The Poetic Element in the Mediæval Drama

THERE exists, perhaps, no literature of any importance which is to-day less generally read for its own sake, apart from any antiquarian interest, than that bequeathed to us by the Middle Ages. Resulting as it does from the period of intense activity which followed the secular revival of the thirteenth century, it furnishes examples of nearly every literary form, from the epic to the drama, and reflects every phase of that extraordinary era, from its tragedy to its fun; yet it is, as a rule, contentedly ignored and relinquished to the researches of a few enthusiastic scholars.

The peculiarity of the language furnishes without doubt a partial explanation of this popular indifference. Mediæval French and English are alike just far enough removed from modern forms to render them perplexing, while at the same time they do not possess the mysterious charm offered by an entirely novel mode of expression. But a truer reason is found in the distance which separates the modern from the mediæval world, — a distance far greater, measured by any standard except that of time, than that which lies between us and the literature of Greece and Rome. Affiliated on one side to the dreamy metaphysics of the East, on the other to the uncompromising positivism of the Roman decadence, the thought of our own day has little sympathy with childlike straightforwardness or unquestioning delight in the present. Yet contrast is sometimes refreshing ; and a generation which has listened to the Rubáiyát may find in some of the old English lyrics a freshness and genuineness of tone, a quaint sincerity of utterance, that have their own peculiar charm.

It is the intention of the writer to present some of these poetic bits, taken from a field which is for this purpose

almost unsearched. The Mysteries and Miracle Plays of the Middle Ages differ from most of its other literature in that they are not, like the poems of Chaucer, written for a cultivated class, but for the people at large. Their aim, therefore, is not literary ; and whatever merit may be found in them is the inevitable result of the ideas by which they were inspired. Originally a mere extension of the liturgy, and performed for a long while within the cathedral itself, their design remained to the end the presentation, in a vivid and attractive form, of the whole story of God’s dealing with man. They consist, accordingly, of a paraphrase, more or less literal, of the biblical narrative, and it was in the elaboration of those episodes which appealed particularly to the emotions of the time that the mind of the poet had free scope. Here, for instance, is a passage from Mary Magdalen’s address to the Saviour at the house of Simon, which is a good specimen of the average style and the most common metre of the dramas : —

Often, however, the lyrical interludes reach a much higher note, and show a musical instinct, strong if as yet unelaborated.

Here is a fragment taken from the Chester Plays, and belonging probably to the first half of the fifteenth century. It is the song of the Saviour on Easter morning : —

Many of these little lyrics have about them a singular sweetness and freshness. They stand in one way almost alone in our literature, or at least in our religious poetry. Allied by their quaint and simple grace to the later work of Herbert, they differ from his entirely in their spirit; for they contain no hint of Herbert’s constant though varied theme, — the experience of the individual soul. The age of introspection was not yet; and indeed it is strange to think how little of our religious verse has a purely objective inspiration. By their subjects, therefore, these little poems approach more nearly to such works as Milton’s Ode to the Nativity ; but it is hard to compare with Milton’s superbly skillful mosaic the unforced, spontaneous snatches of song which are scattered through the mediæval drama. To talk of relative merits would be as pointless as gravely to discuss the contrast between the singing of a thrush and that of Madame Patti; but listen for a moment to the one after the other.

Here is Milton’s description of the light which appeared to the shepherds :

Here is part of a version of the same scene, half lyrical, half dramatic, from the Chester Plays. The shepherds are interrupted by the light, while chattering in a realistic way about their affairs :

FIRST SHEPHERD.

SECOND SHEPHERD.

THIRD SHEPHERD.

While they are praying, the angels appear and sing the Gloria, and the shepherds resume : —

FIRST SHEPHERD.

SECOND SHEPHERD.

THIRD SHEPHERD.

FIRST SHEPHERD.

THIRD SHEPHERD.

FIRST SHEPHERD.

The whole story of the Nativity appealed strongly to the imagination of the Middle Ages. Again and again it is lovingly dwelt on, and the little touches which are added are almost always harmonious with the spirit of the Gospels. From the star by which the Wise Men are guided smiles down on them the face of the infant Jesus ; when the child is born, Joseph holds him up tenderly, that, he may be warmed by the breath of the friendly animals. Various pretty representations of this scene occur in illuminated manuscripts, where the ox and ass — always painted, for some inscrutable reason, bright red and blue respectively—rub their noses in the most affectionate and kindly way over the babe. It is touching to see witli what joyful yet reverential awe these plays, written as they were for the people, and reflecting perfectly popular sentiment and taste, insist upon the humble birth of our Saviour, in an age when the middle and lower classes were regarded as almost beneath contempt. “ Yet do I marvel,” says one of the prophets who, with charming inconsistency, are discussing the birth of Christ,

SECOND PROPHET.

All the love and tenderness for childhood, which manifests itself to-day in a hundred different forms, seemed in the Middle Ages to be concentrated in adoration of the infant Redeemer. Mary’s treatment of the Child, in particular, is rendered with the most sympathetic delicacy. In the York Plays, for instance, immediately after the birth, she kneels to the child, saying, —

and then proceeds to implore him, with an awe touched by pity and by motherly love : —

So she takes him on her lap; and presently Joseph, who has been out gathering fuel, enters, and exclaims, —

She explains the matter to him; and then they unite in worshiping this “flower fairest of hue,” the “royal king, root of all right.”

But perhaps this wistful reverence of infancy is even more striking in the case of the shepherds. The treatment of these men is thoroughly realistic (“ Whew ! Golly ! ” exclaims one of them, when the vision of heavenly light first breaks upon him), and the scenes where they appear are usually made the occasion for a good deal of rough buffoonery. The delightful literalness of the period saw nothing incongruous in the angel’s message coming as interruption to an angry squabble concerning the ownership of a sheep. But as soon as the shepherds come in contact with the Child their coarseness and vulgarity give place to the prettiest mixture of adoration and of loving familiarity. Very simple and graceful in all its different versions is the scene where they present their gifts to the Holy Child. Here is the speech of one of the shepherd-boys, in the Chester Plays: —

And here is a complete lyric from the Towneley Series, which, coming as it does after a scene of vulgar brawling and joking, has in the original drama a wonderfully dainty effect. The manuscript of these plays, which dates from the reign of Henry VII., is the oldest we possess.

FIRST SHEPHERD.

THIRD SHEPHERD.

It is a pity that the necessary modernizing of the spelling should ruin several of the rhymes, and entail a great loss in the rhythmical grace of the original. In form, as in matter, this little lyric is almost perfect.

These shepherd songs are the earliest examples in the drama of the frequent invocations of Christ, which, introduced on every possible occasion, remind us forcibly by their character of the liturgical origin of the Miracle Plays. A line example of these poems is found in the York Series, recently brought out by Miss Toulmin-Smith. It is the chant with which the citizens of Jerusalem greet the Saviour on the morning of Palm Sunday. Allied in form to the last given lyric, it yet offers a strong and suggestive contrast by the subdued and solemn dignity of its movement. The gradual development of the theme throughout the eight verses is beautiful; but a few brief extracts only can be given here : —

SECOND CITIZEN.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

SIXTH CITIZEN.

It is well known that the glorious Angel Chorus in the Prologue to Faust was taken almost directly from an old Mistère. Unfortunately, the French of the best version that I have seen is so antiquated as to be generally unintelligible. This particular chorus does not seem to appear in English, although the parallel between the plays of the two countries is closely marked, and the English are often a mere translation of the French. Indeed, it is only within the last three centuries that schools of literature, distinct in aim and method, have developed themselves in the various countries of Europe. During the Middle Ages, types of national character had not yet been sharply defined, and all Europe formed one great commonwealth, animated by the same ideas, and possessing in common both its literature and its art. The Teutonic nations, however, confine themselves as a rule to scenes for which the warrant may be found in Scripture, while the Celts lay much greater stress on the many graceful legends which filled the gaps and bound together the parts of the Bible story. Some of these legends are very poetic, and merit, perhaps, a moment’s passing notice. Here, for instance, is the beginning of the elaborate myth concerning the Tree of Life. The version is taken from Mr. Edwin Norris’s translation of a Cornish drama, dating presumably from the fourteenth century. Seth, sent to Paradise by the dying Adam in search of the oil of mercy, protests that he does not know the way.

“ Adam. Follow the prints of my feet, burnt. No grass nor flower in the world grows in that same road where I went. . . . I and thy mother surely also. . . .

“ Seth (at the gate of Paradise). All the beauty that I saw, the tongue of man can tell it never. . . . In it there is a tree, high, with many boughs; but they are all bare, without leaves. And around it, bark there was none, from the stem to the head. All its boughs are bare. And at the bottom when I looked, I saw its roots, even into Hell descending, in midst of great darkness, and its branches growing up even to Heaven, high in light; and it was without bark altogether, from the head to the boughs.

“ Cherub. Look yet again within. . . . Dost thou see more now than what there was, just now ?

“ Seth. There is a serpent in the tree, an ugly beast, without fail.

“ Cherub. Go yet the third time to it, and look better in the tree. Look, what you can see in it besides roots and branches.

“ Seth. O Cherub, angel of the God of grace, in the tree I saw, high up in the branches, a little child newly-born ; and he was swathed in cloths and bound fast in napkins.

“ Cherub. The Son of God was it whom thou sawest like a little child swathed. He will redeem Adam thy father with his flesh, and blood too, when the time is come. . . . He is the oil of mercy which was promised to thy father.”

These plays of Cornwall and Brittany are further distinguished by an entire absence of the comic element, and by a curious liking for discussion. The argument of Judas, after the betrayal, with the Fury sent by Satan to torment him finds its key-note in Judas’ aggrieved exclamation : “ I ask then first of all: Why did God create me to be damned on His account ? ” and covers with a good deal of force the whole question of predestination. A more attractive example is found in the scene between Jesus and Mary before the Passion, where the courteous tenderness of each speaker towards the other is very gracefully rendered. A brief extract will suffice to show the profound deference paid to logic. Mary, having entreated her Son in vain that he would not sacrifice himself for the human race, begs that she may at least be permitted to die before witnessing his torments. To this Jesus replies with the following ingenious bit of reasoning : —

“ You must, dear Mother, follow sweetly the road of patience. You are to be refused again, for it would not be proper that you should be seen to die before me, and to leave this world the first.

“ I will tell you the reason. When the first sin was committed by Father Adam, . . . he was punished, and Paradise was shut up, as it is still;

“ And no one, whoever he be, will ever enter there, until my cruel death has satisfied God the Father.

“ Now, my very holy Mother, examine the case. Never did you commit the shadow of a sin. If you were to die, alas ! you must see yourself that it would be a serious matter for your immaculate soul not to be admitted into Heaven, pure as it is.

“Where then could it go to wait for me ? For, more than all other souls, it must endure no pains of hell; on the contrary, it must immediately take its place on the throne of fidelity.”

Mary admits the force of the argument, but prays that at all events she may be stupefied, so as not to realize what is happening. But this too Christ gently refuses, saying, —

“ My Mother, listen well to this. . . . It would not be suitable that you should be seen without pity at my Passion ; no, that would not be in accordance with Reason. . . .

“ I say to you then, dear Mother, resign yourself serenely, and think to console your beautiful soul in God, the King of the Stars.”

We find in this scene much more of an attempt at characterization than is common in the dramas, as well as a more dignified and quieter style. The mediæval artist had not yet learnt the rule of restraint and suggestion, and his treatment of strong emotion is hence almost ludicrously inadequate. Especially marked is the failure to delineate evil, either in demons or men, — a failure perhaps traceable to that curious mental attitude which, while profoundly impressed with awe of the supernatural, was yet never able to escape a sense of the absurdity of sin. The doggerel direction to the guild whose office it was at Chester to manage the episode of the Temptation represents fairly enough the average conception of the Prince of Darkness.

It is therefore not surprising to find in the Breton play already quoted — which, as has been said, is noticeable for its lack of humor — the only really fine rendering of the effect of guilt, in the scene where Judas hangs himself, having given his soul to the devil, the long struggle in which the poor man consecrates himself to the powers of darkness is treated with real power of shuddering insight, and rises at times into a grotesque gloom which recalls the Inferno. It is impossible to reproduce the effect of this passage in a translation ; but the following fragments may at least suggest the original : —

“ Demons, detestable demons, Lucifer and thou Satan . . . hasten at my call; let no one of you be absent at my summons, inhabitants of Hell; I am going to make my will.

“ Lucifer. Good. Make it suitably. After your death, I swear to execute all its clauses.

“ Judas. I, Judas, I, the infamous, I say first that I give myself to thee, Lucifer, body and soul. May the eternal flames, the agony, the torment and the woe that plunge their roots into the heart of hell, be my assured portion.

“ Hither to me, hounds of hell ! Drag my body into infamous places. Let me roll about, torn to shreds, an object of horror and pity ; for agony and not joy have I merited in life.

“ My entrails — we will begin there — do I relinquish first of all to the thousand hideous toads of that place ; then, I bequeath especially my sense of smell to all the vilest infernal odors.

“ I condemn my ears to hear all the cries of terror of the accursed, and my eyes to weep with the damned, for they have merited no less.

“ I condemn my tongue and my pale lips to moan forever, from horror, grief, and anguish, without articulate sound ; that I may be recognized by the groans that I shall utter from the depths of the abyss of hell, and by my cries when I shall be melted with heat.

“ Come, behold me in the pealing of the thunder. I am ready to brave your infernal tempests. I defy the God who created me. I choose my abode forever in the fire near to Satan.

“ It is over.”

This scene, however, must not be taken as fairly representative. The real power of the mediæval dramatist is best shown when he is dealing with subjects into which his audience can thoroughly enter, and emotions which they completely understand. Such emotions are of necessity few and elementary. Among these, sympathy with the love of parents for children, and with the more obvious forms of physical or mental suffering, is, perhaps, the most marked. A few quotations will illustrate this.

The first example is from the Chester Play on the Sacrifice of Isaac. The extract is long ; but it must be its own excuse, and an apology is really due for abridging the scene at all.

ABRAHAM.

But it is above all in the account of the Passion and death of our Lord that the strength of the Miracle Plays concentrates itself. Inadequate and often painful as the treatment of such a theme must be, there is about these early dramas an earnestness so evident and a reverence so profound that they cannot fail to be impressive. The element on which the writers most dwell, and which they treat with the tenderest sympathy, is the sorrow of the Virgin. Here is an early Breton fragment : —

“ While Jesus was upon the cross, his mother chanced in grief — his blessed mother chanced to meet her nephew, the wretched St. John.

“ Mary. St. John, my nephew, tell me, why do you then not bow to me ?

“ St. John. My holy aunt, I beg you, forgive my discourtesy. I could not clearly see, my eyes are so full of tears. My mind is bewildered, my heart is broken in two. I come from the mountain, and there have I seen a new cross, a cross new and very high — alas, my heart! — that they are raising from the ground. On it is nailed a prophet who has done nothing but good to all the world ; to it is fastened a King ; to it is nailed a God. Fifteen hundred and sixteen Jews agreed to pass sentence upon your divine Son. Alas! yes, my aunt, I can no longer hide it from you ; your poor Son is nailed to this cross.

“ Mary. My nephew St. John, I can not believe it; do not put death in my soul. I will see for myself whether it is true or false. I see three crosses raised in air, and three men nailed thereon. St. John, St. John, cousin of God, which is my Son?

“ St. John. It is he who is the first, and on the highest cross. . . . He sends from his side three streams of blood, one to the sea, one to the forests, the last to the plains of the earth.

“ Jesus. St. John, St. John, cousin of God, take my poor mother away.”

And here, finally, from the Towneley Plays, is part of Mary’s lament before the cross: —

It must be remembered, in the case of all these quotations, that many apparent defects in smoothness and melody are due simply to the change which the language has undergone. Our modern pronunciation eliminates many syllables formerly used, and alters entirely most of the vowel sounds, until, when applied to the old poetry, the result reminds one of Hamerton’s famous instance of the Frenchman who had taught himself English, and insisted on reading Tennyson aloud. Perhaps, however, in spite of their modern dress, and of the fragmentary treatment which they have received in this paper, the selections which have been given may awaken in some readers a fresh interest in an attractive and little known portion of our poetic inheritance.

Davida Coit.