VOL. XCIV DECEMBER, 1896 No. DLIX CHRISTMAS CAROL. BY NINA FRANCES LAYARD. THE holly berry's red as blood. The weather is rough at Christmas-tide; The thronging guests are all inside; They have taken her to the cattle-shed, And she must lay her gentle head The holly berry's red as blood, And the holly bears a thorn; Then Mary took a wisp of hay And covered up the wood; And round the crib where Jesus lay O mother, to the young Babe come, All Christian maidens, pure and mild, And shelter from the winter wild For the holly berry's red as blood, And the holly bears a thorn; And the manger-bed was a Holy Rood, Compright, 1896, by Harper and Brothers. All rights reserved. usually been regarded from two very narrow points of view: philologists look upon them as a storehouse of late MiddleEnglish words and idioms; and students of the drama find in them the origin of the theatre that reached its full development under Elizabeth. In the eyes of the monks who wrote the plays, however, and of the mediæval masses for whom they were acted, they were a vehicle for presenting intelligibly and forcibly the stories of the Bible and the teachings of the Church. Their significance is therefore precisely that of any other body of church art. In the mingling of saints and angels with the most extraordinary grotesques, we find the same religious and esthetic impulse that gave birth to Italian painting and to Gothic sculpture; and the realism with which the stories of the Bible are presented is everywhere characteristic of the earlier Church. The only difference is that in our mystery-plays the spirit is neither Italian nor French, but characteristically and indisputably English. Noah in his carpenter's gown and the shepherds in their frocks are as plainly Yorkshire men as the patriarchs of a canvas by Giotto are Florentine. My purpose is to suggest the spiritual reality of one of the chief monuments of ecclesiastic art in England, if not the chief. I. The reality of mediæval faith as we find it in the mystery-plays is not at first sight sympathetic. The archaic crudeness of the language provokes irrelevant amusement in the most sacred scenes; the characterization has often a grossness that repels us; and the narrative has not very much dramatic merit beyond telling the given story vividly and with a sort of rough power. This realism and catholicity placed the early Florentine painters among the foremost artists of the world. They are characteristic of the art of that early age when men of whatever station could be fired to a passionate devotion by a fragment of the cross, and when the worship of the Virgin was not always to be distinguished from an earthly, human love. In such an environment an artistic impulse could never be, as with us, primarily eclectic and esthetic. The business of the artist was to lodge in the hearts of the masses the realities of the Christian religion. or shinand glas." In the Towneley cycle of plays alone the fact is insisted on upward of a dozen times, and in the quaintest possible manner. The shepherds make great marvel at it, and one of them calls Virgil in to attest the fact. Herod, in his dismay at the reported birth of a new king, has his wise men consult Homer to find if such a thing is possible-and is, of course, convinced. Finally the Trinity itself descends to explain the doctrine. The playwright of the Coventry cycle seems to have thought even such testimony insufficient. He presents the fact dramatically in all its circumstance, devoting to it one-fifth of the entire cycle. A summary of these plays is impossible; but there is a York play on this subject that will sufficiently illustrate the pious intention of what appears the baldest realism; and will besides, I hope, suggest many of the kindliest virtues of the mysteryplays. The stage, or "pagent," on which the play was presented was not unlike a modern circus wagon. In presenting a cycle, the pagents one for each play were rolled in regular order, beginning with the Creation, from public square to public square, so that in any one place a spectator could see the entire cycle. It was as if each wagon of a circus procession should stop at advertised intervals to give a play. Such pagent contained a dressing-room and a scaffold. A change of scene was usually indicated by a slight change in the position of the actors on the scaffold, sign-boards indicating the various places represented. The opening scene of this York play on the miraculous conception discovers Joseph walking alone in the woods, and complaining that in his extreme old age he should have had to take a young wife. His bones are heavy as lead, he says; and he is so weak that he can scarcely step over two straws. No one would ever have thought of his marrying if his wand had not budded that day when he was summoned with the other unwedded men to the Temple. And now he is forced to repent a bad bargain. I am begiled; how, wate I noght.1 The misspelling of these early texts offers little difficulty when one bears in mind that, in the absence of our convention of misspelling, the scribe addressed not the eye, but the ear. He tries sturdily, however, to believe that all is for the best. But wele I wate thrugh prophicie, A maiden clene suld bere a childe. It is no use; he cannot convince himself that his Mary should chance to be that happy mother. He makes up his mind to leave her, and go deep into the woods to die. At this he feels a pang of pity for her. "God shield the wild beasts slay her; she is so meek and mild," he says, and resolves to speak to her once more. He finds her at prayer, and is welcomed with a true wifely grace; yet he confronts her resolutely. At this her handmaidens cry out at him in indignation; and Mary insists with quiet dignity that the child is "Goddis" and Joseph's. "Now wate I wele I am begiled," Joseph exclaims at the mention of his name. The handmaidens declare that no other man has been near her, save an angel, who has come once every day to bring Mary food. This completes Joseph's despair, for just such things were always happening in mediæval japes. As late as Shakespeare, in fact, we constantly find this joke of the cuckoo and the horns. "Nay," Joseph cries out Nay, som man in aungellis liknesse With somkyn gawde has hir begiled. . . . This situation is dwelt upon until the most resolute doubter must be convinced that Joseph, at least, is not the father. His deep distress, meanwhile, and Mary's simple dignity, are as touching and sweet as can be; and the scene is ordered with such a thorough feeling for comedy that even to-day one finds it hard not to be amused. At last Joseph leaves Mary, and going into the woods as if to die, consigns himself to God. At this the angel Gabriel appears, and says that it is he, God's messenger, who has come every day to take care of Mary; and that the child is conceived of the Holy Ghost. At first Joseph, questions even the angel, but is finally convinced, and goes home in an excess of joy and contrition. At the door he pauses in shame, and asks how Mary fares. "The better, sir, that you have come back," Mary sweetly answers. Even yet Joseph cannot rid himself of the pathetic burden of his doubt. 1 Some trick or other. My bakke fayne wolde I bowe, Wiste I thou wolde me here. At this Mary is overjoyed. Forgiffnesse, sir! late be! for shame! Slike wordis suld all gud women lakke. Throughout this play one feels as if the sweet, simple folk in a nativity by Giotto had vouchsafed to speak of holy things. Yet many people will perhaps prefer the propriety of the Towneley poet's references to Homer and Virgil. In either case it is clear that the York play would be the more likely to amuse and touch the hearts of a mediæval audience, and thus to drive home the difficult doctrine in question. III. In the second Towneley Shepherds' play, which has to do directly with the nativity, the spirit of familiar mirth is much more noteworthy; but for that very reason there is the greater danger of missing the underlying wholesomeness and beauty of the play. Our modern sense of decorum and even of severity in religion. which precludes familiarity with eternal things, is more than half due, I suspect, to the ease and self-indulgence of our ways of living. In an age when the world was squalid and narrow at best, the love of God and the hope of bliss to come were the most joyous as well as the most serious facts in life. Thus, when David prophesies the coming of Christ, in the Towneley cycle, he says:' Men may know hym bi his marke; That shalle he luf most. And later Christ says: I shall ascend Unto my Fader for ay, Ever to won with hym and his, Of that myrthe shalle I never mys. In the comic underplot of the Shepherds' play, which has to do with a most extraordinary Yorkshire nativity, we shall see The difficulty of following the text will be removed by keeping in mind a few simple facts: y may stand for the modern e, i, o, or u: thus, chappyd, chapped; ylle, ill; wyrk, work; and ryn, run. The second of double vowels is also often represented by y: thus, feynd, feend; and foytt, foot. Many of the other vowels often appear changed, e. g, thore and wore, there and were. 2 Dwell. with what game and play rich and poor tempered their glee at the birth of the Christ-Child; and after reading the serious episode that follows it, we shall agree, I hope, that even to-day the joyousness of the festival of children and of gifts should be part and parcel of its religion. The play opens during a stormy December night, on a bleak Yorkshire hill-side. The First Shepherd comes in alone. Primus Pastor. Lord, what these weders ar cold, and I am ylle happyd;1 My legys thay fold, my fingers ar chappyd; The sorrow is mostly for political wrongs. For the tylthe of oure landes lyys falow as the floore, As ye ken. We are so hamyd, 5 For taxed and ramyd, Withe thyse gentlery men. And ever shuld we thryfe. In the century of Wat Tyler's rebellion these words must have gone straight to Yorkshire hearts. At any rate, the shepherd himself enjoyed them. It dos me good, as I walk thus by myn oone,' of this warld for to talk in maner of mone. The Second Shepherd soon comes in, also nursing a grievance. Be welle war of wedyng, and thynk in youre thoght For thou may cache in an owre As long as thou lyffys. The Third Shepherd, a boy, is out of sorts with his mistress and master. Bothe oure dame and oure syre, And pay us fulle lately. |