THE DRAMA IN THE MIDDLE AGES.

Of all the remarkable periods of history, not the least interesting is that comprised in the so-called middle ages. With the downfal of the Roman empire every vestige of civilisation seemed to be lost in the moral chaos by which that event was succeeded. Dark, however, as the period in question is generally supposed to have been, it was pregnant with the formless elements of modern society, floating amid confused recollections of bygone customs, laws, and achievements-uncertain attempts in a new direction-dependent in a greater degree on the past than the rude intellect of the time was willing to acknowledge. Christianity had found a resting-place in the world, and was silently, though surely, sapping the outworks of ignorance. Printing, gunpowder, the mariner's compass, the telescope, owe their discovery to the middle ages. In the marked distinctions which then prevailed between the various orders of society, the lower classes were reduced to a state of moral and physical degradation. Possessing but very few, if any legal rights, they were entirely at the mercy of the lords of the soil; a position from which they made many desperate, and, in the end, successful attempts to free themselves. When unable to use more offensive weapons, they satirized and ridiculed their masters in their ballads, songs, and rude dramatic representations. In fact, satire is one of the great characteristics of the period; it shows itself everywherein the metrical romances, fabliaux, and tales; seizing upon councils, sermons, architecture, religious ceremonies, and all the weak points in the character of the nobles and the clergy, as fair game. It was one of the earliest scintillations of that intelligence which has since effected such mighty changes.

From the very dawn of civilisation, dramatic genius, in some shape or other, has been continually reproduced. Even the rudest tribes delighted in theatrical amusements, in which deities or demons sustained the principal characters. In common with other arts, it rose to the highest degree of perfection among the Greeks, by whom it was transmitted to the Romans. On the subjugation of the latter power by the Teutonic hordes, the drama disappeared; the spread of Christianity also tended to suppress it. The emperor Theodosius the younger published laws forbidding shows at Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost. The Fathers, too, denounced plays in the severest terms; Tertullian, in his work De Spectaculis, animadverts on the evil and profane tendency of theatres. But the spirit of mimicry was not to be repressed; it manifested itself in palaces, feudal castles, abbeys and cathedrals, and in the public thoroughfares, adapting itself necessarily to the vicissitudes of time and custom, refinement or barbarism. The antiquary of our day regards the manuscripts of old plays as some of his rarest treasures; and the philologist finds in them many curious and valuable illustrations of the earliest specimens of modern idiom. Notwithstanding the authority of the Fathers, we find that after a time the authorities of the Church availed themselves of the

drama, to impart instruction to the populace, and at the same time to confirm their own power and authority. The sacred plays, called Mysteries, were written in rude rhyming Latin; but, as the common people were not well acquainted with this language, many popular words and phrases gradually crept in, forming a strange contrast to the sonorous original, until at length, in the fourteenth century, the plays were spoken in the current dialect of the day. Some of the old Latin dramas were so strictly connected with the ceremonies of the Church, that they were never represented but in the interior of sacred edifices, by performers chosen from among the

monks and priests. Others, equally religious in their tendency, in which a visible and edifying paraphrase of some portion of the liturgies was set before the ignorant multitude, were acted in some public place within the sacred precincts, by pious laics, under the sanction of the clergy.

These dramas were highly relished by the populace, especially when the decline of the feudal system, with its joustings, tilts, and tournaments, left them no other public amusement. In our own country, the Chester Mysteries, or Whitsun Plays, were frequently acted in that city during the thirteenth century, to the great delight of all classes of spectators. In the programme or proclamation we are told that "Done Rondali, mocke of Chester Abbey," was the author :

"This moonke, moonke-like, in scriptures well seene,
In storyes travelled with the best sorte;
In pagentes set fourth, apparently to all eyne,
The Olde and Newe Testament with livelye comforte;
Intermynglinge therewith, onely to make sporte,
Some things not warranted by any writt,

Which to gladd the hearers he woulde men to take y the clerical actors were not averse to the introduction of The concluding lines afford a strong presumption tha: some lighter topics among the grave matter of the drama, which may probably account for the great degree of public favour they received. So much, indeed, were the plays to the taste of the populace, that they divided attention with the favourite ballads of Robin Hood The collection known as the Towneley Mysteries contains many curious instances of chronological error, which may take their place by the side of those committed by Shakspeare, and Beaumont and Fletcher. In one of the plays by the latter writers, Demetrius fires a pistol long ere gunpowder was thought of; and the former makes Hector quote Aristotle. In the Mysteries, however, the high priest Caiaphas is made to sing mass; Noah's wife Virgin Mary; the Shepherds in the Nativity talk of is acquainted with "Stafford blew," and swears by the "the foles of Gotham," swear by "Sant Thomas of Kent," and are engaged in beating a man who had stolen one of their sheep, when the angel appears singing the Gloria in excelsis. These incongruities, which would afford "food for laughter " to a modern audience, passed unnoticed by the superstitious spectators of former days. In another of these Mysteries, the Processus talentorum, we have an example of the admixture of Latin with the vulgar dialect. Plate enters, declaiming somewhat in the style of the "bashful" Irishman:

But the greatest variety of these religious drama perhaps to be found in the ancient literature of Fran Whether more importance was attached to the de observance of festivals in that country than on this de the channel, or from some other cause, we find rous short pieces written, to be played on certain feat and saints' days. At Christmas, for instance, the Mys tery of the Nativity, of the Star, or the Adoration of the Magi, was given; while at Easter were represented the Scenes of the Crucifixion, the Tomb, the Tre Marys, or the appearance of Christ to the disciples si Emmaus. The Suscitatio Lazari, or the Resurrection of Lazarus, was a favourite piece for occasional perform ance; and the anniversary of Saint Nicholas was cele (1) Two lines in the Vision of Piers Plowman, mark the poplarity of the ballads:

I cannot parfitly mi Pater noster as the Priest it synth
But I can Rymes of Robenhode, and Raudof erl of Chester"

brated by the Ludus super iconia Sancti Nicholai. The two latter pieces were written by Hilary, a disciple of Abelard.

From the titles of many of these old dramas we obtain a glimpse of the religious feeling of the day, in which the worship of the Virgin was strangely mingled with singular and romantic notions. Some of them would doubtless draw an audience in the present day. What a treat for the lovers of the marvellous would be "The Miracle of Amis and Amilla, the which Amilla killed her two children to cure Amis her husband, who was leprous; and afterwards our Lady restored them again to life !" The title of another is, "The miracle of our Lady, how the King of Hungary's daughter cut off her hand, for that her father wished to marry her, and a sturgeon kept it (the hand) seven years in his stomach." A third relates to the conversion of one of the early Gaulish kings from paganism; "The miracle of our Lady, how king Clovis made himself to be christened at the request of Clotilda his wife, for a battle which he had against the Alemans and Senes (Germans and Saxons), and won the victory, and at the christening descended the holy ampulla."

In the fourteenth century, however, a change took place; a collection was made of all the principal events of gospel history, and formed into one vast and single representation, no longer played, as formerly, on particular days and festivals, but continuing throughout several days, and sometimes for weeks, and at any period of the year. The most celebrated of these comprehensive dramas was called, the Mystery of the Pussion: the first portion or act took in one day of the scripture narrative; to the second, extending from the baptism to the crucifixion, four days were allotted; and to the third and concluding portion, six days. On its first performance in 1398, it was received with the greatest enthusiasm, and speedily became a popular favourite; so much so, that it led to the establishment of a permanent theatre, in which daily representations took place.

Amid much that is rude and quaint, this Mystery of the Passion contains some germs of poetry, and delicacies of expression, the more remarkable when contrasted with the rough setting by which they are surrounded. It is, however, somewhat difficult to account for the prodigious favour in which these spectacles were held, devoid as they are of the scenery and decorations which, in the present day, constitute the principal attraction of the drama. Perhaps the superstitions of the age, combined with an unreflecting religious feeling, may have contributed to excite popular admiration for what would now be wearisome to all. The traces of poetry to which we have referred, are found in the scene of the Shepherds, of whom three hold a rhymed dialogue, expressive of the delights and pleasures of a pastoral life, and their superiority to the pursuit of arms, or wealth which bringeth care. Aloris, the first speaker,

says:

"For shepherds now is season sweet,
Heav'n be thanked, as is meet."

To this Ysambert adds :

"When shepherds meet in reason,
It is ever sweet season."

Pellion, the third shepherd, continues—

"In the house I could not stay,

And behold this joyous day.

Aloris. Fie for care and covetrie,

No life, pampered though it be,

Is worth the life of pastorie.

Pellion. Shepherds, who can happy be,
Fie for care and covetrie."

We have already seen, in the prologue to the Chester

(1) For a long period it was popularly believed in France, that Clovis, was brought down from heaven by a dove. the ampulla, (vessel of consecrated oil,) used at the France that

Mysteries, that a little humour was sometimes thrown in, to enliven the solemnity of the play; so here we have Rifflard, the wag of the piece, whose name literally rendered signifies jack-plane, saying:

"I grey-bearded crying still-
Shepherds, I with you agree,
When of bread I have my fill-
Fie for care and covetrie.

Pellion. Some vaunt of grand seignorie,
With donjon towers and weaponry.
Delight is none more true, than yields
The sight of pleasant fields,

Lambs leaping on the glad prairie."

The above quotation displays some appreciation of the real value and beauty of rural pursuits: the scene, however, between Judas and Lucifer in the same play, shows that the old authors could also be serious and tragical when it suited their purpose in the long evangelical dramas. The wrathful demon appears to the despairing disciple, and asks:

"Wretch, what shall be done to thee?
Whither wilt thou now depart?

Judas. I know not; for eye of mine
Dares not to look upon the heavens.
Demon. Desirest thou to ask my name?
Briefly shalt have demonstration.
Judas. Whence comest thou?

This passionate and abrupt dialogue was well calculated to make a powerful impression on the minds of the spectators, and bears evident proofs of dramatic genius. The Miracle of Theophilus is another of the religious dramas based upon the supernatural and the terrible. Originating in the East about the sixth century, such was its effect upon the popular mind, that the guilds and corporations of every trade painted the walls of their halls, the windows, and panels, with the exemplary details of the legend, in which a priest, seduced by pride and ungovernable ambition, denies his faith, and devotes himself to the service of the evil one: the dénouement, however, records his penitence and reconciliation with the church. On some occasions the auditors were entertained by an exhibition of ventriloquism; one of the plays, entitled, the Three Quick and the Three Dead," was recited by a single actor, who changed the tone of his voice in accordance with the change of characters. In the Mystery of the Resurrection we meet with errors similar to those quoted from the Towneley Mysteries. One of the soldiers is made to say that, whether he obtain absolution from the priest or not, he will kill the first who approaches. The solecism of introducing a Romish priest in the days of Herod is not the only one, for in another place Caiaphas is called a bishop.

The Discourses of

The mystery of the Wise and Foolish Virgins is an interesting specimen of the transition state of the language many of the primitive French words are introduced among the rude and barbarous Latin: it is of the time of Henry I., the early part of the eleventh century. The prologue was originally spoken by one of the priesthood, who afterwards called out in a loud voice the names of the actors, as they successively entered and took part in the proceedings. This personage answers to our modern stage director; when the performance took place inside a church, he stood in the middle of the gallery, surrounded by the musicians. The other characters, priests and monks, clothed in the costume of their parts, sat in the stalls, waiting the

At

moment to rise and advance to the middle of the choir, where they sang or chanted their stanzas. the opening of the Wise and Foolish Virgins, a priest

recites some Latin verses by way of prologue, and to give a general outline of the subject. Then enter the Wise Virgins, whom the angel Gabriel, in old Latin French, warns to " Watch, and sleep not." They continue their share of the dialogue in the same idiom, when the Foolish Virgins enter, deploring their negligence, with moving appeals to the compassion of the others, and ending each of their three stanzas with the choral complaint:-" Dolentas! chaitivas! trop i avem dormit." "Miserable, unhappy ones, too long have we slept!" The Wise refuse, and bid them despatch and buy oil; at the same time retorting upon them the chorus, "Dolentas," &c. After many fruitless and despairing entreaties, the Foolish Virgins go to the merchants, who receive them by saying, "Domnas gentris." -"Gentle ladies, it is not beseeming that you tarry here so long; we cannot give what you ask; hasten back to your wise sisters ;" and in turn quote the complaint, Dolentas," &c. The piece finished with the seizure and carrying off of the Foolish Virgins by demons, after their rebuke by the bridegroom. addition to the characters enumerated, Nabuchadonosor, the Sybil, and Virgil, are introduced to help out the moral. We shall conclude this brief sketch of the popular religious drama with a specimen of the bar barous Latin text quoted from the mystery above referred to:

"Venit talis

Solea nobis Cujus non sum etiam.

Tam benignus

Ut sim ausus Solvere corrigiam."

FRANK FAIRLEGH;

OR, OLD COMPANIONS IN NEW SCENES.1

CHAP. IX.

THE FORLORN HOPE.

In

FREDDY COLEMAN was cheated of his walk that afternoon; for an old maiden lady in the neighbourhood, having read in a Sunday paper that the cholera was raging with great fury at Trincomalee, thought it as well to be prepared for the worst, and sent for Mr. Coleman to receive directions about making her will, and he, being particularly engaged, sent Freddy in his stead, who set out on the mission in a state of comic ill humour, which bid fair to render Mrs. Aikenside's will a very original document indeed, and foreboded for that good old lady herself an unprecedented and distracting

afternoon.

I had assisted Mr. Coleman in placing Clara Saville in the carriage which arrived to convey her to Barstone, and had received a kind glance, and a slight pressure of the hand in return, which I would not have exchanged for the smiles of an empress, when, anxious to be alone with my own thoughts, I started off for a solitary walk, nor did I relax my pace till I had left all traces of human habitation far behind me, and green fields and leafless hedges were my only companions. I then endeavoured in some measure to collect my scattered thoughts, and to reflect calmly on the position I had placed myself in, by the avowal into which the unexpected events of the morning had hurried me. But so much was I excited, that calm reflection appeared next to impossible. Feel ing flushed with the victory it had obtained over its old antagonist, Reason seemed, in every sense of the word, to have gained the day, and, despite all the difficulties that lay before me-difficulties which I knew would appear all but insurmountable, whenever I should venture to look them steadily in the face, the one idea that Clara Saville loved me, was ever present with me, and rendered me supremely happy.

The condition of loving another better than oneself,

(1) Continued from p. 230.

conventionally termed being "in love," is, to say the least, a very doubtful kind of happiness; and poets have therefore, with great propriety, described it as "pleasing pain," "delicious misery," and in many other terms of a like equivocal character; nor is it possible that this should be otherwise: love is a passion, wayward and impetuous in its very nature,-agitating and disquieting in its effects, rendering its votary the slave of eir cumstances, a mere shuttlecock alternating between the extremes of hope and fear, joy and sorrow, confidence and mistrust;-a thing which a smile can exalt to the highest pinnacle of delight, or a frown strike down to the depths of despair. But in the consciousness that we are beloved, there is none of this questionable excite ment; on the contrary, we experience a sensation of deep calm joy, as we reflect, that in the true affection th bestowed, we have gained a possession, which the cares and struggles of life are powerless to injure, and which death itself, though it may interrupt it for a while, will fail to destroy.

These thoughts, or something like them, having entrenched themselves in the stronghold of my imagi nation, for some time held their ground gallantly against the attacks of common sense; but at length, repulsed on every point, they deemed it advisable to capitulate, or (to drop metaphor, a style of writing I particularly abominate, perhaps because I never more than ha understand what it means) in plain English, I, with a sort of grimace, such as one makes before swallowing s dose of physic, set myself seriously to work, to reflect upon my present position, and decide on the best line of conduct to be pursued for the future.

Before our conference came to an end, I had made Clara acquainted with my knowledge of Cumberland's former delinquencies, as well as the reputation in which he was now held by such of his associates as had any pretension to the title of gentlemen, and added my coviction, that, when once these facts were placed before Mr. Vernon, he must see that he could not, consistently with his duty as guardian, allow his ward to marry a man of such character. Cumberland had no doubt contrived to keep his uncle in ignorance of his mode of life, and it would only be necessary to enlighten him on that point, to ensure his consent to her breaking off the engagement. Clara appeared less sanguine of success. even hinting at the possibility of Mr. Vernon's beirz s well-informed in regard to his nephew's real charace: as we were; adding, that his mind was too firmly set the match, for him to give it up lightly. It was fr agreed between us, that she was to let me know affairs went on after Mr. Vernon's return, and, in mean time, I was to give the matter my serious 20 sideration, and decide on the best course for us to for The only person in the establishment whom she co thoroughly trust, was the extraordinary old footman, the subject of Lawless's little bit of diplomacy,) who d served under her father in the Peninsula, and sere panied him home in the character of confide servant-he had consequently known Clara from a cl and was strongly attached to her, so that she b learned to regard him more in the light of a f than a servant. Through this somewhat origin stitute for a confidante, we arranged to comme

with each other.

As to my own line of conduct, I very soon decided on that. I would only await a communication from Clara 10

assure me that Mr. Vernon's determination with regar

to her remained unchanged, ere I would seek an inter view with him, enlighten him as to Cumberland's tree character, acquaint him with Clara's aversion to the match, and induce him to allow of its being broken ef I should then tell him of my own affection for her, and of my intention of coming forward to demand her hand, as soon as by my professional exertions I should have realized a sufficient independence to enable me to ms As to Clara's fortune, if fortune she had, she might build a church, endow a hospital, or buy herself botnet

ribbons with it, as she pleased, for not a farthing of it would I ever touch on any consideration. No one should be able to say, that it was for the sake of her money I sought to win her. Well, all this was very simple, straight-forward work; -where, then, were the difficulties which had alarmed me so greatly? Let me see-Mr. Vernon might choose to fancy that it would take some years to add to the 901. 14s. 6d. sufficiently to enable me to support a wife, and might disapprove of his ward's engaging herself to me on that account-what if he did? I wished for no engagement-let her remain free as air, her own true affection would stand my friend, and on that I could rely, content if it failed me, to-to-well, it did not signify what I might do in an emergency which never could arise.-No! only let him promise not to force her inclinations-to give up his monstrous project of wedding her to Cumberland, and to leave her free to bestow her hand on whom she would, and I should be perfectly satisfied. But, suppose, as Clara seemed to fear, he should refuse to break off the engagement with his nephew-suppose he should forbid me the house, and, taking advantage of my absence, use his authority to force on this hateful marriage! All that would be extremely disagreeable, and I could not say I exactly saw at the moment, what means I should be able to employ, effectually to prevent it;-still it was only a remote contingency-an old man like him, with one foot, as you might say, in the grave, (he could not have been above sixty, and his constitution, like everything else about him, appeared of cast iron,) must have some conscience, must pay some little regard to right and wrong it would only be necessary to open his eyes to the enormity of wedding beauty and innocence such as Clara's to a scoundrel like Cumberland—a man destitute of every honourable feeling-oh! he must see that the thing is impossible, and, as the thought passed through my mind, I longed for the moment when I should be confronted with him, and able to tell him so.

And Clara, too! sweet, bewitching, unhappy Clara! what must not she have gone through, ere a mind naturally buoyant and elastic as hers, could have been crushed into a state of such utter dejection, such calm, spiritless despair! her only wish, to die-her only hope, to find in the grave a place "where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest!" But brighter days were in store for her, it should be my ambition to render her married life so happy, that, if possible, the recollection of all she had suffered having passed away, her mind should recover its proper tone, and even her lightness of heart, which the chill atmosphere of unkindness for a time had blighted, should revive again in the warm sunshine of affection.

Thus meditating, I arrived at Elm Lodge, in a state of feeling containing about equal parts of the intensely poetical, and the very decidedly hungry.

On the second morning after the events I have described, a note was brought to me whilst I was dressing-with trembling fingers I tore open the envelope, and read as follows:

gulated by the most consummate tact and cunning, allowing the deep interest he pretends to feel in me to appear in every look and action, yet never going far enough to afford me an excuse for repulsing him. This morning, however, I have had an interview with Mr. Vernon, in which I stated my repugnance to the marriage as strongly as possible; he was fearfully irritated, and, at length, on my repeating my refusal, plainly told me that it was useless for me to resist his will,-that I was in his power, and if I continued obstinate, I must be made to feel it. Oh! that man's anger is terrible to witness; it is not that he is so violenthe never seems to lose his self-control-but says the most cutting things in a tone of calm, sarcastic bitterness, which lends double force to all he utters. I feel that it is useless for us to contend against fate: you cannot help me, and would only embroil yourself with these men, were you to attempt to do so. I shall ever look back upon the few days we spent together, as a bright spot in the dark void of my life,-that life which you preserved at the risk of your own. Alas! you little knew the cruel nature of the gift you were bestowing. And now, farewell for ever! That you may find all the happiness your kindness and generosity deserve, is the earnest prayer of one, whom, for her sake, as well as your own, you must strive to forget."

"If I do forget her," exclaimed I, as I pressed the note to my lips, "may I —— well, never mind, I'll go over and have it out with that old brute this very morning, and we'll see if he can frighten me;" and so saying, I set to work to finish dressing, in a great state of virtuous indignation.

"Freddy," inquired I, when breakfast was at length concluded, "where can I get a horse?"

"Get a horse?" was the reply. "Oh! there are a great many places,-it depends upon what kind of horse you want: for race-horses, steeple-chasers, and hunters, I would recommend Tattersall's; for hacks or machiners, there's Aldridge's, in St. Martin's-lane; while Dixon's, in the Barbican, is the place to pick up a fine young cart-horse-is it a young cart-horse you want?"

"My dear fellow, don't worry me," returned I, feeling very cross, and trying to look amiable; "you know what I mean; is there any thing rideable to be hired in Hillingford ?--I have a call to make which is beyond a walk."

"Let me see," replied Freddy, musing; "you wouldn't like a very little poney, with a rat-tail, I suppose-it might look absurd with your long legs, I'm afraid-or else Mrs. Meek, the undertaker's widow, has got a very quiet one, that poor Meek used to ride a child could manage it-there's the butcher's fat mare, but she won't stir a step without the basket, and it would be so troublesome for you to carry that all the way. Tomkins, the sweep, has got a little horse he'd let you have, I dare say, but it always comes off black on one's trowsers; and the miller's cob is just as bad the other way with the flour. I know a donkey

"So do I," was my answer, as, laughing in spite of myself, I turned to leave the room.

Here, stop a minute!" cried Freddy, following me,

morally wrong in being acquainted with a donkey, is there? I assure you I did not mean any thing personal-and now for a word of sense. Bumpus, at the Green Man, has got a tremendous horse, which nearly frightened me into fits the only time I ever mounted him, so that it will just suit you; nobody but a green man, or a knight errant, which I consider much the same sort of thing, would patronize such an animal-still, he's the only one I know of."