The point now at issue in Middlemarch is the character of Will Ladislaw. Many readers feel some discordance in the marriage of frivolous Ladislaw and noble Dorothea, and hold Ladislaw as a failure of George Eliot, a flaw in Middlemarch. The argument may be put like this. Will Ladislaw marries Dorothea at the end of story. The marriage of a hero or heroine at the end of a story, must be ideal. And George Eliot must have meant Ladislaw to be an ideal soul-mate for Dorothea. Yet Ladislaw as he is in the story is not so attractive a personage as is expected and leaves some disagreeable impressions, discordant to this ideal role of his. Therefore George Eliot's representation of Ladislaw is defective and immature. All criticisms of this kind which hold Ladislaw as a failure are based on the preconception that all novels ending in marriage of a hero or heroine must be of a happy ending suggesting that "they lived happily ever after" and the chosen role for Ladislaw is necessarily an ideal one. But as to Middlemarch we must put aside this preconceived idea. The readers' expectation of ideal marriage is erroneous and the disagreeable impression Ladislaw leaves is intended and serves the writer's own purpose. Dorothea passes a night in an agony of disillusionment after witnessing the flirtation between Rosamond and Ladislaw. And at daybreak she arrives at one lofty resolve, and sets out on an altruistic mission of converting Rosamond. Yet this purely altruistic move on her part rebounds back to herself in sheer disappointment, ironically revealing the true nature of Ladislaw's love for her, which is entirely self-interested. Thus all her generous aspirations of self-sacrifice are frustrated one after another. To make this frustration complete, Will Ladislaw must not be an ideal soul mate of Dorothea, but just an homme sensuel moyen unworthy of her. Sir James Chettham in the story took Ladislaw as a needy adventurer. From the viewpoint of a dispassionate third person, this estimate of Will's character is quite natural. Dorothea with her ardent nature, however, is not satisfied with such an estimate and she believes in the integrity of Ladislaw's motives. Sir James's opinion is objective, whereas Dorothea's belief is subjective. Now, George Eliot is a quasi-determinist who believes in the impotence of personal or subjective aspirations in the face of the impersonal and objective power of environment. And she can not admit the justification of Dorothea's belief in Ladislaw. On the other hand, being no out-and-out determinist, she does not wish to depict the complete defeat of Dorothea by representing Ladislaw as a shameless adventurer, which would be a too drastic ending of the story. Her aim must be to hit the just mean between these two conceptions and to represent Ladislaw as neither an ideal soul mate for Dorothea nor a shameless adventurer, but as an ordinary individual who is just neutral in point of value, neither positive nor negative. In one word, we may say that George Eliot set up a smoke screen round Ladislaw's value. The magic of attraction cast by divine Dorothea is all-powerful in this novel and under the working of its spell, the value of her mate Ladislaw tends to be positive if left to itself. George Eliot tried carefully to tone down the representation of Ladislaw's character so as to keep up his neutrality. Hence the disagreeableness of Ladislaw. Yet, one of the merits of Middlemarch lies in its sober ending which suggests a disillusioned renunciatory view of human life. And this ending can not be achieved without skilful treatment of this ambiguous neutral role of Ladislaw.

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At the beginning of 1904, James Joyce wrote off in one day an autobiographical story-essay, 'A Portrait of the Artist,' and entered into his literary career as a creative writer. This was rejected by the editor of Dana, which occasioned him to write an extended draft of the portrait, Stephen Hero. In the latter half of that year, he wrote for the Irish Homestead three short-stories which were later to be incorporated in revised form in Dubliners. 'The Sisters,' the first of the three for the Homestead, had been rewritten and revised at least three times during the next twelve months before the final Dubliners version took on the shape. It is imperative and vitally important to examine the remarkable differences between the first Homestead version and the final version, for they will reveal how Joyce started his career as an artist and how he came to maturity as a writer in so short a time. We may not be sure what made him develop so rapidly, but the question is not why but how he developed his art. As his letter shows, Joyce had from the start a definite programme "to betray the soul of that hemiplegia or paralysis which many consider a city" through a series of stories in Dubliners. This theory may seem naturalistic at first, but the process of revisions of 'The Sisters' was the process to add symbolic details to the simple naturalistic story narrated directly by an innocent boy-narrator. It is symbolic, not 'vivisective' as the hero of Stephen Hero would have us believe. The boy in the final version is not an observer but is more involved in the incident than the boy in the first version. Joyce selected the incident of the priest's death to bring about the unique effect of the paralysed soul of the city, and not vice versa. He anticipated that the effect would decide the whole tone of the stories that would come after it. Indeed, there is no difference of the sequences of the story between the two versions: both are consisted of four consecutive parts. It will be almost enough, however, to compare the 'introductory' parts of the drafts to know the difference of the depth and breadth between them. The opening passages of the first draft are completely rewritten and re-organized in many drastic and also in many subtle and complicated ways: the incident itself, vaguely hinted at in the Homestead version, is clearly defined in the Dubliners version-the word "paralysis" is given a vivid imaginative function with its full implication of social as well as religious hemiplegia of the city. In the first draft, the incident, the narrator's relation to it, and the disease of the dying and demented priest, though implicitly narrated, are never allusive nor suggestive of anything, while in the final draft, it is the whole implication of the death of the priest and its relation to the involved boy that matters. The boy's relation to the outer world, apparently cut off through an open hostility to the grown-ups, is barely maintained by a closer relationship with the corrupted priest as an allegorical incarnation of the "maleficent and sinful being." This renewed attraction-repulsion relationship makes it necessary to add an entirely new paragraph to the final draft, where the ordinary relation between the priest and the boy is significantly reversed: the priest desires to confess something and the boy smiles feebly as if to absolve the simoniac of his sin. This paragraph reminds us of the passages in the Portrait where the young Stephen with his enfeebled mind sees in the darkened bedroom "pale strange faces" of the dead. But in spite of many similarities, the essential difference is clear: the young Stephen is not yet aware of the fact that the sinner can recede into some pleasant region; even a small transgression of his fellow students can rouse in him a faint sickness of awe,

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In America, towards the middle of the 19th century general interests were focused on "solitude," just as in Europe from the end of the 18th century to the early 19th century. The interest in "solitude" was part of the emotional and intellectual trend of the day called by various names, that is, romanticism, naturalism, or individualism. Some of the Transcendentalists emphasized the use of "solitude" for the soul; others loved it so deeply that they tried to experience it in the country; others noticed its destructive effects on man. Poets often made use of the emotional atmosphere of "solitude" in their poems. Prose writers, including Poe, Cooper, Melville, and Hawthorne, also revealed their concern with the theme. The purpose of this essay is to define the nature of "solitude" that Hawthorne was deeply interested in, and then to comment on its various aspects and causes. Though Hawthorne spoke more than once of his own "natural tendency towards seclusion," and showed in essays and notebooks the love of aloneness, he firmly believed from his early days the importance of "participation" as something intrinsic in man. He was taught, as he confessed later, the "horror" of solitude during the so-called solitary years. Various cases of "solitude" described in his novels and short stories suggest that he emphasized the danger of destructiveness of "solitude." The kind of "solitude" that was considered destructive by Hawthorne is best characterized as "insulation." "Like all other men," wrote Hawthorne about a character in one of the short stories, "around whom an engrossing purpose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of human kind.... Though gentle in manner and upright in intent and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his heart was cold; no living creature could be brought near enough to keep him warm." Insulation then suggests not only isolation but also imperviousness due to the coldness of "the heart." A man becomes the victim of insulation when his heart becomes cold or loses "reciprocal influence" on others' sympathies. Or, a man suffers from insulation when he is too much intent upon his own purpose, whether or not it is private, religious, scientific, or intellectual. Insulation occurs also as a result of hubris or of some other crime. Or, when a man becomes a cold observer, he is in danger of being insulated from other human beings. Poets, other artists and even prophets are also in danger of falling into insulation. In many cases, because of the loss of the sense of both human brotherhood and reality, insulation results in grotesqueness, madness, dehumanization and, finally, in death. On the other hand, expiation of insulation is suggested by the image of "home" or "hearth," where man is united to each other by love or sympathy. Examples of insulation are found everywhere in Hawthorne's novels and short stories. Almost all the main characters of his novels are in the insulated situations; some short stories deal with insulation as their theme; others describe insulated persons, either seeking for human sympathy or falling into destruction.

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In his three volume edition of Emily Dickinson's poems Thomas Johnson has carefully established the correct text and provided the authoritative version for each poem from his own standard. He has also made possible the study of the variant versions and suggested changes, when they are available, written by the poet on the manuscripts. But with a few exceptions like Charles Anderson and, as to their analysis of punctuation, like John Crowe Ransom and Austin Warren, all Dickinson students have been indifferent to the variants and suggested changes, and their study of Dickinson's poetry has gone without reservation upon the Johnson "principal" texts. No close comparative study of the alternate readings and the Johnson version has ever been made. The purpose of the present essay is to enunciate the proposition that the poet's own variant versions and suggested changes involve more serious consideration from various angles and to illustrate how they improve some of the Johnson "principal" versions as Dickinson's poems. The first possibility to revise the Johnson version with the alternate readings can be sought for rhyme and metric patterns. The peculiar metrical scheme of Poem No.1142 ("The Props assist the House"), a combination of Sixes and two Short Meters which is seen only in The Bay Psalm Book (1640), supplies a good illustration for deciding the adoption of the variant stanza division. And the rhyme and metric patterns of Poem No. 214 ("I taste a liquor never brewed-") is also examined in this direction. The second possibility is discussed in reference to the biblical imagery in Dickinson's poems. The last line of Poem No. 214 again affords a good example in reference to its imagery and that of the sweet and bitter book in The Revelation (10: 9-11). Poem No. 322 ("There came a Day at Summer's full") is another illustration connected with the episode of the bride of the lamb (Rev. 21). Imagery in Shakespeare's works opens up the third possibility of the adoption of the alternate readings as in the case of Poem No. 1479 ("The Devil-had he fidelity"). And also there is much need of a detailed analysis of the dashes and capitalizations in the Johnson version as Ransom and Warren have pointed out. Thus the present author wants to set forth the problems of a reader's own text for his study of Dickinson's poetry in making a good use of her variant versions and suggested changes.

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The Iceman Cometh, as "part of an interlocking series of plays"...A Moon for the Misbegotten, A Touch of the Poet and Long Day's Journey into Night...was written in 1939 during a period of depression and anxiety for O'Neill which he attributed to the impending war, his family troubles, his own weakening health and also to his dissatisfaction with, and finally destroying the first two of long cycle-plays, his would-be monumental works. Seeing the end of his own life approaching, he became immersed in his own past...the years of 1911 and 1912, those of destitution, hopelessness and death longing. His early identification with the pipe-dreamers at Jimmy the Priests, a dilapidated flophouse-saloon on the New York waterfront, was now transmuted into an expression of "hopeless hope", "existential dilemma"... his obsessed life-and-death philosophy. The Iceman Cometh, as Mr. and Mrs. Gelb have said, having "subsurfaces and sub-subsurfaces" and being "the most intricately and symbolically coded of all O'Neill's plays", "has been lengthily analyzed in print from psychiatric, religious and metaphysical viewpoints," "and may ultimately accumulate as large a body of scholarly discourse as Hamlet" The play, if not his greatest masterpiece, but surely one of his most labored works, might be said to give interesting problems but also be tantalizing and even too difficult to grasp what the author wished to signify. The aim of this paper is merely to concentrate, through drawing the contour and conveying the flavor of the play, rather upon pointing out the controversial points than upon elucidating or solving them. As is exemplified by H. Muchnic's Circe's Swine: Plays by Gorky and O'Neill, we might meet with interesting problems in the comparative study of Gorky's The Lower Depth and O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh, both of which are very much alike, not only in setting, plot and structure, but in aesthetic conception, which still have the essential difference ; the former based on a respect for humanity and the latter on a hopeless understanding of them; the former laying a stress on an intellectual grasp of values, the materialist doctrine of self-reliant, practical action, the latter putting an emphasis on the paradoxes of existence, a prophecy of doom, the Christian ideal of humility and inactive faith. We also might find the similar cases in the comparative study of O'Neill's play on one side and Arthur Miller's The Death of a Salesman, Elmer Rice's Street Scene or Sidney Kingsley's Dead End on the other. The poetic and mystical features, essential to O'Neill, could be traced in pursuing what is meant and symbolized by 'The Iceman' of the title, the symbolization or meaning of the title 'The Iceman Cometh' giving us another fundamental problem. According to what Prof. Cyrus Day, after developing a fascinating interpretation of the religious symbolism in The Iceman Cometh, has pointed out in his Modern Drama, we might find "several tantalizing resemblances" between the play and the New Testament, which will give us another tempting but significant problem. These above-mentioned problems, together with the ones we might be given in analyzing the dramaturgy of the play, await us to be made clear.

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4. The following points have been emphasized in this paper: (1) The identification of phonemes between different systems is of structural significance in that not only is it to be explained in terms of the structure of the systems but also it throws much light on the structural similarities and differences between them. But the description of phoneme identifications between systems in contact in terms of diaphonic formulas does not make clear all structural differences, even if it is corroborated by the componential analysis of each phoneme and the examination of the pattern of phonemic contrasts. Differences in phoneme distribution are structurally as important as differences in phoneme inventory and some other device than diaphonic formulation must be employed in comparing different languages or dialects as to phoneme distribtution. (2) The study of the equivalents established between different phonemic systems tends to be invalidated by the informant's knowledge of vocabulary. This danger is greatest when the systems in contact are those of very closely related dialects. It is therefore unwise to use existing lexical items especially in checking interdialectally identified phonemes. (3) What are called diaphones are often better regarded as interdialectally differing phonemes occurring in the same word, especially when they are established by the unsound procedure referred to in (2) above. This conceptual confusion must be warned against though differences in phonemic incidence form another important category in dialectology.

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