A modern reader of the Poema del Cid cannot fail to be struck by the general oddity of its verbal system, especially in the tenses of the past, where one finds perfects, preterites, imperfects, pluperfects seemingly interchanged in no meaningful pattern; consequently he leaves the work with an impression of confused tense relationships, an indication (he is convinced) of the lack of skill of the poet (or poets) and the impossible primitiveness of the language. There have been recent stylistic attempts to interpret the uses of the tenses, in particular those of the past, as functions of aspect rather than of time, or as poetic devices in the delineation of heroic character, or as specifically epic techniques of narration. Simpler explanations given earlier, which saw in the unusual frequency of the imperfect, for instance, nothing more than the need to meet the rhyme, have found little favor and have been supported only by intuitive arguments. But those who have rejected the earlier views have not provided conclusive proof of their assertions. In fact, despite the great scholarly interest in the language, metrics, and style of the Cid, there seems to be no study of the possible relationship between rhyme and verbal structure. As a contribution to the study of the Spanish epic as well as to the larger field of historical style and syntax, the present paper seeks to clarify the issues and to provide an objective basis for a conclusive determination of the problem.

Cleanth Brooks wrote recently that the early story, “Fifty Grand,” “presents Hemingway's basic theme quite as well as The Old Man and the Sea.” “Nor do I think,” he continued, “that Hemingway in his most recent story now finds the world any more meaningful than he once found it.” For once Mr. Brooks was following rather than initiating opinion. Ever since The Old Man and the Sea was published, critics have admitted that in its effect upon the reader the book is somehow different from Hemingway's earlier work. Those who like the difference and those who do not have tried to account for it in many ways, most of them familiar to readers of the early reviews and of the surprisingly few later readings of the story. But to a man commentators have assumed that whatever the story's new impact—whatever the nature of that affirmative power most readers have felt—it reflects no essential change in Hemingway's view of an inscrutable natural order in which, ultimately, man can play no part. I want to suggest, on the contrary, that The Old Man and the Sea reveals Hemingway's successful achievement at last of a coherent metaphysical scheme—of a philosophical naturalism which, although largely mechanistic in principle, embraces the realm of human affairs and gives transcendent meaning to the harsh inevitabilities Hemingway has always insisted upon recording.

The attitude of Honoré de Balzac toward poets and poetry has received casual comment from several of his critics and biographers, and they are agreed that it was unfavorable. A consideration of the two poets who figure prominently in the Comédie humaine, Lucien de Rubempré of Les Illusions perdues and Canalis in Modeste Mignon, as well as a study of Balzac's correspondence and of documents about him by contemporaries, bring little to contradict that judgment. Théophile Gautier, in his chapter on Balzac in Portraits contemporains, devotes several pages to a discussion of Honoré's harsh criticisms of verse and verse-makers, evidently the cause of some resentment from the author of Emaux et Camées. As another example of such opinion, note a statement from the diary of Charles Weiss, apropos of a visit to his home in Besançon by Balzac in 1833. He tells of a first interview with Balzac, in which the conversation happened to fall upon contemporary French poets, eliciting very frank criticisms from his visitor, and then, on the following day, indicates this summing up of attitude toward poetry in general by Balzac, in the course of a second discussion: “Il est sensible à l'harmonie du style et cependant il n'aime pas les vers. Il prétend qu'il n'en faut plus faire.”

During an interview with Jacques Brenner, published in Arts (March 1953), Robbe-Grillet asserted that Les Gommes is a descriptive and scientific novel. In January 1959, in an interview with Denise Bourdet, Robbe-Grillet stated that “l'observation scientifique consiste à décrire sans interpréter, à ne jamais donner une signification aux choses.” His novels are noteworthy indeed for their absence of analysis, and readers familiar with his descriptive method will have no difficulty concluding that if Les Gommes is a “scientific novel,” so also are Le Voyeur, La Jalousie, and Dans le labyrinthe. But in what way are these novels “scientific”? Is Robbe-Grillet initiating a “new realism” as has been suggested, or is it more accurately a new naturalism? If we may be permitted to define naturalism as a realism with scientific pretensions, and if we apply the rigorous pattern of Freudian determinism—provided we accept Freud's method as “scientific”—to the psychic and mental operations of Mathias in Le Voyeur, and of the jealous husband in La Jalousie, then these novels would seem to qualify as naturalistic.

A Tale of Two Cities, the French Revolution becomes a metaphor for the conflicts between generations and between classes that preoccupied Dickens throughout his career. Dickens uses a double plot and divided characters to express these conflicts; his exaggerated use of “splitting”—which the essay defines psychoanalytically—sometimes makes A Tale of Two Cities‘ language and structure appear strained and humorless. We need to locate A Tale of Two Cities within a framework of nineteenth-century attitudes toward revolution and generational conflict by using a combination of critical methods—literary, historical, psychoanalytic. This essay relates the reader's experience to the structure of the text; and it derives from Dickens’ language, characterization, and construction a critical model that describes the individual reader's experience while explaining some of the contradictory assessments of the novel over the past hundred years.

The “Cartapacio de Francisco Morán de Estrella formado en Toro hacia 1585,” constituting part of the Poesías varias, M 531, a manuscript in the library of the Royal Palace at Madrid, contains (on folios 142–146) El llanto de San Pedro traducido por Sancho Viezma, octavas. In spite of the use of the word traducido the poem is not a translation of Tansillo's Lagrime di San Pietro and only partly is it an imitation. The term may have been employed by the scribe under an erroneous impression that it was a translation, or may have been loosely employed to stand for imitation or derivation, a procedure not uncommon at the time.

Romance, so modern criticism proclaims, is in no wise incompatible with the temper of the heroic epic. As in tragedy moments of poignant emotion are at once heightened and relieved by the introduction of comedy, so in epic a classic clearness of outline and tranquillity of mood are rendered doubly effective when contrasted with the mystery and magic of romance. Nowhere is this more clearly illustrated than in the second adventure of the Anglo-Saxon epic Beowulf, in which the hero does battle with a supernatural monster far away from the haunts of men. The scene shifts suddenly from the realistic setting at the Danish court, and the very air grows heavy with baleful suggestion,—just as when the lights and feasting of the Wartburg are left behind and the mountain in which Venus holds her revels looms up at twilight. “That,” says the Anglo-Saxon poet, “is an uncanny place.” The situation grows tense with a new horror, not felt even in the earlier scene when the demon Grendel, creeping through the mists of evening, invades once too often the hall of the Danes. The element of strangeness is added to beauty, with marvellous effect.

In the landscape of Edith Wharton's life the figure of Henry James is of almost too-distracting importance. He was the greatest man she knew. James himself had many friends and acquaintances such as Howells and Stevenson who stood equal beside him—he moved accustomedly among his peers from youth to old age—tout Edith Wharton had few intimates who were her creative equals, and none who towered into that eminence where James stood. Consequently, no discussion of her work can avoid contemplating the effect of his example and association; the danger, really, is that we will assume more effect than is there.

No modern commentary on this changelessly relevant poem identifies its specific occasion as that of a new attempt by dissenters in 1732 and 1733 to repeal the Sacra mental Test Act in Ireland, Such an occasion is, however, suggested or explicitly stated by eighteenth-century transcribers of the poem, including William Collins, William Shen-stone, Ralph Griffiths, and the anonymous author of The Friends (1773), a rare novel in which “The Day of Judgement” first appeared in print. Substantive variants in the early transcriptions, often intensifying the criticism of dissenters, are significant in understanding how the poem was read in the eighteenth century. Jonathan Swift's authorship is corroborated by similarities in other works by him on the same subject in 1732-33, a somewhat later date than that usually assigned for the poem's composition.

Behind nearly all English literary criticism, particularly that relating to the Neo-classic drama, lies the Poetics of Aristotle. Some writers have been greatly affected by this epochal work; others have come under its sphere of influence to a lesser degree. However, there are few authors of importance upon whom the Poetics has failed to make some profound and enduring impression. Despite the fact that its influence permeates all English literature, excessive emphasis is laid sometimes upon the effect of Aristotle's teachings, to the detriment of such prominent critics as Horace, Vida, Trissino, Giraldi, Boileau, and Fontenelle. This applies especially to commentators on Hume. Indeed, the Scottish philosopher, historian, and critic subscribed to the majority of Aristotle's tenets, but the doctrines of Tully, Horace, Boileau, and Corneille made an equally impressive and indelible imprint upon his mind.

The respectable number of books and articles about Shelley within recent years have concerned themselves mainly with the review of a puzzling personality and an inspiring, if not altogether acceptable “message.” At one of those times, the aftermath of a centennial, when authors may be assayed anew, we have contented ourselves with reaffirming, somewhat indifferently, the opinions of the last seventy-five years. This fact seems to argue that the poet's reputation has become stabilized. Although scholars and critics will no doubt continue to add minutiae, it is probably true that our main body of information and opinions concerning Shelley is definitely fixed, for some time to come. And yet in the case of Shelley's principal poem, Prometheus Unbound, there are considerations which indicate that the generally accepted view needs to be revised. These considerations hardly affect the value or the essential meaning of the poem, but they do fundamentally affect the method by which it is commonly approached.

Traditional allegorical readings of Joyce's Dubliners story “Clay” have tended to collude with the story's rhetorical aim of aggrandizing the figure of Maria. The estimation of the “old maid” is indeed the story's crux, and the exigencies of desire compel the manipulative textual strategies that render the story ambiguous and produce conflicting interpretations. The story thereby achieves a fine dramatization of the precarious ontology of the old maid, a dramatization in which the fragmented reader (whose ear and eye are in conflict) participates as a principal actor.

Scholarship has always delighted to render unto Shakspere and Milton individually the tribute which is their natural due. Strangely enough, however, it has neglected the relationships between them. Specifically, no one hitherto, I believe, has undertaken a systematic investigation of the range and quantity of Shaksperian recollection in Milton, much less of the quality thereof. The present paper attempts such an investigation.

Among Dickens' full-length novels, Barnaby Rudge has been the awkward stepchild, impossible to ignore and difficult to love. Compared to Nicholas Nickleby and The Old Curiosity Shop, its predecessors, it is not remarkably rich in either comic invention or moving pathos. It does not glow with the high spirits of Pickwick or the warm, compassionate tolerance of David Copperfield: its best humor is edged with satire, and the pathos is often rather thin and forced. Nor, despite the crowds that swarm through its pages, does its world seem free or spacious: there is, for Dickens, an almost tight-lipped unwillingness to deviate from the intricate and rather grim progression of the story. This may be partly accounted for by the mode of publication: Dickens seldom felt at ease in the short weekly installments which did not leave space to “play around [the story] here and there, and mitigate the severity of . . . your sticking to it.” Some have thought that Dickens' imagination was constricted by subject matter he had systematically “researched” from written documents, even though some of the freest and most vigorous writing occurs in the passages based on history. Whatever the reason, Barnaby Rudge is a rather forbidding and at times even arid book, disturbing rather than reassuring despite the happy ending: in feeling as in technique, it is akin to such later “dark” and comparatively unpopular novels as Hard Times and Our Mutual Friend. But I think it is both richer and more firmly and meaningfully organized than many critics have allowed.

The mystery in Hamlet is a ghost that has haunted the minds of many a generation of scholars and critics. Perhaps the full secret of this mystery was to be known only by Shakespeare himself, even as that other secret was told only to Hamlet by the ghost on the platform at Elsinore

A comparison of narrative and lyric conceptions of temporality in Dickinson's poetry sheds light on that group of her poems in which a story is begun only to be violently broken into and disrupted. Defining life as a series of alternatives, the poems establish a dialectic, but seemingly for the sake of dismissing it as inadequate. The dismissal is frequently one of rage at all that is temporal, all that has a history whose requirement is sacrifice and choice. Such Dickinson poems can end in disorder, and they are examined here in the context of other lyrics that equally seem to pin their hopes on the belief that a verbal sabotage of sequence will trigger a temporal one, that, grown sufficiently desperate, the maneuvers of speech can stop time dead.

On 5 February 1805 John Wordsworth, the poet's brother, drowned when the ship he was commanding was wrecked off the English coast near Weymouth. No one would want to deny Ernest de Selincourt's assertion that his death was “the most terrible blow that either William or Dorothy had ever suffered”; it can easily be taken, as it often is, as the blow which signals the decline of Wordsworth's poetic power, his shift to Christianity, and his withdrawal into the isolation of Rydal Mount. There is justification for seeing in John's death such crippling force, but the story is more interesting and less conclusive, particularly as it relates to Wordsworth's poetic development, which is what will concern us here.