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

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

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

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

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

At first thought the word “pastoral” scarcely seems to require definition, yet, as a matter of fact, the word has been used in several different senses. Usually it has been employed to designate a distinct species of literature, but the more careful critics refer to it as a mode of literary expression. The latter view is undoubtedly more accurate, for the pastoral treatment may be applied to almost any form of literature,—lyric, drama or romance. Still it is convenient to speak of the pastoral as a species of literature, and this use of the term is not misleading if we understand it to refer to the literature which is written in the pastoral mode, and which is altogether free from, or only slightly affected by, other influences. The real difficulty is to state definitely the essential nature of the pastoral, its characteristics, and the motives which prompted men to produce it. Here again the critics disagree. Some seem to regard pastoral literature as a sincere expression of man's delight in rural simplicity and content; others as an artificial and insincere portrayal of imaginary rural life. Perhaps it is impossible to arrive at a satisfactory definition of the pastoral; certainly a narrow view of the subject based on modern prejudice is utterly inadequate.