fuerza de la sanyre and the sefiora Cot nelia erotic or sen-
timental traits predominate, but more after the Spanish fashion, while the celoso estremefio
is an erotic tale of the more realistic Italian manner. El Licenciado Vidriera^ Rinconete y
Cortadillo, and the coloquio de los perros stand quite alone as types, while the crass and
unrelieved realism of the casamiento engaftoso— and of the tia Jingida, if the story is by
Cervantes — prevents their being classed with any of the others.

683

8 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

the sixteenth century create any good specimen of love-story?
The list of Nise would indicate that such was not the case and a
search through the previous century bears Lope out in his choice.
It seems certain that none of the better-known romances of the
sixteenth century — such as the Historia de los amores de Clareo
y Flori$ea,1 the Queja y aviso contra amor, or the Selva de aven-
turas — enjoyed a popularity as prolonged as that of Heliodorus.
Nor were they sufficiently impressive or inspiring to serve as
models2 to others. There is a confusion of manners and senti-
ments in them; either they revert in spirit to the romance of
chivalry, or the abundance and the nature of the adventures leave
little room for any expression of genuine sentiment. Heliodorus,
therefore, filled a gap in the development of sixteenth-century
fiction, as far as was possible for a foreign work to do so; he
appeared in a modern garb at a transition period when the older
forms of fiction were beginning to lose their hold and no new form
had sufficiently matured to take their place. This does not mean
that the renascence of Heliodorus had an immediate far-reaching
effect in Spain. His popularity begins to be more generally felt
toward the end of the sixteenth, and it continues to grow during
the first decades of the seventeenth century.3 But the revival of
the Greek romance has something more than common interest for
the student of Renaissance fiction. It shows how a novel widely
known in ancient times can reappear with fresh vigor centuries
later, at the precise epoch when its own lineal descendants, the
romances of chivalry,* are about to pass off the scene, and a new
type of fiction is being born. Thus, Heliodorus contributed addi-

1 Cf . Menendez y Pelayo, op. cit., pp. cccxxxix ff. The influence of Niifiez de Reinoso on
Cervantes — and not only in the Persiles — was apparent to me some time ago, but I did
not see (previous article, p. 14, n. 1) the full extent of Nunez's indebtedness to Achilles
Tatius, perhaps because I did not have at my disposal the fragmentary Italian version
which the Spanish writer used.

2Cf. Men6ndez y Pelayo, op. cit., chap, vi, on the novela sentimental, the most erudite
treatment of the subject.

3 This may be inferred not only from the testimony of fiction. The numerous Spanish
editions of the Theagenes and Chariklea indicate that there was a demand for the book ;
and if we are guided by mere dates, its greatest popularity was attained about 1615, when
three editions were printed. The esteem in which Heliodorus was held was probably respon-
sible for the first Spanish issue (1617) of Los mas fleles amantes, Leucipe y Clitofonte, by
Achilles Tatius. This epoch coincides with the completion of the Persiles.

4 Cf . previous article, op. cit., p. 19.

684

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 9

tional elements to the history of the roman d? aventure, and at the
same time inspired or increased in fiction that sentimentality
which characterizes almost all the love-stories of the Renaissance.1
The romance of Theagenes and Chariklea is, therefore, one of
the important factors to be dealt with in any thorough considera-
tion of the literatures of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,
and not only in Spain, but throughout Europe. It would, how-
ever lead me too far afield to discuss all the translations of Helio-
dorus2 which were made after the first issue of the Greek original

1 Perhaps this is what is implied in an article by D. Julian Apralz, which I have not
seen, but which is quoted by J. L. Estelrich (Revista Contempordnea, July 15, 1900, p. 43) :
" TeAgenes y Cariclea fue el modelo de todas las novelas del g6nero amatorio, principalmente
del siglo xvii." (In " Apuntes para una historia de los estudios helSnicos en Espafia," Revista
de Espafia, Vol. XLVI.)

2 A word on the two earliest printed translations into Spanish may not come amiss.
The first, namely the anonymous one published at Antwerp in 1554, of which I possess a good
copy, is by far the more interesting, though not altogether the better in style nor the closer
to the original. The translator never saw either the Greek original or a Latin version of it,
but followed closely the wording of the French translation by Amyot. This fact lends his
version a flavor and charm which other translations do not possess. On the other hand, the
work by Fernando de Mena, printed at Alcala de Henares in 1587, with all its boasted accu-
racy of translation, has a more academic tone, and is, therefore, less pleasant reading. It
is difficult to say which version was read more about 1600. Lope, in La dama boba, plainly
refers to the anonymous one. When Nise says (cf. n. 2, p. 2) that "whatever precedes the first
four books is not known until the fifth, owing to the artificlo griego," she merely quotes
from the prologue of that version (p. 4). There we are told that the romance is full of
"muchos dichos notables, y palabras sentenciosas, muchas oraciones y platicas, en las
quales el artiflcio de eloquencia est& muy bien empleado, etc. Y cierto la disposicion es
singular, porque comienca en la mitadde la Historia .... y todauia los atrae[i.e.,lectores]
tambien con la ingeniosa leccion de su cuento, que no entienden lo que han leydo en el co'
mienco del primer libro, hasta que veen el fin del quinto." Nise's theory that "la [prosa]
historial, lisa y leal, cuenta verdades," etc., recalls: "la verdad de la historia [es] un poco
austera .... a causa que deue recitar lascos as simplemente, assi como han acontescido"
(p. 22). Which translation Cervantes knew, whether one or both, is difficult to determine. I
am inclined to think that it was the earlier, of which a second edition had appeared at Sala-
manca in 1581. The prologue, also from the French of Amyot, discusses the character of fiction,
and no doubt appealed to Cervantes. It says that " es menester^nuflJa^s cosas fingidas para
rMspfiagiffin^tPiaT' fer^mo^s de las vegdaderas;" ana again: "el artificio ae laTinuencion-
poetica .... consiste en tres cosas, primeramente en la Historia, de la que el fin es verda-
dero" (p. 3). In the Persiles Cervantes says (Obras, etc., op. cit,, p. 642, col. 1) : "es excelencia
de la historia [such ae his romance], que cualquiera cosa que en ella se escriba puede pasar
al sabor de la verdad que trae consigo." These similarities will be discussed in another
article. Finally, at the beginning of the first translation is placed a tabla de dichos graues
y agudos selected from the context. The Persiles is also filled with a number of aphorisms
and pithy sayings, the character of which recalls some of the tabla.

Mena (Prologo al lector) claims to have used only the Latin and Greek texts as a basis
for his version. I think he also used Amyot or the anonymous translation of 1554. The
following passages from the French and the two Spanish versions will serve as examples of
their style, and also show their relation in the wording. Amyot (1547) : " Si vous estes les
ombres & ames de ceux qui gtsent ici mortz estanduz, vous auez tord de nous venir encore
une autro fois molester, & troubler : car pour la plus grande partie vous vous estes deff aitz
les uns les autres de voz propres mains. Et quant a ceux qui ont est6 occiz par nous, vous
scauez que c' a este a bon droit, & selon la loy de iuste vengeance, pour repousser 1'iniure &

685

10 KUDOLPH SCHEVILL

in 1534; nor would it be particularly apposite to show how he
influenced the greater lights, as, for example, in Italy (a Tasso,
how he was devoured by Racine while still a lad at school, or how
he was imitated by novelists such as Georges de Scude'ry.1

From what has been said above, it may be clearer why Cervantes
considered it a daring thing to issue his story of the north in com-
petition with so popular a romance as that of Heliodorus ; but, in

11 outrage que vous atentiez faire a nostre pudicit6 : mais si vous estes hommes viuants, vous
menez vie de brigandz, comme il semble a vous voir, & estes suruenuz oportun6ment. Si
vous suplie que vous nous deliurez des maux & miseres qui nous enuironnent, & mettez fin a
la tragedie de nostre malheureuse vie, en nous donnant la mort. Elle leur disoit ces pitoy-
ables paroles," etc. Spanish (1554) : "Si vosotros soys las almas y espiritus destos que estan
aqui muertos, por cierto no teneys razon de nos venir, aun otra vez a enojar y turbar, porque
por la mayor parte vosotros os matastes los vnos a los otros, y quanto a los que son muertos
de nuestras manos, fue con justa razon y justicia, por vengar la injuria y vltraje, que con
nuestra honrra queriades cometer : mas si vosotros soys hombres biuos, y que hazeys vida
de salteadores, como parece en vuestro habito :' por cierto, a mejor tiempo no podriades
llegar, porque os suplico, que nos querays librar de tantos males y desdichas, como nos
rodean, y pongays fin a la tragedia de nuestra desdichada vida dando nos la muerte. Ella
les dezia estas piadosas palabras, etc." (p. 122). Spanish of Mena (1587) : "Si vosotros soys
las almas destos hombres que aqui estan muertos, por cierto que no teneys porque venirnos
a desassossegar y molestar, porque todos o la mayor parte, os aueys muerto los unos a los
otros. Y si algunos ay que lo han sido por nuestras manos, o por nuestra causa, ha sido
con mucha razon y derecho, lo uno por defender nuestras personas, y lo otro, por librar de
ofensa nuestra limpieza. Mas si soys hombres viuos, y hazeys vida de salteadores : como se
parece en vuestro trage, no podiades venir a mejor tiempo. Porque os ruego' todo quanto
puedo, que nos querays sacar de tantos males y miserias como nos rodean, dandonosla muer-
te, con la qual porneys fin a la tragedia de nuestra vida. Estas piadosas palabras les dezia
ella llorando," etc. (p. 4%). The translation of 1554 has occasionally something not to be
found in the French, while the version of 1587 now and then has a word found only in that
of 1554. The original Greek has (II, chap. 30) : 4>v\\a rivd <re KOI pi£as T£>V-'IVSIK£>V xal Aiflioiri-
KWV Kal Ai-yvTTTtW wi/ou/u.ei'ov eu>pa*a. The Latin has: "folia quaedam, et radices Indicas et
Aethiopicas te emere vidi." Here Amyot translates TWI/ 'ivSmStv by des Indes, and the 1554
version has de las Indicts, which Mena also has. If he had not been following the anony-
mous translation, he might have written la India (in Asia) and not las Indias—i. e., America.
Again, the 1554 edition has (p. 73) : "es vno de los preceptos y mandamientos que nos ensenan
nuestros sabios los que biuen desnudos [the latter idea not being in the original Greek, II,
chap. 31] y que por esso son llamados Gymnosophistas," etc. Mena writes (Vol. I, p. 206,
edition 1787) : "es uno de los preceptos y mandamientos de nuestros sabios los Gymnoso-
phistas," etc., and then puts in a footnote: "Los Gymnosophietas eran unos Philosophos
que solian andar desnudos." These are but examples of the possible relations of the two
versions.

iCf. P. L. Ginguen6, Histoire litteraire d'ltalie, 2d ed., Vol. V (Paris, 1824), p. 413; Dun-
lop-Liebrecht, Geschichte der Prosadichtungen (Berlin, 1851), pp. 14, 458; H. Koerting,
Geshichte des franzosischen Romans im XVII Jahrhundert (Oppeln u. Leipzig, 1891), Vol. I,
chap. 2; Petit de Julleville, Histoire de la langue et de la litterature franQaises (Paris, 1897-
98), Vol. IV, p. 441 ; Vol. V, p. 78 (XVII e siecle) ; E. Rohde, Der griechische Roman (Leipzig,
1900), p. 472, n.; Michael Oeftering, "Heliodorund seine Bedeutung fur die Litteratur," Vol.
XVIII of Litterarhistortsche Forschungen (Berlin, 1901). In the latter study (p. 70) Helio-
dorus's influence on John Barclay's Argents, Joannis Barclaii Argents (Parisiis, 1621), is
touched upon. This novel must be considered in connection with Spanish fiction, as there
were two translations made of it, and evidently much read in the peninsula ; cf. Nicolas
Antonio, Bibliotheca hisp. nova (Matriti, 1783), Vol. I, pp. 505, 812; Gallardo, Ensayo de una
biblioteca esp., Vol. II, col. 586, Vol. Ill, col. 1108; Schack, Geschichte der dramatischen
Litteratur, etc. (Frankfurt, 1854), Vol. Ill, p. 204; Koerting, op. cit., Vol. I, p. 137, n. 3.

686

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 11

order that it may be more manifest to what extent the mere frame-
work of the two romances are similar, let us consider each in turn.
Heliodorus divides his story into ten books. Book I: The reader
is introduced in medias res. Scene: the banks of the river Nile,
near one of its mouths. In the midst of remnants of a feast which
had apparently come to a sudden end, and among the corpses of
the former participants, a band of Egyptian robbers finds a wounded
youth. A maiden of unusual beauty is trying to bring him back
to life. As the robbers are about to claim their booty, they are
attacked and driven off by another band; the youth and maiden
are carried away to a retreat upon an island in one of the lakes
near the mouths of the Nile. Theagenes and Chariklea — who
are thus presented — are handed over to the care of a young
Greek, Knemon, who helps them to forget the anxieties of the
dreadful night by telling the story of his adventures. His tale is
interrupted by the break of dawn. A division of the booty is now
to be made, Thyamis, the captain of the band, claiming for him-
self only the beautiful maiden Chariklea. At this point the hero-
ine announces herself and Theagenes as sister and brother who had
been driven by ill fortune to the Egyptian coast. An offer of
marriage made to her by Thyamis is not refused, but she succeeds
in having its consummation put off. Here the first band of rob-
bers reappears; Chariklea is concealed in a cave, while the battle
between the newcomers and her captors is raging. Thyamis is
routed, and, thinking Chariklea lost to him, he decides to kill her.
After stabbing another female whom in the dark cave he mistook
for Chariklea, he returns to the fight to die, but is captured alive.
Book II: Theagenes and Knemon, in search of Chariklea, find
her of course in the cave. Knemon' s narrative of his adventures
is then taken up again. He finally sets out for the village Chem-
mis, where Theagenes and Chariklea agree to meet him. Upon
the road Knemon overtakes an aged Greek, who leads him to
Chemmis, where both are lodged at the house of Nausikles. The
latter happens to be absent, but the honors are done by a pretty
daughter. While reclining at the meal, the old Greek tells Kne-
mon the story of his life. He is Kalasiris, once a prophet at
Memphis, but now for many years an exile from his country.

687

12 RUDOLPH SOHEVILL

After many wanderings he had reached Delphi. Here he meets
Charikles, the priest of the Pythian Apollo, and his foster-child,
the beautiful Chariklea. At the Pythian festival a youth appears,
excelling in stature and beauty. He is Theagenes, and the oracle
prophesies a long series of adventures for him and Chariklea.
Books III, IV: Hero and heroine meet and fall in love with one
another. We learn further of their languishing ; of the trick of
Kalasiris to bring them together; of the birth and parentage of
Chariklea who, when a child, had been exposed by her mother,
queen of the Ethiopians. Kalasiris tells Chariklea of her real origin,
and, with the consent of Apollo and Artemis, flight to Egypt is
planned. Theagenes and his followers make a prearranged attack
on the house of Charikles and abduct his daughter. Book V: The
runaways set sail on a boat bound for Carthage, and their wander-
ings begin. At this point the narrative of Kalasiris is interrupted
by the entrance of Nausikles, who, with his soldiers, has found
Theagenes and Chariklea. The former is sent to Memphis; the
latter is retained as a slave. Kalasiris, however, buys Chariklea,
and then continues his interrupted story of the wanderings of the
lovers, up to the time when they reach the mouth of the Nile.
Their experiences include flights from pirates, capture by them,
storm at sea, and a perilous landing. At a feast which follows, the
leaders of the pirates quarrel over the possession of Chariklea; a
bloody battle ensues, which ends with the death of all the crew.
We have thus caught up with the opening of the story. Book VI:
Knemon tells how he came to Egypt. In the meantime Theagenes
has again fallen into the hands of Thyamis and his robber band;
Kalasiris and Chariklea, disguised as beggars, go in search of
Theagenes, Knemon remaining behind to wed the daughter of
Nausikles. Book VII: With the help of Theagenes, Thyamis
besieges Memphis in order to regain his rights to the priesthood,
of which he had been deprived by the wiles of a brother. Peace
is made, and the two brothers become reconciled through the
efforts of Kalasiris, who arrives at the opportune moment and is
discovered to be their father. Arsake, the wife of the satrap, now
falls in love with Theagenes, and to gain her ends she is assisted
by a crafty old woman, Kybele. But nothing can turn to Arsake

688

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 13

the love which Theagenes feels for Chariklea only. Book VIII :
Arsake, in her rage, orders Theagenes to be tortured and Cha-
riklea poisoned; but, of course, nothing so terrible ever happens.
Kybele drinks the poison by mistake; Chariklea is accused of
mrrder and condemned to be burned, but she is saved by the
miraculous power of a ring in her possession. She and Theagenes
are then carried away at the command of the satrap, while Arsake
hangs herself. Upon the road to Thebes the lovers are captured by
scouts of the Ethiopian army, and brought to the king, Hydaspes.
Book IX: We now learn about the siege of the city Syene and
the battle between the satrap Oroondates and Hydaspes. The
former is defeated and captured, together with Theagenes and
Chariklea. The latter, in reality an Ethiopian princess, defers
making herself known to her parents, and both she and her lover
are condemned to be sacrificed to the native gods, the Sun and
Moon. Book X: Hydaspes returns to his capital. A great crowd
has assembled to celebrate a festival at which the victims are to
be sacrificed. Just as the immolation is about to take place, Cha-
riklea discovers her identity to her parents, the king and queen of
Ethiopia, and is spared. In the meantime, Theagenes, confes-
sedly not her brother, performs some great feats of strength and
skill by subduing a wild bull and defeating a huge athletic Ethio-
pian in single combat. This enhances his popularity with the
crowd, which advocates his release ; and when all the relationships
are cleared up Theagenes is also spared, and the lovers are
united amid general rejoicing.1

Let us now contrast with the plot of the foregoing story the
general contents of the Spanish romance. As in the former story,
we again begin in the midst of things. The hero, Periandro, has
been captured by pirates ; the vessel is wrecked ; Periandro alone
survives, and is taken up by another boat under the command of
the Danish prince Arnaldo. The latter happened to be cruising
in search of a maiden, Auristela, whom he had obtained from
some pirates, but she had again been abducted by others. Peri-
andro, who is also trying to discover the whereabouts of this same
Auristela, acquaints Arnaldo with the object of his search, but

1 1 have in part followed the excellent resume given by Rohde, op. cit., pp. 453 ff.

14 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

gives himself out as her brother. In the disguise of a maiden he
is then sold to some barbarians who inhabit an island upon which
Auristela is presumably to be found. The savage, Bradamiro,
falls in love with the supposed girl. Auristela — disguised as a
man — and her old nurse are quite naturally found upon the island.
When the lot of the captives is about to be decided, a quarrel
arises among the savages, which ends in a general carnage and
devastation of the island by fire. Periandro and Auristela, however,
are saved and conducted to a cave, where their rescuer, a Span-
iard who for a long time has been an inhabitant of the island, gives
the history of his adventures. All then set out together for
another island, where they meet an Italian, Rutilio, who also tells
the story of his life. Shortly after the termination of his narra-
tive a Portuguese singer is picked up, and we get another tale
of adventure. The wanderers now reach an island, Golandia,
where the whole party is well received. Shortly thereafter we
make the acquaintance of several newcomers, whose arrival leads
to the chance reunion of some long-separated wanderers. In the
meantime, Prince Arnaldo again arrives upon the scene and
demands Auristela in marriage from her supposed brother, Peri-
andro. The reply is a vague acceptance, coupled with the request
for a delay until Auristela has completed a pilgrimage to Rome in
fulfilment of a certain vow. The wanderers therefore set out once
more ; another shipwreck follows, and Periandro and Auristela are
again separated. By following the adventures of the latter, we
hear of the experiences of various travelers who are met in the
northern seas, and incidentally of the festivities held at the court
of King Policarpo. Periandro, who had taken part in various
games, astonished all the spectators by his superior skill, and
especially impresses the daughter of the king. The very next
shipwreck lands Auristela and her party on the island of King
Policarpo, where all are again reunited. Complicated love-affairs
follow, the telling of which by the author himself is interrupted
several times by the narrative of Periandro, who recalls former
adventures of himself and Auristela, both by land and sea, thus
bringing the story up to that very moment of their wanderings.
The king in the meantime plans to get possession of Auristela,

690

STUDIES IN CEBVANTES 15

but the whole party manages to escape to another island. Here
there are numerous leave-takings ; the hero and heroine together
with a few of their friends finally set out for Lisbon, where they
arrive without any further mishap. Here ends the more or less
irrational first half of the romance. The pilgrims now enter on
an interesting peregrination through Spain, France, and Italy.
Numerous adventures, stories or short novelets, love-affairs, all
told in a manner very characteristic of Cervantes, are introduced.
In due time we hear of the early history and the true relation of
Periandro and Auristela, together with the origin of their pilgrim-
age to Rome. Finally, Auristela having fulfilled her vow, and
all other difficulties having been overcome, she and Periandro,
who are in reality a prince and princess with the names Persiles
and Sigismunda, are happily married and return to their northern
home.

In order to limit myself strictly to the skeleton of each story,
I have been obliged to pass over secondary episodes and minor
characters. It is, therefore, to be expected that the resume" would
be somewhat dry and lifeless. In the case of Cervantes especially,
I feel that I have played into the hands of his detractors who
think it were better had he never written his last romance. My
object, however, is not to rehabilitate the whole work as a novel,
but to show its vital importance in any thorough study of the mind
of Spain's greatest writer. It will, nevertheless, be possible, from
the bare framework of the two stories, to get a general idea of the
extent to which Cervantes was inspired by his model. The chief
points of similarity are apparent at once. As regards the bald
machinery of adventure, a comparison of the two romans tfaven-
ture includes, roughly speaking, only the first half of the Persiles;
the second half has a tangible world for a background, while the
spirit of its narrative finds a better parallel in the novelas exem-
plar es, or in parts of the Galatea and of the Don Quixote, than
in Heliodorus. Similarity of detail is also confined almost entirely
to the first half. Let us now see which of the larger features of
the two romances correspond.

From the resume" above it can be seen that Cervantes, like
Heliodorus, plunges into the midst of the adventures which he is

691

16 KUDOLPH SCHEVILL

about to tell.1 There is, however, a greater air of mystery about
the identity of his hero and heroine, whose exalted origin is not
disclosed until the end of the romance. Their career, as in the
case of Theagenes and Chariklea, is made known piecemeal, and
during the intermissions or respites inserted between the events
which actually take place before the reader. At such intervals
the story told by the protagonists themselves reverts to episodes
of the past and gradually brings the events up to the time of nar-
ration. Stories of adventure are greatly multiplied in Cervantes;
they are especially frequent while Periandro and Auristela are
lost in the northern seas, blown from island to island, upon all of
which they meet children of adverse fortune like themselves. In
Heliodorus all the narratives are sections which, if put together
in proper order, constitute the whole plot; in Cervantes an occa-
sional short story, told in his best vein, is introduced for the mere
pleasure of telling it, and by a character who has nothing to do
with the main thread of the story. The manner of these digres-
sions was not necessarily suggested by Heliodorus, because it was
already old and well known in fiction. But, like the Greek
romance, the Persiles is a sequence of episodes, whose chief fas-
cination is the risk to which the lives of hero and heroine are con-
stantly exposed. Both works show equally the whims and the
powers of chance; both dwell almost dd nauseam on man's need
of a blind faith in Providence which points the goal, smooths the
rough road, and assures a safe outcome. In this sense both plots
appeal to a peculiar power of imagination, to a childish love of
illusions wholly incomprehensible today. To readers of the
Renaissance, perhaps, the real charm of both romances lay in this
fact, that in spite of the caprices of outrageous fortune, the pro-
tagonists surmount all adversity, thus lifting the reader as well
as themselves into a higher world where everything does not con-
stantly fade into the light of common day.

In drawing his chief characters, Cervantes has certainly not
surpassed Heliodorus. Auristela even falls behind Chariklea ; for,
while the latter is alive and interesting, the former is hardly more

1 In this order of the narrative, romancers have of course always had before them the
great models, Homer and Virgil; cf. Rohde, op. cit., p. 474. Cervantes had already tried it
in the Amante liberal, which also begins in the middle of the hero's career.

692

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 17

than beautiful, modest, and long-suffering, all of which are quali-
ties both flimsy and conventional. The minor characters of both
romances are, as in practically all rpmans d'aventure, vaguely
denned. In Cervantes especially the persons introduced are at
times merely the pegs on which to hang some adventure, while
his particular qualities are more easily recognized in those minor
touches where he presents town-life in Spain, or gives some enter-
taining traits about his own people and their manners.1 In both
novels there is an occasional opposition between the powers of
virtue and vice, of good and evil, personified in people who hazily
cross the scene and leave little impression on the reader. Finally,
the machinery of adventure of both stories is the same in such
generalities as recurrent shipwrecks, abduction, separation, grief,
hardships (trabajos), and ultimate sentimental chance reunion of
the two lovers, el dia menos pensado.2

As regards similarity in details, in no single case does an imi-
tation by Cervantes follow the exact lines of the model. The fol-
lowing episodes show this most clearly.3 In the Greek romance

i Cf. for example, Book III, chaps. 8 and 10, of the Persiles.

2Cf. Rohde, op. cit., pp. 182, 405; it is of interest to consider who was the first romancer
to launch a loving couple upon the sea of these intricate wanderings. On Antonius Diogenes,
cf. Rohde, op. cit., p. 296.

31 select the salient points from the rather lengthy episode in Heliodorus, quoting from
the earliest edition (1554). Kalasiris is telling the story; the pirates are feasting when Pelo-
rus, second in command, begins the quarrel: "Que es lo que impide, seflor Trachino, que
no aya yo recebido el salario que se me deue por auer entrado el primero en la naoH Porque
no lo has aun pedido, dixo Trachino entonces, y tambien no han aun partido el robo y presa.
Yo pido pues (respondio el Peloro) la donzella presa. Demanda todo lo que quisieres (dixo
Trachino), excepto a ella, y darsete ha" (p. 148) ". . . . Luego que vuo dicho.estas palabras,
vos dixerades, que era la misma mar en tempestad .... vnos haziendose del vando de

Trachino, otros de Peloro En fin Trachino alco la mano para herir a Peloro con la copa

que tenia : mas Peloro que antes se auia apercebido, se adelanto, y le dio con vn punal en
los pechos : el golpe fue tan derecho, que Trachino cayo tendido muerto. Entonces se en-
cendio entre los otros vna guerra sin piedad, y se matauan los vnos a los otros, sin perdonar
a persona" (pp. 1482, 149). (On pp. 92 ff. the slaughter is also described, and p. 33 Chariklea
tells of it.) The robber band now comes up and carries off Theagenes and Chariklea. On
the following day the second battle occurs : *' Se veya muy bien como los enemigos prendian
todos los que morauan a orillas del lago, y como ponian fuego a todas aquellas cabanas
. . . : y como el viento era en extreme impetuoso, lleuaua la llama a las canas y espadafias
del lago, y las abrasaua de tal manera, que los ojos no podian sufrir la claridad que salia
dellas, ni los oydos el gran ruydo, que la llama hazia" (pp. 39, 392). The enemy, after its
victory, moves off: y viendo que la noche se acercaua, tuuieron miedo de mas quedar alii
. . . . y despues de auer, como dicho es, puesto el fuego en toda la ysla, se tornaron para los
suyos" (p. 43); and the opening of Book II: " Assi pues estaua toda la ysla ardiendo.1'
Thyamis, before the fight, had commanded Gnomon, the Greek interpreter, to take Chari-
klea away for safety: "Tomalda, y metelda en la cueua que vos sabeys" (p. 372).

The condensed episode in the Persiles runs thus, quoting from Obras etc., op. cit. : "el
barbaro Bradamiro .... llegandose & los dos, asi6 de la una mano & Auristela y de la otra &

18 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

it is the striking scene at the beginning. Theagenes and Chariklea
have arrived on the coast of Egypt in the hands of pirates. One of
the leaders claims Chariklea as his booty ; he is, however, at once
slain by his rival ; whereupon a fierce fight begins, in which all are
killed save the hero and heroine. They are carried off by a band
of robbers, but a second band comes up and gives battle for the
spoils, while Chariklea, in charge of a Greek who acts as inter-
preter, is concealed for safety in a cave. In the meantime the
whole island is consumed by flames. Near the beginning of the
Persiles we learn that Auristela has been sold by pirates to some
savages upon an island where Periandro, who is searching for her,
also arrives. Each has landed in the disguise of the opposite sex.1
The savage Bradamiro claims the supposed girl for himself.

Periandro, y con semblante amenazador y ademan soberbio, en alta voz dijo : Ninguno sea
osado, si es que estima en algo su vida, de tocar & estos dos, aun en un solo cabello: esta don-
cella es mia .... Apenas hubo dicho esto, cuando el barbaro gobernador, indignado 6 impa-
ciente sobremanera, puso una grande y aguda flecha en el arco, y desvi&ndole de si cuanto
pudo extenderse el brazo izquierdo, .... dispar6 la flecha con tan buen tino v con tanta
furia, que en un instante Ileg6 a la boca de Bradamiro, y se la cerr6 quitandole el movi-
miento de la lengua, y sacandole el alma . . . . ; pero no hizo tan & su salvo el tiro .... por-
que unhijo de Corsicurbo .... en dos brincos se puso junto al capitan, y alzando el brazo
le envain6 en el pecho un puflal .... Cerr6 el capitan en sempiterna noche los ojos . . . . ;
alborot6 los pechos y los corazones de los parientes de entrambos, puso las armas en las
manos de todos ; . . . arremetieron los unos & los otros, sin respetar el hijo al padre ; . . .
los que debian ser de la parcialidad de Bradamiro, se desviaron de la contienda, y fueron &
poner fuego & una selva . . . . : comenzaron a arder los arboles y a f avorecer la ira el viento ;
.... los gemidos de los que morian, las voces de los que amenazaban, los estallidos del
fuego, no en los corazones de los barbaros ponian miedo alguno .... Ya casi cerraba la
noche . . . . y solas las llamas de la abrasada eelva daban luz bastante para divisar las

cosas cuando un barbaro mancebo se Ileg6 a Periandro, y en lengua castellana, que

del fue bien entendida, le dijo: Sigueme, etc. [Periandro — it can be inferred — acts as
interpreter for the rest who do not know Spanish.] .... habiendo andado como una milla
. . . . se entr6 el barbaro por una espaciosa cueva " (p. 565, cols. 2 fif.). The sequence of the
events differs somewhat in Heliodorus, because the details are disclosed in part by a later
narrative. Some of the material for such scenes already existed in Spanish literature. The
numerous acts of piracy committed in the basin of the Mediterranean were quickly reflected
in fiction, as is proven by the frequent pictures of havoc, abduction, shipwreck, separation,
and the like. Cervantes tells us in chap. 41, Part I, of Don Quixote, that the inhabitants of
the southern coast "no se admirauan de ver cautiuos libres, ni Moros cautiuos; porque toda
la gente de aquella costa estd hecha d ver los unos, y d los otros" As early as the fifth book
of the Galatea Cervantes wrote a short roman d'aventure, with all the usual machinery.
Another can be found in Lope's Peregrino, while El amante liberal is merely a novel of adven-
ture in the form of a short story. In the particular scenes quoted above, however, the man-
ner of the Greek romances is uppermost. Their influence is also probable in two other scenes
of bloodshed in the Persiles, p. 608, col. 2; p. 612, col. 2 — both on shipboard.

i Disguises are features of common occurrence in the pastoral novels of which I hope
to speak later in connection with the Persiles. On a particular kind of disguise see an
article by my colleague, Professor Hanus Oertel, "Contributions from the Jaiminiya Brah-
mana to the History of the Brahmana Literature," Journal of the American Oriental
Society, Vol. XXVI (1905), pp. 310 f.

694

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 19

Hereupon his angry chieftain slays him on the spot, and a gene-
ral slaughter ensues among the barbarians, some of whom set fire
to the whole island. The wanderers are saved and under the care of
a Spaniard, to whom Periandro can make himself understood,
are conducted safely to a cave. Furthermore, in some minor epi-
sodes, Cervantes was probably influenced by an experience of
Theagenes. As a model of loyalty and virtue, the latter resists
the blandishments of the satrap's wife, Arsake.1 Similarly the
young Antonio is shocked on one occasion by the advances of
Rosamunda,2 and upon another by those of the old hag Cenotia;3
Periandro likewise remains unshaken by the charms of the courte-
san Hip6lita.4 But in the episodes of the Persiles, charms, witch-
craft, magic potions, and go-betweens play an important part, thus
making it more than probable that such contemporary fiction as
was influenced by the Celestina literature must be taken into
account also.

As far as minor similarities go, chiefly in manner, and occa-
sionally in ideas, it is impossible to maintain any sequence on
account of the sporadic appearance of the parallels. I have, there-
fore, grouped together related passages in an appendix, so that they
may speak for themselves.5 Not a few quotations from the Persiles
may awaken a justifiable doubt about the propriety of ascribing
their source to Heliodorus merely because they resemble traits of
his romance. For not only had the spirit as well as some indi-

i She had already failed in her attempts on Thyamis : " Arsace de ventura se hallo en el
templo de Isis, y luego se enamoro deste mancebo honesto y hermoso, y que principalmente
estaua entonces en la flor de su edad . . . . , y luego comenco a le mirar impudica y des-
honestamente, y a le hazer senas lasciuas, y mensajes de suzia concupiscencia. Los quales
emplazos y llamamientos Thyamis no recebia (p. 1722). Then she falls in love with Theagenes
(p. 1822), who is aware of it: "Theagenes juntando las palabras de Cybele con los gestos
y meneos que auia visto hazer el dia antes a Arsace, . . . . y trayendo tambien a la memoria,
como ella auia tenido siempre los ojos hincados desbonestamenteen el, .... conoscio luego,
que la salida de todo esto no podria ser muy buena " (p. 188) ; he ^ells Chariklea : " Entonces
Chariclea le respondio : No sera menester por la primera vista, resistirle del todo, antes en
el principio venir con su voluntad y desseo, y fingir, que quereys en todo y por todo cumplir
lo que os quisiere maudar " (p. 194) ; Arsake fails, and her go-between tells her : kl Nosotros
trabajamos embalde, seflora mia, porque este coracon [i. e., of Theagenes] de marmol no se
ablanda, antes esta cada dia mas osado, duro, y fiero, teuiendo siempre esta Chariclea en la
boca etc." (p. 216).

a Cf . p. 585, cols. 2 ff . of the Perailes. 3 Cf. p. 602, cols. 1 ff .

* Cf. p. 669, cols. 2 ff .

5 See end of article, pp. 22 ff .

695

20 KUDOLPH SCHEVILL

vidual features of the Greek novel made themselves felt in con-
temporary fiction before the Persiles was composed, but similar
traits can be found in such types as the romances of chivalry or
the pastoral novels which antedate the earliest translations of
Heliodorus. \> It seems, therefore, that apart from the "maquina
de las peregrinaciones," to use an apt phrase from the Persiles,
Cervantes assimilated from Heliodorus, for the most part uncon-
sciously, only certain traits which were popular at the time, namely
the romantic, the imaginative, the emotional, and, frequently, the
sentimental. H The recurrence of these qualities in his own as well
as in the Greek romance may have led him to assert that he was
competing with Heliodorus; but the meagerness of direct imita-
tion should keep us from overstating the latter's influence.1

There can be no reasonable doubt that Cervantes knew the
story of Theagenes and Chariklea long before he composed the
Persiles. The manner of that romance is too apparent in all his
prose writings. When he first became acquainted with it is
impossible to say. Perhaps the issue of 1581 (Salamanca) fell
into his hands shortly after his return from captivity ; though it
is just as likely that, as a boy, he knew the earliest version. As
regards the Galatea (1585) the parallel passages given in the
notes above indicate, though not exhaustively, how Cervantes
was influenced by Heliodorus at that early date. Not only the
machinery of adventure is apparent in parts of the Galatea,2 but at
times it seems as though a phrase might have come bodily from
Heliodorus.3 In Don Quixote the manner of the Greek romance

1 Men6ndez y Pelayo, op. cit., p. viii, says : " El Tedgenes y Cariclea .... tiene la gloria
de haber inspirado el ultimo libro de Cervantes," which is qualified later by a remark on
the Persiles, u donde la imitaci6n del Tedgenes es menor de lo que generalmente se cree y de
lo que da a entender el mismo Cervantes " (p. cccxlii). A comparison of the two romances
makes it clear also how different they can be in tone. One example from Heliodorus will
suffice: " Entonces Gnemon y Thermutis, asiendo de vno de los carneros que yua delante
los otros, le mataron, y cortando la came, la assaron vn poco al fuego que los pastores para
si auian hecho, y comengaron a tragar della, que no pudieron suf rir que se acabasse de assar
por la gran hambre que tenian, y engullauan los grandes pedagos de carne, como si fueran
lobos hambrientos, assi a medio assar, de suerte que comiendola, la sangre les corria por
los carrillos," etc. (p. 59).

2 Compare, for example, the narrative of Kalasiris (Book V), pp. 134 ff., telling of his
wanderings, with the story of Timbrio, beginning: " despuesquela fortuna,1' etc. (p. 68, col.
1, of the Galatea).

3Cf. : "que de Nlsida se podia creer y conjeturar, que po? ver a Timbrio ausente se
habria partido en su busca ; y que si entonces la fortuna por tan extrafios accidentes los
habia apartado, agora por otros no menos extrafios sabria juntarlos " (p. 38, col. 1).

696

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 21

is rarely apparent; the subject did not warrant it. One reference,
however, implies an acquaintance with the Theagenes. This is
the statement made by Don Quixote about the ginosofistas de Etio-
pia.1 Clemencin, after referring to Pliny and Apuleius, "who
make India the home of the gymnosophists," says "no se" por
donde pudo ocurrir ponerlos en la Etiopia." He had momentarily
forgotten the Historia ethiopica de Heliodoro, where there are
numerous references to those peculiar philosophers.2 In the nove-
las there are also some passages which must be considered; a
few have already been referred to, but the more important ones
may be grouped together at this point.3 There is hardly an epi-

1 Cf. Edition Clemencin (Madrid, 1894), Vol. IV (Part I, chap. 47), p. 168: "[soy] de aque-
llos que a despecho y pesar de la misma envidia, y de cuantos magos cri6 Persia, bracmanes
la India, ginosofistas la Etiopia, ban de poner su nombre en el templo de la inmortalidad."

2 Some of the places are : " nuestros sabios los que biuen desmidos, y por esso son llama-
dos Gymnosophistas " (p. 73) ; "ella se fue a los sabios Gimnosophistas, que morauan en el
templo del Dios Pan," etc. (p. 2582) ; p. 2602; "en otro pauellon junto a el estauan .... las
estatuas de los medios Dioses .... que los Reyes de Ethiopia tienen como a sus anteces,
sores, y autores de su linaje. Estas ymagenes estauan en vn altar alto, y a sus pies auia
vnos estrados, en los quales estauan sentados los sabios Gimnosophistas," etc. (p. 261) ; also
pp. 2642, 268, 283.

3 The main features of the episode of exposure and recognition (Book X) are these:
Chariklea is exposed as a babe ; she is intrusted to her foster-father, Charikles, together
with a necklace, ring, etc., and a cloth upon which her history is embroidered (Book IV).
These are used later for her identification. When she sees her mother again, she is a mature,
beautiful maiden : "Chariclea .... vino, echando sus ojos .... derechos a su madre Per-
sina. De suerte que ella de verla tan solamente, se le reboluio toda la sangre en el cuerpo-
y dando vn gran sospiro de lo mas intimo de su coracon, dixo al Rey . . . . : que donzella
aueys escogido para el sacrificio ! .... A Dioses, y que gran lastima es, hazerla assi morir
en la flor de su edad y hermosura. Si la hija que yo vna vez pari, y que tan desdichadamente
perdi, estuuiesse agora biua, ella seria de la edad de esta" (p. 262). Chariklea shows the
cloth to her mother : " La qual, luego que le vio, como vna persona fuera di si estuuo mucho
tiempo mirando vna vez lo que en el estaua escrito, y otra a la donzella, .... y .... estaua
en gran pena, como seria possible, hazer creer al Rey su marido vna cosa tan fuera de
camino" (p. 2672). The necklace and the rest are brought out (p. 2682) ; "el Rey Hydaspes
no supo mas que dezir, ni de que dudar, y estuuo vn gran tiempo pensatiuo;" Sisimithres
then approaches Chariklea : " Mostrad vuestro braco desnudo, hija mia. Lo qual ella hizo,
y se hallo, que tenia poco mas arriba del codo vn lunar negro, como una cuenta de hebano,
etc. Entonces no se pudo tener la Reyna Persina, . . . . y fuesse con gran alegria a la abra-
car y besar : y teniendola abragada, las lagrimas le corrian por el rostro." Hydaspes is now
persuaded that Chariklea is his daughter and embraces Persina, who had fainted through joy
(pp. 270 ff.). Theagenes is finally considered : " Mas quien es aquel mancebo que fue preso
con vos, y que agora esta junto a los altares para ser sacrificado?" Chariklea wishes to die
with him : " Porque los dioses, .... han predestinado a este mancebo a biuir y morir junto
conmigo" (pp. 2732 ff.). Theagenes finally is declared of noble extraction and so becomes
worthy of Chariklea, and considering " la su mucha firmeza en amar," the reward is assured
them, and "los mas secretes misterios de las bodas fueron con mucha alegria cumplidos "
(pp. 2912, 292). A careful scrutiny of La Gitanilla, O&ras, op. cit., p. 116, col. 1, to the close
of the story will show how much Cervantes was influenced by Heliodorus. See also the
recognition scene in La espafiola inglesa (p. 151, col. 1), beginning with "pusieron los ojos
en Isabela ;" in La ilystre fregona cf. the history of Costanza (p. 195, col. 1 ff.) ; a variation
of the motif in Cornelia's recognition of her babe, p. 215, col. 1, of La Senora Cornelia; in the

697

22 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

sode in the old romance which has left as definite a trace in litera-
ture as the exposure and final recognition of Chariklea by her
parents,1 and it is therefore not surprising to find these motifs seve-
ral times in the novelas. The remaining features which betray
the manner of Heliodorus are generally such nonessential ones as
had already become incorporated in the contemporary manner of a
story of adventure. But there can be no doubt that Cervantes had
a pronounced affection for the Greek novel from the beginning of
his literary career, and that that affection culminated in his old
age in a desire to write something in the same vein — something
which might gain for him a permanent place among the favorite

writers of romance.

RUDOLPH SCHEVILL
YALE UNIVERSITY

last two tales there are also the motifs of exposure ; cf . also the last act of Cervantes' play,
Pedro de Urdemalas. Other points to be considered are: the description of Ricaredo's
"confusa madeja de cabellos de oro ensortijados" (p. 156, col. 2) ; mystery and secrecy of
origin (p. 200, col. 2; p. 203, col. 2) ; the motif of fingimiento y engano (p. 129, col. 2) ; the
manner of telling stories: "dejemoslos ir por ahora," etc. (p. 184, col. 2), and uasi como
dej6 puesto 6 caballo & Pedro Alonso volvi6 6 contar lo que les sucedi6 a Avendafio y a Car-
riazo," etc. (p. 185, col 1) ; same (p. 218, col. 1) ; story told after meal (p. 222, col. 2) ; conso-
lation got from telling misfortune to others (p. 200, col. 2), and " si ya no os cansa oir ajeuas
desventuras " (p. 204, col. 1) ; monologue complaint (p. 200, col. 1) ; a proper display of grief
permitted the hero and heroine to tear their hair in Heliodorus (pp. 432 and 161) ; cf . Cervantes,
p. 201, col. 1; p. 204, col. 2; lovesickness of Ricaredo (p. 146, col. 1).

l Rohde (op. cit., p. 472) does not believe, as Huet did and after him Dunlop-Liebrecht
(op. cit., p. 14), that the recognition scene of Guarini's Pastor fido, Act V, sc. 5, was influ"
enced by that of Heliodorus. I do not believe that there can be any doubt that Guarini had
some recollection of the final episode in the Greek romance when he wrote his play. Cf.
Oeftering, pp. cit., p. 163. Cervantes knew the Spanish version : El Pastor Fido, tragicomedia
pastoral. De Baptista Guarini. Traduzida .... por Christoval Suarez de Figueroa,
Valencia 1609. Cf. Don Quixote, II, chap. 62.

APPENDIX

The following excerpts from both romances will give an idea of the impression made
upon Cervantes by Heliodorus. All passages are from the edition of 1554 of the latter, and
from Vol. I of " Biblioteca de autores espafioles," Obras de Cervantes.

1. Chariklea determines to remain chaste and deters Theagenes from breaking her
resolution before she has reached the goal of her wanderings and laid aside the insignia of
priestess : " Por tanto, seflor Thiamis, yo os pido vn solo don .... que me permitays antes
del casamiento que yo pueda yr a la mas cercana villa, o a otro qualquier lugar, adonde aya
algun templo consagrado al Dios Apolo, donde yo me pueda despojar del cargo, y dexar las
marcas, y sefias de su religiosa " (p. 332) ; also : " Por lo qual yo no os dexare yr, hasta tanto
que no solamente por el presente, mas aun por lo venidero Theagenes me jure y assegure,
que no me conocera segun el vso de Venus, hasta que yo aya cobrado mi casa y parientes"
(p. 1162) ; and : "quando Chariclea sentia, que Theagenes se encendia demasiado, y se queria
mostrar hombre, ella le refrenaua, trayendole a la memoria el juramento que auia hecho'
(p. 1243). She also recommends chastity to him as regards other women (p. 1982).

Auristela makes a vow to remain chaste and not to marry until the object of her
pilgrimage to Rome is accomplished : " [Arnaldo] la quiso hacer su sefiora [i. e., Auristela],
.... pero ella si defendia, diciendo no ser posible romper un voto que tenia hecho de

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 23

guardar virginidad toda su vida," etc. (p. 562, col. 2); again Arnaldo says: "me la ofrecl
por su esposo . . . : respondi6me siempre que hasta verse en la ciudad de Roma, adonde
iba a cumplir un voto, no podia disponer de su persona " (p. 581, col. 1) ; and: "estoy obli-
gada & tener en perpetuo silencio una peregrinacion que hago, que hasta darle fin, .... soy
forzada & guardarle " (p. 590, col. 1). Auristela seems unnecessarily on her guard in the
presence of Periandro (p. 629, col. 1), but perhaps only in imitation of Chariklea. Cf. also
Achilles Tatius, Book IV, chap 1. This ostentation of chastity is a trait of some of the
shepherdesses in the pastoral novels. Cf . Galatea, p. 63, col. 1, about the cruel Gelasia.

2. Theagenes and Chariklea claim to be brother and sister : " Podria ser, que fuera mas
decente y conuenible a este mi hermano Thagones(sic) responder" (p. 32) ; "porque fingir
que yo fuese vuestro hermano, yo lo hallo lo mas sabiamente hecho," etc. (p. 352) ; cf. also
pp. 202, 274. Periandro and Auristela do the same : " puesto que Arnaldo estaria seguro con
el fingido hermanazgo suyo y de Periandro, todavia el temor de que podia ser descubierto
el parentesco, la fatigaba" (p. 571, col. 1); cf. also pp. 563,565,597. This pretended rela-
tionship existed already in Nunez de Reinoso's Clareo y Florisea, chap, vi (in Novelistas
anteriores d Cervantes; cf. previous article, p. 14, n. 1). In the Gitanilla by Cervantes the
same idea exists. The Gipsy girl says to her lover : "hasta entonces tengo de ser vuestra
hermana en el trato" (p. 105, col. 1).

3. Chariklea pretends to accept another suitor, but asks for a delay : " Dezid nos agora,
hermosa donzella [Thyamis says], vuestra voluntad, si me quereys por marido o no" (p. 312).
She replies: "vos nos ofreceys casamiento, el qual yo de mi voluntad no rehuso" (p. 33).
Theagenes asks for an explanation of her consent (p. 352), and Chariklea answers: "no
tendriamos la libertad de hablar agora juntos, si yo no lo vuiera assi francamente acordado,
y prometido,1' etc. (p. 36). Kalasiris also pretends to give Chariklea another suitor (pp.137 f.).
Mena's translation adds a note on the mentira oflciosa advocated by Heliodorus (cf . p. 89,
Vol. I, edition 1787) and imitated by Cervantes.

Auristela 's suitor, Arnaldo, is put off by the same dissimulation; Arnaldo says to
Periandro: "si yo fuese tan venturoso, que contigo hallase & tu hermana Auristela, ni
tendria mal que temer," etc. And Periandro replies: "conmigo esta, que los cielos, atentos
& favorecer tus virtuosos y honestos pensamientos, te la han guardado," etc. (p. 580, col. 2).
And later: "sete decir tambien, que si llegares al cumplimiento de tu buen deseo, llegaras &
tener una esposa de ilustrisimo linaje nacida," etc. (p. 581, col. 2) ; cf. also p. 601, col. 1.
Chariklea had even gone so far as to advise Theagenes to pretend acquiescence in Arsake's
base desires (p. 1982); in Achilles Tatius, IV, chaps. 6ff., there is an example of a mentira
oficiosa; also in Nunez de Reinoso, op. cit., p. 435.

4. Theagenes and Chariklea are of noble extraction: "Quanto a nosotros, de donde
somos, has de saber, que somos naturales de Ionia, de vno de los mas nobles linajes y familias
de la ciudad de Epheso"(p. 32) ; cf. also p. 77, about Theagenes and his descent from Achilles.

Periandro and Auristela are also of lofty descent, which is shrouded in mystery until
the close (Book IV, chap. 12). This trait, however, of introducing some distinguished, but
mysterious person, who turns out to be a prince or a princess, is common in the romances
of chivalry.

5. In Heliodorus a stranger excites peculiar interest, and he is asked to declare his
name, country, experiences, etc.; Chariklea is asked: "os ruego nos digays juntamente,
quien, y de que parte, y de que parientes vos soys " (p. 312) ; again, concerning the heroine:
"infinites pensamientos me cayan en el entendimiento, de que parientes ella era nascida, y
de quien la estimauan hija, y de quan grande distancia y interualo la auian apartado de su
tierra y patria, y como fortuna le auia dado nombre de hija echada, despues de le auer quitado
su real parentela" (p. 1072) ; cf. also p. 61.

The same manner prevails in Cervantes : " La priesa con que Arnaldo quiso saber de
Auristela no consinti6 en que preguntase primero & Periandro, quien eran 61 y su hermana,
y por que trances habian venido al miserable en que le habian hallado" (p. 563, col. 2) ; and:
" Decidme, por vida vuestra, sefior, si es casada esta peregrina, c6mo se llama y que padres
la engendraron ? " (p. 649, col. 1); also: "despues de la tan breve como sabrosa comida,
Arnaldo suplic6 & Renato que les contase su historia " (p. 619, col. 1) ; other examples : p. 597,
col. 1, p. 661, col. 1, p. 671, col. 1. Cf. Achilles Tatius, II, chap. 33, for the same manner. It
also exists in the romances of chivalry and in the pastoral novels.

6. Chariklea, on being exposed by her mother, is given "un collar de piedras preciosas"
(p. 73), and her marriage ring: "un anillo [que] es aquel que vuestro padre me dio, quando
me despose con el " (p. 107). The latter is referred to repeatedly (pp. 1302 ff., 225, 269).

24 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

Auristela's nurse, Cloelia, receives a cross with diamonds and two pearls before the
wanderers leave home, and when she dies they are intrusted to Periandro (pp. 568, 573,
670, col. 2).

7. The beauty of Chariklea is that of a divinity: "Ella tenia la cabeca coronada de
vna corona de laurel, y a las espaldas le colgaua el aljaba," etc. (p. 102). " . . . . vnos dezian
ser la diosa Diana, otros la diosa Ysis," etc. (p. 112) ; for other long descriptions making her
" divinely " beautiful cf. pp. 822 f ., 1472 f .

With Auristela it is the same : "Ievant6se en pie mi hermana, y echandose sus hermosos
cabellos & las espaldas, tornados por la frente con una cinta leonada, 6 Iist6n, .... hizo de
si casi divina 6 improvisa muestra . . . . : todos .... decian : qu6 es esto 1 Qu6 deidad es
esta," etc. ? (p. 604, col. 2) ; and : " mi hermana .... mostr6 ser imagen sobre el mortal
curso levantada " (p. 606, col. 1). Closely allied with this is the repetition ad nauseam of the
heroine's beauty. But this mannerism exists in contemporary fiction, and goes back through
the romances of chivalry into the Middle Ages. Cervantes is, however, the greatest offender,
and after making his heroine divine, words seem to fail to express how beautiful Auristela
is. The result is that she is nothing else. Heliodorus perhaps began it by calling Chariklea
"vna donzellita de vna hermosura incomparable y diuina" (p. 722), in imitation, no doubt,
of Homer's Helen. These are only a part of the examples from the Persiles: p. 563, col. 2;
"la mas hermosa del mundo," p. 564, col. 1 ; "no la acertaron & comparer sino a si misma,"
p. 575, col. 1 ; " incomparable hermosura," p. 592, col. 1 ; cf . also col. 2 ; "el abismo casi infinito
de su hermosura," p. 595, col. 1; "hermosura divina, p. 605, col. 2. In Nunez de Reinoso,
op. cit., p. 433, col. 2: "Narcisiana es tan hermosa y tiene tanta fuerza en el mirar, qua
mata en la misma hora que mira." The same exaggerations can be found in the Galatea,
in the Novelas exemplares, and in Don Quixote (cf. p. 81, col. 2; p. 171, col. 1; p. 325, col. 1;
p. a59, col. 2).

Theagenes is drawn thus: " en su vista el representaua no se que digno de Achiles,
teniendo la cabeca derecha, los cabellos echados atras, roxos y crespos, como madejasde
oro," etc. (p. 772) ; and : " el resplandor de su gracia, y hermosura nos turbaua " (p. 812).

Periandro is equally handsome : "Juego le sacudieron los cabellos, que como infinites
anillos de puro oro la cabeza le cubrian" (p. 561, col. 1) ; "luego la hermosa presencia del
mozo arrebat6 la vista, y aun los corazones de cuantos le miraron " (p. 588, col. 2).

8. Chariklea wails over the wounded Theagenes: "O Diosea,y es verdad que estays aun
en vida, luz de mi atribulado coracon ? o si como con nosotros tambien con vos ha crecido
el numero desta mortandad ? . . . . En vos esta, o luz de mi alma, que yo biua, o no, y no ha
auido en este mundo cosa, que me aya impedido hasta agora que yo no aya sido homicida
de mi misma con esta espada, . . , . sino que yo os veya aun respirar" (p. 11).

Auristela weeps over Periandro : " no s6 yo, desdichada, c6mo busco aliento en un
muerto, y c6mo ya que le tuviese, puedo sentirle, si estoy tan sin 61, que ni s6 si hablo ni si
respiro," etc., in which situation and tone are the same (p. 650, col. 2).

Compare also the following lamentations. Chariklea: " O Dios Apolo .... los males
y trabajos passados no te bastan por suficiente satisfacion ? . . . . auer sido presos por los
cossarios de mar, auer sufrido tantos peligros de tormenta en ella, .... y la salida de todo
esto tan obscura y peligrosa .... Adonde pararas tu, pues, la rueda, y curso de tantas
miserias? Sj es en la muerte, como sea con limpieza, dulce cosa es para mi," etc. (p. 152).
Auristela: " Con qu6 prodigiosas seflales me va mostrando el cielo mi desventura, que si se
rematara con acabarse mi vida, pudiera llamarla dichosa ; que los males que tienen fin en
la muerte, como no se dilaten y entretengan, hacen dichosa la vida ! . . . . Qu6 imposibles
[caminos] son estos que descubro a cada paso de mi remedio?" (p. 587, col. 1); cf. also
p. 565, col. 2.

Or these two passages : Gnemon, unable to sleep, leaves the room and wanders through
the house; then: "el entreoyo la boz de vna muger, la qual . . . . se lamentaua. Pues
caminando Gnemon hazia la camara de donde venia el sonido de aquella boz, acercando
el oydo a la juntura de la puerta, estuuo atento escuchando sus lamentaciones, que
hazia aun en esta manera. Yo desdichada, que pense auer escapado de manos de los
salteadores .... Yo pensaua, ser escapada de perpetua servidumbre, veys aqui torne a
caer en ella. Yo juzgaua ser ya salida de prision, y soy agora metida en vna mas cruel"
(p. 1222). And from the Persiles (although the situation is very different): "no podia el
suefio tomar posesion de sus sentidos, ni menos lo consintieron unos congojosos suspires y
unas augustiadas lamentaciones que a sus oidos llegaron, & su parecer, salidos de entre
unas tablas de otro apartamiento, que junto al suyo estaba, y poni6ndose con grande

700

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 25

atencion & escucharlas, oy6 que decian : En triste y menguado signo mis padres me engen-
draron .... Libre pens6 yo que gozara de la luz del sol en esta vida ; pero engafi6me m
pensamiento, pues me veo & pique de ser vendida por esclava," etc. (p. 562, col. 1).

9. Both heroines fall ill through love; Kalasiris calls the cause mal de ojos: "De lo
qual os hard fe mejor que cosa ninguna el origen, y nascimiento del amor, porque toma su
principio de las cosas vistas, las quales a manera de dezir lancan aquella passion dentro el
alma por los ojos," etc. (p. 872); "Quien seria el niflo .... que no conosciesse que es una
passion del alma, y la enfermedad clara que se llama Amor?" (p. 104). Of Auristela it is
said: "no era del cuerpo su dolencia, sino del alma" (p. 593, col. 1).

Both heroes are affected by the same ailment. Chariklea says of Theagenes : " dudo,
no tenga la misma enfermedad que Chariclea" (p. 892). And of the illness of Persiles:
" visitaronle m6dicos que, como no sabian la causa de su mal, no acertaban con su remedio;
que como no muestran los pulsos el dolor de las almas, es dificultoso y casi imposible
entender la enfermedad que en ell as asiste " (p. 676, col. 1).

10. Theagenes performs a great feat of strength and skill : " subio encima de vno de los
otros cauallos, que no se auia desatado, . . . . y espoleandole con los talones, se puso a
correr tras el toro que se auia desatado," etc. After some maneuvres : " el dexo salir su
cauallo, y se lanco encima del cuello del toro, y despues puso su cabeca entre sus dos
cuernos." Then he overpowers the bull (pp. 2802if.).

Periandro subdues a very powerful savage horse (pp. 618, 620, col. 2).

11. A comparison of the manner of the two romances in telling stories, preambles, and
the like is of interest ; at all hours the story of one's life may be told, even at night, when
there is need of repose. In this the influence of Heliodorus was far-reaching, and not only in
the case of the Persiles. Gnemon, for example, is urged to tell his story to Theagenes and
Chariklea, who have already had a hard day of it : " seria vn contrapeso de mucha carga a
vuestros males, y muy fuera de tiempo, contar yo agora los mios, y mas, sabiendo, que el
restante de la noche no bastaria, a os los contar, principalmente a vosotros que aueys
menester reposo, por los muchos trabajos que aueys sufrido. Y como no le dexassen en paz,
.... Gnemon comenco en esta suerte," etc. (p. 17). Kalasiris is urged to tell his story by
Gnemon : " pues que assl es, que vos desseays tanto oyr, y que no os podeys hartar de
entender la narracion, tornemos a entrar en nuestro proposito .... a fin que .... poda-
mos mejor, y mas seguramente passar vna parte de la noche en nuestros cuentos" (pp.84f.).
And opening of Book VI : " Luego que lo demas de la noche fue passada mas presto que
pensaron, por causa que el vanquete auia ocupado vna parte, y la prolixidad de los cuentos
(de los quales no se podian hartar) la otra," etc. (p. 152).

In the Persiles the curiosity about a newcomer and the desire to hear a tale surpass
every other need or wish: u Satisfacieron la hambre, y acomodaranse a dormir luego, si el
deseo que Periandro tenia de saber el suceso del miisico no lo estorbara " (p. 574, col. 1) ;
or: "el deseo que tenian todos de saber los sucesos de los recien llegados les hacia parecer
larga la comida . . . . ; enmudecieron todos, y el silencio les sel!6 los labios, y la curiosidad
les abrio los oidos " (p. 577, col. 2) ; and : " [la] historia de los dos era la mas peregrina que
se hubiese visto. El deseo de saberla, y el de repararse de la tormenta, si viniese, hizo &
todos que encaminasen alld la proa " (p. 617, col. 1).

In Heliodorus the story is a source of consolation : " Y como . . . . le suplicassen
ahincadamente, que se los contasse como passo, estimando, que les seria vna grande
consolacion a sus desdichas oyr contar otras a ellas semejantes, Gnemon comenco," etc.
(P. 17).

Likewise in the Persiles: "si es, como decirse suele, que las desgracias y trabajos,
cuando se comunican, suelen aliviarse, 116gate aqul, . . . . y cuentame los tuyos" (p. 562,
col. 1); and: "Antonio dijo al barbaro italiano que para entretener el tiempo, y no sentir
tanto la pesadumbre de la mala noche, fuese servido de entretenerles contandoles los
sucesos de su vida" (p. 571, col. 2); and: "pasaron la [calamidad] desta noche sin pesa-
dumbre alguna, y mas con el alivio que Periandro les caus6 con volver por ruego de Transila
6 proseguir su historia " (p. 617, col. 1).

Though the exchange or swapping of stories is very old, the manner of the Persiles is
more similar to that of Heliodorus: "Gnemon se marauillo mucho, . . . . y rogole, que le
hiziesse entender de cabo a cabo lo que queria dezir. Vos me meteys en un labirinthio,
respondio el buen viejo, y me quereys hazer entrar en vn mar de miserias y desdichas ....
Mas vos, hermoso mancebo, dixo el viejo, adonde vays? y de donde venis? .... No hay
razon ninguna, dixo Gnemon, paraque sepays vos mis fortunas antes de me hazer entender

701

26 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

las vuestras, pues que yo os he requerido el primero" (p. 61). Cf. also Achilles Tatius, II,
chap. 34.

In the Persiles : "el espafiol dijo en lengua castellana desta manera: puesto que estaba
en razon que yo supiera primero, sefiores mios, algo de vue&tra hacienda y sucesos, antes
que os dijera los mios, quiero por obligaros que los sepais, porque los vuestros no se me
encubran despues que los mios hubi6redes oido" (p. 567, col. 1); cf. also p. 562, col. 2. As
early as the Galatea, Cervantes shows the manner of Heliodorus, in the tendency of his
characters to stay up all night to tell a story (cf. p. 38, col 1) : "gran parte era ya pasada
de la noche cuando los pastores acordaron de reposar el poco tiempo que hasta el dia
quedaba," etc.

A similar manner prevails in the breaking-off and in the continuation of a story : "Por
tanto, O Gnemon, cortemos aqui el hilo a nuestro cuento, y vamonos a reposar vn poco "
(p. 121) ; cf. also p. 282. In the Persiles, to give one example, the story is interrupted and:
"se fueron & reposar lo poco que de la noche les faltaba" (p. 568, col. 2). The manner of
continuing is one of the tricks of Heliodorus : " Assi les comenco a contar desde [el] prin-
cipio, repitiendo sumariamente en pocas palabras lo que auia dicho antes a Gnemon
passando algunas cosas . . . . y despues tomando el hilo de lo que le restaua, ....
comenco" (p. 134) ; cf. also pp. 49, 84; cf. in the Persiles, p. 608, col. 1; p. 610, col. 1; p. 611,
col. 2; p. 617, col. 1; p. 620, col. 2; in the Galatea the manner is very similar: "procuraron
recogerse .... donde .... pudiesen oir lo que del suce*so de sus amores les faltaba ....
tornando 6 repetir Teolinda algunas palabras de lo que antes habia dicho, prosigui6," etc.
(p. 18, col. 1).

12. In the Greek romances dreams and portents are of frequent occurrence: "Thiamis
.... comenco a soflar sueflos que le despertaron con gran sobresalto : y por tanto estaua
despierto en grande agonia y pena, de no poder conjeturar ni adeuinar, que querian dezir
estos suefios .... Pareciole, que passeandose por el templo de Ysis en la villa de donde
era natural, llamada Memphis, veya reluzir todo el templo," etc. (p. 29) ; and: "Chariclea
que reposaua dulcemente en el regaco de Theagenes, soflo vn tal suefio. Paresciale que
venia a ella vn hombre que tenia los cabellos erizados . . . . , y que dandole con una espada
en el ojo derecho, se lo saco. De tal suerte fue turbada deste suefio, que despertando con

sobresalto, comenco & gritar : O amigo mio Theagenes, socorredme, etc entonces

dixo: yo sofiaua .... no tengays ningun miedo. Theagenes torno en si .... y dixole:
Vos teneys sanos vuestros dos rayos del Sol, como es razon que lo esten: mas que era lo que
teniades? y que turbacion os auia caydo ? " (p. 552) ; cf. also pp. 392, 95, 112, 1392.

Compare in the Persiles: " [Mauricio] se qued6 dormido encima de la cubierta de la
nave, y de alii & poco despert6 despavorido, diciendo & grandes voces : Traicion, traicion,
traicion, despierta principe Arnaldo, que los tuyos nos matan. A cuyas voces se Ievant6
Arnaldo, que no dormla, . . . . y dijo : qu6 has, amigo Mauricio ? Qui6n nos ofende, 6 qui6n
nos mata 1 Todos los que en este navio vamos, no somos amigos ? . . . . de qu6 temes," etc.?
(p. 583, col. 1). Mauricio tells of his dream : "me pareci6 ver visiblemente que en un gran
palacio de madera .... llovian rayos del cielo que le abrian todo," etc. (p. 584, col. 2). In
the same place can be found an interesting criticism of these dreams ; cf . also p. 568, col. 1,
for a good example, as well as the Galatea (p. 9, col. 2) .

Kalasiris has the gift of revelation and prophesy : " la principal causa que tambien me
forcaua a salir de mi patria era, que la diuina sabiduria me auia muchas vezes reuelado,
que mis dos hijos auian de auer combate juntos, por se querer matar el vno al otro" (p. 67).
So does Mauricio, who finds his lost daughter through that gift: "si mi ciencia no me
engafia, y la fortuna no me desfavorece, prospera habr6 sido la mia con este hallazgo "
(p. 577, col. 1) ; cf. also pp. 577, 582, 584, cols. 2, and Don Quixote (p. 525, col. 2).

As regards magic potions, poisons, witchcraft, and the like, there are some similarities.
Kalasiris pretends to make a beverage which will cure the lovesick Chariklea: " contra-
haziendo delante del tambien el magico, como delante Theagenes, [y] le rogue, que me
diesse aquel solo dia de lugar, para pensar : que era menester hiziesse alguna composicion
para sanalla" (p. 952) ; Kybele drinks the poisoned cup intended for Chariklea: "Antes que
la acabasse de beuer, los ojos se le comencaron a reboluer: y derramando en el suelo lo que
le quedaua por beuer, le comencaron a tomar desmayos, y passiones con tanta violencia,
que todos los que estauan en la camara, fueron muy marauillados y espantados. Chariclea
. . . . se forcaua a leuantalla, porque la poncofia era mas fuerte," etc. (p. 2172). On p. 1682
occurs the scene of witchcraft, in which an old hag resuscitates her dead son to make
him speak.

702

STUDIES IN CERVANTES 27

Auristela drinks a poison prepared by a Jewess (Book IV, chaps. 8-10); incidentally
Cervantes explains " esta que llaman hechiceria, con que lo hacen las hechiceras, usando
mezclas y venenos," etc. (p. 673, col. 2). As the Persiles has numerous references to magic
and witchcraft, I shall merely refer to the werwolf episode (Book I, chaps. 8, 18) ; the illness
of Antonio, caused by the spite of the witch Cenotia (Book II, chaps. 9, 10, 12). Finally, the
old hag Cenotia attempts to secure Auristela for King Policarpo, which is reminiscent of
the effort of Kybele, the old go-between, to win Theagenes for the satrap's wife, Arsake. In
this, however, we touch also the Celestina literature.

13. The spirit which controls the wanderings of the protagonists in both romances is
the same, namely, blind chance. In Heliodorus the rvxn is a well-defined power, and, in
accordance with pagan beliefs, of great influence in that inscrutable concatenation of
strange events. In the Spanish translation this causal force is called fortuna, the power
which always leads astray. When Cervantes adopted the spirit of this Fortuna into his
romance, he was bound to become inconsistent. As a fervent Catholic he had to cling to
his belief in a divine Providence, but as a romancer he followed Heliodorus; yet " Fortune,"
or chance, and Providence are reconciled by allowing the former to dominate the wander-
ings or trabajos, while the latter controls and assures a happy issue. It is natural that the
resulting product should be to us, at least, a thoroughly irrational one. But Cervantes
attempts to make it seem less so by avoiding the frequent use of fortuna, a common word
with Heliodorus, and characterizing the straits of his wanderers as trances, casos, sucesos,
trabajos, desventura. and the like ; indeed, he treats fortuna largely as a figure of speech.
However all this may be in the particular case of Cervantes, the large part played by chance
or coincidence in the novel of the Renaissance makes it necessary— for purposes of com-
parison— to recognize the predominance of rv\r\ or fortuna in the Greek romances; nor
can there be any doubt that in this respect the influence of the latter upon the Renaissance
novel was very marked. (Cf. the excellent treatment of this subject by E. Rohde, op. cit.,
pp. 297 ff. ; E. von Dobschutz, " Der Roman in der altchristlichen Litteratur," Deutsche
Rundschau, Vol. CXI (1902), pp. 89 ff.).

Heliodorus uses both fortuna and fortunas ; in the singular it is either blind chance or
a malignant force: "aueys sido tratados de la fortuna tan asperamente como yo" (p. 162);
"el piloto fue forcado de dar lugar a la violencia de la tormenta y fuerca de la nao, dexando
el gouierno della a la fortuna" (p. 33) ; ''no puedo estar alegre, porque mi fortuna no es tal,
que yo pueda tomar alguna alegria" (p. 61); "quise poneros a lo que la fortuna de vos
ordenare" (p. 1062) "fortuna le auia dado nombre de hija echada" (p. 1072) ; "enojados
contra la fortuna, que ella les embiaua vna tras otra tantas desdicbas diuersas" (p. 126; cf.
also p. 127); in the plural it is hardships or adversity: "no hay razon ninguna, ....
paraque sepays vos mis fortunas" (p. 61); "las fortunas de Chariclea eran vn notable
argument© " (p. 1072) ; " os cansays de me escuchar tanto contar mis fortunas y desdichas"
(p. 121 ; cf. also p. 1232) ; the latter is the same as infortunios (p. 11) ; miserias y infortunios "
(p. 1242).

In the Persiles, fortuna is purely rhetorical: "esta que llaman fortuna, que yo no s6 lo
que se sea, envidiosa de mi sosiego, volviendo la rueda, que dicen que tiene, me derrib6 de
su cumbre adonde yo pens6 que estaba puesto, al profundo de la miseria en que me veo"
(p. 567, col. 1) ; "esta que llaman fortuna, de quien yo he oido hablar algunas veces, de la
cual se dice que quita y da los bienes, cuando, como, y a quien quiere, sin duda alguna debe
de ser ciega y antojadiza, pues a nuestro parecer levanta los que habian de estar por el
suelo, y derriba los que estan sobre los montes de la luna" (p. 629, col. 1) ; cf. Galatea, p. 38,
col. 1; p. 69, col. 2; Novelas, p. 169, col. 1; Don Quixote, p. 544, col. 1; Nunez de Reinoso,
op. cit., p. 444, col. 2; p. 453, col. 1; p. 454, col. 2 ; Achilles Ta'tius, Book III, chap. 2; La vida
de Lazarillo de Tormes y de sus fortunas y aduersidades ("Biblioteca hispanica," Vol. Ill),
and p. 24: "a quanta miseria y fortuna y desastres estamos puestos los nascidos;" also
2a parte, cap. 2: " al fin habian de pasar por mi mas fortunas de las pasadas; " in the sense
of storm; the word is common in peninsular literature : "a pocas leguas corrieron fortuna,"
El Donado Hablador Alonso, etc., Novelistas posterior es a Cervantes, "Biblioteca de autores
espafloles," Vol. I, p. 530, col. 1; and in same collection, Vol. II, p. 574, col. 2: "no era esta
la primera fortuna en que Be habia visto" (in Tarde llega el desengano, by D» Maria de
Zayas y Sotomayor) ; cf. also Professor Henry R. Lang's erudite work on El Cancioneiro
Gallego-castelhano (New York and London, 1902), p. 195, for a valuable note. In the earliest
Italian translation of the Persilefi (1626) the title reads: "istoria .... nella quale senza
interrompere il filo dell' istoria si leggono molti casi d' Amore e di Fortuna," etc. ; Rohde,

703

28 RUDOLPH SCHEVILL

op. cit., p. 574, n., thinks that Boccaccio used the word after the manner of the Greek
romances: "la invidiosa fortuna, la fortuna non stabile" (first tale, fifth day). It may,
however, have been inspired by classical uses.

14. Both romancers pause occasionally to philosophize about life, or fate, or adversity,
etc: "hijo mio, una aduexsidad venida de subito, es intolerable de sufrir, mas la antes
sabida y proueyda es mas ligera de lleuar," etc. (p. 66, Heliodorus). The Persiles:
" ParSceme, hermano mio, .... que los trabajos y los peligros no solamente tienen juris-
diccion en el mar, sino en toda la tierra ; que las desgracias 6 infortunios asi se encuentran
con los levantados sobre los montes, como con los escondidos en sus rincones " (p. 629, col. 1).

On the other hand the following must be a coincidence: " es pecado contra la Majestad
Diuina, matarse a si mismo" (p. 712, Heliodorus), and: "les dije que la mayor cobardla del
mundo era el matarse," etc. (p. 610, col. 2, Persiles).

704

• JUL±y

Moder^ philology

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