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 http://www.archive.org/details/charactertreatmeOOcrowrich 
 
CHARACTER-TREATMENT 
 
 IN THE MEDIAEVAL 
 
 DRAMA 
 
 BY 
 
 TIMOTHY J. CROWLEY, C S. C 
 
 DISSERTATION 
 
 Submitted to the Faculty of Philosophy 
 
 OF THE 
 
 Catholic University of America 
 
 IN PART fulfillment OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE 
 
 Degree of Doctor of Philosophy 
 
 "Ars utinam mores animumque effingere possit! 
 Pulchrior in terris n\i]l(^ t^abella fqr^t*" 
 Martial, J?pi^.Up:X,j2-f.,' V 
 
 "Let us have the mind and the mind's workings, not the remains of earnest thought which 
 has been frittered away by a long dreary course of preparatory study, by which all life has 
 been evaporated. Never forget that there is in the wide river of nature something which every- 
 body who has a rod and line may catch, precious things which every one may dive for." — "The 
 Gem, February Number." 
 
 NOTRE DAME, IND. 
 1907 
 
FEB 6 i»ii 
 BXCHAJJJGE 
 
 COPYRIGHTHD J907 
 
 By Timothy J. Crowlhy, C. S. C. 
 
 i:^:;:Vf:..i 
 
PREFACE 
 
 A word on the nomenclature to be used in this Essay. It will 
 be understood from the purpose in view that we are engaged with 
 the beginning of an art - form, and consequently are long antecedent 
 to the date of precise terminology and defined technique. The 
 drama with which we have to do is in its formative period, in 
 process of growth. It is obvious, then, that terms, which have a 
 very definite meaning when speaking of the classical drama, must 
 be employed loosely, and in some instances, merely analogically, 
 when reference is to early and imperfect forms. The classical terms 
 **tragoedia" and *'comoedia" are not normally applicable to the relig- 
 ious play until the Renaissance influences come in toward the end 
 of the fifteenth century. In fact their Mediaeval sense, as Mr. 
 Chambers notes (The Mediaeval Stage, Vol. II, p. 103,) implies 
 nothing distinctly dramatic. Cloetta, in the first volume of his 
 work on the history of Mediaeval and Renaissance literature 
 ( Komodie und Tragodie im Mittelalter) has collected and analyzed 
 in historical order, descriptions of comedy and tragedy which have 
 little in common with Aristotle's definitions. Few if any of 
 the Mediaeval authors that the historian cites can be said to have 
 in mind the purely professional or academic connotation of the 
 words in the sense that Aristotle had; rather it was with the 
 popular or analogical import of the terms that they were concerned. 
 Chaucer's familiar reference in the Miller's Tale, for instance, 
 makes no pretention either to technical accuracy or completeness. 
 Nobody would impute to Dante ignorance of the classical definition 
 of tragedy and comedy, his analogical use of the words, how- 
 ever, may be taken as illustrative of Mediaeval usage generally. 
 "Est comedia genus quoddam poeticae narrationis ab omnibus aliis 
 differens. Differt ergo a tragoedia per hoc, quod tragoedia in prin- 
 cipio est admirabilis et quieta, in fine sine exitu, foetida et horri- 
 bilis . . . Comoedia vero inchoat asperitatem alien jus rei, sed ejus 
 materia prospere terminatur, etc." Conformably with this distinc- 
 tion he called his own poem a comedy and the Aeneid a tragedy, 
 (Cf. Inferno XX, 113; DuMeril, I^es Origines Latines du Theatre 
 Moderne, pp. 32-33.) It will be well to bear in mind this breadth 
 of meaning given the specific terms "tragoedia" and "comoedia," if 
 one would undenstand in what sense such words as drama, dramatist^ 
 poet, play, scene, act, climax, etc., are applicable to the Mediaeval 
 playwright and his work. 
 
 iU 
 
 228717 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION 11 
 
 CHAPTER I — Certain Analogies Between the Greek and the 
 Early English Drama: Fall of the Greek and Roman 
 Theatre: Origin of the Modern Drama, 
 
 The prominence of lyrical and dramatic expressions in the public 
 worship of peoples. The spontaneous character of this worship. 
 The beginnings of the drama in Greece. Its eminently religious 
 character. Its appeal to perennial, human interests. Religion and 
 patriotism relative to the drama. Ceremonial display at the great 
 Dionysia analogous to the Mediaeval liturgical offices of Whitsuntide 
 and Corpus Christi Day. Consequence of the growing disbelief in the 
 primitive religion. Effects of comedy on the serious purpose of earlier 
 Greek dramatists. Adaptations of the New Greek comedy in Rome. 
 The Mimes and the Roman Stage. The Tribune of Pleasures. Ethics 
 of the stage at its decline. Disintegration of the theatre in the 
 Ostrogothic and Western Empire. Dramatics during the earlier 
 centuries of the Middle Ages. Origin of the Modern drama. The 
 mind of the early Church toward the theatre. Adaptability of 
 Christianity to pagan society. Desire of the dramatic natural to 
 man. The passion for spectacula at Rome. Tertullian's opposition. 
 Elaborate celebration of the Christian mysteries intended to offset 
 the old Tables of Pleasures. What is implied by the statement that 
 the Gothic drama had its beginning in the liturgical offices of the 
 Mediaeval Church. The dramatic quality of these offices. The 
 variety of influences that have contributed to the origin and develep- 
 ment of the Gothic drama. Mimes and Mediaeval minstrelsy. The 
 study of the Roman playwrights in reference to the origin of the 
 Modern drama. Hroswitba, Christas Padens; Ludus de Sancta 
 Katharina. The source that contributed most directly to the forma- 
 tion of a Mediaeval drama 17 
 
 CHAPTER II— Characterization in itself and in its Relations 
 to other Dramatic Elements 
 
 Conception of a purely intellectual nature apart from its personality. 
 Human nature in its concrete, actual existence inseparable from 
 personality which adds to it the positive perfection of self-movement. 
 Character the sura of man's quaHties, the outcome of the united 
 nature and personality acting as a whole, reasoning, willing and feel- 
 ing. What characterization is not ; what it means to characterize. 
 Unity of purpose and aim in the treatment of the caste. Shake- 
 speare's achievement in the presentation of his persons the criterion 
 for all dramatists. Difference between the words "personality" and 
 "character;" reasons why the former is preferable when speaking of 
 the Mediaeval drama. The early Gothic playwright's view of dra- 
 matic action. His effort to embody aspirations of the mind. Points 
 of similarity between his work and that of Marlowe and Shakespeare. 
 Shakespeare's "unassailable supremacy " springing from the versatile 
 workings of his insight and intellect. Shakespeare " the direct heir" 
 
VI 
 
 of the Mediaeval playwright. Arrangement of stage - structure and 
 Mediaeval cosmic belief Fate versus character. The proper angle of 
 vision to study the dramatic efforts of the Middle Ages. The sense of 
 personality and responsibility. Conditions that facilitated a concrete 
 presentation of the Mediaeval caste. Tlie design to reproduce man 
 as a whole — reasoning, willing and feeling. The consciousness of 
 self as a centre of moral retribution an essential fundament of all 
 dramatic action. Freytag's definition of dramatic action. The 
 difference between characterization in the drama and that in the epic 
 or novel. Effectiveness of suggestion in the play generally ignored by 
 the early plawright. Attention to details of his theme weakens dra- 
 matic effect. Pre -Elizabethan dramatist's idea of characterization 
 substantially similar to that of his successors. Growth in power of 
 character -treatment — choice of the dramatic in the life of the hero: 
 attention to motives rather than the acts, as such; abiding passion for 
 realistic presentation. Characterization the reason of all dramatic 
 progression. Presence of other elements in the Mediaeval drama and 
 their respective relations to the caste - - - - - - - 30 
 
 CHAPTER III— Character-Treatment in the I^iturgical Drama. 
 
 Dramatic elements in the Liturgical Offices. The symbolical charac- 
 ter of the Liturgy. The effort to supplement faith by bringing under 
 the preception of the senses as much of the mystical liturgy as possi- 
 ble. The Ritual expressed in action the thought of the mind. The 
 simplicity of the Sacred drama at the beginning. The Trope. An 
 Easter celebration of the tenth century at Winchester. The nature 
 of dramatic development from the tenth to the thirteenth century. 
 A representative Resurrection Office. Importance of the feasts of 
 Easter and Christmas in the history of the early drama. A Christ- 
 mas play of the thirteenth century. The Liturgical repertory viewed 
 historically; its literary and dramatic value. Characterization in 
 part not dependent in the literary quality of a play. The possibility 
 of a literary Liturgical drama. Why so little apparently character-* 
 istic of Mediaevalism is perpetuated in the dramatic material of the 
 Middle Ages. Advantages of architectural remains over dramatic. 
 Circumstances which give meaning to words. The musical quality of 
 Mediaeval Sequences. The Operatic character of the Liturgical drama 
 generally. The difficulty of reproducing a Mediaeval milieu. Atti- 
 tude of the Mediaeval workman toward his work. The spiritual 
 perception of the Mediaeval mind — recognition of this important in 
 an estimate of character -treatment in the religious drama. The part 
 of the Mediaeval audience. Unfeigned naturalness of actors. The 
 Mediaeval caste and the Bible. Jesus, in person or ip spirit, the central 
 figure or informing principle of every action. The Liturgical scenes 
 leave in the mind an after-image, concrete and characteristic, pos- 
 sessing remarkable prespective and fulness. The condition of further 
 advance in dramatic persentation depended on change' of form less 
 than in change of subject-matter. The influence of Humanism on the 
 stage. In what way were the dramatic species which followed the 
 Liturgical drama in advance of it? New devices of workmanship to 
 secure a novel presentation of the caste. The beginning of the Chroni- 
 cle Play. The Liturgical drama the root whence later dramatic forms 
 developed. The cosmopolitan nature of the Mediaeval drama. The 
 introduction of the vernacular into the dialogue. The secret of lon- 
 gevity and the comparative importance of the Liturgical play - 41 
 
 CHAPTER IV — Character -Treatment in the Cyclic Drama. 
 
 The transition of the stage from the Sanctuary to the door of the 
 Church. The relation of the Cyclic plays to the Liturgical drama. 
 The mean between the religious and secular drama illustrated in the 
 
Til 
 
 Cycle - species. A greater freedom and variety in the presentation of 
 the Cyclic caste than in the earlier sanctuary scenes. Comparative 
 tables to vshow the playwright's unity of design in the treatment of his 
 theme. The tendency noticeable in the Liturgical drama 9f grouping 
 cognate incidents around the central action is more evident in the 
 work of the Cyclic writer. In the Cycles the points of dramatic inter- 
 est centre in the historical facts of the Nativity and Crucifixion of our 
 Saviour. Beyond the presentation of the historical events is the de- 
 velopment of the idea of struggle between the powers of good and evil. 
 The symbolism of the Cycles important in the treatment of the Bibli- 
 cal caste. The apologetic purpose of the author contributed to unity 
 of purpose and distinctiveness of definition. Freedom of the play- 
 wright particularly with his uncanonical material. The structure 
 and presentation of the separate scenes must not be dissociated 
 from the larger view of the relation and interdependence of plays on 
 one another. A study of character -treatment in this species of 
 drama makes it appear that a complexus of influences have been at 
 work in the reproduction of the Biblical personages. York Cycle 
 representative of the English Cyclic series. Its dramatic value and 
 historic interest. Opening pageant a tripartite pl.^y of 160 lines in 
 all — a favorable specimen of the Mediaeval dramatist's power of con- 
 trast. The first three pageants of the York Cycle treat of tbe works 
 of creation; the subsequent nine of selected topics from the Apocrypha 
 and the Old Testament History. In these and those that immedi- 
 ately follow the foremost idea in the composer's mind is the redemp- 
 tion of fallen man and the lasting triumph of good over evil. The 
 author's choice of subjects illustrative of this statement. The 
 Annunciation and the Visit of Mary connects the Old Testament 
 series with the New. The reference to prophecy to fill up the gap 
 between the Exodus and the Annunciation. The importance of tli»*se 
 connecting scenes to show the dramatic purpose of the writer. The 
 intrinsic interest of the ten plays relative to the hidden life of Christ. 
 The inference from their position in the arrangement of the Cycle. 
 The enlivening admixture of sadness and joy, success and failure, 
 characteristic of the ten scenes, analogous to the underlying conflict 
 between the two great combatants. The variety of attitudes in which 
 the spectator sees the hero before the climax an instance of the play- 
 wright's effort to realize the personality entire. In the choice and 
 arrangement of material the author proves an independence of his 
 sources. Assimilation of the matter; the logical rise in the action; 
 discriminating management of interims; the silent logic of precedent 
 action; the tragic literalness of the climax — instances of native dra- 
 matic ability. The treatment of the conspirators; the characters of 
 Pilate, Caiaphas, Beadle, Soldiers, etc. Mary on Calvary. The 
 climacteric nature of the Harrowing of Hell. The Marian plays — 
 their complementary character. The Doomsday Pageant — an end 
 to the strife between the righteous and the wicked An estimate of 
 the dramatic worth of the York series of plays. The playwright's 
 processes. The summed qualities of the respective characters reached 
 not so much by the analysis of dominant motives as by multiplicitv 
 of external detail. Suggestiveness of these details. The oneness of 
 mood aad sympathy in actor*a,nd audience helpful to dramatic inter- 
 ests. The distinctness with which the figures are drawn. The celes- 
 tial atmosphere which surrounds the figure of Christ in the Gospel; 
 the poetry and sentiment so delicately expressed by the evangelists 
 are literary rather than dramatic qualities. The human qualities of 
 Christ rather than his divine attributes are emphasized by th** play- 
 wright. The twofold life of Christ in the York series. Significance 
 of illusion in bringing to light latent mainsprings of action. The 
 effort of the playwright to bring into relief the living form of the 
 central figure in the Cycle. Joseph and Mary. Advantages coming to 
 
Vlll 
 
 the playwright by reason of the Cyclic or serial arrangment of the 
 matter. A non- cyclic play. The psychological character and dra- 
 matic effectiveness of the Brome Abraham and Isaac. The begin- 
 nings of comedy and tragedy. The importance of the comic element 
 in the religious drama. Comedy in the Cycles and early romantic 
 theatre. Germinations of tragi- comedy apparent in the Cycles. The 
 Towneley pageant of Cain and Abel. The fashioning of a new stage- 
 machine by a born playwright 64 
 
 CHAPTER V— Character -Treatment in the Moral Play. 
 
 Growth of preceding dramatic species into the Moral play. Influence 
 of Cyclic drama on the subsequent stage. The nature of the moral 
 play. Allegory in the literature of the Middle Ages. To what extent 
 were the Moralities in advance of the Cycle dramas? Distinction 
 between the earlier and later plays of the moral type. Effects of 
 Humanism on the stage. Origin of fourteenth - century Moral play 
 referred to the allegorical religious literature and court -poetry of the 
 eleventh century. Specific difference between the earlier and later 
 Moralities. A contemporary view of the function of allegory in the 
 drama. Action of the Moral play in root closely akin to the argu- 
 ment of the Cycles. The relative values of the character. The hero's 
 freedom of action; the minor characters picture in a sensible manner 
 the psychic activities going on within the hero. The playwright's 
 aim to give concrete dramatic expression to the root - principles of 
 ethical life. The oldest Morality extant illustrative of the writer's 
 view of the purposes of the stage. The relation of the argument of , 
 the Castle of Perseverance to Calderon's Los Encantos de la Culpa, 
 and Marlowe's Dr. Faustus. Mundus et Infans illustrates the 
 author's efforts at a presentation which is at once didactic, entertain- 
 ing and dramatic. Everyman a favorable specimen of the Morality 
 species. Sources of the play. Situation more a dramatic episode 
 than a dramatic action. The processes of the playwright; his origi- 
 nality and power of suggestion. Creative part in the Moral plays — 
 motive, situation, incident and intrigue at the disposal of the play- 
 wright. Mankynde, a transition drama. It has not the breadth of 
 action, which is the main defect of the Castle of Perseverance and 
 Mundus et Infans, neither, on the other hand, is it reduced to the 
 episodic proportion oi Everyman. The conscious effort to enliven the 
 serious lesson which he intends to convey. Tytivillus. The play- 
 wright's attempt to furnish an adequate motive for the hero's 
 actions, Mankynde of the earlier Moralities comes close on the 
 Renaissance or Humanistic varieties of the Allegorical drama. The 
 later developments of the Moral play. Several varieties of dramatic 
 activity. Interest of the playwright in the details of his theme. The 
 stage in the interests of secular learning. Plays representative of a 
 large class of dramatic writings which mark the passing away of 
 allegory and the introduction of real life on the stage. John Hey- 
 wood, a type of the Mediaeval dramatist. His work a transition 
 stage between the Mediaeval and Elizabethan. Hey wood's influence 
 on English comedy. His dramatic animation and successful delinea- 
 tion of character prove his kinship to Chaucer. Hey wood's manner 
 of writing combined with the widespreading Humanism weakened 
 the influence of Mediaeval dramatic motives. John Bale. His " his- 
 toric sense" and the importance of his work relative to the Chronicle 
 play. — Summary - - , 118 
 
 INDEX 173 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 177 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The more criticism agrees that literature is the natural expres- 
 sion of life the more consistently does it urge that to understand 
 an author we should fill around him, as fully as may be, the 
 numerous contingencies which have influenced his conduct. It 
 recognizes the determining power of an author's education and the 
 part that current, popular ideals have in the formation of the most 
 original temperament. It takes into account that subtle motive 
 power which unconscious experiences possess in active operations of 
 the mind. For it no detail is insignificant; the most reflexive 
 movement of his times will clear up the author's thought far more 
 vividly than pages of his text. Our judgment of a writer will be 
 trustworthy in so far as we project ourselves into his surroundings 
 and see life as he saw it. Otherwise our estimate of him will be 
 merely impressionistic, and based on appearances, not evidence. 
 All this is but a paraphrasing of what is rapidly becoming a liter- 
 ary axiom : Nothing between us and the author. 
 
 To say that in all cases it is useful to understand a writer's 
 traditions and environment if we would duly appreciate his work, 
 when it is question of a dramatic writer we must emphasize the 
 necessity of this knowledge. Our knowledge of him in his drama- 
 tic relations and of his audience should be as intimate as possible. 
 No art, no form of literature has so immediately for its motive 
 the expression of life as the drama. Only the drama proposes to 
 reproduce life, to hold the mirror up to nature. 
 
 However unprofitable the preparatory task may seem in itself, 
 every effort that helps to build up the background of a great 
 literary figure and to set the poet in his proper perspective, has 
 importance. To begin the study of Shakespeare's plays without 
 an understanding to some degree of the dramatic activity among his 
 contemporaries and before his time would be to place a very positive 
 barrier between us and the poet and so prevent an intelligent 
 appreciation of his extraordinary worth. "To suppose," says 
 Courthope, "that the single efforts of meditation in any one man 
 could have invented a structure so comprehensive and various as 
 the romantic drama, is the height of critical superstition; on the 
 other hand, a knowledge of the manner in which Shakespeare drew 
 
 ix 
 
suggestions of dramatic action and character from his predecessors 
 and contemporaries can only serve to heighten our admiration for 
 
 the incomparable resources of his genius The genius of 
 
 Shakespeare is not well served by those who represent it as miracu- 
 lous. For not only is injustice thus done to the lesser fellow- 
 workers who contributed with him to the developement of his art, 
 but the vastness of his own intellect and the grand balance of his 
 judgement are not fully appreciated till they are seen in their 
 relations to his surroundings."* 
 
 So much excellent and minute work has been done on the 
 Shakespearean school that one would wish an equal zeal had been 
 manifested toward the earlier pre - Elizabethan drama. Only 
 within recent years has any interest been shown in the dramatic 
 life and efforts of the four hundred years which preceded the six- 
 teenth century. This long epoch in the life of the drama has been 
 hurriedly passed over, writers speak most generally of it, and in 
 their impatience to deal with the classic ages of Elizabeth and 
 James, they give but scant attention to this earlier period. Much, 
 comparatively, is now being done to reproduce the theatre of 
 Shakespeare's ancestors from a social, historical and philological 
 point of view. Certainly the value of these studies in orientating 
 Shakespearean students can scarcely be over-estimated. The 
 results of their labor give proof of what I am implying in these 
 paragraphs, that much which is important in Shakespeare can not be 
 adequately explained without reference to his remote antecedents. 
 I find no author, however, the scope of whose work might engage 
 him any more than incidentally with what forms the main purpose of 
 these pages. Mj^ aim is to treat of the characterization, or perhaps, 
 better said, the character - etching in the early English Drama. 
 
 At the outset of an inquiry into the nature of character-treat- 
 ment in the mediaeval drama it may be well briefly to determine 
 what is connoted by the term ' ' character ' ' itself. The word is so 
 
 ♦ A History of English Poetry, Vol. II, chap. 11, pp. 131-132. 
 *' Untaught, unpracticed in a barbarous age, 
 I found not, but created first the stage." 
 In putting these words into the mouth of Shakespeare's Ghost, Drjden was 
 wrong, at least in principle; how much he erred in fact may appear later. 
 Shakespeare did not create the stage, least of all did he create it as it appeared 
 in the time of Dryden. "It was, in truth created by no one man, and in no 
 one age; and whatever improvements Shakespeare introduced when he began 
 to write for the theatre our romantic drama was completely formed and 
 finally established." Cf. Collier, History of English Dramatic Poetry, etc., 
 Vol. I, p. 9. 
 
XI 
 
 bound up with the names of Shakespeare's creations that, except 
 for the many with whom the after-image of last evening's calcium- 
 lit caste still abides in the memory, I fancy the term is so enshrined 
 in some minds as to be altogether sacred to the Poet's persons. 
 Indiscriminate usage, on the other hand, has so cheapened the 
 word that in current speech it is quite devoid of a precise and 
 accepted meaning. It is applied without qualification to the 
 posture - maker and entertainer in the vaudeville, to the parts of 
 the present-day drama, and to the heroes and heroines of Shake- 
 speare. Whatever justification or sanction there may be for this 
 inaccurate use of the word, it is certain that in its secondary and 
 popular sense, the term character does not convey adequately the 
 leading idea connoted by its primary signification. 
 
 In this essay I shall have to do solely with the primary mean- 
 ing of the word — the meaning one attaches to it when he speaks of 
 Shakespeare's persons. 
 
 "Shakespeare's mind, as Hazlitt has suggested, contained 
 within itself the germs of all faculty and feeling, He knew intuit- 
 ively how every faculty and feeling would develop in any con- 
 ceivable change of fortune. Men and women — good and bad, old 
 or young, wise or foolish, rich or poor, merry or sad, yielded their 
 secrets to him and his genius enabled him to give being in his 
 pages to all the shapes of humanity that present themselves on the 
 highway of life. Each of his characters gives voice to thought 
 or passion with an individuality and a naturalness that arouse in 
 the intelligent playgoer and reader the illusion that they are over- 
 hearing men and women speak unpremeditatingly among them- 
 selves rather than they are reading written speeches or hearing 
 written speeches recited. The more closely the words are studied 
 the completer the illusion grows."* 
 
 It has been justly said that the unassailable supremacy of 
 Shakespeare came not from technique but from the unerring pre - 
 cision with which he interpreted thought and emotion. On his 
 insight into the laws that govern the will and feelings of mankind, 
 as well as in the intuitive knowledge of the prerogative of human 
 personality and the sanction of human conduct — on this basis, all 
 readers perceive, that the greatness of his power in character- 
 treatment rests. But in the drama before Shakespeare's time do not 
 like ideas seem to occupy the playwright's attention? Shakespeare 
 
 * Sidney Lee, A Life of Shakespeare, p. 356. 
 
xu 
 
 is called by Sepet "the direct heir of the mediaeval playwright."* 
 And the Poet's work is said by M. Jusserand to be "the highest 
 expression of the dramatic spirit of the Middle Ages."t With 
 due allowance for its embryonic and infantine condition, I think 
 that without overreaching facts any more than is implied in the text, 
 or, at least, in the evident motive of the playwright as may be 
 legitimately inferred from collateral sources, one will find that the 
 earliest English dramatists labored, instinctively no doubt, to plant 
 on the stage those very root - principles that took shape slowly and 
 irregularly through the successive efforts of after- workers. 
 
 From the beginning the drama sought to give expression, first, 
 to the religious aspirations of the people in supplementing the ritual 
 services. This may be called the Liturgical drama. Next, it 
 presents in a measure, the ethical history of mankind, the origin of 
 evil, its relation to good, and the struggle between both powers 
 relative to the human race — this is perceptible in the Cycle-scenes. 
 And, lastly, the same ethical idea, whose origin and life was shown 
 in the preceding drama, is now brought into closer relation with 
 the individual man so that he is no longer a passive, though all the 
 while the deeply interested spectator of the struggle, but is become 
 the very centre of the activity, and, with him rests the issue of the 
 conflict between the rival forces of good and evil — this was the 
 argument of the Moral plays. Under these three heads. The 
 lyiturgical Drama, Biblical Cycles, and Moral Plays, one may see, I 
 think, the distinguishing spontaneities of childhood, not yet lost in 
 the more self-conscious efforts of a later age. And just as in the 
 history of the mind of a child no absolute time can be fixed at 
 which a certain mental function takes its rise, so in the drama, 
 which is to an extent organic in its evolution, no definite species or 
 phase of dramatic growth can be assigned a particular epoch or func- 
 tion. Only in broad outline and by the widest generalizations can 
 such periods and processes be marked off. For this reason, once 
 the nature of Shakespeare's supremacy is understood one is naturally 
 led to inquire if any of his distinguishing traits were noticeable in 
 his ancestors. With the view of ascertaining one line of family 
 resemblance, I propose to indicate in the earliest attempts at dramatic 
 expression in England the playwright's effort to present on the 
 stage the activity of the human faculties — reason, will and per- 
 
 * M. Sepet, "Le Drame Chretien au Moyen-Age," p. 55. 
 
 t J. J. Jusserand, "Le Theatre en Angleterre, etc." pp. 310-311. 
 
XUl 
 
 ception, — as seen in their moral bearing on the individual's life 
 in the light of mediaeval Christianity. This may help to show in 
 what sense the Shakespearean play is the ' 'highest expression of 
 the mediaeval spirit"; and the relative distinctness and relief in 
 which this presentment stands will enable us to form an estimate of 
 the character-etching in the pre- Elizabethan drama. 
 
 A detailed history of the Mediaeval Stage, it would seem, 
 should accompany any useful account of character-treatment in the 
 beginnings of the English drama. The emphasis, accuracy and 
 conciseness that a minute historical portrait would give to our ideas 
 on this subject, no one will doubt. In no clearer form may the 
 past be viewed than in the living picture which the full know- 
 ledge of details enables the historian to create. To study in detail 
 the conventions of the stage, to watch in the laboratory of the play- 
 wright, to see the actors in their roles and notice effects on the 
 spectators, this is but part of his work. The historian's further task 
 is this; from the various multiplicity of ideas, impressions, repre- 
 sentations and facts he has to sort, sift and combine till, as far as 
 may be, he has reproduced in its wonderful unity and harmonious 
 adjustment, as in a composite photograph, the multiform existence 
 of mediaeval centuries. His primary purpose, says Brunetiere, is 
 not merely to have us understand the past, we must feel it as we do 
 the actual present.* 
 
 Such an exhaustive history of the early English drama would 
 include a history of dramatic characterization, but happily the con- 
 verse is not so strictly implied. To explain the growth of character 
 presentation in our religious drama will, however, involve some 
 account of the beginnings of the theatre in England, of its religious 
 growth, of its secular formation and of the many transformations 
 of a religious nature that it underwent before its final and to 
 some extent, immutable form in the works of the writers of purely 
 secular plays. As confusion is often the outcome of an effort to be 
 complete, if only typical plays be chosen one may hope to hold the 
 various indices of character-treatment apart and in separating the 
 essentials of character - growth from accidental influences, arrive 
 at two or three inferences which if true for the typical dramas will 
 be true to a degree of all the rest. By typical plays I would 
 mean those plays that in some sort may be said to have resumed the 
 past of the stage and are at the same time present witnesses to the 
 
 • L'Bvoltitlon de la Po4iie Lyrique, Tome I, p. 4. 
 
XIV 
 
 highest dramatic progress. There will be nutaerous plays, conse- 
 quently, and still more numerous characters of which I shall have 
 nothing to saj^ for the reason that I deal only with what may be 
 called the different dramatic crises in the long life of the mediaeval 
 stage and because there are plays out of number which in motive, 
 form and content are largely but imitations of a prevailing type. 
 
 Rather than group the material in a strictly chronological 
 order under the several reigns, it is more convenient here to follow 
 the logical order and study the treatment of the characters in the 
 several species of the drama itself. This method enables one to in- 
 dicate the birth, growth, perfection, decadence, and transformation 
 of the respective species, and the final absorption of the mediaeval 
 by the Elizabethan drama. 
 
 Without considering carefully its many phases one is likely to 
 be mistaken in his estimate of the early pre- Elizabethan drama. 
 This is particularly true from the view point of character - treat- 
 ment. Whether we consider the modern drama a direct organic 
 development of the mediaeval, or look upon the Italian drama of 
 Renaissance as the source of the Elizabethan tragedy and comedy,* 
 in either case we have what seems to be a native growth in power 
 of character-presentation. The aggressive and venturesome original- 
 ity in the treatmemt of old themes at different epochs, the constant 
 efforts toward the adaptation of subject-matter with circumstances, 
 and finally at the awakening of interest in Humanistic studies, the 
 wholesale borrowings of incidents from, abroad and the attempted 
 application of Roman technique to this foreign material — in a word, 
 from the monk to the classicist or theorist, the ever -varying 
 attitude of the playwright toward his story marks a change in his 
 characters. For a period longer than the centuries which separate us 
 from the days of Shakespeare the subject-matter of the early drama 
 was subtantially the same, consequently the necessary novelty and 
 variety should come from the treatment of the familiar caste. From 
 the beginning the dramatist understood the neccessity of a realistic 
 presentation; often one would think he understood no other dramatic 
 law. For him his presentation should be the reproduction of life 
 and the more artfully and realistically he reproduced life the surer 
 his success. Characterization was the touchstone of his power. 
 
 * J. J. Jusserand, Le Theatre en Angleterre, etc., pp. 307-315. 
 J. Churton Collins, Essays and Studies, pp, 124, 115-116. 
 J. S. Tunison, Dramatic Traditions of the Dark Ages, pp. 61-64 and Chap. 
 IV. 247-334. 
 
CHAPTER L 
 
 CERTAIN ANALOGIES BETWEEN THE GREEK AND 
 
 THE EARLY ENGLISH DRAMA: ORIGIN OF 
 
 THE MODERN DRAMA. 
 
 Song and dance have entered largely into the public worship 
 of peoples. Before formal cults existed spontaneous liturgies were 
 enacted in presence of the Deity; choruses sang his victories or 
 sought His favor and the "mirth of feete" testified to the joy of 
 heart that his benefits had brought. It was so in Greece before 
 the days of her poets. Alcman was not yet bom when the men and 
 maidens of Sparta sang before the Carneian Apollo the sacred laws 
 of Lacedaemon. At Corinth a chorus wound around the altar of 
 Dionysus, singing the dithyrambs of Arion, and in Athens at the 
 great Dionysia a dithyrambic chorus was added to the other 
 exercises in honor of the Wine -god. With Arion and Thespis 
 choruses impersonated satyrs or goats, and by this easy transition 
 the religious song and dance of primitive times passed into the 
 tragedy, which was itself primarily an act of worship. 
 
 This was the beginning of the Greek theatre. It was 
 intimated in that early artless expression of popular feeling which 
 is the dramatic material common to every people. From the 
 earliest times it appealed to those perennial, human interests which 
 are at once universal and personal. The subjects dramatized had a 
 meaning for everyone; none could be indifferent to the history of 
 the great national heroes. No one doubted that the epic warriors 
 were living with the gods and still winning victories. By com- 
 memorating the deeds of their fathers the spectators were infer- 
 entially contemplating their own destiny; every one saw a brilliant 
 future awaiting himself, a life if not so heroic as that of his divine 
 ancestors, a life at all events happy in their company. This was 
 the ideal existence that the Greek theatre interpreted. In its 
 developement and perfection it dealt with the same lofty theme. Of 
 the Greek drama it can be justly said that the beginning contained 
 the germ from which the classic theatre grew. The evolution was 
 in a true sense organic. The heroes of the Epos lost more and 
 
 17 
 
more their divine, representative attributes and became persons 
 endowed with human characteristics, so much so that at the period 
 of classical excellence, Greek characters though much less complex, 
 are as truly persons as those in the plays of Shakespeare.* 
 
 Further on it will appear how far this is a prefiguration of the 
 beginning and growth of the Modern drama. ' ' Both in its theo- 
 logical beginnings and its didactic aim the history of the English 
 drama offers a striking parallel to the growth of the Attic stage, 
 and shows how general are the laws which govern the course of 
 human imagination." f However striking the parallelism of origin 
 and development may be, it is only a parallelism. After the classic 
 period the Greek stage gradually declined. In time the success of 
 Comedy reacted perniciously on Tragedy. The themes that the 
 earlier poets treated as sacred and historical were profaned by the 
 liberties of Aristophanes and his immediate successors. The 
 heroic legends that Aeschylus dramatized and the ennobling intent 
 of his theatre were replaced by the philosophy of Epicurus which 
 imitators of Menander diligentissimus luxuriae interpres and later 
 Alexandrian dramatists more or less delicately presented. 
 
 When the poets forgot the purpose of the early masters and 
 neglected to set forth an heroic and ideal conception of life which 
 would recall Troy, Thebes or Marathon, or reflect the frank, 
 hellenic joy in physical life and beauty, tragedy and comedy 
 ceased to appeal to the national interest. The people had 
 delighted to see their own lives in the idealizing light of poetry. 
 To gratify this popular feeling was ever the purpose of the great 
 playwrights. They deliberately aimed at regulating the pathos 
 and ethos of the city. Tragedy should be the imitation of a great, 
 probable action, not told as in the case of lyrical recitals but repre- 
 sented, which by moving to fear and pity would be conducive to 
 the purgation of these two passions in the mind. J It was believed 
 that from a highly-wrought presentation of the two basic passions, 
 terror and grief, spectators would best learn the nature of their 
 own emotions, the degree of importance to be attached to them, as 
 also the manner of dealing with them. This persuasion that the 
 drama had a very special and sacred mission to fulfil seems to have 
 affected permanently both the people and the poets of Greece. 
 
 • Lewis Campbell, A Guide to Greek Tragedy, pp. 166-167. 
 t W. J. Courthope, A History of English Poetry, Vol. I, p. 393. 
 % Aristotle, Poetics, Chap. VI. 
 
19 
 
 Even at the period of classic excellence * ' the g^eat imitation " is on 
 the occasion of the feast and, if the god is not directly worshiped, 
 the religious sentiment everywhere betokens respect for his action 
 and presence. I need not dwell on the analogy that here presents 
 itself. In the Mediaeval drama and particularly in the Liturgical 
 or Sanctuary scenes one feels that he is ever before the altar. 
 This was the high purpose of tragedy; the end of comedy 
 was to a great extent the same, but it sought its results in a 
 different manner. It aimed- consciously at being the imitation 
 not of an ideal but of actual life; comedy should be ' * the mirror of 
 human intercourse, the expression of reality." 
 
 With this tendency to harmonize the subject-matter of the plays 
 and with the growing disbelief in the primitive religion, dramatic 
 art degenerated. It ceased to be Grecian. When the old dramatic 
 material, the heroic and sacred stories, no longer appealed to the 
 audience, other motives of interest were devised. The drama of 
 the Athenians could henceforth be appreciated at Rome where 
 adaptations of the New Greek Comed}^ early degenerated into mere 
 farce and pantomime. The passion for this low species of amuse- 
 ment became so intense that during the Empire, it may be said, 
 that the mime held undisputed possession of the Roman stage. 
 The tragedy and comedy, which were at no time highly esteemed, 
 now became insipid to the popular taste. Ammianus Marcellinus 
 relates, that at a time when famine was threatening and when 
 foreigners, including professors of the liberal arts, were ordered to 
 withdraw from the city, three thousand dancing girls were allowed 
 to remain.^ The profession of the stage had become synonomous 
 with the trade of prostitution. This the edict of Heliogabalus 
 plainly shows. The tyrant bids: " Mimics adulteris ea quae Solent 
 simulatio fieri, effici ad verum jussit."t 
 
 In the East as late as the reign of Justinian, though a certain 
 emancipation was accorded to the actors, the theatres, how- 
 ever, retained the suggestive nomenclature which implied that 
 the profession of the mimad differed in little from that of the 
 hetaera. 
 
 In the West the popular demand for spectacula continued 
 till the sixth century. After that time the office of Tribune 
 of Pleasures was largely honorary. The theatre had died 
 
 • Dill, Roman Society in the Last Century of the Western Empire, p. 57. 
 t E. Du Meril, Les Origines Latines du Theatre Modem, p. 6. 
 
20 
 
 out and with it ceased the worst social curse of the I^ower 
 Empire.* 
 
 The attempt has been made to trace the existence of the 
 ancient theatre from the reigns of Theodoric and Justinian through 
 the first centuries of the Middle Ages. But the result is not con- 
 vincing.! The Ostragoths had no passion for the theatre, and the 
 invasion of the Saracens whose national spirit rejected the drama 
 altogether, precluded the possibility of anything more than sporadic 
 attempts at theatrical performance at Constantinople or in Spain 
 during the seventh and eighth centuries. J Moreover, in the eleventh 
 century when interest is felt in dramatic representation, it is clear, 
 from the nature of the material dramatized, that a new drama begins 
 which is rather a birth from the ashes than an offshoot from the de- 
 cayed trunk. The arena and the circus had been forgotten, and with 
 the last of the Romans the downfall of the theatre speedily ensued. 
 
 ♦ Dolllnger, Heldenthum und Judenthum, (1857 ), p. 726. 
 
 t Krumbacher, Gesch, der Byzantinischen Litteratur, pp. 639-648. 
 "Es mogen noch in 6 Jahrhundert da und dort einzelne Stiicke der neuren 
 Komedie aufgefiihrt worden sein ; diesen Bemtihungen machte aber die 
 einbrechende Barbarei bald ein Ende, und als einige Jahrhunderte spater die 
 Lust an der alten Litteratur wieder zu erwachen begann, batten sich die 
 kulturellen Bedingungen so sehr verandert, dass an eine praktische Wieder- 
 belebung des alten Theaters nicht mehr zu denken war, wie in der Litteratur 
 und im Gesamtem Geistesleben, so schneidet auch in Theaterwesen die dunkle 
 Kluft vom 7-9., Jahrhundert tief ein zwischen Altertum und Mittelalter . . . 
 Wenn man auch diesen Veranstaltungen einen gewissen dramatischen Char- 
 akter nicht absprechen kann, so sieht doch jeder, der sehr will, dass alle diese 
 Dinge nicht das Fortleben eines wahren Theaters in der byzantinischen Zeit 
 beweisen konnen," p. 646. 
 
 When I wrote in the text that the continuity of the old drama was not 
 conclusive, I had in mind particularly the reasons furnished by Sathas in his 
 history of Byzantine drama and music (1878). Krumbacher, as cited, deemed 
 the arguments of the historian insufficient to establish the continuity of the 
 drama, and went on to show by facts and inferences drawn from the study of 
 Byzantine literature that the ancient theatre did actually cease to exist. The 
 appearance of a scholarly work "Dramatic Traditions of the Dark Ages," 
 Joseph S. Tunison ( University of Chicago Press, 1907) brings much in favor 
 of the thesis rather awkwardly defended by Sathas. Krumbacher may in 
 places question premises and inferences but he must let pass the ingenuity with 
 which Mr. Tunison rounds his reasoning. The purpose of the study, which is 
 carried on with gratifying lucidity, is to "mark the process of transfer of 
 theatrical aptitudes from the east to the west and from ancient to modern 
 times," p. X. "The conclusion of the whole matter is that whatever value 
 the stage tradition had, which was handed down by the performers of religious 
 plays to the generation which represented and enjoyed the drama of Shake- 
 speare, was ultimately due wholly to the uninterrupted culture of Byzantium," 
 p. 64. It is not the purpose of this Essay to go into details on this most 
 interesting difficulty. The difference between the divergent opinions largely 
 resolves itself into the distinction between what is connoted by the terms 
 "eines wahren Theaters," and "theatrical aptitudes." 
 
 t Ticknor, History of Spanish Literature, Vol. I. pp. 255 fL 
 
21 
 
 The Modern European, like the ancient Greek drama owes 
 its origin to religion. ''Virtutibus studuit qui voluptatibus 
 miscebatur" — this ideal set up by Cassiodorus in his exhortation 
 to the Tribune of Pleasures interprets the mind of the early church 
 toward the theatre.* It was in every way just that ecclesiastical 
 authorities should look with disfavor on the degenerating Roman 
 stage, and regard the theatre in general as an unqualified evil. 
 For, from the very first days of Christianity — not to say how much 
 earlier — till the downfall of the stage in the sixth century, 
 dramatic art had quite disengaged itself from what was carried on 
 in the theatre. " Under the later Roman Empire the drama died 
 a natural death, not because the Church condemned it, but by a 
 lust for sheer obscenity and bloodshed which made true dramatic 
 writing impossible, "f 
 
 As Christianity, however, had converted the pagan shrines 
 into Sanctuaries of the true God, so would she adapt herself, by 
 virtue of the germ of Catholicity even then resident in her, to the 
 actual conditions of social life. Whatever could be retained of the 
 past she would keep; she had no commission to set herself wantonly 
 against the ideas of the people. She was for the people then, as 
 now and for all times. Her adaptability to all classes, conditions 
 and climes will ever be a leading note of her perennial life. J 
 
 Just as fittingly, then, as the new worship took place in the 
 old temples would dogmatic teaching and moral precepts of 
 Christianity find a home in the hearts of all men. There was not 
 
 ♦ Chambers, The Mediaeval Stage, Vol. I, pp. 229-230. The instruction is 
 given entire. 
 
 t Pollard, A. W., English Miracle Plays, Moralities and Interludes, P. XI. 
 
 t E. Du M^ril, Les Origines, etc., pp. 39-4.0. 
 Dans les religons qui se reservent, comme un privelege, k une caste plus 
 chdre a la divinity, le culte s'exprime par des symboles imp^n^trables au 
 vulgaire des croyants : dans celles que, sous pretext de les embellir, les imagi- 
 nations du bel esprit ont profondement alt^r^es, son idee disparait sous la 
 magnificence tout ext^rieure de la forme. Mais le christianisme n'avait point 
 de pretentions aristocratiques : c'etait une religion universelle qui s'adressait 
 naivement a tous et ne professait de preferences que pour les simples de coeur 
 et d'esprit; il se bornait, dans ses ceremonies, d rappeler en termes clairs 
 I'histoire de son etablissment et les actes de son fondateur. Dans le dcuxieme 
 si^cle, les intentions dramatiques du culte aggissaient sur sa forme et I'appro- 
 priaient a sa pensee: .... "Cf. Oberle, K. A." tjberreste germanischen 
 Heidentums im Christentum, etc., pp. 160-167. Der Kirche war es nicht 
 moglich, mit dem Alten ganz zu brechen. Es ist gut und hat viel Gutes .... 
 Die Kirche hat aus dem Heidentum nur das in ihren Kult aufgenommen, was 
 rein natiirlich und an sich wahr ist. Eben darum spricht der Kultus der 
 katholischen Kirche zum Herzen des Menschen." Also Newman, "Develop- 
 ment of Doctrine," 210 ff. 
 
22 
 
 one of her doctrines but followed along the lines of highest human 
 development and each was perfectly in accord with what was 
 most rational, purest and best in paganism. As she had never 
 taught that the nature and passions of the heathen were wholly 
 corrupt, her aim was rather to divert than oppose directly the trend 
 of his desires. Accordingly her great concern in the beginning 
 was to find a substitute for an institution that had become a most 
 attractive centre of Roman life as well as the leading social 
 demoralizing agency of the times. No Christian conscience could 
 sanction what was taking place at the theatre. It had become a 
 sanctuary of Venus. 
 
 So the problem presented itself to the infant Church : what 
 would take the place of the theatre ? To condemn puritanically 
 all pleasures of the senses as sinful (as some heretics had done,) 
 and to insist, with Tertullian that the Christian' s earthly enjoyment 
 should be solely in the anticipation of the beauty and bliss of 
 heaven, would be to set up an ideal standard which could have little 
 practical effect. The question, therefore, was not how to tear up 
 or radically to remove from the constitution of man his sense or 
 even his love of earthly pleasures ; rather it was this ; where might 
 the convert to Christianity find a reasonable satisfaction of that 
 truly human passion for social enjoyment which he had so extrava- 
 gantly cultivated. From the prohibitions of the Fathers and 
 especially from the work of Tertullian ' * De Spectaculis ' ' we can 
 realize somewhat how the Roman Christian felt when forbidden 
 access to pagan diversions. Extraordinary as it now seems the 
 catechuman had to fight hard and long with himself to overcome 
 a habit that heredity, education and personal indulgence had 
 ingrafted deeply in his nature. The renouncement was a veritable 
 sacrifice, however little we may now sympathize with the victim. 
 Baptism meant a break with the past; at the font he had to renounce 
 the devil and the works of the devil whose masterpiece Christian 
 and pagan moralists were agreed, had long been the theatre.* 
 
 Quite apart from the primary and dogmatic ends of the Chris- 
 tian cult, secondarily or altogether incidentally if we will, one may 
 see in the celebration of the Christian mysteries, growing more and 
 more elaborate as circumstances permitted, a response to this 
 natural call for life, for show and ceremony. There could be no 
 
 Bossier, G., La Fin du Paganisme, T. I, pp. 269-277. 
 
 Freppel, Tertullien, T. I, pp. 176-220. 
 
 Cumont Franz, Les Misteres du Mithra, pp. 149-176. 
 
23 
 
 easier transition out of the forms and customs of paganism than by 
 establishing Christian practices in their stead. In no better way 
 can the convert be made to forget the old Tables of Pleasures, the 
 seasonal festivals, the commemorations of demi-gods and goddesses, 
 and those anniversaries of deifications and triumphs which at the 
 time had grown to be of almost daily occurrence. The people 
 would more readily surrender their attachment to a god or goddess 
 than give up the manner of his or her worship. A new Calendar, 
 therefore, could replace the old.* 
 
 While it is certain that the Christian Liturgy was in the main 
 the continuation of that carried on in the synagogues of the Jews, 
 it can scarcely be doubted, however, that the Christian cult, ever 
 enriching, expanding and diversifying its services as times per- 
 mitted, was intended to counteract the heathen sacrifices and cere- 
 monies, f The feast of Christmas is an instance in point. Whatever 
 be the origin and primary motive of this very ancient feast, it was 
 certainly a fitting substitute for the pagan festival in honor of the 
 Invincible Sun whose birth-day was annually kept, according to 
 the Julian Calendar on the 25th of December. J In the early Middle 
 Ages among the Germanic peoples this coincidence is equally histor- 
 ical. The feast fell at a time when the northern tribes were wont 
 to celebrate their pagan rites, and the missionaries prudently gave 
 to the traditional customs a Christian sense and direction. To this 
 feast and to the ecclesiastical celebration at Kastertide in the ninth 
 century, historians usually refer the beginnings of the Gothic 
 drama. § 
 
 When it is said that the Gothic drama had its beginning 
 in the Liturgical services of the Mediaeval Church no more is 
 intended than what may be reasonably inferred from the historical 
 fact, that the ecclesiastical offices of the time, so rich in dramatic 
 material and so frequently acted before all classes of society may on 
 
 • Thamin, St Ambrose et la Soci^td Chr^tienne du Quatri^me Si^cle, p. 125. 
 
 t Duchense, L., Orignies der Culte Chretien, p. 45. Lightfoot, St. Cement of 
 Rome, I. 393. 
 
 t Shahan, T. J., The Beginnings of Christianity, p. 144. 
 
 § A. Maury, Croyancs et L^gendes du Moyen Age (1896), pp. 394-5, shows 
 how the Christian feasts of the Nativity and Resurrection replaced seasonal 
 gatherings in honour of tribal divinities:— " La Saint Jean correspond au 
 solstice d'6t6 et les Gaulois, et les Germains, c^ldbraient k Tepoque des solstices, 
 des fet^s solennelles. Ou, pour mieux dire, il existait, chez les deux peuples, deux 
 grandes {H6s: celle d'hiver qui, suivant les lieux, varient de I'dquinoxe du 
 printemps au solstice d'^t^ c'est-a-dire de Paques k la Saint Jean. La f^te d* 
 hiver s' appelait loule, lole, ou loel, c'est-d-dire la fete du Soleil." 
 
24 
 
 this account be justly regarded as the chief source whence the Gothic 
 drama drew its life. Nothing more exclusive is meant. Other 
 sources there were which might well, and doubtless did, contribute 
 if not to the actual birth of a theatre, at least in a secondary, yet 
 none the less positive way, to its early cultivation and growth. 
 They supplied the conditions without which the germ, no matter 
 whence its origin, could not normally develop. 
 
 Memories of ancient Rome lived long in the imagination of 
 the Middle Ages. Though, as was seen, the theatre of the Empire 
 and the Gothic kingdoms had wrought its own dissolution 
 fully two centuries* before any very definite imitations of a Gothic 
 Stage can be noticed, this was not the case, however, with the 
 actors of the effete theatre. f All through the Middle Ages there were 
 numbers of strolling players, mimes and joculatores in every country 
 of Kurope; the jonglers in France before the Conquest immigrated 
 to England in the suite of the Conqueror, and the native minstrels 
 in the Island were all capable of furnishing a variety of dramatic 
 amusement as they went from town to town, from castle to castle. 
 Though they enjoyed no very distinguished reputation, owing to 
 their many-sided talent in creating diversion, they managed, how- 
 ever, to secure large audiences. Many among the higher class of 
 minstrels became permanent residents in the mansions of the 
 nobility, but the vast majority followed the bent of their inclina- 
 tions and showed their 'maistrie' preferably before the admiring 
 crowds at fairs and village-greens. To these dramatic gatherings 
 not a little is due for the rise and growth if not for the origin, of 
 the Gothic drama. J 
 
 * Krumbacher, K., Gesch. der Byzantimschen Litteratur, pp. 639-648. 
 
 t Mr. Tunison in his work on dramatic traditions (Chapter II and III ) has 
 valuable data on the dramatic impulses in religion and on the mutual influence 
 of East and West through the activity of pilgrims and actors. The religious 
 plays of Italy were not transferred into the secular drama by Italian initia- 
 tive alone, but by the help of Byzantine mimes. (Op. Cit. p. 133.) For further 
 matter on this point refer to Du Meril, p. 24 fi", and to J. J. Jusserand 'Le 
 Theatre en Angleterre, etc., (p. 16 ff.) Mr. E. K. Chambers' "The Mediaeval 
 Stage" (pp. Vol. I. pp. 1-70, 24 ff), furnishes perhaps all possible information 
 on the subject. 
 
 t As it is important for our subject to understand the nature of these popular 
 performances I shall give an extract from the Polycraticus of John of Salisbury, 
 Bk. I. chap. 8. 184 (as cited by M. Jusserand 'Le Theatre en Angleterre; p 22 ) 
 "Admissa sunt ergo spectacula et infinita tyrocinia vanitatis, quibus qui 
 omnino otiari non possunt, perniciosius occupenter. Satius enim fuerat otiari 
 quam turpiter occupari. Hinc mimi, salii, vel saliaries, balatrones, aemiliani, 
 gladiatores, palaestrini, gignadii, praestigiatores, malefici quoque multi 
 et tota joculatorum scena procedit. Quorum adeo error invaluit, ut a 
 
25 
 
 Another probable tributary, that unquestionably at a later date 
 did much to prepare the day for the regular drama, may have come 
 from the study of the Roman playwrights. This study began in the 
 monasteries at an early date. Hroswitha, a nun of Gandersheim in 
 Eastphalian Saxony, wrote toward the close of the tenth century, 
 six plays of a sacred character on legendary subjects which she 
 modelled on the comedies of Terence.* It is important to bear in 
 mind the end she had in view : She wished to show how much 
 better and more edifying comedies than those of the pagan poet 
 might be written by a Christian hand. Personally she recognized 
 the strangeness of her avocation, but she wrote to remedy an abuse. 
 The abuse was the reading of Terence's plays. 
 
 The influence of the nun's work was not widespread; it is 
 disputed whether her productions were ever presented, but her 
 
 * "Geschiclte der Deutschen Litteratur" Vogt— Koch. "Hrotsviths Dramen 
 haben den ausgesprochenen Zweck, Terenz in den Dienst des Christentums 
 Oder vielmehr in der Dienst den Nonnenklosters zu stellen. Von den gefalligen 
 Form des vielgelessenen Dichters gefesselt, iiber den anstossigen Inhalt seiner 
 Komodien entrustet, will sie in seinem Stile Dramen anderen Geistes schreiben. 
 • In derselben Dictungsart in der man bisher von schandlicher Unzucht iippiger 
 Weiber gelesen hat, soil jetzt die lobliche Keuschheit heiligerjungfrauen gefeiert 
 werden.' Mit diesen Worten bezeichnet sie selbst ihre Aufgabe. Und sie hat sie 
 mit Geschick gelost. In besserem und fliissigerem Latein als die meisten Schrifts 
 teller ihrer Zeit, in stellenweise recht lebhafter und gewandter Fiihrung des 
 Dialoges hat sie in fiink Stiichen das Keuschheitsthema, in einem secnsten 
 wenigstens auch die Stand— haftigkeit christhcher Jungfrauen behandelt ' 
 (pp. 52-53) Cf. A. Ebert, Algemeine Gesch. der Litteratur des Mittelalters in 
 Abendlande" Vol. III. pp. 285-330. J. S. Tunison (loc. cit. 161 et seqq) "The 
 Byzantines not only preserved the theatrical habits of the Hellenic race, but 
 also endeavored to christianize the stage long before Roswitha was in exis- 
 tence. . . . The famous comedies of Roswitha when their genesis is carefully 
 investigated, are seen to have with eastern lore, dramatic traditions, and 
 history relations that can be explained in only one way." pp. 138-139. 
 
 praeclaris domibus non arceantur, etiam illi qui, obscenis partibus corporibus, 
 oculis omnium eam ingerunt turpi tudinem, quam erubescat quando tumul- 
 tiantes inferius crebro aerem foedant, et turpiter inclusum, turpius produnt. 
 Numquid tibi videtur sapiens qui oculos, vel aures istis expandit?" Cf also M. 
 Jusserand, "A Literary Historv of the English People," Chap VI. pp. 439-494, 
 and his "Wayfaring Life in the Middle Ages", pp. 23 et sqq; 212-218 etc. 
 The passion for things theatrical passed in a short while from the streets and 
 greens to the Churches. In the twelfth century Aelred, abbot of Rievaulx, 
 complained that the house of prayer was turned into a theatre : Videas ali- 
 quando hominem aperto ore quasi intercluso halitu expirare, non cantare, ac 
 ridiculosa quadam vocis interceptione quasi minitari silentium ; nunc agones 
 morientium, vel extasim patientium imitari. Interim histrionicis quibusdam 
 gestibus totum corpus agitaur, torquentur labia, rotant, ludunt humeri; et ad 
 singulas quasque notas digitorum flexus respondet. For this and much more, 
 cf. Minge, P. L. CCXV. 571 and P. L. CCXV. 1070 (Chambers I. 279.) It 
 will be well to bear in mind this deep and wide-spread interest in every species 
 of dramatic life, if one would justly estimate the later formal products which 
 were the fittest survivals of these tableaux vivanty early efforts at dramatic 
 expression. 
 
26 
 
 action is significant as a probable index of what may have been 
 the practice in the monastic and scholastic circles generally. The 
 "Christus Patiens," by a contemporary of Hroswitha, may be 
 mentioned in this connection. Its author has Lycophron, Euripides, 
 and Aeschylus contribute to the cause of Christian edification.* 
 Again, at the end of the next century the "I^udus de Sancta 
 Katharina," the first dramatic representation in England of which 
 any account has come down, was composed by one Geoffreys, a 
 member of the University of Paris. f As Paris was the home of the 
 Humanities it is reasonable to suppose that this Norman scholar 
 may have planned his composition on classic models. Matthew of 
 Paris, whose account of the Ludus de S. Katharina is all that is 
 known of the play, leaves it understood that Geoffrey's effort was 
 not phenomenal but the like was "de consuetudine magistrorum et 
 scholarum."J Be that as it may, this much seems certain: 
 neither to the influence of the classic drama nor to the dramatic feats 
 in town or castle may the origin of the Gothic drama be referred. 
 A priori it would seem strange that the most 'democratic of the arts' 
 should not spring from the people but have its fountain-head in the 
 shades of academic seclusion. Whatever difficulties one meets with 
 in ascribing the historical origin of the Gothic drama to the study 
 of the Greek and Roman playwrights during the earlier renaissance 
 of art and letters in the latter part of the eleventh and beginning of 
 the twelfth century ; § when, however, there will be question of the 
 literary origin of the drama in England one may not easily overesti- 
 mate foreign, influences — the early Elizabethans drawing directly 
 from Plautus, Terence and Seneca, and mediately, through Italian 
 
 * Brands, J. C. "Christus Patiens." He has compared the text-sources and 
 has given, so far as I am aware of, the latest (1885) edition of the play. For 
 a discussion of authorship, Krumbacher, "Gesh. der. Bvzant. Litt." (pp. 1006 
 ff.) also Mr. Tuoison (loc. cit. pp. 70-71.) Magnin **Le Journal des Savants," 
 (Jan. and May 1849) for an analysis of the play itself. 
 
 t For an an account of Geoffrey as Abbot of St. Albans, in Bulaeus "Historia 
 Universitatis Parisiensis," Vol. I, p. 223. 
 
 % Matthew Paris, Historia Major (ed 1663) , Vol. I, p. 223. 
 
 § Walter Pater, The Renaissance, p. 3. "The Renaissance is the name of a 
 many-sided, but yet united movement, in which the love of the things of the 
 intellect and the imagination for their own sake, the desire for more liberal 
 and comely way of conceiving life make themselves felt, urging those who 
 experience this desire to search out first one and then another means of intel- 
 lectual or imaginative enjoyment, and directing them not merely to the dis- 
 covery of old and forgotten sources of this enjoyment, but to the divine new 
 sources ot it, new experiences, new subjects of its poetry, new sources of 
 art. Of this feeling there was a great outbreak in the end of the twelfth and 
 the beginning of the following century." 
 
27 
 
 translators and imitators, from the dramatic masterpieces in Greek.* 
 Neither should over-emphasis be put on the share which at first 
 sight one is likely to attribute to the nomadic caste, especially 
 popular all through the Middle Ages. It should be remembered 
 that there is dramatic material among all peoples and at every age; 
 it was abundantly present in mediaeval England, but would it not 
 be pushing a search for origins a little too far to ascribe that of 
 the Modern drama exclusively to the tactics of tumblers, rope- 
 walkers, stilt-dancers and hoop-vaulters and to the obscene 
 manoeuvres of mimics and contortionists? 
 
 Not with these nor with the students of the Greek and Roman 
 dramatists does it seem that the Gothic drama took its rise. In 
 the liturgical services of the Church a dramatic germ was for 
 centuries in process of formation and grew into its fullest life 
 during the high-tide of Mediaeval Catholicism at the period of 
 the Crusades, from the accession of St. Gegory VII (1073) to the 
 pontificate of Boniface VIII ( 1 294-1303) . In the simple but deeply 
 significant liturgical dramas there were essential dramatic qualities 
 that needed only formation and development to produce a drama of 
 the highest order. These Sanctuary scenes derived from the inex- 
 haustible nature of the realities which they treated a degree of 
 actuality that they stand forth, instinct with vigorous life and 
 capable of producing or of growing into a higher and fuller life. 
 Unlike the other origins to which it had been the custom some- 
 time to refer to the beginnings of the Gothic drama, the liturgical 
 ofl&ces of Mediaeval Church seem alone deserving of the name of 
 source, t 
 
 * J. Churton Collins, Essays and Studies, p. 124. " We must, however, 
 guard carefully against attaching undue importance to the influence of Italy. 
 It was an influence the significance of which is purely historical. All it 
 efiected was to furnish the artist of our stage with models, it operated on 
 form and it operated on composition, but it extended no further. Once formu- 
 lated, our drama pursued an independent course. It became, in the phrase of 
 its greatest representative, 'the very age and body of the time, his form and 
 
 gressure' " A study of the beginnings and early growth of the English drama 
 om the view point of characterization proves the accuracy of this conclusion. 
 A native power in the treatment of the caste is the dramatic progression one 
 sees clearest underlying the many varieties of the Mediavel drama. From the 
 beginning one may easily notice the passion of the playwright in his instinctive 
 search for novel bits of matter, to enhance the interest and distinctness of his 
 presentation. 
 
 Mr. J. S. Tunison in his fourth chapter deals with eastern dramatic tradi- 
 tions by way of ancient and mediaeval Italy. His reasoning is strongly sup- 
 plementary of conclusions reached by Churton Collins. 
 
 t Du Meril, "Les Origines Liturgiques, etc.", pp. 83 ff. 
 W. Boyd Carpenter, "The Religious Spirit in Poetry," Chap. I and II. 
 
28 
 
 The early imitation of the classics from the view point of a 
 popular drama, contributed not considerably to the spread of 
 interest in things dramatic. lyike Christianity itself, the drama is 
 no theory of the study or the cloister. Such a career is contrary to 
 its genuis and character. Its proper atmosphere, its home is the 
 world; and to know what it is we must seek it in the world and 
 hear and study the world's witness. True, the anomaly of the later 
 French Aristotle had not been known, still no one who is to any 
 extent familiar with the spirit of Elizabethan dramatic literature 
 will allow that so spontaneous and characteristically national 
 art product as the Romantic drama is a growth of classic imitation. 
 Less still would he for other reasons be inclined to admit that the 
 ephemeral productions of mediaeval strolling entertainers can be 
 linked in any save the remotest connection with a drama whose 
 history is that of contemporary philosophic and religious thought 
 and whose chief excellence lies in its depth of character-treatment. 
 These were the very opposite of this. They were informed by no 
 lasting motive or inspiration; they were origin and end in them- 
 selves, with no relation to past or future, simply things of the 
 moment. 
 
 But in certain incipient ways the liturgical acts are fore-shadow- 
 ings — they show characteristics or notes of the regular Elizabethan 
 drama. They differ from it accidentally or in degree, not sub- 
 stantially or in kind.* They are, as it were, so many rude sketches 
 of a variety of dramatic ideas which the playwright vividly con- 
 ceived and felt but was incapable fully to realize dramaturgically. 
 These liturgical attempts at dramatic expression possessed many 
 essential qualities of a great drama — qualities, which when filled out 
 and fashioned into a unity and centralized in order to a general 
 dramatic effect, supplied what is fundamental in the Elizabethan 
 drama. What these influential quaUties or dominant ideas were 
 will in part be seen in the next chapter. Here let it suffice to say 
 that by virtue of their fecund nature they were capable of endless 
 adaptation and development, containing a fund of latent energies 
 and resources which were ever tending to break forth from their 
 sacred, pent-up limits. Such fertility is wanting to the productions 
 of the mimes and minstrels, and is wholly independent of any posi- 
 tive influence surviving the dissolution of the theatres. It is there- 
 fore strictly true that apart from the liturgical offices one finds in 
 
 • Courthope, W., A History of English Poetry, Vol. I, pp. 383-394. 
 
29 
 
 no other dramatic form at such an early date so many vital dramatic 
 elements from which, as from so many germs, a Shakesperean 
 drama might have grown in Kngland as in Greece and Spain.* 
 
 * Faguet, E.j Etudes Litteraire Dixneuvi^me Siecle, pp. 38-39. Religious 
 Drama in Spain, Ticknor "History of Spanish Literature," Vol. I, p. 225 fi. 
 Vol. II. 249. "Calderon," M. F. Egan, "Library of the Worlds Best Litera- 
 ture," Vol. VII, pp. 30-71. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 CHARACTKRIZATION IN ITSKLF AND IN ITS RELA- 
 TIONS TO OTHER DRAMATIC ELEMENTS. 
 
 We can conceive of a purely intellectual nature apart from its 
 personality, a nature, one and complete in itself, with reason, will 
 and sense. A human nature so conceived though concrete, indeed, 
 and full, can, however, reside only in the mind; for an existence 
 other than the conceptual it lacks the perfection of the personality 
 to vitalize and determine it to make it a living man, an effectual, 
 responsibile being. In the whole scope of rational life neither 
 reason nor faith gives an example of the purely objective, isolated 
 existence of an intellectual nature apart from its personality. 
 Human nature in its concrete existence is inseparable from the 
 personality which adds to it a positive perfection of self -movement. 
 Yet, a singular, living and complete rational nature, however 
 potential or facultative it be, includes of necessity the prerogative of 
 self-dominion and is itself a centre of responsibility, but not till the 
 moment that personality and nature unite is that prerogative 
 actually realized. The union effects the transition from a state of 
 passivity or tendency to a state of activity and reality. 
 
 Character is the result of this union; it is this action. In its 
 widest meaning character seems to be the sum of man's qualities, 
 the outcome of the united nature and personality acting as a whole, 
 reasoning, willing and feeling. In this primary signification, 
 character is not solely an intellectual product, nor is it the out- 
 growth of volitional acts alone, nor exclusively sense-experience. 
 It is rather the ever-varying interaction of the soul's triple activity, 
 in act itself, while at the same time possessing an underlying unity 
 that is simple, yet in its manifestations more diversified than the 
 seven colors of the rainbow and as manifold and complex as the 
 motives which make up an individual's life. To reproduce this 
 activity — the interaction or struggle of reason, will and feeling; to 
 express the various intricate motives back of the intellectual, 
 volitional and emotional acts, as well as the consequences of these 
 acts or forces, and their reciprocal reaction — this is to characterize^ 
 
31 
 
 Characterization in the Drama has always been one in its pur- 
 pose and aim; in its means of realization, however, it is as manifold 
 almost as there have been artists. Its aim, even, is immutable only 
 in as far as characterization is concerned with the setting forth 
 "the sum of man's qualities," when it is a question to determine 
 their nature and extent, the aim of characterization will depend on 
 the philosophy which governs the dramatist, on the answer he 
 gives the question relative to the summed qualities of man. It is 
 clear that the treatment of character by the playwright who looks 
 on the hero's servant as '*a machine" purely, and who sees the 
 hero, as indeed the hero sees himself, urged on by an unseen power 
 to an inevitable catastrophe, must differ not only in degree but in 
 kind from the character-presentation by the dramatist who recog- 
 nizes in the page a human person with rights and responsibilities 
 and in the master a free agent that freely shapes his own ends. 
 With this limitation as to the nature of its object, character- 
 presentation has at all times been one in motive and purpose. 
 
 From an estimate of Shakespeare's achievement — which is the 
 surest criterion of character-treatment in the drama for all time — 
 one can see what is implied in the primary meaning of the term 
 "character" itself. An analysis of the Poet's work makes clear 
 that the word "personality" which is, perhaps, better described as 
 an energy than as a substance, such are its essentially living qual- 
 ities — would embrace all that the over-used word "character" 
 includes and has the further advantage of bringing into special 
 prominence the very idea least emphasized or quite forgotten in the 
 thoughtless use of the commoner word. The term personality, as 
 applied to the presentation of characters in the drama, would, it 
 seems, primarily imply the presentment, or at least, the effort to 
 present, on the stage, man in his highest moral relations, the main- 
 springs of his actions, their ethical worth and sanction, and such 
 like root-principles of human life and emotion. Turning to the 
 product of the early Gothic playwright's work one finds that this 
 was precisely his view of dramatic action. He would set forth a 
 spiritual picture which brought into distinct consciousness what the 
 many felt but loosely apprehended His effort was to create a drama 
 informed by Mediaeval Christianity, the growth of the religious 
 ritual and for a long time intimately connected with the worship of 
 precept, and therefore, the medium through which were shaped and 
 expressed in a concrete manner the intangible realities of the 
 spiritual world as they were known and felt in this. The mediae- 
 
32 
 
 val playwright, in other words, dealt with those static aspirations 
 that filled his soul with an ideal which his deficient language pre- 
 vented him from embodying in artistic form. The immanency of 
 the truth was felt by him but he was incapable of communicating it 
 adequately to words and actions. 
 
 It is quite evident how nearly one the earliest attempts at 
 character - presentation had been with treatment of dramatic life by 
 Marlowe and Shakespeare.* An extract from Sidney Lee, in show- 
 ing the nature of Shakespeare's processes, the extent and vividness 
 of his conceptions, the firmness and flexibility of the mental grasp 
 which he possessed over the creatures of his imagination, will help 
 to illustrate this affinity further; and when read with the thought 
 of the drama of today in mind, his words will go far to suggest a 
 reason why the particular element which the word ' 'personality' ' chief- 
 ly emphasizes is obscured or obsolete in the current use of the term 
 * 'character. ' ' I should venture to say that owing to the perfection of 
 what was weakest in Shakespeare and his predecessors or wholly 
 neglected by them, the modern dramatist has relaxed his efforts to 
 realize through poetry what technique apparently so fully supplies. 
 These are Sidney Lee's words : f 
 
 "But when the whole of Shakespeare's vast work is scrutinized 
 with due attention the glow of his imagination is seen to leave few 
 passages wholly unillumined. Some of his plots are hastily con- 
 structed and inconsistently developed, but the intensity of the 
 interest with which he contrives to invest the personality of his heroes 
 and heroines triumphs over halting or digressive treatment of the 
 story in which they have their being. Although he was versed in the 
 technicalities of stage-craft, he occasionally disregarded its elemen- 
 tary conditions. But the success of his presentments of human life 
 and character depended little on his manipulation of theatrical 
 machinery. His unassailable supremacy springs from the versatile 
 workings of his insight and intellect, by virtue of which his pen 
 limned with unerring precision almost every gradation of thought 
 and emotion that animates the living stage of the world." 
 
 This places one at the proper angle of vision to study the dra- 
 matic activity during the Middle Ages relative to the treatment of 
 the characters. Though in its infancy from the point of view of 
 art and development, and not for generations after the first indica- 
 tions of life are perceived do the embryonic forms evolve into dra- 
 
 • Dowden, E., "Transcripts and Studies," pp. 263-434-435-441. 
 t "A Life of William Shakespeare," pp. 355-356. 
 
33 
 
 matic proportions and take on the properties of the drama; still 
 competent admirers of Shakespeare regarded him as "the direct 
 heir^' of the mediaeval playwright, and see in his work "the highest 
 expression of the dramatic spirit of the Middle Ages." 
 
 Just as the arrangement of the stage - structure itself was 
 founded on contemporary^ cosmic belief, so during the three or four 
 centuries of dramatic activity that preceded the Elizabethan drama 
 characterization was based, unconciously no doubt, on the current 
 philosophic view of man and upon the nature of his powers. No 
 modern religion or social theory, no Christian dramatist, and medi- 
 aeval least of all, could ever have viewed the relations of man with 
 man and men with the unseen as they appeared to the pre-christian 
 audience and poet. The doctrine of Fate, the abiding concious- 
 ness of an overhanging doom, never exercised so dominant a sway 
 over Greek life and conduct as the ideas of personality and responsi- 
 bility influenced all classes of men throughout the Middle Ages. 
 This is here, perhaps, the sharpest contrast that may be drawn 
 between ancient and mediaeval life and habits of thought, and it is 
 likewise of much significance to the understanding the theatre of 
 both periods. If the Greek dramatist was subjected to the super- 
 stition that there is a divinity which shapes our ends, rough hew 
 them how we will, for the mediaeval playwright nothing was clearer 
 than the fact that human destiny was the result not of what his stars 
 but of what he himself had made it. No divine sentence, intrans- 
 gressible because its cause could not be diverted or hindered, was 
 ever pronounced on a mediaeval hero. The contrary was the rule. 
 To the injury of divine and poetic justice instead of the condign 
 catrastrophe awaiting a delinquent, in his last hours the life-long 
 law-breaker meets with plentiful salvation from merciful Heaven. 
 
 ••If we would understand well the Middle Ages we must ever 
 keep in view that in those times public life was dominated by two 
 great functional ideas — the sense of personality and the sense of 
 responsibility. Throughout those centuries it was the universal 
 persuasion that the final end of society was the perfection of each 
 individual soul, or rather, its individual salvation. "-^^ These two 
 dominant ideas of mediaeval life form the very basis of dramatic char- 
 acterization as well as the immediate motive for the formation of the 
 religious stage. The liturgical and in general the entire mediaeval 
 drama, aiming primarily to give expression in action to the religious 
 
 Shahan, T. J., The Middle Ages, pp. 182 ft. 
 
34 
 
 and moral life of the age, is concerned most directly with two great 
 functional ideas which, as may be seen further on, easily passed 
 from the realm of the ideal and appealed to the interested audience 
 as near and actual. These ideals or actualities manifested them- 
 selves nowhere so clearly nor so immediately as on the religious 
 stage. Though at the basis of all dramatic action, giving a mean- 
 ing to the perpetual struggle of good and evil, or as it is seen more 
 concretely on the stage, the exertion of the will against opposing 
 forces, which is the essential subject -mattter of the drama, the 
 ideas emphasizing human freedom and destiny were, perhaps at no 
 time so exclusively prominent in the mind nor so popularly sensed. 
 These active "senses" of personality and responsibility being kept 
 in view, many parts of the mediaeval drama will come not only 
 intelligible but intimately personal and replete with interest for 
 every listener. 
 
 At first sight and apart from influencing conditions, one 
 may think that in roles conceived so broadly and generally as those 
 of the religious drama, the players must have moved and acted, as 
 humanly as one might fancy kn impersonal nature would act. One 
 may see nothing or but little regular and consequent in what they 
 do; actions of individuals not of persons, showing no signs of a self- 
 determining process going on within but urged on and conditioned 
 by something external. It requires, however, no very long or close 
 intimacy with a mediaeval caste, and particularly with that of 
 the liturgical drama, to find abundant instances to satisfy oneself 
 that this is not so. It is true that there is what resembles an exter- 
 nal necessity moving to act, but this is only apparent. This 
 seeming outward coaction is not caused by any divine and 
 intransgressible sentence, but results from the vivid and abiding 
 consciousness of the fullest inner freedom and personal responsibility. 
 It would be more exact on this very account to say that an internal 
 \^ necessity was at all times making itself felt and imperiously demand- 
 ing attention. Consequently what looks to be the immediate cause 
 is not the real cause; the true motive is occult. Every act has roots 
 deep down and hidden, the motives that accompany and appar- 
 ently explain it are never more than a part of the true cause. The 
 accompaning cause — even as it will be in comedy later — is always 
 illusive. One feels that there is ever going on in the bosom of the 
 agent a self-determining process which is striving for complete 
 realization independent and even in despite of everything external. 
 This struggle is the essence of the drama. It was present at the 
 
35 
 
 birth of the modern theatre and an account of its presentation to 
 the last quarter of the sixteenth century would be the history of 
 pre- Elizabethan dramatic characterization. 
 
 If the setting forth "the sum of man's qualities" be rightly 
 said to characterize, — characterization being taken in a general 
 sense — it may be claimed for our playwright that, though he 
 numbered man's capacities differently, he understood the purpose 
 of the stage and aimed, as dramatists of all times, to reproduce 
 life, to present man as a whole — reasoning, willing and feeling. In 
 the fundamental conception, then, the pre-Klizabethan playwright 
 is one with his successors. He sought, though certainly not so 
 consciously as the author of the phrase, to show Truth his face, to 
 hold the mirror up to nature. 
 
 Thus far, perhaps, he succeeded. Let it be admitted that he 
 did; that his idea of the stage and its requirements agreed, in the 
 main, with that held by his classic successors, Marlowe, Shake- 
 speare, Massinger and Jonson, and that in every case his ablest 
 efforts were to realize this idea and meet these requirements by pro- 
 ducing a living human caste; in a radical point, however, he was 
 yet deficient. The pre-Shakespearean dramatist seems never to 
 have grasped in its essential entirety what is dramatic. This was 
 an original weakness and endured long. The playwright never 
 took into practical account, though he refers to it repeatedly, the 
 limitations of the stage, never distinguishing between an actual life 
 of half a century and that lived on the boards during half a day. 
 The slowness in duly appreciating this is the first cause of the com- 
 parative insignificance of the long beginning of the English drama. 
 It is so intimately connected with the question of dramatic charac- 
 terization that this may be told in terms which would express the 
 growth in the realization of the idea of what is dramatic. Growth 
 in the conciousness of what is dramatic is inseparable from growth 
 of characterization in the drama. 
 
 Free-will, which is a first step to individuality, and person- 
 ality, or the consciousness of oneself as a centre of moral 
 retribution, were elements of great dramatic importance in the 
 theatre of the Middle Ages. They were to an extent the cause of 
 its origin and the reason of its longevity. No depth of character- 
 ization is possible without these vital factors, or more accurately, 
 this essential fundament of all dramatic action, and with them little 
 more is needed. However worthy of emphasis in this present 
 
36 
 
 connection these predispositions are, the drama has yet other 
 requirements. A dramatic action is needed. The subject-matter 
 of the play must be dramatic ; the hero must be governed by a 
 predominate passion or desire and have a resolute will to gratify 
 his desire, to reach the end he has proposed. In his ef]£orts to 
 attain the object of his ambition he is arrested by the action of 
 opposing forces. Thence comes the necessary struggle of contrary 
 wills, whence the revelation of character. Freytag defines the 
 dramatic in this manner : The dramatic implies the presence of 
 those mighty soul - swaying motives that nerve to will and to do: 
 those passionate emotions astir in the soul in consequence of a 
 deeply- felt happening. Dramatic also are those inner promptings 
 that man experiences from the first awakening appeal or volition 
 to do, through all successive degrees of growth, to passionate desire 
 and actual realization. Similarly dramatic are the reactions on 
 these, whether personal or otherwise, that are brought about 
 within the soul of man. The welling forth of will-power from the 
 depth of the human soul toward the outer world and the inflow of 
 informing influences from the outer world into man's inmost 
 being — all this is implied in the word "dramatic," as is also the 
 coming into being of a deed and its consequences on the human 
 soul.* An action in itself, Freytag says, or passionate feeling in 
 itself, or even the presentation of passion for itself, is not dramatic: 
 but a passion which leads to action is the business of dramatic art. 
 Giving to characterization its broadest meaning, it has been 
 stated as the sum of man's qualities, the outcome of united nature 
 and personality acting as a whole — reasoning, willing and feeling. 
 This is characterization in general, as we may study it in the Epic 
 or Novel or in its more complicated unfolding in actual life; but 
 what is characterization as revealed by dramatic action? May 
 it any longer be said to be "the sum of man's qualities," since 
 the man we see on the stage is in an abnormal condition? We 
 have just seen that the business of dramatic art is with a passion 
 
 • "Technik des Dramas," p. 18. "Dramatisch sind diejenigen starken 
 Seelenbewegungen, welche sich bis sum willen und zum Thun verharten, und 
 diejenigen Seelenbewegungen, welche durch ein Thun auigeregt w-erden ; also 
 die innern Vorgange, welche der Mensch vora Aufleuchten einer Empfindung 
 bis zu ieidenschaftlichem Begehren und Handeln durchmacht, sowie die 
 Einw^irkungen, w^elche eierenes und fremdes Handeln in der Seele hervorbringt ; 
 also das Austromen der Willcnskraft aus dem tiefen Gemiith nach der Aussen- 
 welt und das Einstromen bestiramender Einfliisse aus der Aussenwelt in das 
 Innere des Gemiiths; also das Werden einer That und ihre Folgen auf das 
 Gemiith." 
 
37 
 
 that leads to action, in what manner then, may such actions as 
 these, motived by passion, be regarded as the sum of man's 
 qualities ? 
 
 At first it should be observed by the way of explanation that for 
 obvious reasons tha imitation of life on the stage must necessarily 
 be in many respects from the point of detail other than the actual. 
 This necessity was not fully understood, or at least, the com- 
 promise between the life of nature and its imitation in the drama 
 was not effected very happily by our early playwrights. Dramaturgy 
 in the beginning ignored the delicate art of perspective; it had not 
 learned to choose the crisis or points of interest and dispense with 
 the trivial details of its subject. The playwright of those times 
 felt it necessary to itemize each quality to reach the sum. Hence 
 it is that in the oldest extant Moral Play, The Castle of Constancy, 
 the action covers the whole life of the hero, Humanum Genns 
 appearing as a new-born babe, a youth, a man and a greybeard. 
 
 The epic- writer or novelist may utilize these details and form a 
 very characteristic hero from them, but they do not come within 
 the province of the dramatist. They are not dramatic for him, 
 however much they be so in themselves. 
 
 Characterization in its technical meaning or as it is derived from 
 dramatic action properly so called, gives, however, a very true 
 summary of man's qualities. Be it so that we see the hero in 
 exceptional circumstances and at the dramatic moment of his life, 
 face to face with an inevitable fact or line of conduct which admits 
 of only an alternative. Though inwardly agitated by the passion 
 that is rapidly leading him to the crisis of the struggle, the hero 
 acts all the while deliberately, and perhaps conscious, at least, 
 confusedly, of the results which will follow the climax. Macbeth 
 strikes the King, though alive to the nature of his act and its 
 consequences. His instance is typically dramatic. A passionate 
 ambition leads him to take the fatal step, though in doing so he 
 jump the life to come. The dramatist (and especially the English 
 with whom the laws governing the Unities of time and place are 
 comparatively flexible) is careful to give the hero time and 
 opportunity to test and choose, even at the moment when the 
 passion is reaching its highest intensity and hasr led to the decisive 
 action. Nothing pertaining to the substance of the climacteric 
 act is indeliberate, every step thereto the spectator sees is voluntary 
 ' ' from the first glow of preception to the passionate desire and the 
 action itself." Otherwise the art is false. 
 
38 
 
 This being the process many of the terms that go to make up 
 the sum of the hero's qualities are given by the poet. Later it will 
 be more in place to speak of the activity of the audience on each 
 term, phase or quality as the story unfolds itself, and of its final 
 synthesis of the data and its resulting estimate or impression of the 
 hero. ''The poet's characterization," says Freytag, "rests on the 
 old peculiarity of man to percieve in every living being a complete 
 personality in which a soul like that of the observer's is supposed 
 as animating principle; and beyond this, what is peculiar to this 
 living being, what is characteristic of it received as affording enjoy- 
 ment."* This instinctive desire in the audience to complete the 
 person by fitting in or filling out along the suggested lines, and then 
 endowing this outline, or let us say, the nature, with a personality, 
 or centre of responsibility, is indispensible to the poet. It affords 
 the listener an intellectual pleasure to meet the actor half way 
 and supply at his suggestion the necessarily numerous minutiae 
 missing from the role. On this account it is detrimental in the 
 treatment of the caste to present to the audience more than 
 characteristic traits, for unimportant details will of necessity with- 
 draw the attention from what is peculiar and original and which 
 alone interests. With a careful elimination of the unnecessary we 
 shall arrive at a knowledge deeper and fuller of the hero's character 
 from the few suggestive strokes, distinctive traits and concomitant 
 action than we should have had we before our eyes the register of 
 his doings and motives from the cradle to the grave. Nor does it 
 influence our estimate of * * the sum of his qualities ' ' that exagger- 
 ated circumstances present themselves on the stage which are 
 especially tempting to the nurtured passion. From his deliberate 
 action when the decisive moment is reached we can form an 
 accurate appreciation of the moral worth of what preceded, for 
 the hero's antecedent life, the distinctive traits of which the actor 
 has brought out, affords sufficient motive for the climacteric act. 
 A felt propriety and truth is deduced from causes unseen which 
 makes the relation of action and agent at the climax dramatically 
 probable, t 
 
 * Technik des Dramas, pp, 215-231. 
 
 t In a work, "An Essay on the Dramatic Character of Sir John Falstaft," 
 Maurice Morgann shows the unconscious mental activity of the audience 
 and actor in respect to the bringing out of secret or implied character 
 motives. — "The characters in every drama must, indeed, be grouped; but in 
 the groups of other poets (than Shakespeare) the parts which are not seen do 
 
39 
 
 There will be occasion to return to these considerations. Such 
 as they are they may be taken as proof to some extent of what was 
 assumed hitherto, viz., that the pre - Elizabethan dramatist's idea 
 of characterization was in an incipient way substantially similar to 
 that of his successors. Only accidentally in the manner of presen- 
 tation he differed from them. As they, he possessed material 
 dramatic in itself, but unlike them he had not learned the full 
 meaning of dramatic action. He had not learned what to empha- 
 size. He erred in the use of emphasis. Though his fundamental 
 idea was one and dramatic — a passion tending to action — it lost, 
 however, much of its definitiveness and dramatic quality by the 
 tendency to characterize generally, by treating the hero as a whole, 
 reasoning, willing and feeling, impartially, and in presenting not 
 only the sum of his qualities but in stressing equally all the 
 addenda. As the playwright slowly perfected himself in the 
 difficulty art of accentuation, details were eschewed, suggestion 
 replaced narration, the action became more important, crises in the 
 hero's life were chosen, the motive appeared more deliberate and 
 was brought more and more into prominence, and the act, as such, 
 withdrew to the background. The characters were no longer 
 viewed in the whole, a predominant trait or passion was chosen and 
 that was almost exclusively emphasized. From the leading motive 
 all the minor qualities of the role flow and can be traced to it as to 
 a source. The hero is mighty in intellect or resolute in action or 
 
 not in fact exist. But there is a certain roundness and integrity in the forais 
 of Shakespeare, which give them an independence as well as a relation, 
 insomuch that we often meet with passages which, though perfectly ft It, 
 cannot be sufficiently explained in words without unfolding the whole 
 character of the speaker ... It is true that the point of action or senti- 
 ment, which we are most concerned in, is always held out for our special 
 notice. But who does not perceive that there is a peculiarity about it which 
 conveys a relish of the whole. And very frequently when no particular point 
 presses, he boldly makes a character act and speak from the parts of the 
 composition which are inferred only and not distinctly shown ; this produces a 
 wonderful eflfect: it seems to carry us beyond the poet to nature itself, and 
 gives an integrity and truth to facts and character, which they could not other- 
 wise obtain. And this in reality is that art in Shakespeare, which, being 
 withdrawn from our notice, we more emphatically call nature. A felt pro- 
 priety and truth from causes unseen, I take it to be the highest point of 
 Poetic Composition. If the characters of Shakespeare are thus whole, and as 
 it were original, while those of almost all other writers are mere imitation, it 
 may be fit to consider them rather as Historic than as Dramatic beings; and 
 when occasion requires, to account for their conduct from the whole of charac- 
 ter, from general principles from latent motives, and from policies not 
 avowed." Referred to by Lewis Campbell, Tragic Drama, Aeschylus, Sophocles 
 and Shakespeare, pp. 48-49. Dowden, E., Shakespeare — His Mind and Art, 
 p. 111. 
 
40 
 
 governed by sentiment. A consummate art in the arrangement of 
 the dramatic action and depth of insight into its meaning resulted 
 in Shakespearean characterization. 
 
 It will simplify our task to note at the outset these points of 
 similarity and difference from the point of view of characterization 
 between the early and the Elizabethan drama. The idea and aim 
 of the dramatist being the same from the beginning, there is pres- 
 ently a continuity established. We can speak of power of charac- 
 terizing as growing or developing or waning. The germ of charac- 
 terization at the origin of the drama will pass through a variety of 
 forms and take from them certain peculiarities; it will grow into a 
 higher life, manifesting as it advances more and more its true 
 nature and ultimate attributes, retaining all the while its primitive 
 identity. The purpose of the playwright in every stage of this 
 evolution is to present his characters realistically. His intention 
 is that the^^ enact his thought and his great concern will be to find 
 a fitting dress in which to clothe it attractively and fully. If he 
 ventures a presentation in a new form, it is precisely because he 
 feels that the old, from being over-familiar, has lost its power to 
 appeal. He hopes to derive from the changed form an element of 
 interest, of which he profits to emphasize the ancient truth. 
 
 This, then, is the role of characterization in the Mediaeval 
 English drama. It seems to mark the reason of all dramatic 
 development. How best present "the caste? All is in this. Dra- 
 matic laws are founded to answer this question. They make it 
 their criterion — a factor is essential or important to the degree it is 
 in sympathy with the treatment of the caste. The law governing 
 the Relative Values of the characters themselves, the Unities, the 
 laws of Probability, Concreteness, Completeness, and Coherence; 
 those that have to do with the Incident and the Presentation of the 
 Plot; the question of Emotion in the play, that of Interest and 
 Fineness of Truth — all these are important for the drama, because 
 each in its measure has in view the perfect presentation of the 
 characters which is the end of dramatic art. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 CHARACTER -TREATMENT IN THE LITURGICAL 
 
 DRAMA. 
 
 Beginning with the Liturgical Offices as the sacred origin of 
 the Modern Theatre, one finds a multitude of germs that would go 
 to form a drama. The marvelous conception back of the symbolic 
 action, the effort to realize in idea the meaning of the veiled reality, 
 and the further life-long attempt to give these spiritual facts a con- 
 crete bearing on personal conduct, demanded a continual exercise 
 in a high degree of the individual's powers. It elicited the highest 
 efforts of his reason, will, and sense-faculties; all were interested 
 in the tremendous mystery that was unfolding itself before his eyes. 
 It lost half its mysteriousness by reason of the very vital interest 
 it had for him. And when it is remembered that in this chief, 
 though most familiar liturgical function the action at the altar was 
 (as all believed) not a sign merely representing an action done 
 and past, but the actual creating at the moment of bread and wine 
 into the Divine Flesh and Blood — as the words signified — it is 
 easily seen how much this sacred rite shortened the mental step 
 between symbol and reality. The senses expressed in action the 
 thought of the mind. The symbol in a very true sense zms the 
 reality. It does not seem an over-estimate when the Liturgical Office 
 is thus viewed, to see in it germinally, at least, a distant foreshadow- 
 ing of Elizabethan "imitations of great and probable actions.'* 
 
 In the effort to supplement faith by bringing under the percep- 
 tion of the senses as much of the mystical liturgy as might be, scenic 
 representations were introduced. In the beginning these perform- 
 ances were of the simplest kind, the dialogues were in Latin and 
 based on prescribed portions of the Ritual. This interpolating or 
 filling out the ritual of precept gave rise to what is technically called 
 a trope. These tropes acted only on festivals of great solemnity, 
 may be said to stand at the head of the Mediaeval religious drama. 
 
 Only two fragments of the Liturgical drama acted in Eng- 
 land during five centuries have survived. Of its popularity down 
 to the destruction of the monasteries there is abundant proof. It 
 
42 
 
 was acted in England before the Conquest. The earliest and most 
 complete account of its nature and scope is found in an appendix 
 to the Rule of St. Benedict, which was drawn up some time between 
 the years 959 and 979 by Ethelwold, Bishop of Winchester. * 
 Though written at the cradle of the Liturgical drama it anticipates 
 in the outline the perfection of the species. For this reason I shall 
 give the entry entire as found in Chamber's "The Mediaeval Stage" 
 (Vol. II, Appendix o). The arrangement is for the Easter dra- 
 matic scene in the cathedral. Mr. Manly gives the critical Latin 
 text of the Bishop's words : t 
 
 "While the third nocturn is being chanted let four brethren vest 
 themselves. Let one of these, vested in an alb, enter as though to 
 take part in the service, and let him approach the sepulchre with- 
 out attracting attention, and sit there quietly with a palm in his 
 hand. While the third response is being chanted let the remaining 
 three follow, and let them all, vested in copes bearing in their hands 
 thuribles with incense and stepping delicately (pedetentim) as those 
 who seek something, approach the sepulchre. These things are 
 done in imitation of the angel sitting in the monument and the 
 women with spices coming to anoint the body of Jesus. When, 
 therefore, he who sits there beholds the three approach him like 
 folk lost and seeking something, let him begin in a dulcet voice of 
 medium pitch to sing: 
 
 Quern quaeritis (in sepulchre, o Christecole) ? 
 And when he has sung it to the end let three reply in unison : 
 
 Jesu(m)Nazarenuin(crucifixu(m), o celicola). 
 So he : — 
 
 Non est hie; surrexit, sicut praedixerat ; 
 lie nuntiate quia surrexit a mortuis. 
 
 At the words of this bidding, let those three turn to the choir 
 
 and say: 
 
 Alleluia! resurrexit Dominus. 
 
 This said, let the one still sitting there and as if recalling them 
 
 say the anthem : 
 
 Venite et videte locum (ubi positus erat Dominus, alle- 
 luia' alleluia.) 
 
 And saying this let him rise and lift the veil, and show them 
 the place bare of the Cross, but only the cloths laid there in which 
 
 *"Migne P. L. Concordia Regularis, Vol. 137, p. 495. 
 t Specimens of the Pre-Shakespearean Drama," pp. xix-xx. 
 
43 
 
 the Cross was wrapped. And when they have seen this, let them 
 set down the thuribles which they bare in that same sepulchre, and 
 take the cloth and hold it up in the face of the clergy, and as if to 
 demonstrate that the Lord has risen and is no longer wrapped there- 
 in, let them sing the anthem : 
 
 Surrexit Dominus de sepulchre, 
 
 (Qui pro nobis pependit in ligno). 
 
 And let them lay the cloth upon the altar. When the anthem is 
 
 done, let the prior sharing in their gladness at the triumph of our 
 
 King, in that, having vanquished death He arose again, begin the 
 
 hymn: 
 
 Te Deum laudamus. 
 
 And this begun, all the bells chime out together." 
 
 This long rubric may be said to be the first stage direction. 
 We already have a drama outlined in the Bishop's words. The 
 temptation to fill in and elaborate, so strongly suggested by the pre- 
 late's outline, could not be resisted. In the beginning, a century 
 probably before this Easter ordinance was drawn up, four lines 
 seem to have made up the dialogue at the Sepulchre : 
 
 Angels: Whom seek ye in the tomb, ye worshippers of Christ? 
 
 Holy Women: Jesus of Nazareth, the Crucified, Ye heavenly adorers. 
 
 Angels: He is not -here; He is risen as He said. 
 Go, tell He's risen from the tomb. 
 
 This was all. Later on, as Bishop Ethelwold's directions imply, 
 a development set in, and elaboration once begun steadily continued 
 till in the thirteenth century we find collateral incidents grouped 
 around the primitive scene. St. Peter and St. John, Mary Magda- 
 len and the Gardener take part with the Holy Women and the 
 Angels at the monument. To transcribe the whole text of this trope 
 would be too long. A paraphrased translation of a part will be 
 sufficient to show the nature of the elaboration that had set in, and 
 at the same time furnish a specimen of the strictly Liturgical drama 
 at the period of its fullest development. The Latin text may be 
 read in Wright's reprint or in the more recent manuscript by Du 
 Meril. * This latter text I follow. Bishop Ethelwold's rubric will 
 serve in the main as stage directions. 
 
 Three brethren clothed to take parts of the Three Maries, ap- 
 proach slowly and sorrow-laden to the Sepulchre singing in accents 
 of grief nine subsequent stanzas: 
 
 'lies Origines La tines du Theatre Moderne," pp. 110-115. 
 
44 
 
 I. Mary: Alas, the loving Shepherd's slain, 
 He who no guile e'er wrought — 
 Deed most pitiful. 
 II. Mary: Yes, the True Shepherd's dead 
 
 Dead, who brought the saintly life — 
 O lamentable death ! 
 III. Mary: Whence, Jews, how came it so, 
 
 How came this rage, this rabid rage — 
 cursed people, how? 
 
 To much the same effect the first Mary begins a new stanza 
 and similarly the others. This is repeated another time which being 
 finished as they near the Sepulchre all three sing : 
 
 Not by ourselves; we cannot ope the tomb. 
 Who'll roll the stone from off the door? 
 
 An Angel sitting at the head of the monument, clothed in white 
 and gold, a shining mitre on his head and holding a palm in his left 
 hand and a branched candle-stick in his right speaks gravely as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 "Whom seek ye in the tomb, ye worshippers of Christ? 
 The women amswer: 
 
 Jesus, the Crucified of Nazareth, thou Heavenly Adorer. 
 And the Angel : 
 
 "What, worshippers of Christ, Ye seek the quick among 
 dead? 
 
 He is not here, He is risen, as He told. 
 
 Remember you what Jesus spoke in Galilee? 
 
 *The Christ must suffer and on the third day rise.' " 
 
 At the end of this rythmic dialogue the women turn to the con- 
 gregation and sing in prose the account of the resurrection. This 
 done, Mary Magdalen, weighed down with grief, goes to the 
 sepulchre. Though she had just returned with her two companions 
 and with them had announced the Resurrection according to the 
 word of the Angel, she now comes to the sepulchre and all in tears 
 over the empty grave, laments the taking away of *'the beloved Body 
 from the tomb." She goes back, tells Peter and John that the tom.b 
 is empty and nothing but the cloths are left. At her word the two 
 Apostles hurry to where Christ's body was laid. John, outrunning 
 Peter, reaches the Sepulchre first : 
 
 John: What marvelous things see we — 
 
 The Master taken, stolen? 
 Peter: Not so. As He said. He lives — 
 
 I believe the Master's risen. 
 
45 
 
 John: Tell, why here in the tomb 
 
 This shroud and towl remain? 
 Peter: No use to one arisen is aught of these; 
 
 Indices of His? resurrection they remain. 
 
 So ends the visit of Peter and John. Mary Magdalen returns again 
 and repeats the same sorrowful and incredulous words as be- 
 fore. Two angels assure her of the Resurrection but still she per- 
 sists in her unbelief. Jesus in the disguise of the Gardener alone 
 succeeds to convince her. The recognition is substantially after the 
 Gospel account with a paraphrased blending of Easter anthems. 
 Mary, turning to the people, expresses her joy on seeing the risen 
 Jesus in the beautiful Sequence : 
 
 "Rejoice with me all ye that love the Lord: because He 
 whom I sought hath appeared to me, and while I wept at the 
 grave, I have seen the Lord, Alleluia." 
 
 At the bidding of the two angels Magdalen and her two com- 
 panions turn to the congregation and say : 
 
 "The Lord is risen from the dead. Him who was hanged 
 upon the Rood, Alleluia! 
 
 The three then lift the winding sheet before the people: "See, 
 friends, yourselves the linen cloths left in the empty tomb. These 
 wrapped His Blessed Body." 
 
 They lay the cloth upon the altar and turning to the congrega- 
 tion alternate in the following lines : 
 
 I. Mary: The God of Gods is risen to-day. 
 
 II. Mary: In vain, Israel, have you sealed the stone. 
 
 III. Mary: Now join you to Christ's followers. 
 
 I. Mary: The King of Angels is risen to-day. 
 
 II. Mary: And saintly hosts from darkness leads. 
 
 HI. Mary: The gates of Heaven are open. 
 
 Christ next appears in all the glory of His state, bearing the 
 insignia of His triumph. He promises to meet all in Galilee. A 
 chorus breaks forth "Alleluia! the Lord is risen to-day," and the 
 "Te Deum" follows. 
 
 To this proportion and dramatic significance the Liturgical 
 scenes of Easter-day had grown by the thirteenth century. The 
 growth was strictly organic. The lines along which it moved were 
 traced in Bishop Ethelwold's Ordinance. In the brief dialogue that 
 passed between the Angels and the three Maries four centuries pre- 
 vious, the texts of SS. Matthew and Mark were literally followed. 
 So long as the author denied himself every right of invention and 
 
46 
 
 deemed fidelity to the sacred narrative a religious duty, it is obvious 
 no progress might be hoped for. Early, however, the need of 
 adaptation — a first reason for characterization which was later to 
 be insisted on — was felt. The playwright was taught to realize that 
 Matthew and Mark were but synoptists and that a large field of 
 probability adjoined the domain of truth. This was open to him. 
 His success depended upon his power to profit of its resources. 
 From it he might always hope to draw the novel element which 
 would give fulness and interest to the more familiar narrative of the 
 Evangelists. 
 
 As these Sanctuary scenes, thus enlarged, received a higher 
 degree of artistic development, the representation became more and 
 more life-like. In time the personal, uncanonical element mingled 
 more freely with the strictly rubrical portions of the service. It 
 might be supposed, the practice once begun, that the ingenious play- 
 wright would rhyme his own feelings with the lines of the Sacred 
 Text. In thi& way the prescribed formulas were filled out, and as 
 the interpolation was usually a phrase or paraphrase of the Sacred 
 Writings themselves, it made a very pleasing complement. From 
 being one with the service proper this acting became an accessory 
 ornament. Gradually the Liturgical drama left the service quite 
 behind it, although it continued to be acted only on occasion of the 
 feast and always subordinated itself to the worship of precept. It 
 had reached this point by the thirteenth century, at which time it 
 may be said that the Easter Liturgical drama had attained its 
 highest development as a part of an independent species. 
 
 What the Sepulchre was to Holy Week and Eastertide, the 
 Crib was to Christmas. The dramatic scenes acted on occasion of 
 these two solemn festivals make up the Liturgical drama proper. 
 As the drama of Easter grew from insignificant beginnings out of 
 the Liturgical services to an existence quite independent of the ritual 
 of the feast, so the scenes that had their origin in the ecclesiastical 
 commemoration of the Mystery of the Nativity developed from the 
 undramatic, antiphonal dialogue of the tenth century to an inde- 
 pendent fulness and variety comparable to the scenes which treated 
 of the Resurrection. The incidents narrated by the Evangelists in 
 connection with the Nativity were grouped around the brief narra- 
 tion of the Infant's birth. The Apparition of the Star, the Adora- 
 tion of the Shepherds and Wise Men, even Rachel, the Slaughter 
 of the Innocents, the Flight into Egypt and the Dethroning of 
 
47 
 
 Herod were harmonized and adapted as was done with the events 
 bearing on the Resurrection. Later when we come to speak of the 
 CycHc drama it will be further seen to what extent the dramatic 
 writing in the early history of the stage has been influenced by the 
 two greatest events of human history: the Birth and Death of Jesus 
 Christ. 
 
 The paraphrase I have given of the thirteenth-century Resur- 
 rection Office which probably shows at its highest the dramatic 
 power to contrast grief and joy, and now a Christmas Office that 
 would be fairly representative of the author's ability to portray a 
 purely joyous scene, will help us to understand with some degree 
 of fulness the dramatic value of these Liturgical tropes. Again I 
 paraphrase from the Latin text to be found in Du Meril. * 
 
 The stage direction begins : "Let there be a crib arranged 
 back of the altar and a statue of Holy Mary placed in it. Then 
 from an elevation in front of the choir, a boy taking the part of an 
 angel will announce the birth of the Saviour to the five canons who 
 represent the shepherds. As these enter the choir the boy speaks : 
 
 "Fear not; for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, 
 that shall be to all the people. For, this day is born to you a Saviour, 
 who is Christ the Lord in the City of David, and this shall be a 
 sign unto you: you shall find the Infant wrapped in swaddling 
 clothes and laid in a manger." 
 
 A number of choir-boys hidden in the niches through the 
 Church or standing in the gallery above shall begin in a high key : 
 "Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to men of 
 good will." 
 
 On hearing this the shepherds will move toward the crib, singing 
 as they go : 
 
 Pax in terris nuntiatur, Transeamus, videamus 
 
 In excelsis gloria! Verbum hoc quod factum est. 
 
 (Namque) terra foederatur, Transeamus et sciamus 
 
 Mediante gratia. Quod (hie?) nuntiatum est. 
 
 Mediator homo Deus In Judea puer vagit, 
 
 Deseendit in propria, Puer salus populi, 
 
 Ut ascendat homo reus Quo bellandum se praesagit 
 
 Adadmissa gaudia. Vetus hospes saeculi. 
 
 Accedamus, accedamus 
 Ad praesaepe domini, 
 Et ( congaudentes ? ) dicamus 
 Laus fecundae Virgini. 
 
 'Les Originea Latines, etc." pp. 147-150. 
 
48 
 
 As the shepherds are entering the stall they are met by Mary's two 
 
 assistants. 
 
 (two canons of the first order) clothed in dalmatics. The nurses 
 
 ask: 
 
 "Say O Shepherds, whom seek ye in the manger?" 
 These answer : 
 
 "Christ the Lord and Saviour, an Infant wrapped in swad- 
 dling clothes, — even as the Angel said." 
 
 The nurses draw aside a curtain which veils the Infant Jesus; 
 chanting as they turn to the shepherds : 
 
 "Behold the little one with Mary his mother, of her long 
 long since Isaias hath prophesied. . . ." 
 
 A chorus of choir-boys pointing to the Virgin-Mother takes up the 
 prophecy : 
 
 "A virgin shall conceive and bear a son, but go ye now and 
 tell that he is born!" 
 
 At the words of this bidding the shepherds bow themselves in 
 adoration before the Infant, and salute his Mother, singing two 
 stanzas in praise of the maidenhood of Mary and the divinity of 
 Jesus : 
 
 "Salve, Virgo singularis; Virgo "Nos, Maria, tua presce 
 
 manens, Deum paris! A peceati purga faece; 
 
 Ante saecla genera tur (generatum) Nostri Cursum incolatus 
 
 corde patris, sic dispone, 
 
 Adoremus nunc creatum Ut det sua frui Natus 
 
 carne matris!" visione." 
 
 At this the shepherds shall leave the crib and turning toward the 
 choir chant as they go : 
 
 "Alleluia! Alleluia! now indeed we are certain that the 
 Christ is born upon earth. Sing ye all his praises. . . ." 
 
 The sixth verse from the ninth chapter of Isaias is sung. This 
 forms the Introit of the Mass which is now begun. The canon- 
 shepherds lead the choir." * 
 
 In these Sanctuary scenes are found first attempts at imita- 
 tion, the earliest dramatic effort to reproduce a living past, to in- 
 carnate the spiritual, to clothe the ideal in tangible form. That the 
 crude relics of this attempt, preserved in the occasional manuscript 
 that has survived, are proportionate either to the theme itself or to 
 the motive or instinct that must have prompted the attempt, it is 
 
 * Du Meril, Les Origines Latines, etc. pp. 147-150. 
 
49 
 
 impossible to allow. The literary value of both the Latin and ver- 
 nacular drama to the middle of the sixteenth century is extremely 
 low. t It would, indeed, be generally true to say that the entire 
 pre-Elizabethan drama till we come to the influential writings of 
 Gascoigne, Udall, Sackville and Lyly possesses, in a strict sense, no 
 literary value whatever. The literary quality, it should be remem- 
 bered, is an essential only of the great drama. In comedy it is 
 usually altogether wanting. Characterization, therefore, may be 
 present in a comparatively high degree, though the literary quality 
 of the play be extremely mediocre or entirely absent. In the 
 Liturgical drama, however, there was nothing that might prevent 
 the author from reproducing to the fullest all the poetic grandeur 
 of the Resurrection and of awakening to the utmost the idyllic 
 charms and emotions that filled all souls in presence of the actual 
 crib. 
 
 Shortly, it is true, as we leave the Liturgical drama, the sacred 
 representations take on a more practical character and become more 
 and more exclusively a "Poor Man's Bible." But in the beginning 
 this was not so; the liturgical scenes done in the Sanctuary were 
 devotional and artistic, not primarily didactic. The liturgical play- 
 wright had all the opportunities, as far as theme was concerned, 
 of the mediaeval builder. How comes it, then, that the Gothic dra- 
 matist dwarfs into insignificance when set by the Gothic architect? 
 Why in the work of the builder or sculptor — Magister de vivis 
 lapidibus — do we feel the intimate relationship between the work 
 itself and the ideal it sought to glorify? And why is it that so 
 little, comparatively, which we know to be characteristic of mediae- 
 valism is perpetuated in the dramatic remains ? * 
 
 Much of the inequality comes from the necessarily partial lights 
 in which we are forced to see them. Age adds a poetry to archi- 
 tecture, whereas the old manuscript is the poorest representative of 
 the reality ; it is but the relic of what took place in the sanctuary of 
 those vast edifices which themselves gave a depth of meaning that 
 was impossible to be translated into words. How little of the 
 present-day drama is contained in the text. The actor creates the 
 part. The plays that most delight the audience are insipid to the 
 reader. They abound in life and situation when the business is 
 studied and understood, but, apart from the accessories of presenta- 
 
 t The Holy Latin Tcmgue, by W. Barry, Dublin Review, Vol. 138, No. 277. 
 • Michelet, I/Histoire de France, T. Ill, pp. 214 et seq. 
 
50 
 
 tion, the composition has scarcely literary value. It is to its artistic 
 setting that the drama at present owes its importance; it is from 
 the presentation only that it must be judged. Color, light, shade, 
 silence, movement, and, above all, the personality of the actor do 
 not pass into the manuscript. 
 
 The text of the play is an imperfect substitute for any dramatic 
 species and particularly so when the play or drama happens to be 
 of an operatic nature. The Mediaeval Liturgical drama was essen- 
 tially such ; the singing quality long preceded any action whatever — 
 one might even say it was long in advance of any word. For, if we 
 go back to the origin of the Mediaeval Sequences, which entered so 
 largely into the formation of the Liturgical drama, we shall find 
 that the oldest of them consisted only of a single vowel. This was 
 due to the nature and influence of the Gregorian Chant which in 
 this particular is seen in its strongest antithesis to the Ambrosian 
 recitation and song. * As the tone dominated the word and as 
 the metrical and syllabic letters were set aside, a character of abso- 
 lute freedom was given to the expression of the sentiment and 
 thought. Subsequently when texts and full hymns were substituted 
 for the vowel sound much of the original musical freedom was re- 
 tained. At the period when the Liturgical drama reached its fullest 
 development. Sequences of imperishable beauty, sentiment and 
 melody were introduced into the offices of the Church, and eccle- 
 siastical music had reached an unparalleled perfection in variety, 
 power and depth of expression. It is of some importance to notice 
 this fact if one would interpret the true nature of the Liturgical 
 drama. Unlike the dramatic species that will in some way grow out 
 of it the Liturgical drama was of a strongly operatic character, f 
 
 * The History of Music. Emil Naumann, Vol. 1, P. 191. 
 
 t If music would become a self-dependant art it was imperative that 
 the tone should be liberated from the word. Pope St. Gregory effected 
 this ransom. But as is not unusual in the case of radical changes, reform 
 was pushed to extremes. As time went on and the tonal art, enjoying a 
 free sphere of action, grew more and more perfect, the tendency was to 
 effect an artistic combination of word and sound. From the ninth to the 
 fourteenth century every musician of note set himself to the task of 
 perfecting that portion of the Mass between the Kyrie and the singing of 
 the Gospel. The renowned monk of St. Gall, Tuotilo (915) is intimately 
 connected with this movement. Though Eckehard says that this poet, 
 painter, sculptor and musician played a Psaltery "in a remarkably sweet 
 manner", it is to his work on the tropes — those short biblical and liturgical 
 passages which served to prolong the Kyrie — that his fame is chiefly due. 
 His confrere, Notker, gave a nobler and grander expression to the Sequences 
 — aspirational chants of gladness sung by the choir and congregation after 
 the Kyrie — than had been known before his time. He wrote thirty-five 
 
51 
 
 Relatively, if not quite so essential as music is in the opera of 
 the present day, it had been as inseparable from the Liturgical 
 dramas as it was from those sacred dramatic performances in the 
 Oratory of the Vallicella which Palestrina himself arranged. Ac- 
 cordingly, in forming an estimate of character-presentation in the 
 Sanctuary plays, music must not be dissociated from the words. 
 The management of voices and the beauty of the melodic phrases 
 convey an intensity of human feeling which is wholly indescribable 
 and lost in any manuscript account. "Tenebrae factae sunt" is the 
 response of the fifth lesson of Matins of Good Friday. It is the 
 brief Gospel narrative of the death of Jesus. When, however, the 
 Palestrinian setting is rendered by proper arrangement of voices, 
 probably no creation of any art can produce a comparable effect. 
 
 Again it should be borne in mind that the Liturgical drama 
 was done in the Sanctuary. This was a very fitting theatre which 
 helped not a little to sustain and perfect the dramatic illusion. It 
 asked no great imaginative effort to build up the simple stage neces- 
 sary for an Easter Office. The empty spaces in the cathedral were 
 filled with splendid family tombs of marble and bronze; the dead 
 bishop or distinguished canon reposed in a tomb that was neither 
 inferior nor unlike the new sepulchre hewn from the rock at which 
 Magdalen wept. The symbolism came so very near to what was 
 actual that the impression must have been effective and striking. 
 In an atmosphere of this kind the grand simplicity of the biblical 
 
 pieces. A century later. King Robert, of France, (1031) wrote the Pentecostal 
 Sequence, "Veni Sancte Spiritus," which is sung to this day during 
 Whitsuntide. From this to the thirteenth century, when the poetry of the 
 Church reached its highest perfection, a remarkable attention was bestowed 
 on these Sequences. The most prolific Sequence-writer of the Middle AgeS, 
 Adam of St. Victor, falls in at this period. The quality of his work in this 
 species of poetry has procured for him the flattering title, 'the Schiller of 
 Latin Church music', by which is meant to express the double excellence 
 of nobleness of language and purity of melody. The Sequences of St. 
 Bernard, his contemporary, would be more deserving of praise for at least 
 the former of Adam's qualities. The incomparable 'Dies Irae' of Thomas 
 of Celano, the Stabat Mater of Jacopone Da Todi, and the two Corpus 
 Christi Sequences, Pange Lingua and Lauda Sion, by St. Thomas Aquinas 
 closed the classical period and probably reached the classical ideal in this 
 species of composition. Concomitantly with these efforts to enrich the 
 Liturgy, the music of the Church had been steadily developing. The 
 Liturgical drama, as a form of art, being to a great extent the outgrowth 
 of this activity in music and poetry, gave expression to the highest thought 
 and religious aspiration of mediaeval life. Cf. Naumann, History of Music, 
 pp. 202 et seq., also to Dr. Julian's "Dictionary of Hymnology," under the 
 title 'Sequence' and the names of the respective writers. Dom Gueranger 
 treats at length of the Trope and Sequence: Institutions Liturgiques, Vol. 
 I, pp. 290-294, 313 passim. 
 
52 
 
 language, heightened and made more appealing by its fusion with 
 the Gregorian melodies of the old Roman Liturgy, was understood 
 in a manner that can not adequately be appreciated at the present 
 day. Not the tombs only nor the altars, but the statuary, carvings 
 and paintings of this first theatre prepared the minds of the audi- 
 ence and gave to every action an emphasis quite incommunicable to 
 any manuscript. * The sublime simplicity of the architectural 
 lines, the tall arches, sombre masses of masonry — the whole Gothic 
 building itself was a "poem in stone" that in an era of art, percep- 
 tion, and feeling lent to the role a significance and reason which 
 should, in order to avoid the risk of a partial view, be apprised at 
 its full value. It will be ever impossible to reproduce a mediaeval 
 miHeu or the temperament of a thirteenth-century audience, yet to 
 be just to the characters in the Liturgical drama such a reproduc- 
 tion or restoration seems to be indispensable. Perhaps at no period, 
 with which literature has to do, had there been so wide a distance 
 between lofty conception and its concrete realization in words as 
 during these centuries when the drama was in its beginning. It 
 would seem that the tendency was to universalize the concrete and 
 personal rather than to reduce the general to the particular and 
 tangible. The mediaeval mind was capable of conceiving the higher 
 realizations of beauty, but the time to give expression through the 
 medium of language to such conceptions had not yet arrived, f 
 The idea suffered through the fault of the medium that was in- 
 tended to make it sensible and palpable. The mediaeval playwright 
 felt those static inspirations that filled his soul with an ideal which 
 his deficient language prevented him from embodying in an artistic 
 form. The immanency of the truth was felt by him ; helplessness to 
 communicate it adequately through words is the cause of the weak- 
 ness of his work. 
 
 Of the arts, architecture is not the least in power to reveal the 
 soul of man ; and as it lends itself more readily than words to the 
 production of eifects of a more general nature, the fact of an early 
 and rapid perfection of a native architecture would go some way, 
 in the absence of a more direct proof, to show the mediaeval power 
 of conception and the limits of its realization. The religious and 
 ethical sentiment was strong in the craftsman of the middle ages : 
 he had an idea which he strove to realize, and the nearer he ap- 
 
 * J. K. Huysman, En Route, 24th ed., pp. 10 ff., passim. 
 tMichelet, Histoire de France, Vol. Ill, pp. 214-228. 
 
53 
 
 preached it, the better was his work. His work is a sort of reflec- 
 tion of his Hfe ; the higher the character and tone of his life the more 
 beautiful the objects he wrought. There was animating his work 
 a spiritual force which turns our thoughts from the metal or stone 
 to the idea back of the material. The consciousness at all times of 
 the other worldly phases of human life, the unlimited moral capa- 
 bilities of the individual, the everlasting^ consequences of his conduct, 
 the eternal nature of both happiness and misery, were pictured 
 with the force of men who felt keenly the spiritual reality of life. 
 The divine law, its sanction, rewards and threats, were the great 
 ruling ideas vividly understood and felt by all — the concepts, which 
 seem ever struggling for expression in mediaeval art. * They 
 were subjects of a perennial interest — an interest that was at once 
 common and personal, and which for this double reason, demanded 
 less emphasis and less detail to be fully understood. A suggestion 
 sufficed. The thought was ever in advance of the word, the audi- 
 ence anticipated the actor. If the playwright lacked the sharp defi- 
 nitiveness of characters, it need not be inferred that they were in- 
 distinct or their apprehension incomplete; the creative audiencCj 
 from his few vital expressions or suggestions or "single strokes," 
 formed out of the stock of its own phantasy a vivid picture of a 
 complete personality. 
 
 From these considerations two inferences may be drawn : first, 
 in the Liturgical drama characterization results not so much from 
 any technical power the playwright possesses as from the peculiarly 
 imaginative and sympathetic and, in every way, susceptible tempera- 
 ment of the audience. A characterization wrought in this seemingly 
 inverted order is none the less real. The immense part an inter- 
 ested audience plays was not known, till recently, only to genius. 
 The great poet has always understood the secret of suggesting, of 
 inciting the hearers, through his work to follow his processes, 
 
 * Shahan, The Middle Ages, p. 182, Cf. also Henry O. Taylor, The Classical 
 Heritage of the Middle Ages, pp. 245-246. "The emotion as expressed in 
 classic literature was clear, definite and finite. Christian emotion was to 
 know no clarity or measure. It's supreme object, God, was infinite; and 
 the emotions directed toward Him might be vague and mystic, so unlimited 
 was it. God was infinite and man's soul eternal; what finitude could enter 
 the love between them? Mediaeval hymns are childlike, having often narrow 
 clearness in their literal sense; and they may be child-like too. in their 
 expressed symbolism. Their significance reaches far beyond their utterance; 
 they suggest, they echo and they listen; around them rolls the voice of 
 God, the infinitude of His love and wrath, heaven's chorus and hell's agonies; 
 dies irae, dies ilia — that line says little but mountains of wrath press on 
 it, from which the souls shall not escape," 
 
54 
 
 and create after him. "For the power to understand and enjoy a 
 character," says Freytag, "is attained only by the self-activity of 
 the spectator, meeting the creating artist helpfully and vigorously. 
 What the poet and the actor actually give in itself is only single 
 strokes; but out of these grows an apparently richly gotten up 
 picture, in which we divine and suppose the fulness of characteristic 
 life, because the poet and actor compel the excited imagination of 
 the hearer to co-operate with them, creating for itself." * 
 
 A second inference is this: if a playwright and actor only co- 
 operate with the hearer by giving suggestions and illuminating 
 strokes, defining the lines along which the excited imagination is 
 to follow and fill out, it is of importance that the intensity of the 
 suggestions and the distinctness of the strokes be accurately known. 
 As the resultant personality created by the hearers is so dependent 
 on the nature and force of the stimuli supplied by the dramatist, it 
 is needful to take into account not only the words of the actor, but 
 all the accessories of presentation must be noted — those contingent 
 circumstances which in any way intensify, diminish or modify the 
 stimuli given the hearers. 
 
 When in the Liturgical drama, the mutual relations of the play- 
 wright and audience are understood one will appreciate with some 
 degree of accuracy very many stimuli whose nature, appositeness 
 and efficiency are not at first apparent, f ^ A just estimate of 
 characterization is quite out of the question without a knowledge 
 of these relations. The temperament of a Mediaeval audience, its 
 community of thought and aspiration, its power to project itself 
 easily and naturally beyond the limit of facts to the unseen realities 
 of faith, to realize in idea and to embrace with the will spiritual 
 truths, which, it should be remembered, were unquestionably re- 
 ceived as the divinely sanctioned laws of human conduct and con- 
 sequently of immediate personal concern to every one — ^these char- 
 acteristics were so many facilities for the playwright. A sugges- 
 
 * Freytag, Teehnik des Dramas, pp. 216-217. 
 Lee, Sidney, Shakespeare and the Modern Stage, p. 22. 
 
 t An instance of what these stimuli might be and of the spirit of the 
 ]SIe(Iitieval drama in general, is afforded in a thirteenth-centurp Latin- 
 Crerman play on the Passion. (Cf. Du Meril, Les Origines Latines, etc. p. 
 126 et seq.) In it there is long space given to a very pathetic lamentation 
 of the Blessed Mother beside the Cross. It is part in German and part 
 in Latin, and in it chant and speech alternate. Half way in the lament 
 occurs the rubric: 'Et per horam quiescat sedendo, et iterum surgat cantando.' 
 During the hour all action ceases. Actors and audience meditate. 
 
55 
 
 tion brought into immediate association all that the people knew 
 about themselves, all that part of their spiritual experience which 
 no one could account for or refer to any particular source. The 
 suggested truth played directly on a thousand chords of associa- 
 tion, t Add to these dramatic advantages the relative novelty and 
 interest of the theme dramatized, its presentation at a season *'of 
 great joy to all the people" which long penitential preludes had 
 intensified; then, the simplicity of the performance itself, which 
 scarcely requiring any intellectual effort left the emotions and the 
 imaginations free to follow and construct; the unfeigned natural- 
 ness of the dialogue broken in by the sighs of Magdalen or the 
 sobs of the bereft mothers or the shrill soprano notes from the 
 niches ringing out the Angels' hymn of praise and gladness, or the 
 authoritative outburst of song coming from the chancel chorus, 
 announcing the Infant's birth — these were contrasts of no little dra- 
 matic variety and power which music and the sacredness of the 
 surroundings deepened and intensified. At every moment one is 
 tempted to ask, do these Liturgical dramas in any way prefigure the 
 modern opera? After all are they not "a form of theatrical en- 
 tertainment in which poetry, music, pantomime, painting and the 
 plastic arts co-operate on a basis of mutual dependence, or, better 
 perhaps, interdependence and common aim, the inspiring purpose 
 of all being dramatic expression?" * Speaking of the seventy- 
 three Autos Sacramentales of Calderon who, perhaps, is unequaled 
 as a writer of Sacred Dramas, Ticknor says, "they are all allegori- 
 cal, and all, by the music and show with which they abounded are 
 nearer to operas than any other class of dramas then known in 
 Spain." t 
 
 Be that how it may, this seems certain — when the various in- 
 fluences that govern characterization are taken into account, valued 
 and looked at in conjoint operation, the characters in this early , 
 species of drama stand out from the background of what is common ' 
 to all men in a relief that is not only individual, but personal and 
 broadly and sympathetically human. This is so whether we assist 
 at the Manger or stand by the Cross. The characters speak what 
 they feel with the thoughtlessness of instinct, with that directness 
 and spontaneity which is characteristic of all beginnings of expres- / 
 
 t Ker, The Epic and Romance, p. 32. 
 
 * Krehbiel, The Wagnerian Drama, p. 2. 
 
 J History of Spanish Literature, Vol. II, p. 347. 
 
56 
 
 sion through art. There is in these Liturgical offices the absence 
 of all studied analysis, the arrangement of the action and grouping 
 of persons and scenes is intuitive — all that is technically dramatic is 
 unknown, the situations are those of actual life, the effects those 
 of nature. Not till the drama is taken from the sanctuary does 
 the author appear conscious that he is a playwright. 
 
 Singly or collectively the Mediaeval caste stands in many points 
 of resemblance very close to the persons of the Bible. The blend- 
 ing of natural and supernatural motives, the mingling of the 
 promptings of purely human affection with the formal reserve of 
 worship, — at one time the deference shown the sacred person of 
 Jesus, who is in the Liturgical drama and will be all through the 
 religious stage, the central figure or inspiring principle in every 
 action, and again the tone of familiarity in which He is spoken of 
 constantly recalls the Gospel days and reproduces in very many in- 
 stances the biblical scenes with wonderful truth. Brief as these 
 Liturgical scenes are, they, as their prototypes in the sacred writ- 
 ings, leave in the mind an after-image which, by reason of the few 
 direct and sincere utterances, is concrete and characteristic, possess- 
 ing at times remarkable perspective and fulness. This will not be 
 true to such an extent in later dramatic developments, though in 
 these the characters will discourse at more considerable length. 
 
 Viewing the Liturgical drama as a whole and allowing for 
 the conventions in presentation to which its operatic character en- 
 titles it, one finds in this earliest effort at dramatization that the 
 playwright was engaged with dramatic material not easily amenable 
 to stage limitations, but, given the artist, capable of being wrought 
 into a drama, as we shall see, of unequaled depth of power. The 
 ''two functional ideas" of personality and responsibility which lie 
 at the basis of ethical, and consequently of dramatic life, afforded 
 tlie dramatist then as at all times, an inexhaustible subject-matter 
 from one point of view ; and from another, the reason or motive or 
 incentive to expression. Again, as was pointed out, the two senses 
 which followed on the activity of these two ideas were so highly 
 developed in the listeners at a Liturgical play that in consequence 
 the labor of the playwright was considerably lessened. It is some- 
 vvhat misleading, therefore, to state in speaking of the Liturgical 
 drama that ''the condition of any further advance (in the Liturgic 
 play) w^as that the play should cease to be Liturgic." As Mr. 
 Chambers, whose words I quote, understands them, they are per- 
 
57 
 
 fectly true. In the succeeding paragraph he explains his meaning. 
 '*It is, however, the formal change with which I am here mainly 
 concerned. The principal factor is certainly that tendency to ex- 
 pansion and coalescence in the play which already has been seen at 
 work in the production of such elaborate pieces as the Queen 
 
 quaeritis of Tours or that of the Benedictbeueren manuscript 
 
 This culminates in the formation of those great dramatic Cycles of 
 which the English Corpus-Christi plays are perhaps, the most com- 
 plete examples." It was necessary that the drama should become 
 more popular, to pass "out of the hands of the clergy in their naves 
 and choirs, to those of the laity in their market-places and guild- 
 halls." * 
 
 This change of form was not only what might be desired as 
 an ideal condition of progress, but was, as will be presently noted 
 and as Mr. Chambers has fully shown, the actual historical origin 
 of a new dramatic species and of new varieties of characterization. 
 It was contemporaneous with a parallel change or attempt at change 
 in the object of philosophic thought. Philosophy had hitherto been 
 dealing with metaphysical problems. Physical truths — the universe, 
 its laws and facts and man and his nature — were studied only in- 
 directly as illustrative of inductive processes of reasoning or, in 
 other words, deductions from higher and fuller truths which were 
 more immediately the reflection of Wisdom, the highest Truth or 
 Truth Itself. Man, for the great Scholastics, was important for 
 his relation with God ; this world and human life had significance 
 because of the next which was everlasting and blissful or otherwise 
 as man chose here. This was the prevailing philosophy of the 
 thirteenth century when the Liturgical drama had attained what 
 proved to be its complete evolution as a dramatic species. A re- 
 action set in which, if it would be xlifficult to show its direct influ- 
 ence in any specific play, strikingly parallels or prefigures in the 
 drama as a species of what was taking place in Scholastic disputes 
 and which was later to find its way into educational systems and 
 thence into practical life. 
 
 Humanism was the significant name given to this reaction. 
 It was so named, as we all know, to Express its main purpose which 
 was a protest against metaphysical learning and exclusive attention 
 to divine things to the neglect of things human. The humanist 
 would regard man, hypothetically at first, apart from religion, in 
 ^The Mediaeval Stage, Vol. II, pp. 69-70. 
 
58 
 
 himself and in his relations with men — look at him as a microcosm 
 in himself worthy of a special attention. 
 
 This tendency to loose the bonds between the Creator and the 
 creature rapidly passed in the hands of the philosophers from the 
 useful and hypothetic holding apart of relations in idea to the for- 
 mation of theories, boldly empirical, which naturally came to be 
 taken for conclusions by the indiscriminating. Matters of a more 
 immediate human interest were presented to the thoughts of men. 
 Theology, though still the chief, was no longer the sole study. The 
 relations of man with man passed from the schools and became sub- 
 jects of popular discussion. The humanists had triumphed. This, 
 however, is not the place to follow out the results of their vic- 
 tory. * 
 
 But man to know God is a difficulty, 
 
 Except by mean he himself inure, 
 
 Which is to know God's creatures that be: 
 
 As first them that be of grossest nature, 
 
 And then to know them that be more pure, 
 
 And so by little and little ascending, 
 
 To know God's creatures and marvelous working. 
 
 And this wise man at last shall come to 
 
 The knowledge of God and His high Majesty 
 
 And so to learn to do His duty, and also 
 
 To deserve of his goodness partner to be. 
 
 Further on Nature tells Humanity : 
 
 So likewise reason, wit and understanding 
 
 Is given to thee, man, for that thou shouldst indeed 
 
 Know thy Maker an4 Cause of thine own being, 
 
 And what the world is, and wherefore thou dost proceed; 
 
 Wherefore it behooveth thee of very need 
 
 The cause of things first to learn 
 
 And then to know and laud the high God eterne. 
 
 — Dodsley, pp. 9-10, 15. 
 
 This humanizing tendency which grew so rapidly and to such 
 extremes in philosophy, made its way into the drama. At first 
 hardly perceptible, as in the Cycles where the Divine Jesus is the 
 great centre of all its parts, it became more pronounced as we pass 
 to the Moral plays in which man — Humanum Genus is hero and 
 abiding figure of interest, but as he s.tands in his relations with God. 
 
 * The Moral play, "The Nature of the Four Elements," the first of its 
 kind, is an apology for humanisn in the sense of opposition to purely 
 speculative learning. It well illustrates the transitional point of view 
 which would have the study of things created lead the student step by 
 step to "high matters invisible." 
 
59 
 
 In the transition stage, humanism and mediaevaHsm seem to have 
 met, the caste is partly sacred, partly secular. In the purely secular 
 drama humanism has won, and human interests predominate. It 
 would be, of course, impossible for Shakespeare to be a partisan ; 
 the harmonious action of divine and human agencies are as insep- 
 arable in the formation of his characters as those agencies are in 
 actual life. 
 
 Change of form, then, and more freedom of treatment was a 
 necessary condition of further advance in dramatic expression, and 
 so far only was change necessitated. The Sacred Dramas of Cal- 
 deron will show that nothing more was needed. It would mean to 
 take evolution for dramatic progression and growth, to regard the 
 succeeding species as intrinsically in advance of the Liturgical 
 drama. It is doubtful if the change just observed in respect to the 
 object of philosophy, as it made itself felt on the stage, had actually 
 been quite as favorable to essential dramatic progress as might at 
 first be supposed. Were the immediate theatres an evolution of the 
 Liturgical drama? Were the Cycle dramas. Moralities and Inter- 
 ludes a development of the dramatic ideas which, we have seen, 
 inspired the beginning of the Mediaeval drama? Are they an un- 
 folding of these ideas along proportionately high and artistic lines? 
 It was imperative that the Liturgical drama be removed from the 
 Sanctuary, but it is difficult to see the intrinsic dramatic advance- 
 ment which followed. "We can hardly call the Saint plays a dra- 
 matic advance upon the Passion (Liturgic) plays, nor a distinct 
 link in the chain of evolution. They are rather an offshoot, a side 
 growth, gaining in freedom and originality, in that their less sacred 
 material permitted some license on the part of the poet, but with the 
 loss of the great theme losing heavily in dignity and beauty and 
 essential dramatic quality. And yet, indirectly, they contributed to 
 the development of the Religious drama through its original chan- 
 nel." * Speaking of the initial stages in the development of the 
 Moral play, Ten Brink, who regards the species as that which unites 
 the Middle Ages with modern times in the history of the drama, 
 says, "The Moral plays owe their origin to the same spirit that in- 
 troduced the so-called Allegorical tendency into religious literature 
 and court poetry; viz., to the effort to illustrate moral doctrines and 
 present abstract ideas in bodily form. Unfortunately the drama, 
 as well as the romance, in so doing, took the wrong path. Instead 
 
 * Lee Bates, K. L., The English Religious Drama, pp. 31-32. 
 
60 
 
 of illustrating the universal by the special, the distant by the near, 
 the abstract and intellectual by the really concrete and personal — 
 in fact, instead of illustrating one thing by another (allegorein) — 
 writers were satisfied with raising the abstract substantive into a 
 person, and with dressing out this personage according to its mean- 
 ing and making it speak and act." t Symonds is more severe on 
 the Morality. Speaking of its relation to the Cycles he says, '*\\^e 
 might cctfnpare it to one of those imperfect organisms which have 
 long since perished in the struggle for existence but which interest 
 the physiologist, both as indicating an effort after development upon 
 a line which proved to be the weaker, and also as containing within 
 itself evidences of the structure which finally succeeded." * 
 
 At first sight and from the point of view of character-treatment 
 particularly, this "unfortunate choosing the wrong path" by the 
 writers of the Moralities could not be of itself an advance. The 
 substitution of an allegorical figure for the historical person of the 
 Liturgical and Cyclical drama would seem to mark a retrogression 
 in respect to characterization. In what way and to what extent the 
 immediate theatres contributed to the development of the Liturgical 
 drama will best appear when each is separately treated ; here, how- 
 ever, it may be stated that only close on the coming of Shakespeare, 
 on the return to historical subject-matter do we find genuine dra- 
 matic progression. Then it was that the "loss of the great theme" 
 was in a measure repaired, and "dignity and beauty and essential 
 dramatic quality" were restored to dramatic writing. In the imme- 
 diate predecessors of Shakespeare, the basic principles, incipient 
 and informal in the Liturgical drama assume artistic shape, and by 
 art in the setting and the interest of the secular theme, the new 
 drama profited by what was best in the foregone species and 
 eschewed what circumstances and tastes had rendered no longer 
 dramatic. Even in the Cyclic drama humanism had already im- 
 paired the usefulness of the machine which had been so efficient up 
 to the perfection of the Liturgical, but at the beginning of the 
 Elizabethan period when humanism and secularization had tri- 
 umphed over the metaphysics of the religious stage, a new motive 
 of interest was derived. It is the beginning of the Chronicle play 
 and Historical drama. The poet now appeals to the patriotic rather 
 than to the religious sense; and the response is equally effective. 
 
 t History of English Literature, Vol. 1, p. 297. 
 
 • Symonds, J. A. The Predecessors of Shakespeare, p. 181. 
 
61 
 
 He points to the deeds of the great national heroes, rather than to 
 the works that formed the mediaeval standard of heroism. * 
 Then, only saints were heroes; now, the purely human chivalrous 
 achievements of a royal ancestor are deemed more deserving of 
 praise, t 
 
 So the Liturgical drama through the silent but influential work- 
 ings of humanism came to an end as a species; yet only its acci- 
 dents, it may be said, passed away. The form and topic alone were 
 changed. The interest of the subject-matter and of the more dra- 
 matic treatment took the place of the old convention and theme 
 which the keener spiritual sense of earlier times supplied with what 
 was wanting dramatically or in attractiveness. So much is this the 
 case that it appeals to me as applicable to this thirteenth-century 
 dramatic species what Ruskin writes of thirteenth-century architec- 
 ture. ''The art of the thirteenth century is the foundation of all 
 art — not merely the foundation, but the root of it; that is to say, 
 succeeding art is not merely built upon it, but was all comprehended 
 in it and was developed out of it! The nature of this growth he 
 explains elsewhere. It was not the growth of the child into the 
 man, but rather that of "the chrysalis into the butterfl). There 
 was an entire change of the habits, food, method of existence, and 
 heart of the whole creature." X With what amount of truth this 
 figurative language expresses the growth of religious dramatic 
 species and their relation to the Secular drama, it is too early yet to 
 calculate, but from what has been said on the Liturgical drama, 
 Ruskin's statement on thirteenth-century art in general will find no 
 exception in the dramatic art of that time. No one will doubt that 
 its spirit, its substance, its essential dramatic quality, its abiding 
 
 * Shahan, T. J., The Middle Ages, pp. 182 et scq. 
 
 t Schelling, F. E., The Queen's Progress, etc. pp. 163-164. Relative 
 to scenes in a play of "hary vi", Martin Henslowe's Diary, Thomas Nash 
 wrote: "Nay, what if I prove plays to be no extreme but a rare exercise 
 of virtue? First, for the subject of them, for the most part is borrowed out 
 of our English chroniclers, wherein our forefathers' valiant acts (that have 
 buried in rusty brass and worm-eaten books) are revived, and they them- 
 selves raised from the grave of oblivion, and brought to plead their aged 
 honors in open presence; than which what can be sharper reproof of these 
 degenerate, effeminate days of ours? How would it have joyed brave 
 Talbot, the terror of the French, to think that after he had lain two hundred 
 years in his tomb, he should triumph again on the stage, and have hia 
 bones new embalmed with the tears of ten thousand spectators at least 
 (at several times), who in the tragedian that represents has person, imagine 
 they behold him fresh bleeding." 
 
 % Ruskin, Lectures on Architecture, pp. 84, 116. 
 
62 
 
 consciousness of the constituents that make up the highest moral 
 life, and consequently, the highest imitation of that life, passed into 
 the new indigenous growth of national spirit — the Historical drama. 
 
 What has been said thus far was applicable from the point of 
 view of character-presentation to the European drama generally. 
 In the Liturgical drama as in the liturgy whence it was derived, 
 only very feeble and indistinct lines of national traits or character- 
 istics can be perceived. There are many reasons why it should be 
 so. An obvious one is this — there was at the time no national 
 spirit, no fatherland, properly called. This is a fact of history. 
 The awakening of a national consciousness did not come till long 
 after the heyday of the Liturgical drama, and this feeling of na- 
 tional instead of Christian brotherhood did not make itself markedly 
 felt as a motive on the English stage, as Mr. Schelling points out, 
 till far into the sixteenth century at the rise of the Historical 
 drama, t 
 
 Moreover, a further reason came from the nature of these plays 
 themselves. The order of worship that the Liturgical dramas 
 sought to beautify and solemnize was even in its details for the most 
 part, strictly uniform, and the language in which they were written 
 was quite, or almost exclusively, Latin — a fact which counts for 
 much in the question of character-treatment. No matter how widely 
 and well understood the Latin language had been among the people 
 of the Middle Ages, it never became the vernacular in the sense 
 that it grew from the soul-life of the fathers of the race and was 
 imbued in consequence with hallowed memories of a golden past. 
 It ever retained its sacred and scholastic characteristics : understood, 
 indeed, and well fitted for the respectful utterances of worship but 
 not the language of popular thought, aspiration, and desire. No 
 Latin word could ever recall to a mediaeval Englishman any past 
 incident of intimate personal interest or enkindle in his breast any 
 embers of national pride. A profane drama in Latin for an edu- 
 cated Englishman of those times might win his admiration and 
 probably satisfy him intellectually to some extent, but it would 
 awaken little emotion. The Latin Liturgical drama owed its limited 
 characterization to the fact that it appealed to the religious sense 
 which, though common to all the audience, was personal with every 
 listener. This was the secret of its longevity and comparative im- 
 
 t The Chronical Play, p. 26. 
 
63 
 
 portance. On the force of his appeal the Liturgical poet elicited from 
 an interested audience that helpful co-operation which every dra- 
 matic author needs indispensably. In the Cyclic drama the appeal 
 to the religious sense retains its effectiveness — the interest in things 
 spiritual is yet only slightly diminished by Humanism — and the 
 poet will have the further advantage that he is working with the 
 vernacular, and consequently may count on more effective help from 
 the hearers. Owing to the introduction of the vernacular and con- 
 sequent popularization of the drama we shall find in the next chapter 
 what may be called the beginning of national traits limned with 
 some distinctness on the features of the biblical caste. It will be a 
 step toward the Historical drama. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CHARACTERIIATION IN THK CYCLIC DRAMA 
 
 From the sanctuary the Liturgical drama passed to the door of 
 the Church. It had grown to such proportions that it was rightly 
 deemed irreverent to multiply platforms within the Holy Place. 
 This event is important as it marks a transition from the species of 
 drama which was based mainly on the Ritual to a species which de- 
 rived its material almost exclusively from Scriptural and Apocryphal 
 sources. This new drama was a direct emanation to the degree just 
 pointed out, from that done by the clergy within the Church. It 
 became more secular in character, though the Bible furnished the 
 subject-matter and clerics were still the playwrights and for some 
 time the actors as well. Once, however, that the Sacred drama had 
 severed direct dependence on the worship prescribed by the Ritual, 
 a greater freedom obtained in the choice and arrangement of the 
 material. The story might now become a drama in a truer sense 
 of the word, and the action that at first had been represented dis- 
 jointedly might now articulate and form a whole. Such was the 
 actual process of development. Scenes were presented serially, 
 principally after the chronological order of biblical events, in which 
 was treated the whole round of Hebrew history, beginning with 
 the presentation of Creation and terminating with a play entitled 
 Doomsday. It is to this succession of plays that the title Cyclic 
 drama has been given. There are four of these cycles which con- 
 cern us mainly at present: — The York Cycle (c. 1340-1350) con- 
 taining forty-eight plays; the Towenley Cycle (c. 1350) containing 
 thirty-two; the Coventry (c. 1400-1450) forty-two; and the Chester 
 Cycle (c. 1400) containing twenty-five plays. The following com- 
 parative table, which shows the order of presentation, will be help- 
 ful in understanding the author's unity of design — a factor of 
 supreme importance in an estimate of character-treatment in the 
 Cyclic drama. * 
 
 * A more minute comparative list of eighty-nine episodes will be found 
 in Mr. E. K. Chambers' The Mediaeval Stage, vol. II., pp. 321-323. It 
 is based on that drawn up by Professor Hohlfield in "Anglia" XI., 241. Mr. 
 
65 
 
 Subjects. 
 
 York. To 
 
 •wneley. 
 
 Coventry 
 
 . Chester. 
 
 Creation and Fall of the Angels 
 
 1,2,3 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1,2 
 
 The Fall of Adam 
 
 4,5,6 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 2 
 
 Sacrifice of Cain and Abel 
 
 7 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 2 
 
 Lamech and Cain 
 
 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 
 
 Noah and the Flood 
 
 8,9 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 3 
 
 Abraham, Lot and Melchisedech 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 Abraham and Isaac 
 
 la 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 4 
 
 Isaac and His Children 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 
 
 Jacob's Sojourn with Laban 
 
 
 
 
 
 and Return 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 
 
 The Departure from Egypt 
 
 11 
 
 8 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Moses and the Ten Plagues 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 6 
 
 5 
 
 Balaam and Balaak 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 Processus of Prophets 
 
 12 
 
 7 
 
 7 
 
 
 
 The Barrenness of Ann 
 
 P 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 
 
 Mary in the Temple 
 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 
 
 Mary's Betrothment 
 
 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 
 
 Augustus and Cyrenius 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 
 
 
 
 The Annunciation 
 
 12 
 
 10 
 
 11 
 
 6 
 
 The Visit to Elizabeth 
 
 12 
 
 11 
 
 13 
 
 6 
 
 Joseph's Anxiety 
 
 13 
 
 10 
 
 12 
 
 6 
 
 The Trial of Joseph -Mary 
 
 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 
 
 The Nativity 
 
 10 
 
 
 
 15 
 
 6 
 
 The Sibyl and Oct avian 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 is 
 
 The Adoration of the Shepherds 
 
 15 
 
 12,13 
 
 16 
 
 7 
 
 The Magi 
 
 16,17 
 
 14 
 
 17 
 
 8,9 
 
 The Presentation of the Infant 
 
 41 
 
 17 
 
 18 
 
 11 
 
 The Flight into Egypt 
 
 18 
 
 15 
 
 19 
 
 10 
 
 Slaughter of the Innocents 
 
 19 
 
 16 
 
 19 
 
 10 
 
 Christ Among the Doctors 
 
 20 
 
 18 
 
 20 
 
 11 
 
 Baptism of Jesus 
 
 21 
 
 19 
 
 21 
 
 
 
 The Temptation 
 
 22 
 
 
 
 22 
 
 12 
 
 The Transfiguration 
 
 23 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The Woman Taken in Adultery 
 
 24 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 12 
 
 Healing of the Blind Man 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 Raising of Lazarus 
 
 24 
 
 31 
 
 24 
 
 13 
 
 Chambers follows the Scriptural order which is not always that of the plays. 
 He adds to the data of the four Cycles above that of the Cornish plays. 
 Also comparative tables of the English Cycles of Religious plays is given 
 by Miss Toulmin Smith in her volume, York Plays, pp. 112-113. She 
 follows chiefly the titles in the manuscripts. Her list is extended by Francis 
 H. Stoddard, University of California, Library Bulletin No. 8. I have made 
 the abridgment here given. As will be seen it presents not only the mauscript 
 title but also the title of a play within a plaj which the playwright loosely 
 included under one heading. In this I have followed the list to be found in 
 Professor Hohlfield's, Die Altenenglischen Kollectiv-Misterien, pp. 25-26, 
 (Halle 1888). 
 
66 
 
 Subjects 
 Entry into Jerusalem 
 Conspiracy of the Jews 
 Treachery of Judas 
 The Last Supper 
 The Agony and Betrayal 
 Jesus before the High Priest 
 Jesus before Pilate 
 Jesus before Herod 
 Condemnation of Jesus 
 Remorse of Judas 
 Dream of Pilate's Wife 
 The Way to Calvary 
 The Crucifixion 
 Descent from the Cross and Burial 36 
 
 York. Towneley. Coventry. Chester. 
 
 25 
 
 
 
 26 
 
 14 
 
 26 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 14 
 
 26 
 
 20 
 
 27 
 
 14 
 
 27 
 
 20 
 
 27 
 
 15 
 
 28 
 
 20 
 
 28 
 
 15 
 
 29 
 
 21 
 
 30 
 
 16 
 
 30 
 
 
 
 30 
 
 16 
 
 31 
 
 
 
 29,30 
 
 16 
 
 32,33 
 
 22 
 
 32 
 
 16 
 
 32 
 
 32 
 
 32 
 
 
 
 30 
 
 
 
 31 
 
 
 
 34 
 
 22 
 
 32 
 
 17 
 
 35,36 
 
 23 
 
 30 
 
 17 
 
 36 
 
 23 
 
 34 
 
 17 
 
 
 
 24 
 
 
 
 
 
 37 
 
 25 
 
 33,35 
 
 18 
 
 38 
 
 26 
 
 36 
 
 19 
 
 38 
 
 26 
 
 39 
 
 19 
 
 39 
 
 26 
 
 37 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 27 
 
 38 
 
 20 
 
 42 
 
 28 
 
 
 
 
 
 43 
 
 29 
 
 39 
 
 21 
 
 44 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 22 
 
 45 
 
 
 
 41 
 
 
 
 46 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 
 
 41 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 24 
 
 48 
 
 30 
 
 42 
 
 25 
 
 Casting of Lots 
 
 Harrowing of Hell 
 
 Resurrection 
 
 Three Maries 
 
 Christ and Magdalen 
 
 Travellers to Emmaus 
 
 Incredulity of Thomas 
 
 The Ascension 
 
 Outpouring of the Holy Spirit 
 
 Death of the Blessed Virgin 
 
 Mary Appears to Thomas 
 
 The Assumption 
 
 Signs of the Judgment 
 
 Works and Ruin of Antichrist 
 
 Doomsday 
 
 Already in the Latin Liturgical drama one finds the origin of 
 a practice which was destined to be perfected by subsequent Eng- 
 lish writers of religious plays. In the first dramatic species the 
 tendency of grouping cognate incidents around the central action 
 had set in; the great centres being the Birth and Death of our 
 Saviour. This was the main idea and accretion took place in either 
 direction. To introduce a Christmas play, for instance, the play- 
 wright reached back into the Old Testament and had the Messianic 
 prophecies spoken by the prophets in person under the auspices 
 usually of St. Augustine and in the presence of a synagogue of 
 Jews. The brief scenes of the Annunciation and Visit followed the 
 long Processus Prophetanmi, and brought the author to his subject, 
 the Nativity. Then by way of conclusion he goes forward into 
 New Testament history and much else concurrent legend, presenting 
 in turn the appearance of the Star, the Coming of the Shepherds 
 
67 
 
 and Kings, Herod's anxiety, and closes with the marvelous hap- 
 penings on occasion of the Flight to Egypt. 
 
 A similar process of expansion developed the Easter Liturgical 
 scenes. To illustrate this movement one needs only follow the 
 growth of a thirteenth-century Quern Quaeritis. From the simple 
 scene at the monument, to which we have referred, the Easter play 
 enlarged itself to vaster proportions than the representations of the 
 Nativity. In the manuscript of an Easter play to be found in the 
 library of Munich the opening scene is a chorus singing some 
 verses from the Gospel of Nicodemus. * This done Jesus passes 
 through the stage to the seashore and there calls Andrew and Peter. 
 Then follows the cure of a blind-man and the sojourn at the house 
 of Zacheus. Next a chorus greets Jesus on the street and children 
 spread garments and palm leaves on His way. Following the entry 
 into Jerusalem, Jesus is met by Simon the Pharisee with whom he 
 goes to dine. After this a curious scene takes place. Mary Magda- 
 len comes on the stage singing the praises of a worldly life. Soon 
 she is joined by a group of girls like herself, and the merry bevy 
 goes singing to a shop where cosmetics are sold. An admirer fol- 
 lows them and speaks briefly with Mary who sings in the vernacular 
 (Old German) for the benefit of all. She is converted by the visit 
 of an Angel, mourns her sins and with the ointment that she has 
 bought from her former dealer, she goes to Simon's house and 
 anoints the Lord. This long episode is followed in rapid succession 
 by the Raising of Lazarus, the Last Supper, the Betrayal, the 
 Prayer in the Garden and finally the Passion to the Crucifixion 
 which brings the poet to the point where the primitive Quem 
 Quaeritis began. The play closes in its present form with the scene 
 in which Joseph of Arimathaea treats wth Pilate (in German) con- 
 cerning the disposition of the Body. 
 
 On precisely the same principle the vernacular Cyclic drama 
 was rounded out. The scenes emanating from the main incident 
 owed their full explanation to its presentation. Whether they led 
 to this quasi climax or followed upon it, in neither case, strictly 
 speaking, do they stand to it in the relation of cause and effect. 
 This is particularly true of what preceded which was meant merely 
 to make the main action more easily understood. Sometimes, how- 
 ever, the preparatory scenes are more than explanatory ; they supply 
 
 Du Meril, Let Originea Latines, pp. 126-147. 
 
68 
 
 the needed atmosphere and foreshadow to some extent the central 
 incident. In the scenes that follow the principle action of the play 
 the relation is more intimate. They follow as logical happenings, 
 so to speak, from the climacteric event and form a fitting and 
 necessary counterpart to the long beginning. 
 
 Not infrequently, however, a subject was a complete scene in 
 itself and had to be acted as such. A number of isolated plays 
 might be pointed out which were only remotely connected with what 
 preceeded and came after them in their respective Cycles. The plays, 
 for instance, of Abraham and Isaac or of the Travellers to Kmmaus 
 can very well stand alone. Yet both these scenes are in place in 
 the Cycle. The former play prefigures the sacrifice on Calvary; 
 and in the York Cycle this symbolism is borne out at the expense 
 of dramatic effect.* Abraham does not seem wholy unconscious 
 that he is playing the part of the Eternal Father whose words he 
 paraphrases in the oblation of Isaac, and Isaac, himself who is over 
 thirty years old, is unnatural in his desire to lay down his life. And 
 the Travellers to Emniaus, though largely an independent produc- 
 tion, fits into the Cyclic arrangement quite naturally and gives a 
 climacteric effect to the Incredulity of Thomas who becomes there- 
 after a prominent character in his relations with the Blessed Virgin. 
 
 It is important at this point to bear in mind that the utmost 
 freedom was exercised in the formation of the Cycles. The history 
 of their growth into their present immutability is analogous in a 
 degree to the growth of their Sacred Sources. The plays were not 
 the composition of any one man nor of any one time. Some of 
 them were pre -Cyclic, some were taken from other Cycles and 
 incorporated with slight remodeling into the seasonal presentation, 
 others were set in to fill a breach in the action, and others simply 
 for emphasis or purely in deference to an influential visitor, or merely 
 as a mark of courtesy to a Guild. The theatric manager then, as 
 now, made perfectly free with his material, the effort, as percepti- 
 ble then as at the present day, being to fit the word to the action 
 and everything to existing circumstances. "An incessant process 
 of separating and uniting, of extending and curtailing, marks- the 
 history of the Liturgical drama, and indeed of the Mediaeval 
 drama generally, "f 
 
 * Ten Brink, History of English Literature, Vol. II, p. 271. 
 t Ibidem, p. 235. 
 
69 
 
 If one studies from the point of view of character - treatment 
 the general arrangements of the episodes that make up a Cycle- 
 series, he will easily notice the evident purpose of the playwright to 
 secure variety in the material, and variety as well as emphasis in his 
 manner of attaining the dsired effect. In a first place one observes 
 what is foremost in the composer's mind and that which influences 
 considerably his method of treatment, viz., the symbolic character 
 with which he invests the writings of the Old Testament. The 
 plays treating pre-Christian history are ever anticipating, not so 
 much verbally as in manner and thought, the plays which will deal 
 with the history of Christ. It is as type to fulfillment; what passes 
 on in the Old Testament scenes is prefigurative, and looks forward 
 to its realization in the New. At times even one may perceive that 
 the playwright has in view a polemical or apologetic purpose and 
 consequently is at special pains to bring the prophetic or symbolic 
 scene strongly to the foreground. 
 
 It is obvious that the abiding consciousness of the parallelism 
 between both Testaments contributed much to unity of design and 
 gave an impression of totality otherwise impossible from so remotely 
 connected incidents. * ' The episodes chosen from this part of Scrip- 
 ture are the Creation and Fall of Man, the Sacrifice of Cain and 
 Abel and the Departure of the Israelites from Egypt. This selection 
 is evidently made for the purpose of symbolism, the prime intention 
 of the dramatist being to illustrate from the narrative of the Old 
 Testament the nature and effect of sin, as rendering necessary the 
 Sacrifice of the Redeemer, and also to set forth the types of the 
 Coming of the Messiah. In the York Cycle the playwright never 
 lost sight of the doctrinal subject, and has employed his dramatic 
 powers to bring this out in just relief."* 
 
 This symbolism between the Testaments is a point to be noted; 
 but it did not long continue in the playwright's mind to be a simple 
 contrast between books. The birth of the Messiah and the Atone- 
 ment by His Death were climacteric events which gave a fullness of 
 meaning to all antecedent scenes. These were the two determing 
 facts, from them the series had grown and each term of it was 
 vitally connected with them. "The starting point of the modern 
 drama in the Ressurection of Christ from the dead regarded not 
 simply as a miraculous fact, but as the central doctrine of the Chris- 
 
 • Courthopc, History of English Poetry, Vol. I, Chap. X^ 
 
70 
 
 tian faith, the Crowning act in the Redemption on which depended 
 the future happiness or misery of every member of the human race. 
 It had been the endeavor of the Christian clergy, from the earhest 
 times, to bring home the reality of this cardinal event to the wor- 
 shiper by means of the senses as well as of the reason/' * 
 
 As pageant followed pageant "excedinge orderlye," the main 
 argument was never lost sight of; a continuous unfolding of the 
 theme went on, successively gaining in interest as the spectator be- 
 held the actual fulfilment of that which had been foreshadowed. 
 This, broadly speaking, may be said respecting the unity of the 
 Cycles : the Old Testament events are in respect to the central action 
 of the New Testament what the introductory and pre-climacteric 
 events are to the climax of the regular drama. It is a unity 
 that is more strictly one than the historical unity of the originals, in 
 this that the mediaeval playwright, viewing the persons of the Bible 
 as his contemporaries, animates them with a sameness of spirit to 
 a degree impossible to the Sacred writers. The cyclic dramatists 
 presented the Scriptural character sometimes very faithfully as far 
 as the Scriptural data went, but, that failing, the playwright drew 
 on his experience. This circumstance and the necessity of selecting 
 congruous scenes, if he would be true to his purpose, contributed 
 much to the unity of the whole cyclic drama. Moreover, the free- 
 dom he allowed himself, particularly with his uncanonical material 
 which naturally he would direct in a special manner to his main 
 point of view, gave him an immense advantage over the Biblical 
 writer whose object was not to offer commentaries but to tell facts, f 
 
 * Courthope. W., "A History of English Poetry," Vol. I, p. 332. 
 
 fMr. Tiinison, Dramatic Traditions of the Dark Ages, pp. 253-254 
 suggests a principle of dramatic unity in the Religious drama supplementary 
 of those present€d in the text. "One cause of this neglect (of Seneca's 
 tragedies) was that the serious side of the drama was supplied by religion. 
 Not only was the liturgy a drama in itself, but the new fashion of pious 
 plays founded on scriptural narratives was more deeply thoughtful than 
 the world now is apt to suppose. The prophets of the Old Testament had 
 developed a philosophy of history which was a romance, an epic and a 
 drama all in one. . '. . The unity of this epic, romance or drama lies 
 in the necessary continuity of men's struggle with sin. Its form is a 
 trilogy; man's fall, his redemption, his compulsory appearance before God 
 on the day of judgment. The fully developed passion play (cycle-drama) 
 took in all humanity in all its varieties of virtue and vice, wit and 
 stupidity, humor and solemnity, wisdom and folly; it went from good to 
 bad, from the sublime to the ridiculous, from horse-play to prayer, revealing 
 the whole individual life and the whole course of history. It was rude 
 in its form but wonderful in its scope, and the modern world has not 
 yet gone beyond its hprizop with all the boasted culture of the preseqt 
 
71 
 
 Before passing to the persons of the plays, a somewhat more 
 detailed notice of the several cycles — not of their relations among 
 themselves, but with a view to the construction or presentation of 
 the separate plays, and the relation and interdependence of the plays 
 on one other within the cycle — will help to the understanding of the 
 characters and indirectly illustrate some statements made in the pre- 
 ceding paragraphs. 
 
 There are many reasons why the York Cycle should be taken 
 as the representative of the cyclic species, t It is the fullest 
 cycle extant, numbering forty-eight plays. Though in the year 1568, 
 the advocates of the New Learning "perused and otherwise amend- 
 ed" the York manuscript, still it remains probably the truest repre- 
 sentative of the original popular play of the cyclic type. The York 
 cycle, apart from its dramatic superiority, has the further distinc- 
 tion of being the only series th^t is known definitely to have been 
 played by the shopkeepers and trade-guilds on the occasion of the 
 feast of Corpus Christi. 
 
 The Cycle begins with the Barkers' Pageant on Creation. It 
 is a tripartite play of 160 lines in all. The first scene or part is in 
 Heaven, the second in Hell and the last back again in Heaven. As 
 a specimen of the mediaeval dramatist's power of contrasting per- 
 sons and scenes this play may be recomrnended. The contrast is 
 more artistically done here because there is less exaggeration than 
 will be met with after elsewhere. A play of contrasts almost al- 
 ways overdrawn and very superficial was the great means the old 
 playwright used to individualize and reach his effects. Deus him- 
 self opens the first scene with an explanation of his purpose; his 
 own glory and the happiness of his creatures lead him to create. 
 Then he proceeds at once to the task of creation. He is interrupted, 
 or probably only entertained in his work by the singing of the Te 
 Deum. The newly created angelic chorus already participates in 
 his bliss. The Creator goes on. Heaven, he declares, is for the 
 Angels, his worthiest work, and the earth will be given to faithful 
 men. Lucifer he creates chief of the highest heavenly power ; 
 
 t Hohlfield, A., Die Altenenglischen Kolkctiv-Misterien, pp. 68-69. 
 
 day. In truth it was not merely a mediaeval conception. It was a 
 variant of the plain thought of the New Testament, of the Hebrew prophets 
 as they have always been read by Christians, of the fathers of the Church, 
 those who wrote in Greek as well as those who wrote in Latin," 
 
72 
 
 "Of all the mightes I have made most nexte after me, 
 I make the als master and merour of my mighte, 
 I beelde the here baycely in the blys for to be, 
 I name the for Lucifer, als berar of lyght, 
 No thynge here sail the be derand, 
 In this blys sail be yhour beeldyng. 
 And have al welth in youre weledyng. 
 Ay why Is yhe ar buxumly berande." 
 
 At this point the angels again break forth in song, " Sandus, 
 sandus^ sandus, Dominus Deus sabaoth.'^ Silence being restored, a 
 seraph speaks the admiration and the gratitude of all : 
 
 A! mercyful maker, full mckill es thi mighte, 
 
 That all this warke at a worde worthely has wroghte, 
 
 Ay loved be that lufly lorde of his lighte, 
 
 That us thus mighty has made that was righte noghte; 
 
 This lowly and grateful acknowledgment of bounty to the Almighty 
 is in contrast with the words that follow. They are those of the 
 vain-glorious Lucifer. * ' I am like a lorde, bounteous and powerful, ' ' 
 he says, 
 
 "All the myrthe that is made is markide in me. 
 The hemes of my brightode ar byrnande so bryghte. 
 And so semely in syghte myselfe now I se, 
 For lyke a lorde am I lefte to lende in this lighte," 
 
 He goes on to compare himself to his companions ; his beauty and 
 power find no match. The playright is careful to suggest no 
 thought of thankfulness to this falling angel. A cherub, with a 
 side glance no doubt at Lucifer, advises, " while we are faithful we 
 need fear no harm." But his counsel is not received for immediately 
 a Lucifer proselyte begins : 
 
 "O! what I am fetys and fayre and fiygured full fytt! 
 The forme of all fayrhede apon me es feste." 
 
 Next, the seraph that began encourages now the "praise of God 
 with steadfast voice." He pledges the fealty of all to the Lord, and 
 adds that if anyone should prove felonous to his Maker, by the very 
 fact he rightly becomes unworthy to "be f ede with the fode of thi 
 fayre face." By this time Lucifer is possessed of the idea that he 
 himself is worthy of worship. As he offers some reasons why their 
 praises should be directed to him, all of a sudden the floor gives 
 way, and the scene closes with the cries of the devils for help. 
 
 The next part of the play opens on the plane of Hell. Lucifer 
 is the first speaker, 
 
73 
 
 "Owte, owte! harrowe! helpless, slyke bote at es here 
 This is a dongon of dole that I am to-dyghte." 
 The heat here and the loss of his comeliness which is now ' ' blackened 
 and bio " afflict Lucifer particularly. But the further cause of his 
 discomfiture is that which he has to bear from his companions. 
 They wrangle with him as a cause of their fall, and so belabor him 
 as to force his cry, 
 
 "Owte on yhow! lurdens, yhe smore me in smoke." 
 We are next taken to the third scene which is in Heaven. The 
 assembled Angels, through a cherub, offer their thanksgivings to 
 God for his ' * rightwyness ' ' and ' * merciful mighte. Deus, in some 
 thirty lines, gives reason for the origin of evil, tells the faithful 
 angels of his intention to make man, and to divide evenly into day 
 and night the darkness that overspread the earth on the occasion of 
 the Fall. 
 
 This was the Barkers' Pageant. Of it Mr. Pollard says, "The 
 York play on the subject may certainly claim pre-eminence over its 
 rivals. It is full of dramatic vigour, and is pervaded by a certain 
 homely grandeur of style, which contrasts very effectively with the 
 baldness of the Coventry playwright or the turgidity of the Chester.* 
 The next play in the cycle, that of the Playsterers, carries on the 
 work of Creation to the fifth day. Deus is the only speaker in this 
 seemingly uninteresting play, but undoubtedly he had a number of 
 active co-operators working in silence. If this was not so there 
 would be but little justification for the presentation at all. That 
 the creation of the firmament, division of waters, creation and 
 distribution of animals were allotted to the guild of Plasterers is a 
 presumption that more than mere narration of the work took place. f 
 If there were not silent workmen actually in that pageant. Deus 
 Himself displayed prearranged material. This play would illustrate 
 what has been said of the difficulty to form an accurate estimate of 
 character- treatment from the manuscript account. How, for 
 instance, the "moo sutyll werkys," which Deus in one place 
 promises to "asse-say," fitted in with the words of the text, it is 
 impossible to decide. Happily collateral information is sufficiently 
 abundant to warrant the conclusion that the play by the Plasterers 
 was considerably realistic and formed an agreeable contrast to the 
 serious matter which preceded and which will follow. X 
 
 * Pollard, A. W., English Miracle Plays, Moralities and Interludes, 4th 
 ed., p. 177. 
 
 t L. Cledat, Le Theatre en France au Moyen Age, VII, p. 15, et teq. 
 
74 
 
 The Cardmakers treat the last work of creation, that of Adam 
 and Eve. The five days' work is finished and its Creator looks com- 
 placently upon it. He finds that among all His earthly creations 
 there is not a "skyful beeste." He resolves to make Adam and Eve. 
 They thank him for his great favor and pledge him fidelity. This 
 pageant is intimately connected with the Fuller's play which deals 
 with the installation in Paradise. The sentiment in the one is much 
 like that in others : repeated expressions of wonderment, thankful- 
 ness and obedience. Scarcely has the Fuller's pageant been wheeled 
 away when a new actor, Satan himself, arrives in the Cooper's 
 "carre." He opens the play of the Fall from Eden, expressing his 
 dissatisfaction that God should assume human nature in preference 
 to angelic. The reference he makes to the fairness of his former 
 appearance recalled to the audience the Barkers' play. Assuming 
 the shape of a worm, he appears before Eve at the gate of Para- 
 dise and conducts with her a dialogue of remarkable shrewdness 
 and point. It should be noted, in this connection, that the biblical 
 account of the Fall is meagre, so that the fundament of world-wis- 
 dom and good-sense on which this conversation rests, the indifferent, 
 altruistic tones which Satan aflfects are met with only in the play. 
 The idea alone was borrowed, the nature of the "bad bargayne," as 
 Adam later calls the dialogue, and its entire management, fell to the 
 Yorkshire playwright. Eve, desirous of the "wirshippe" that Satan 
 has promised will follow the eating of the apple, is naturally con- 
 ceived by the writer of the play as impatient to have Adam eat. 
 "Byte on boldely, for it is trewe, — we shall be goddis and knowe all 
 thyngs." Adam and Eve are then cursed by God and driven by an 
 Angel from Eden, but the barring of the gates to Paradise is re- 
 served for the Armorers in the next pageant. This play recapitu- 
 lates much that passed at the close of the preceding. But it makes 
 at least one step in advance. The angered Angel attributes the fall 
 directly to Adam, and Adam lays the blame upon Eve, who, after 
 no little altercation with her husband, finally confesses her guilt and 
 then all is at peace. The action of this play is well sustained and 
 throughout much to the main purpose. The forenoon of their hap- 
 piness is ever present to the two outcasts, and embitters their grief 
 as they suffer the heat of the day and listen to the hard words of 
 the Angel. Their efforts to comfort each other while wiping the 
 sweat off their brows are touches from daily life, 
 
75 
 
 Next follows the Sacrifice of Cain and Abel. An Angel ex- 
 poses the necessity of offering tithes to God. Abel listens to the 
 divine messenger and shows himself willing to obey. Cain ridicules 
 the idea. His answer to the reasons his brother urges has all the 
 point and appositeness of the Satanic logic before referred to : 
 
 "Ya! deuell me thynketh that werke were waste. 
 That he gaffe geffe hym agayne. 
 
 To see 
 
 No we fekyll frenshippe for to fraste. 
 
 Me thynketh ther is in hym sarteyne. 
 
 If he be moste in myghte and mayne. 
 
 What nede has he?'* 
 
 Abel understands all this but maintains that free gifts are pleasing 
 to God. What Cain's answer was is missing, for the two leaves 
 that must have contained it and the motives for the slaying of Abel 
 have been cut out. An insignificant fellow, named Brewbarret 
 (Mischief maker) who after the murder of Abel helps Cain in the 
 field, was introduced into the play probably in the sixteenth cen- 
 tury. The induction of a harvest scene (in which Brewbarrett in 
 coming from the cornfield trips and breaks his toe and soothes his 
 agony with his master's ale) was a relief in the action. It may 
 have been introduced after the fratricide, before that scene was ex- 
 puned from the text, and in this case it would be the connecting 
 action between the murder and the nemesis. Later it will be more 
 in place to speak of the artistic as well as the dramatic value of 
 Cain's workman who serves as an indispensable medium through 
 which the new experience of the fratricide fittingly finds expression. 
 For our immediate purpose as the play stands the pastoral scene 
 serves to heighten the last act of the play — the scene between the 
 vindictive Angel and the impious murderer who goes so far as to 
 smite the heavenly messenger "eveyn on the crown." 
 
 The Deluge is the next biblical event dramatized in the York 
 cycle. Its presentation was entrusted to the Shipwrights, Fisher- 
 men and Mariners. Apart from the prelude of the first and the 
 epilogue to the second, it is well to note that these plays are of a 
 strongly secular character. Their religious import is, of course, 
 never lost sight of, but the manual job inseparable from the pre- 
 sentation is what is most in view. Though much, particularly in 
 the construction of the first of these plays was already at hand in 
 the Bible, still, touches of current life and usage are evident through- 
 out the scenes. The professionalism displayed by the Shipwrights 
 
76 
 
 and Mariners in the building and manning of the Ark together with 
 the domestic annoyances that beset the pious patriarch must have 
 afforded a world of diversion to everybody. 
 
 The" preceding appeal to the senses refreshed the audience for 
 the Bookbinders' play, Abraham's Sacrifice. The trial of Abraham's 
 faith was a ver}^ popular subject of dramatization. No less than six 
 plays treating of it are extant. If, as was elsewhere alleged, the 
 York writer by an initial error in his conception of a full-grown Isaac 
 forfeited a dramatic advantage, in his treatment of Abraham, he has 
 perhaps no equal. The conflict that was raging within the father's 
 breast on his way to the Land of Vision reaches its highest pitch 
 when on the top of Mount Moriah, Isaac asked: 
 
 "Fadir, I see here woode and fyre, 
 Bot wher-of sail oure ofFerand be?" 
 
 Abraham waives the question, answering vaguely : 
 
 "Sertis, son, gude God oure sufiraynde syre 
 Sail ordayne it in good degre." 
 
 At this point I can see why it might have occurred to the York 
 ^ writer, even apart from any typical consideration, to break away 
 from the tradition of the stage and treat an Isaac of * ' thirty yere 
 and more sum dele." It afforded him a motive of great importance 
 that was scarcely possible with a younger Isaac. The aged patriarch 
 had far greater difficulties in complying with the Divine command, 
 which was his m.ain anxiety, when its fulfilment was contingent 
 upon the will, not of a boy, over whom his control was absolute, 
 but of a man advanced in years. Here it was more than a matter 
 of sentiment, the question of a becoming possibility was involved. 
 Indeed, that Abraham felt this difficulty all through the three days' 
 journey appears from his prayer on reaching the mountain. After 
 evading the question above . referred to concerning the victim, 
 Abraham prays : 
 
 "Grete God! that all this worlde has wrought 
 And grathelj' gouernes goods and ill, 
 Tiiu graunte me myghte so that I movvght 
 Thy commaundments to full-fill. 
 And gyffe my flessche groche or greue oght, 
 Or sertis my saul assentte ther-till, 
 To byrne all that I hidir broght, 
 I sail nocht spare yf I shoulde spille." 
 
 Isaac relieves his father of any fear he may have entertained on this 
 score by the willingness with which he obeys. He even counsels 
 
77 
 
 that he be bound : " I am ferde that ye sail fynde, my force your 
 forward to withstaunde. " He carries his resignation, unfortunately, 
 too far, as though he would play on the feelings of his father ; 
 "Thy wordes makis me my wangges wette," says Abraham. In 
 the Towneley play here there is an unwonted tenderness of expres- 
 sion that is all the more remarkable as coming from the cycle which 
 deliberately aims at turning into fun every such sentiment. ' ' What 
 water shotes in both myn eyn ! 
 
 I were lever than al wardly wyn, 
 That I had fon hym onys unkynde; 
 Bot no defawt I found hym in, 
 I wolde be dede for hym or pynde, 
 To slo hym thus I thynk, grete syn." 
 
 However, in the York play, Isaac at times seems to be attached to 
 life : " A ! dere fadir,'lyff is full swete, the drede of dede dos<s all 
 my dere." But this is only momentary. " Isaac spoils the impres- 
 sion he has made," says Ten Brink, 'when after his deliverance 
 from death he repeats : "I would gladly have suffered death. Lord, 
 according to Thy will." * 
 
 There is much variety of life and action in the next play. The 
 Departure of the Israelites from Egypt, which the playwright treats 
 with ease and sufficiency. The judgment he displays in the 
 conception of the caste, in the relative distribution of parts and in 
 the transition of scenes and features of the play which call for special 
 mention. Pharaoh and his counsellors, though somewhat overdone, 
 are by no means so exaggerated in their speech or behavior as in 
 other mediaeval presentations of royal ancient assemblies. Moses, 
 who keeps "the bisshoppe Jetro schepe," on the slope of Mount 
 Sinai, opens a quiet scene that contrasts very effectively with the 
 troubled discussions at the court of the king. In the play no 
 mention is made of Moses' natural qualifications to undertake the 
 Divine embassy to Pharaoh ; he prays Dei:^;t in the bush to hold him 
 excused because of the ill-favor in which he is held at court. 
 Assured of the heavenly assistance, he protests no longer. He 
 visits his people and encourages them to hope. He goes to the 
 palace of Pharaoh and delivers his message boldly. Throughout 
 he is hero ; the king's advisers dwindle into insignificance beside 
 Israel's deliverer. The scene that presents all Egypt suffering from 
 the plagues is made especially effective by directing the whole brunt 
 
 ♦ History of English Literature, Vol. II, part 1, p. 271. 
 
T8 
 
 of divine anger against the king. His personal afflictions are multi- 
 plied by the ceaseless importunities of his people begging relief. 
 The play ends with a scene at the Red Sea. The Israelites have 
 just crossed the waters dry shod, when the pursuing Pharaoh ar- 
 rives on the opposite bank. Encouraging his army to follow, the 
 Icing steps into the dried sea-bed : 
 
 "Hefe uppe youre hartes ay to Mahownde, 
 
 He will be nere us in oure nede — 
 
 Owte! ay herrowe! devill, I drowne!" 
 
 A boy in the Hebrew camp calls for a song of victory. 
 
 With this play closes the part of the Cycle derived from Old 
 Testament history and legend. It is important from what has been 
 said on the typical character and treatment of these plays to notice 
 a last instance of this symbolism in the Deliverance-scene of 
 *'Goddis folke" and the destruction of their enemies which will find 
 its parallel in the Passion scenes, the Resurrection and Marian plays 
 and the Doomday's pageant at the close of the Cycle. 
 
 So far the eleven preceding, plays have been purely prefigura- 
 tive. Of this the playwright himself was aware, as his prologue to 
 the next play, the Annunciation and Visit^ of Mary to Elizabeth, 
 sufficiently testifies. These scenes severally and collectively were 
 dramatic, however ; there was a struggle, not between abstract prin- 
 ciples of good and evil, but between the persons of Lucifer and 
 Deus and their respective allies. * This antagonism makes itself 
 felt from the beginning. The creation of man to fill the seats of 
 the dethroned angels embittered Lucifer and his fellows with 
 jealousy toward the human race. This hatred for man and the de- 
 sire to revenge himself on God, and particularly to thwart the Crea- 
 tor's design respecting man were the motives which prompted Luci- 
 
 * In the Towenley Cycle this personal opposition between good and 
 evil is shown even more impressively than in the corresponding York play. 
 As the Angelic choir is singing a hymn of thanksgiving to the Creator 
 for the works he has wrought and particularly for the brilliancy with which 
 he has surrounded Lucifer, Deus takes occasion to descend from his throne 
 and walks to the rear of the stage. Lucifer already inflated with the 
 veneration accorded him by the choir mounts the vacant seat and actually 
 usurps the throne of Deus. He calls on the assembled angels to decide 
 if it does not become him as well as the Creator. 
 
 "Say, fellowes, how semys now to me 
 To' sit in sey te of trynyte ? 
 I am so bright of ich a lym 
 I trow me seme as well as hym." 
 The angels take sides and the Evil One and his followers, hurled from 
 €rod'» preiftnc«, begin their everlasting enmity against the good. 
 
T9 
 
 fer, as the playwright explained at the outset. It was an explana- 
 tion that was extremely palpable to a mediaeval audience. For 
 every listener the struggle between good and evil assumed very con- 
 crete shape. Nothing was so real as the activity of the devil and 
 his emissaries. Their more sensible presences were frequent on the 
 stage, and their ubiquitous stimuli to evil were never absent from 
 any act. These formed the dramatic interest of every play; they 
 gave rise to that opposition between right and wrong within the 
 hero, without which the necessary dramatic struggle of the will 
 against opposing forces would be impossible. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to say that at an epoch when such an 
 abiding consciousness of the strife between good and evil in man 
 was so vivid, this was favorable to the treatment of dramatic char- 
 acters. Characterization in the drama, it should be remembered, is 
 not so dependent on freedom of language and elegance of diction as 
 not to exist in a high degree, even where the speech is undeveloped, 
 unmusical, and halting. Many forces enter into the production of the 
 persons in a play. In the Old Testament series just outlined, the 
 opening play dealt with the origin of evil. It went to the extent of 
 personifying the Evil principle in its opposition to the principle of 
 Good. The opposition thus dramatized at the outset was illustrated 
 in the succeeding pageants. The impression that this first scene 
 made on the mind of spectator was emphasized, broadened and 
 deepened as the cycle unrolled severally its concrete and varied 
 illustrations. Each scene in its degree reflected an aspect of the 
 contest. The triumphs of Lucifer in the Fall of Adam, in the 
 death of innocent Abel, in the bondage of God's Elect, show the 
 nature and greatness of his malice which informs, as it were, his 
 insatiable jealousy toward man and persistent desire of revenge on f 
 God. Evil is on the ascendency and will continue to advance till it ^ 
 has reached its climax in the Crucifixion of the Saviour Himself. ' 
 The snatching of Noah and his kindred from the devouring waters 
 of the deluge and the deliverance of God's chosen ones after four 
 hundred years of servitude are the meagre successes on the side of 
 righteousness, which are dramatically necessary to keep interest in 
 the conflict. 
 
 These eleven scenes, roughly speaking, may be regarded as 
 prefiguring the New Testament action. They have been dramatic ; 
 there was an external struggle between two strong heroes, and a 
 struggle which was within the soul of man. The basal principle 
 
 11 
 
80 
 
 of all dramatic writing is here, crudely expressed, no doubt, but it 
 is none the less justly divined. It is the idea which is pushed to 
 its limits in the allegorical Moral plays and it is also the verj' idea 
 that will be perfected in the purely secular drama. 
 
 So far satan triumphant. It is his ' ' hour, ' ' for the insignificant 
 losses he has suffered appear of no consequence to him, proud spirit. 
 From now on the interest of the play is much more intense ; and 
 from the viewpoint of struggle or conflict, at least, between the 
 contending forces, there is a vital unity. The two introductory 
 plays that intervene between the Exodus and the Nativity, bring 
 us to the great crisis in the action. Each of the numerous scenes 
 thereafter (and no fewer than twenty pageants roll between the 
 Nativity and the Crucifixion) is an upward step to the climax. 
 The hour of darkness quickly passes away and the reign of Evil is 
 at an end. The victorious harrowing of Hell follows immediately 
 the Mortificacio Christi — the Butchers' pageant. Then in direct 
 succession follow the glorious scenes, expressive of the lasting rei^n 
 of undisturbed peace and glory — the glory surrounding the Risen 
 Christ, His Virgin Mother and the Just of Doomsday. Deus will 
 pass sentence on His enemies in these unmerciful words : 
 
 " Ye cursid caytLfifs of Kaymes kynne. 
 That neuere me comforte in my care 
 I an ye for euer will twynne. 
 In dole to dwelle for eueremare; 
 Youre bittir bales schall neuere blynne, 
 That ye schall haue whan ye come thare. 
 
 • »«*«• 
 
 Ther-fore till hell I schall you synke, 
 Weele are ye worthy to go that gate," 
 
 But those who battled with Him and shared in His defeats will now 
 be made partakers of His glory. 
 
 " Mi blissid childre on my righte hande, 
 Your dome this day ye thar not drede, 
 Your liflfe in lyking schall be lede, 
 Commes to the kyngdome ay lastand. 
 That you is dight for youre goode dede, 
 Full blithe may ye be where ye stande, 
 For mekill in heuene schall be youre mede." 
 
 Whether this unity of purpose is to be accredited to the playwright's 
 sense of dramatic values or to the scriptural history to which he is 
 so much indebted is not our present concern. Our aim has been 
 solely to find if there existed a unity of outline or design with the 
 
81 
 
 hope of determining more fully what impression the presentation 
 of the cycle, as a whole, might have made on the sympathetic on- 
 looker. To whom to attribute the creation of this unity of impres- 
 sion is a later question of comparatively little import to our subject, 
 which has to do with the existence or non-existence of the impres- 
 sion itself. The honor, however, may be approximately equalized 
 when something further is said on the construction of each scene 
 and the connection of play with play in the New Testament series. 
 In the York Cycle, the dramas presenting the scenes of the 
 Annunciation and Visit of Mary to Elizabeth connects the Old 
 Testament plays with those of the New. The Redemption of Fallen 
 Man or the lasting triumph of good over evil is the foremost idea 
 in the composer's mind and underlies all his work. Redemption is 
 the subject of the prologue to this connecting play. The speaker 
 summarizes the havoc the Evil one has wrought in God's creation 
 and immediately turns to the question of an approaching atonement 
 and triumph. His reference to prophecy happily fills up the gap 
 between his subject and the Exodus. The play itself is built along 
 the simplest lines. The scenes of the Annunciation of the angel 
 and of Mary at Elizabeth's house possess an idyllic charm which 
 is characteristic of the mediaeval dramatist at his best. The 
 next play, drawn from apocryphal and legendary sources shows 
 some inventiveness on the part of the playwright and afforded 
 him much opportunity to characterize. He does define Joseph's 
 anxiety and sets him in contrast with the quiet resignation of 
 his spouse and her maidens. In some earlier presentations of 
 Joseph's Troubles about Mary the scene was treated in a comic vein 
 and was not free from vulgar associations. The York play, how- 
 ever, reflects the moderate spirit of its author. Of him. Professor 
 Ward says, that he shows a special tenderness to St. Joseph. The 
 playwright treats him, although from a wholly human point of view, 
 with a degree of res{>ect not always vouchsafed to this saint in the 
 religious drama. It is to this respectful treatment that he is in- 
 debted for the truthful and effective picture he presents even to the 
 reader's mind. No presentation of this scene comes nearer to the 
 spirit of the apocryphal source nor emphasizes better the mysterious 
 silence of Mary which the gospel intimates in contrast with the ever 
 increasing, wholly human anxiety of Joseph. When warned in a 
 dream not to fear to take unto him his wife, he asks forgiveness 
 of Mary: "Yha, Marie, I am to blame, for wordis lang are I to 
 
82 
 
 the spak/' And then follows a really natural turn, "But gadir same 
 now all our gere ; slike poure wede as we were, and prike tham in 
 a pak. Till Bedlam bus me it here, for litill thyng will women dere. 
 Helpe up nowe on my bak." 
 
 "The Journey to Bethlehem and the Birth of Jesus" is the next 
 play, and it affords ample opportunity to the playwright to develop 
 the characters of Joseph and Mary. The patriarch who is repre- 
 sented as very advanced in years, experiences acutely the burden 
 of the road and yet makes belief as though he felt it not. All his 
 anxiety, however, is for Mary and his talk with her on the way is 
 most encouraging. She, on the contrary, has no thought of herself ; 
 she is quite absorbed on the precious Burden she bears, and seems 
 inattentive to Joseph's forebodings about the inhospitable recep- 
 tion that awaits them at their journey's end. If we picture to our- 
 selves the aged Joseph on reaching Bethlehem as the playwright 
 represents him — bearing the "pak" on his rheumatic shoulders 
 "uppe and doune thrugh diuerse stretis," in search of a dwelling- 
 place for his "weyke and werie doughtir," at an hour and season 
 when "it waxis right myrke unto the sight and colde withall" — 
 it would be difficult to find in the whole repertory of the mediaeval 
 stage a more delicate delineation than that which the Tile-Thatcher 
 here gives : 
 
 Joseph: "For siithe I can no socoure see, 
 
 but belde vs with there bestea. 
 And yf we here all ryght abide, 
 ' We shall be stormed in this steede; 
 
 The walls are doune on like a side. 
 The rufle is rayned aboven oure hede, 
 
 als haue I roo, ^ 
 
 Say, Marie Doughtir, what is thy rede? 
 
 How sail we doo? 
 For in grete nede nowe are we stedde, 
 As thou thyselffe the soth may see, 
 For here is nowthir cloth ne bedde, 
 And we are weyke and all werie, 
 
 and fayne wolde reste. 
 Now, gracious God, for thy mercie! 
 
 wisse vs the best. 
 Marie: God will vs wisse, full wele with ye, 
 
 Tlier-fore, Joseph, be of gud chere. 
 
 A scene, dramatically effective, very naturally follows the entry into 
 the shed. As the night is cold and dark— a veritable English Christ- 
 mas-tide—Joseph goes to get a light and gather iome fuel. In his 
 
83 
 
 absence the Babe is born. Mary falls on her knees before her Son 
 and worships Him with motherly devotion. Joseph, who knows 
 nothing of the mystery that has taken place within the stall, is heard 
 outside : 
 
 "A! lorde, what the wedir is colde! 
 The fellest freese that euere I felyd, 
 I pray God helpe tham that is olde, 
 And namely tham that is unwelde. 
 
 A sudden light shines on Joseph's face. Filled with astonishment 
 he enters the stable and gazes bewilderingly at the Babe. '*0 
 Marie!" he asks, "what suete thyng is that on thy kne?" Mary 
 explains to him the birth of the Infant and assures him that it is 
 her "sone, the soth to saye, that is so gud." Joseph is beside him- 
 self with joy that he has seen the Saviour, long the wish of his soul. 
 He adores Him, and joyfully prepares the manager, regretfully 
 sighing that he has no softer bed on which to lay the *'blissid 
 floure." 
 
 No one can doubt the effect that this scene — so perfectly re- 
 flecting in an idealizing light the experiences of daily life — must 
 have produced on the receptive mediaeval spectator. His mind and 
 heart were open to the impression. It was his recreation day. He 
 might, however, be able to recall days that were not unlike St. 
 Joseph's Christmas Eve. And in the next scene how he must have 
 understood and enjoyed the life-like realism of the shepherds des- 
 crying the Star, and their effort to reproduce with their cracked 
 voices the Angel's song! But there was seriousness back of this 
 fun. The shepherds worship the Babe and give Him what gifts 
 they have. "A baren broche by a belle of tynne at youre bosome 
 to be," is the first shepherd's gift. The second presents two cobb- 
 nuts on a ribbon. A horn spoon that will harbor forty peas is all 
 that the third shepherd has to bestow. The whole scene, says Ward, 
 furnishes an innocent idyl. 
 
 The two following plays that deal with the coming and adora- 
 tion of the Kings appealed less to the bulk of the audience. Herod's 
 apostrophes of himself, though the author breaks away to some 
 extent from the traditional manner of presenting royalty, the ful- 
 some praises that the courtiers lavish on the tyrant, are still exces- 
 sive. The playwright's aim in this presentation was obviously to 
 provoke laughter and ridicule as well as to heighten the contrast 
 between the heathen despot and the Wise Kings. 
 
The brutal savagery of Herod is well brought out in the next 
 play, 'The Flight into Egypt ;" and especially is this wanton cruelty 
 shown in the play that follows, ''The Massacre of the Innocents." 
 The hunting down of the Divine Child and the horror of the slaugh- 
 ter prepare for the quiet scene which represents Christ among the 
 Doctors. The anxiety of Joseph and Mary in fleeing with the 
 Babe to inhospitable Egypt is here reproduced in the three days* 
 loss. Joseph, it is quite noticeable, seemed to be more solicitous for 
 the safety of the Infant than he is on this occasion, on the other 
 hand, Mary is far more anxious about her Son than when she bore 
 him in the Flight. Joseph is here the comforter of his spouse as 
 he had been on the way to Bethlehem, but in the Exile, Mary tries 
 to allay his fears. She was wholly indifferent to circumstances as 
 long as she bore her Son in her womb or in her arms, but now that 
 He is no longer beside her, she is inconsolable at the loss. This 
 trait of motherly affection that the playwright suggests in this 
 scene is an additional instance which goes to show the originality 
 of his treatment and his closeness to nature. Another realistic 
 touch is given the picture at the Gate of the Temple. Joseph and 
 Mary are amicably vying about taking Jesus from among the 
 Doctors. This incident Ten Brink quotes as an example of "excel- 
 lent characterization." "In the play of Jesus in the Temple, the 
 shyness of Joseph, and uneducated peasant, in appearing before 
 learned persons, and the desire to let his more educated wife speak 
 instead of himself is taken from real life, as is also, in a previous 
 passage, the comparative placidity of the foster-father in contrast 
 with the anxiety of the mother about their lost son" : 
 Maria: A! dere Joseph, als we haue eele. 
 
 Go furthe and fette youre son and myne. 
 This day is gone nere ilke a dele. 
 And we have nede for to gang hyne. 
 Joseph: With men of myght can I not raell. 
 Than all my trauayle mon I tyne 
 I can noyt with them, this wate thou wele^ 
 They are so gay in furres fyne. 
 Maria : To tham youre herand for to say 
 
 Suthly ye thar noght drede no dele, 
 They will take rewards to you all way, 
 Because of elde; this watte ye wele. 
 Joseph: When I come thare what schall I saye? 
 I wate neuere, als have I cele. 
 Sertis, Marie, thou will haue me gchamed for ay, 
 For I can nowthir croke nor knele. 
 
85 
 
 Maria: Go wg togedir, I had it beste. 
 
 Unto yone worthy wysse in wede. 
 And yf I see, als haue I reste 
 That ye will noght, than bus me nede. 
 Joseph: Gange on Marie, and telle thy tale firste, 
 Thy sone to the will take good heede; 
 Wende fourth, Marie, and do thy beste, 
 I come be-hynde as God me spede. 
 
 The next play brings the cycle to the public life of Jesus. Follow- 
 ing closely on the Baptism by John that had the effect of destroying 
 "the dragons poure ilk a dele," comes the play of the "Temptation 
 of Jesus" which gives the playwright an opportunity for another 
 exhibition of Lucifer's management of an argument. Diabolus in- 
 troduces himself with a show of great excitement; and as it is 
 fairly a type of his manner I shall give in part his words : 
 
 Make rome by-lyve, and let me gang, 
 
 Who makis here al this thrang? 
 
 High you hense ! high myght you hang 
 right with a roppe! 
 He goes on to explain the news that has reached him of a Re- 
 deemer on earth who will deprive him of his absolute sovereignty 
 over men. He does not know fully the nature of the Redeemer, 
 but he is confident of his success to tempt and injure Him. He 
 goes directly to Jesus in the wilderness and apologizes to him that 
 he has no bread to present him with — seeing the Saviour's weakness 
 from the want of food. 
 
 For thou hast fasted longe, I wene, 
 
 I wolde now som mete were sene 
 
 For olde aequeyntaunee us by-twene, 
 Thy-selue wote howe. 
 
 Thar sail noman witte what I mene 
 but I and thou. 
 Jesus repells the tempter in this and in the two other temptations 
 by a paraphrase of His answer in the Gospel. The majesty of the 
 Saviour is well brought out in this scene in contrast to the character- 
 less duplicity of the fiend. The dignity and calm that shines on the 
 countenance of Jesus is the first characteristic which the comforting 
 angel observes. The playwright had the moral in view from the be- 
 ginning, as Jesus explains toward the close of the play. He gives 
 as the motive of this serenity his wish to be a "myrroure" for men 
 in overcoming Satan. 
 
 The scenes representing the Hidden Life of Jesus that had 
 grown about the feast of the Nativity md fQrme4 a cycle in them^ 
 
86 
 
 selves, cause a sort of delay in the progress of the fundamental idea 
 of struggle between the powers of good and evil — the action so 
 marked in the York series, viewed as a whole into which the Christ- 
 mas cycle of scenes had been incorporated. And yet in such scenes 
 as the Trouble of St. Joseph, the hardships on the way to Bethlehem 
 the Massacre of the Innocents, the Danger of the Flight and the 
 sorrow of the Three Days' Loss there is an enlivening admixture 
 of sadness and joy, of failure and success which is analogous to 
 the underlying conflict between the two great combatants whose 
 hostilities in varying intensity are waging from the beginning. In 
 the preceding play a new impetus is given to the old warfare. Satan 
 is represented as being particularly displeased at the baptism of 
 Jesus, because as the playwright notices, the "certayne'' effects of 
 Christ's Baptism will be to destroy, in great part, the power of the 
 Evil One. 
 
 Jesus: — John for manys prophyte, wit thou wele, 
 
 Take I this baptyme, certaynely, 
 
 The dragons poure ilke a dele 
 
 Thurught my baptyne destroyed hause I; 
 This is certayne; 
 
 And saued mankynde, saule and body, 
 Fro endless payne. 
 
 John has scarcely had time briefly to thank Jesus — his "souereyne 
 leche" when the play is drawn away and Diabolus is wheeled before 
 the audience in the pageant of the Temptation. Diabolus ingratiates 
 himself in the words I have given above and proceeds in a more 
 serious accent to explain his mission into the wilderness : 
 
 And nowe men spakis of a swayne, 
 
 How he sehall come and suffre payne. 
 
 And with his dede to blisse agayne, 
 
 Thei (all that have been born) shulde be bought; 
 But certis this is but a trayne, 
 I trowe it noyt. 
 Jesus seems conscious also that the strife has been renewed. At 
 the end of the play, after blessing those who will "stiflfely stande 
 agaynste the fende," he says, "I knawe my tyme is fast command — 
 now will I wende." From this point the interest in the action in- 
 creases. It centres exclusively in the person of Jesus. Nothing is 
 omitted that would lend additional graciousness and dignity to his 
 role. In the plays immediately following the Temptation, Jesus is 
 triumphant. They are, however, his last triumphs. In the Trans- 
 figuration scene the saddening motives that called it forth reveal 
 
87 
 
 the character of Jeisus and stand in contrast with the moment of 
 bliss vouchsafed the Apostles. Our Saviour's endearing personaUty 
 is again in contrast In the next play which contains two scenes, the 
 Woman taken in Adultery and the Raising of Lazarus. The Scribes, 
 the lawyers on the case, are horrified at the deed committed (nemyn 
 it noght, for schame), but Jesus is silent and listens to her con- 
 demnation. Unhappily the leaf of the manuscript that contained 
 the temptation and His answer is torn away. The reply of Jesus 
 must, we may presume, have been a characteristic paraphrase of 
 His words in St. John (VHI, 1-12), somewhat as they read in the 
 corresponding Coventry play. This scene is only half the play, the 
 prelude in some sort to the Raising of Lazarus. The Apostles were 
 still thanking Jesus for his pity on the guilty woman when the 
 messenger from Bethany arrived. There is a ring of genuine sorrow 
 in the words of Mary and Martha, but, as in the early part of the 
 play, a leaf is missing at the point of chief interest, where Jesus 
 gently chides Martha for her inconsolable grief. Martha's answer 
 and much more is lost. Grief gives way to gladness as Lazarus 
 walks forth from the tomb, but the period of rejoicing is brief for 
 Jesus announces His immediate departure for Jerusalem. 
 
 In the triumphal entry into the Holy City there is remarkable 
 variety. The pathetic introduction to this long scene in which Jesus 
 intimates to his Apostles his approaching end, is relieved by the 
 light episode showing Peter and Philip bargaining with the keeper 
 of the ass ; and, as Ward notices, the effect of a triumphant ride is 
 further enhanced by the introduction of the blind man and the lame 
 man, following, as suppliants in the track of the Saviour's progress. 
 The play reaches its most effective scene at the close where a chorus 
 of eight Burgesses welcomes and worships the King of the Jews. 
 The eighth soloist sings, 
 
 "Hayll! domysman dredful, that all schall deme (judge) 
 Hayll! quyk and dede that all schall lowte (praise) 
 Hayll! whom worsehippe moste will seme, 
 Hayll! whom all thynge schall drede and dowte. 
 
 We welcome the. 
 Hayll! and welcome of all aboute 
 
 To our cete." 
 
 Following immediately this exhibition of welcome and allegiance 
 comes the play of the Conspirators which is opened by Pilate's 
 boastful proclamation of his learning, dignity and undisputed power. 
 He shows throughout the play, however, a degree of impartiality 
 
88 
 
 Sind love of truth, and openly expresses his determination to give 
 justice to Jesus. It is true he gives to Judas the thirty silver pence, 
 but his purpose in so doing is not malicious. The priest and soldiers 
 on the contrary, are quite unreasonable in their efforts to make a 
 case against Jesus, though all show a strong contempt for Judas — 
 Annas curses Him and Pilate's doorkeeper calls Him to his face a 
 "bittlbrowed bribour." The playwright manages the conspiracy 
 with skill and interest, happily relieving the undramatic allegations 
 before Pilate of their legal dryness by the more entertaining dia- 
 logue between the janitor and Judas. The Arrest of Jesus does not 
 follow immediately. Over against the play of the envious 
 conspirators stands the scene in the upper room. This peaceful 
 spectacle and the gentle spirits of Our Lord and the Apostles 
 gain much when viewed in contrast with the preceding scene 
 and with the plays that follow. It is regrettable that this man- 
 uscript also has been "perused and otherwise amended" to the 
 extent that the page (about sixty-five lines) which dealt with 
 the institution of the Holy Eucharist is torn away. In this 
 play of the Last Supper the introduction of James' unseasonable 
 question on the matter of priority among the Apostles wh^n 
 Jesus is gone, coming just after the Master has washed the 
 disciples' feet is one of those occasional instances that go to show 
 the effort of the playwright to overcome a difficulty inherent in 
 his theme.t "In the Mysteries not only were the subject and 
 idea unalterable, but the way in which the subject and idea 
 
 * A passage spoken by Saint John in honor of the Seven Sacraments 
 in the Chester cycle is similarly crossed through and marked by a later 
 hand as "correctyd and not played'* (cf. Ward, Hist. Dram. Lit. p. 72). 
 The same is done in the XIX Towneley cyclic play where the passage is 
 crossed out with red ink and the number of sacraments carefully erased. 
 Again in the XXIV pageant of the same series lines supporting the doctrine 
 of transubstantion spoken bv Christ from the Cross are likewise cancelled. 
 (cf. Collier, Annals of the Stage Vol. 2, pp. 197-198.) 
 
 t There is throughout evidence of this effort on the part of the play- 
 wright to present a motive as palpable for the action. In the Chester XIII., 
 for instance, the Merchant who protests against the action of Jesus in 
 the Temple, 
 
 'What frecke is this that makes fare, 
 And casteth downe all our ware? 
 Come no man hither full of yare. 
 That did us such anoye.' 
 In XVI., this same 'Primuz Mercator' turns out to be the prosecutor of 
 Jesus before Caiphas, telling the Saviour's prophecy concerning the destruc- 
 tion and rebuilding of the Temple in three days. Again Judas is angry 
 at the reprimand given by Jesus on account of the criticism which the traitor 
 made of Magdalen's action in Simon's house, This was Chester, XIV. In 
 
89 
 
 affected each other was equally unchangeable." * This state- 
 ment needs qualification in many instances. Apart from the 
 introduction of novel matter the transference of a familiar 
 incident from its historical location to its dramatic position 
 frequently occurs in the Cycles and contributes much to alter 
 the relation in which the subject and idea affected each other. 
 In the next play there is a like intimation of an effort at dramatic 
 effect. After the traitor's kiss a brilliant light blazes forth from 
 the face of Jesus which stuns the soldiers. There are in the 
 subsequent scenes many artfully arranged incidents of a non- 
 biblical character that afford moments of relief in the long and 
 realistic presentation of the sad events of the Passion. To 
 incidents of this nature the dramatist is indebted for the indi- 
 viduality they give his chief persons, whether viewed singly or 
 in the heightened contrast of actions; — in either case the inter- 
 polated elements relax the bond of interest and prevent a painful 
 tension. In the nine plays immediately antecedent to the Cruci- 
 fixion scenes, interims of rest and suspension in the upward 
 action are managed with discrimination and contribute in many 
 ways to effectiveness of treatment. The pageant of the Conspir- 
 ators for instance, following next in order the triumphal Entry 
 is much improved dramatically by the playwright who presents 
 both actions as taking place concurrently. The plotting against 
 the life of Jesus and His Betrayal are shown to the audience 
 as silently operating at the very time that Hosannas of welcome 
 were cheered through the city. 
 
 Following the Agony in the Garden ^nd the taking of 
 Jesus comes the play of the trial — before Caiaphas. But instead 
 of proceeding directly with the examination the playwright 
 gives a long description of what was taking place in the palace 
 of the high priest while Jesus was in agony on Mount Olivet. 
 The amusing scene occupied in elaborate preparations **to lift" 
 Caiaphas into bed after he had slaked his thirst with delicious 
 wine that would *'make you to wynke," is an effective interlude. 
 It brings out to the point of utmost contrast the character of 
 Jesus and his accusers, and relieves the audience of the distress- 
 ing events during the long play of the Agony, and refreshes the 
 
 * Ten Brink, English Literature, Vol. 1, p. 306. 
 
 the next pageant, The Betrayal, the waste of the ointment is the only 
 motive that urges the vindictive Judas to sell his Master. The whole tenor 
 of his conduct reflects the wouii4 th^ Saviour's censure caused. 
 
90 
 
 mind for the Trial-scene and inhuman conduct of the soldiers 
 toward their Victim. 
 
 For the same purpose of affording ease and variety and at 
 the same time to bind into a closer unit the several scenes, the 
 playwright adapts a curious incident from the Gospel of Nico- 
 demus, the dream of Pilate's wife.* The audience knows from 
 the closing scene of the trial before Caiaphas that Jesus is to 
 be judged by Pilate. Caiaphas sends a messenger to '*tell 
 Pilate our compliments, and that this lad must be slain to-day 
 because it is Sabbath to-morrow." At the beginning of the 
 next play the Dream is enacted. It is introduced with the 
 presentation of a typical evening at Court, differing materially 
 in nothing from what took place at the high priest*s house the 
 night before, nor from the closing of the present day at Herod's 
 quarters. It is Satan himself that whispers the dream into 
 Percula's ear, the purport of which is that if the ''gentilman 
 Jesu" is unjustly doomed she and Pilate will be stripped of all 
 their power and riches. The playwright artfully keeps this 
 news from the Governor till the moment at which such an 
 account was least desirable. Pilate had a mind to befriend Annas 
 and Caiaphas whose sheer flattery he had just cordially accepted, 
 when his son announced to him in presence of the "Bisshoppis" 
 the threats of the dream. 
 
 The long presentation of the Passion derives human interest 
 from the variety with which the poet intersperses the scenes. 
 He interrupts the arguments at the trials and the brutal sports 
 of the soldiers by distracting events of a serious nature, as well 
 as by incidents of a light and comic character. The privileged 
 Beadle supplied much of these diversifying elements. He was 
 capable of saying and doing anything. His language on an 
 occasion of unseasonable knocking at the entrance gate (though 
 it happens to be the High Priests that are there) needs not be 
 reproduced here; yet it is the same Beadle that alone publicly 
 worships Jesus amid the scoffs of the priests and soldiers. The 
 parts of the warden, the several royal supper-scenes, Percula's 
 Dream, her undutiful son, the bowing of the banners, Barabbas' 
 thanks, the Squire cheated of his title-deeds to Mount Calvary 
 — these and such like scenes growing out of the main action, 
 
 * Gospel of Nicodemus (Gesta Pilati). I. II. "Uber Quellen und 
 Sprache der York Plays, pp. 25-26 Von Paul Kamann, Halle 1887, 
 
91 
 
 not only afforded the audience needful mental rest, but were 
 helpful also to the playwright's efforts in emphasizing situations 
 and persons. 
 
 In the three pageants that have to do with the Crucifixion 
 the author^s design to reproduce realities literally is very notice- 
 able. Nowhere else does he play on the feelings of his audience 
 to such an extent, and consequently at no time so much as in 
 the present instant, has it been necessary to put ourselves in 
 the attitude of the playwright toward his theme. Here, if 
 anywhere, nothing should come between us and the author. To 
 overlook his intensely religious purpose and abstract ourselves 
 from his milieu, would, of course, mean to miss not only the 
 primary motive of the plays but the very reason of their exist- 
 ence. Most unquestionably the playwright's conception and 
 execution of these climacteric scenes are barbaric in the extreme 
 judged by the most lenient standard of what is now aesthetically 
 proper. It is sufficiently deplored that the Mediaeval dramatist's 
 description of the Sacred Passion and Death of our Redeemer 
 is inexpressibly painful to our time — so no doubt, would be the 
 actual tragedy itself had we witnessed it with all its wanton 
 concomitant brutalities which the Evangelists permit to be 
 inferred. This, however, is not the question. It needs no point- 
 ing out that we should be unwarranted in dissociating the 
 dramatist from the listener and neither from his time and place. 
 Plays of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries were not written 
 for audiences of the twentieth. This is surely a commonplace 
 remark, yet its full meaning is not always borne in mind. We 
 have no reason to suspect that the old playwright was ignorant 
 of his public nor that it was his endeavor to secure its good 
 will. The truth is rather that we have abundant evidence in 
 proof of his intimate knowledge of his audience. The instinct 
 to please is in the soul of every dramatist from Shakespeare 
 down. 
 
 The early Gothic drama sought its effects and interest in 
 fidelity to the reality. The author had no idea of the fact that 
 the business of art was to correct and improve nature. His 
 modification of the original was usually confined to the task 
 of extending or contracting the material, a process of physical 
 arrangement largely and not a recasting of the subject matter, 
 or a heightening of its dramatic quality by giving the whole a 
 
92 
 
 personal interpretation which would reflect the tone and color 
 of his mind. This was to be the work of later dramatists. With 
 the older playwrights, however, unmistakable intimations of 
 mental assimilation can be found ; the tendency to localize and 
 modernize, to invent, emphasize and make attractive was going 
 on from the beginning. This is strikingly illustrated in the 
 plays which bring the York Cycle to its climax. 
 
 If we remember that the playwright's great law was to 
 reproduce by imitation as far as he could the impression of what 
 took place in the Garden, Judgment Halls and on Calvary, it 
 will pass unquestioned that he has succeeded in presenting the 
 terrible reality with wonderful truth. I doubt that it would 
 be difficult to exaggerate what may be reasonably inferred from 
 the Evangelists' unimpassioned narrative of the sufferings and 
 death of Christ. To imply that the least irreverance was dreamt 
 of in the long display of professionalism which the Guild of 
 Pinners, for instance, so strikingly manifests in the Mediaeval 
 crucifixion-scene, would be to mistake the whole spirit of the 
 Liturgical and Cyclic drama. The realistic manual job that is 
 detailed, the wrangling among the executioners for upward of 
 a hundred lines about the cross, hammers, nails, brads, ropes 
 and ladders, the poignant grief within Mary's heart at such a 
 woeful spectacle, the sorrow of John and the Holy Women, the 
 abusive lictors as they buffet their Victim, the cruel delight 
 that the enemies of Jesus take in casting looks of scorn at Him 
 — ^are all drawn out with a naturalness that is scarcely surpassed 
 by the passion players of Ober-Ammergau. The consistency 
 with which each role is sustained throughout the passion scenes 
 cannot but be commended, however much one may charge the 
 playwright's conception of his caste. 
 
 Hardly had the bloody spectacle which the Butchers' pageant 
 represented passed from the people's eyes when a scene of 
 relief was wheeled in its place. It showed the defeated, derided 
 and disjointed Christ of a moment ago now perfectly whole and 
 conquering. Harrowing Hell. The Redeemer takes with Him 
 His faithful followers, those who stood by his cause against the 
 enemy, and confides them to His commander-in-chief, Michael. 
 
 "Adame and my frendes in feeie. 
 Fro all youre fooes come forth with me 
 Ye schall be sette in solas seere, 
 Wher ^re schall neure of sorowes see, 
 
9S 
 
 And Mighall, myn aungell clere, 
 Ressayue thes saules -all unto the, 
 And lede thame als I schall the leve 
 To Paradise with plays and plente." 
 
 The loss of Limbo was a cause of much excitement in the under- 
 world ; but the real tragic incident took place only when Michael 
 shortened Satan's chain and pinned him faster within his narrow 
 dominion. 
 
 The resurrection scene follows the Harrowing of Hell and 
 joy is brought to Christ's followers on this upper world and 
 fear to His enemies. Here strong effects are attached by the 
 playwright's introduction of his old device of abrupt contrast. 
 The feeling of repose and satisfaction that Pilate and the 
 Priests experience is well worked up and prepares for the effect 
 which the writer meant that the Centurion's news would cause. 
 And equally well-wrought is the second part of this play, which 
 is no other than the old Latin liturgical office lost in the vernacu- 
 lar cycle. The Three Maries come on the stage, inconsolable over 
 the loss of Jesus. Their grief heightens as they advance on the 
 way of the Cross to the Tomb to anoint Jesus, and is paralleled 
 only by their surprise and joy later. The play of the Resurrec- 
 tion, only four hundred and fifty lines in all, exhibits in its 
 construction a noticeable growth in dramatic skill. There is not 
 much invention manifested, but the selection of material is 
 judicious. Pilate, it is clearly intimated in the opening scene 
 of the play, despite his apparent calm has scruples about the 
 legality of the condemnation of Jesus and fears an uprising 
 among the Jews. But this latter dread is of secondary import- 
 ance in his mind, though it is the only thought that disturbs Sirs 
 Caiaphas and Annas, who are afraid that the populace will come 
 to think that the Sabbath-Breaker is somebody. The respectful 
 and bold confession Of the Centurion is opposed to the vacil- 
 lating explanations of the Governor and High Priests. Soldiers 
 are sent to guard the monument, and the interlude of the three 
 Maries appropriately fills the time between the commission of 
 the guard and its experience at the Tomb. The return of the 
 guards to the Court and their frank statement of the triumph 
 of Jesus utterly defeats His enemies. It may seem regrettable 
 that the very knight who prevailed on his comrades at the 
 Sepulchre to tell the facts of the Resurrection, even at the 
 expense of life, should later be the spokesman for his fellows 
 
94 
 
 in accepting the thousand-pound bribe. Had we, however, heard 
 the derisive laugh that followed the ridiculous suggestion of 
 Annas to Pilate, to have the soldiers tell wherever they went that 
 20,000 men took the body from the Tomb and that they them- 
 selves were nearly slain, we could better appreciate the comic 
 touch and ironic humor in the action of the Primus Miles. It 
 was the last time the conspirators were to appear and the play- 
 wright would have their defeat and exit emphasized by ''bring- 
 ing down the house" on the ridiculous measures that the 
 councillors of Pilate advise in order to offset the fact of the 
 Resurrection. 
 
 The enemies of Christ vanquished in this way, the closing 
 plays treat of the glorious life of Christ, the Triumph of His 
 mother and His followers. The Gospel account of the Risen 
 Life being extremely meagre the playwright had recourse to the 
 more amenable material in the apocryphal legends.* Oral and 
 written notices of this period of the Life of Christ were circulated 
 widely and they afforded excellent subject-matter for dramatiz- 
 ation. Popular though they were, they were not so familiar 
 as the writings of the Evangelists and consequently a greater 
 freedom might be exercised in the formation of dramatic parts 
 from them. The play showing the grief of Magdalen is treated 
 with more detail than in the corresponding Liturgical drama. 
 The gardener here does his part well and the same may be 
 said of Thomas, whose incredulity and loneliness afford the 
 playwright room for effective suspense and contrast. The 
 Marian plays are mainly spectacular. It is easy enough to 
 picture to one's self the effect which Mary's Death created. 
 Music and angelic songs invite her to the Paradise of her Son. 
 Her Assumption and Coronation is followed by the Judgment 
 Day which puts an end to the strife between the Righteous and 
 the Wicked and brings back the whole action of the cycle, says 
 Ward, "into the hollow of the hand of God." 
 
 Such in outline was the York Cyclic drama. It contained a 
 fuller development of the dramatic idea — in so far at least, as 
 accuracy of definition and detail in the presentation contributed 
 to this growth — than was found in the liturgical plays. It 
 may hardly be said that our knowledge of the cycle caste is 
 more complete because more individualizing traits are given us 
 
 * Paul Kamann "Uber Quellen und Sprache der York Plays," pp. 3 flf. 
 
95 
 
 to fill out the personalities; rather, we come to know the char- 
 acters better in this than in the earlier species by reason largely 
 of the additional items which help us in forming a more accurate 
 estimate of the summed qualities of the persons. It would be 
 contrary to fact, however, to deny a notable power of suggestion 
 in many of the details chosen by the York playwright. His 
 effective contrasts within the scenes have been pointed out. 
 Then, the juxtaposition of play with play and the feeling of 
 struggle underlying and informing the several plays unified the 
 action of the whole cycle. This brought the persons more in 
 relief. The two functional ideas of personality and responsibility 
 that dominated all mediaeval life, exercised an influence scarcely 
 less perceptible and telling in the Cyclic than in the Liturgical 
 drama. The presence of these *'two senses" in the auditors 
 secured for the playwright a receptive hearing which supplied 
 what was wanting in the interest and outlining of the caste. 
 It furnished a principle or bond of unity which helped to a 
 more complete assimilation of the varied action, and to a deeper 
 realization of the cycle as a whole. While his eyes beheld the 
 movement and his ears received the actor's words, the mind and 
 soul of the auditor followed, as it were, the continuous develop- 
 ment and ever changing succession of emotions and conceptions 
 out of which the words and actions sprung. The unifying effect 
 of the oneness of mood and sympathy noticeable here will be 
 perfected by the great Elizabethan dramatists. 
 
 Studied in view of this peculiar genius or spirit, the persons 
 in a Cyclic drama acquired a marked individuality for the 
 audience. The playwright's suggestion was worked on and 
 elaborated by the the mental activity of his hearers into life-like 
 pictures of Christ, of Mary and Joseph — of the entire Biblical 
 caste and more particularly of the non-scriptural persons. If 
 we follow the unfolding of the cycle from the promise of a 
 Redeemer at the expulsion from Eden till the spectators see the 
 Messiah on His Mother's knees in the stable, and then follow 
 the action as it brings out the character of Jesus through the 
 scenes of His childhood, youth and public life, to Calvary, we 
 shall not fail to see the finished outline the playwright has 
 sketched. We shall find lineaments of the Sacred Persons of the 
 Bible underneath the imprints laid upon them by the mediaeval 
 dramatists. A general disposition of his mind and soul stripped^ 
 
96 
 
 it is true, of much of the heavenly character and charm which 
 the Gospels inimitably suggest and portray, is preserved in the 
 Christ of the Cycles. It was unavoidable that the celestial 
 atmosphere which surrounds the figure of Christ in the Gospel 
 would vanish before the untrained vision of Mediaeval play- 
 goers. The softness of touch, the poetry and sentiment so 
 delicately expressed by the Evangelists, escaped the rough 
 handling of the playwright. This is not a matter to be wondered 
 at. These were literary rather than dramatic qualities which 
 could scarcely be treated in a positive way. They could only 
 be insinuated, and to effect this would demand an arrangement 
 of action, a cleverness in technique and a flexibility of language 
 quite beyond the power of the cyclic poet. The Christ of the 
 stage in being adapted to new circumstances contracted a tem- 
 perament and character corresponding to His surroundings. The 
 sacred Text, however, was sufficiently adhered to by the play- 
 wright to afford a warrant that there would be m the dramatic 
 person no appreciable deviation from the biblical prototype. 
 The human qualities of Christ were emphasized rather than His 
 divine attributes. He came nearer to the level of the people 
 on the stage than when He walked among men. This trait is 
 most evident in His famihar manner with the Apostles and with 
 His friends. When speaking officially, Christ addresses the 
 crowd and His enemies in a doctrinal and somewhat impersonal 
 tone : yet His arguments have a true scholastic point, and when 
 among the Doctors in the Temple He seems to take genuine 
 satisfaction in the cruel delight of showing His questioners, on 
 the least provocation, the limits of their attainments. 
 
 It is, however, owing to the treatment of qualities, which seem 
 but little consequent on His purely human conduct, that the charac- 
 ter of Christ rises at times to a dramatic level. Much of the spirit 
 of the Gospel narrative is felt in the plays, in those, for instance, 
 that have to do with the Trial and Crucifixion. The true greatness 
 of the Hero is seen in His hours of suffering, but we need the 
 scenes of His innocent childhood, youth and manhood to realize 
 the height of the climax. The cyclic playwright in reproducing 
 the dramatic points in the private life of our Saviour offers an in- 
 sight into the human heart of the Hero which, with all its limita- 
 tions, reveals with a certain degree of fulness, the ideal meek and 
 good man who suffers wrong; and in the treatment of the Public 
 
97 
 
 Life he sets forth the same ideal character whose distinctive 
 traits are deepened by reason of the more intense action and 
 more dramatic situation. 
 
 All through the New Testament series of plays a two-fold life 
 of Christ is definitely marked off. What He seems is very different 
 from that which He really is. It is this precisely which gives the 
 cyclic play its intrinsic dramatic worth. The Hero's motives of 
 action, which are wholly unknown or misconceived by His enemies, 
 are as evident as sunlight to the audience. This oldest stage con- 
 vention of enlightening the auditor with a foreknowledge of rea- 
 sons and events which are hidden from the counter-players, was 
 done beforehand for the playwright owing to the familiar nature 
 of his theme; nevertheless, as was noticed elsewhere in speaking 
 of the corporate unity of the cycles, he was careful frequently to 
 recall the illusion. He places the utmost confidence in his hearers; 
 their spiritual preceptions and easy apprehension of realities are 
 strikingly in contrast with the utter absence of such faculties among 
 the jews and heathens on the stage. 
 
 The assumed mental superiority over the unchristian element 
 among the players is noteworthy in this connection. It was no diffi- 
 culty for the mediaeval mind to be in fullest sympathy with the 
 minutest manifestation of the spiritual world. The inexplicable 
 silences and mental reservations on the part of Christ, and the in- 
 termittent marvel and ominous foreboding which so affrighted His 
 enemies give rise to effective situations by reason of the clear dis- 
 cernment with which the spectators are endowed touching these 
 events. The consistent intellectual opposition of the actor and 
 auditor in this way contributed much to the development of the 
 characters and helped to suggest, to bring out and emphasize those 
 latent motives which, in the character of Christ particularly, were 
 the main-springs of His acts. The auditors being fully conscious 
 of the secret causes at work in the dramatic life of Christ, built up 
 a hero that was, no doubt, ideal, and typical — so far as all heroes 
 are types — but who was none the less a person with reason, will 
 and perception properly his own. Such a concept of the leading 
 character, considered relative to the action of the cycle, seems to be 
 strictly dramatic. In the somewhat incoherent treatment of the 
 material that resulted, however, in a tolerably concrete whole, there 
 were situations which furnished the playwright opportunities for 
 dramatic characterization. We have noticed instances where he 
 
98 
 
 analyzed, collated, transposed and rejected the text, and has re- 
 peatedly interpolated personal and apocryphal incidents in order to 
 heighten the dramatic quality of his matter. All this bears witness 
 to the conscious effort of the dramatist to bring into as just relief as 
 he conceived it, the living form of the central Figure in the cycle. 
 What was intuitive and undeveloped in the Liturgical drama be- 
 comes a reasoned, though crude, process with the poets of the 
 cycles, and the character that was only most generally limited in 
 the earlier species has grown into a dramatic person, with more 
 nicely defined human properties and possessing in an initial stage 
 certain qualities of the Elizabethan hero. 
 
 • Something has already been said on the management of Mary 
 and Joseph by the liturgic and cyclic playwright. These two char- 
 acters of all the historical persons he had to treat were most in the 
 line of what the writer of the Corpus Christi plays could do best. 
 To set in a serious religious background two such intensely human 
 persons as St. Joseph and the Mother of Jesus was in a special way 
 according to the genius of the York playwright. By reason of the 
 familiar Biblical account and the traditional concept of the auditors 
 touching the Blessed Virgin and her husband he was morally pre- 
 vented from any deviation from the w^ell known prototypes. The 
 simplicity and dignity of ''Marie modir and maiden clene" are 
 throughout the cycle consistently brought to the foreground. From 
 the dramatic point of view she is immeasurably beyond the Three 
 Maries who, with her and her cousin Elizabeth are, perhaps, the 
 only women-characters in the entire mediaeval drama that are not 
 highly disagreeable persons, introduced for purposes of relief in 
 the action or to give proof and point to the moral that young men 
 should beware of marrying.* As with all the roles in the early 
 drama there is nothing involved or complicated in the characters 
 of Mary and Joseph ; no technical artifice is introduced to heighten 
 the dramatic value of their parts. All the unconsciousness of na- 
 ture is in their unstudied words and movements. Mary is afraid 
 of the Angel, and knows not how to allay Joseph's anxiety. She 
 
 * To appreciate fully the delicate treatment of the York playwright of 
 his heroine in this respect it should be borne in mind how the mediaeval 
 comic writer treated his women characters. Chaucer in Iiis Envoy, to 
 husbands at the end of the Clark' of Oxenford's Tale delinlatea the mediaeval 
 wife in his own inimitable way. This is Noah's counsel in the third 
 Towneley play. "Ye men that have wifes, whylea they are young, if y« 
 luff your lifes, chastise thare tong." 
 
99 
 
 is afraid of her Babe, nevertheless she loves Him and calls Him 
 the sweetest of names. Both Joseph and she hurry with Him in 
 the Flight, though Mary can not understand the reason why she 
 has to flee. As illustrative of this strikingly womanly trait, the 
 following from the play on the Exile may be transcribed here. 
 Speaking of those who sought the life of her Babe, the Mother 
 says to Joseph: 
 
 What ayles thei at my bame 
 
 Slike harme8 hym for to hate? 
 
 Alias! why schulde I tharne 
 
 My sone his liffe so sweete. 
 
 His harte aught to be ful sare, 
 
 On slike a foode hym to to forfare. 
 
 That nevir did ill 
 
 Hym for to spille, 
 
 And he ne wate why. 
 
 I ware full wille of wane 
 
 My sone and he shude dye, 
 
 And I haue but hym allone. 
 
 JOSEPH ANSWERS: — 
 
 We! leue Marie, do way, late be, 
 . I pray the, leue of thy dynne. 
 
 And fande the furthe faste for to flee 
 Away with hym for to wynne. 
 That no myscheue on hym betyde 
 Nor none vnhappe in nokyn side, 
 Be way nor strete 
 That we mon mete 
 To slee hym. 
 
 MARY: 
 
 Alias! Joseph, for care! 
 Why shulde I for-go hym, 
 My dere barne that I bare. 
 
 JOSEPH : 
 
 That swete swayne yf thou saue. 
 Do tyte, pakke same oure gere, 
 ' And such small harness as we haue. 
 
 MARY : 
 
 A! leue Joseph, I may not here. 
 
 JOSEPH : 
 
 Bere arme? no, I trowe but small. 
 But God it wote I must care for all. 
 For bed and bak. 
 And alle the pakk 
 
 That nedis unto us. 
 This pakald bere me bus, 
 
100 
 
 It fortheres for to fene me 
 
 Of all I plege and pleyne me. 
 
 But Grod graunte grace I noght for- 
 
 gete 
 No tulles that we shulde with us 
 take. 
 While Mary had no thought but for the safety of her child, Joseph, 
 naturally enough, as a practical man, and helpful husband, has in 
 mind the length of the road and is anxious about the comfort of 
 the mother and Babe. In the Three Days' Loss, Mary's impatient 
 solicitude and disquieting despair contrast well with Joseph's rea- 
 sonable search for the Boy, though his bereavement in that it is 
 silently borne is none the less heartfelt. I have cited the charac- 
 teristic scene in which Joseph urges Mary to take Jesus from 
 among the Doctors. This is the lasts appearance of Joseph. He 
 retreats with Mary from the Temple to Nazareth and is heard 
 of no more. But his memory abides with the audience. 
 
 Mary next appears at the foot of the Cross. To her lamenta- 
 tion, Marienklage, preserved in a thirteenth century manuscript, 
 reference has already been made as illustrating the spirit of the 
 playwright and audience ; at this point in the York cycle she gives 
 expression to her grief, not in a sustained lament, but in short, 
 direct addresses to her Son, who tries to console her. Her words 
 in the betrayal of Christ in the Coventry cycle. Ward believes, give 
 a glimpse of genuine tragic passion. 
 
 A! A! A! how myn herte is colde! 
 
 A! hert hard as stone how mayst thou lest? 
 
 Whan these sorroweful tydinges are the told. 
 
 So wold to God, hert, that thou mytyst brest. 
 
 A! Jhesu! Jhesu! Jhesu! Jhesu! 
 
 Why xuld ye sofere this trybulacyon and advercyte? 
 
 The three plays after the Resurrection that have to do with 
 the Death of Mary, her Appearance to Thomas and her Corona- 
 tion reflect the mind of the playwright with reference to his 
 heroine. Despite the very spiritual nature of his theme he 
 V- manages to conduct the action with considerable realism. Mary 
 has a vision of a choir of Angels, singing before her. She 
 listens to the hymn ; "Surge proxima mea columba mea taber- 
 nacula glorie vasculum vite templum celeste," and then is 
 greeted by a series of alliterative biddings in which she is called 
 "Maiden and modir maid, lilly full lusty, chefteyne of chastite, 
 and rose ripe redolent". She is borne aloft by angels who 
 
101 
 
 sing from the Canticles (IV. 8) Veni de Libano sponsa veni 
 coronaberis. Very beautiful is Christ's loving welcome to his 
 mother, and though the scene takes place in the heights of 
 heaven, the sentiment is of this world. All her sorrows are 
 forever ended, she is crowned with five jo3^s and will abide beside 
 her Son through all ages as His *'modir and mayden schene". 
 Though much of these last scenes is rather spectacular than 
 dramatic and of little help in the inner development of the 
 characters, as the persons are influenced largely from without; 
 it is easy to see, however, that this glorification of Mary is 
 a necessary outcome of her life of suffering which reaches its 
 climax on Calvary. This glorious retribution logically finds place 
 after the Resurrection of the Son and immediately preceding 
 the public triumph of His friends and defeat of His enemies, as 
 shown in the Doomsday pageant. 
 
 Outside the role of the hero, nowhere in the cycle can we 
 follow to such an extent the growth of characterization as in 
 the parts of Joseph and Mary. From their presentation in the 
 York cycle one finds recapitulated the playwright's power of 
 drawing real persons in a series of actions, and the degree of 
 his perception of the dramatic in life. Many times his dramatic 
 instincts have been noticed in these pages, but the natural 
 consistency between the poet's conception of his characters and 
 the parts he allots to them are no less apparent and noteworthy. 
 The situation in which we find Joseph and Mary, are, broadly 
 speaking, dramatic, yet not the least strain after effect is any- 
 where traceable; the words fit the action, and the surroundings 
 make the action probable. It is true that written and oral 
 information had preceded the dramatist in forming the popular 
 concept of the parents of Jesus, and no doubt, this traditional 
 view determined the author in a general way, but apart from 
 this drawback he had room sufficient to emphasize and deepen 
 certain lines of the popular picture and so change the counten- 
 ance that, though unable to alter the features, he effected, never- 
 theless, in the parts of Mary and Joseph the trarxsition from the 
 mere ideal type of individual to the truly human and personal. 
 This was a progress which counts for much when one remembers 
 the playwright's limitations and particularly if we compare his 
 work with the authors of the other Cycles or even with tl^e 
 writers of the Moral plays, 
 
102 
 
 The roles of Jesus, Mary and Joseph received much from 
 their position as part of an organic whole. Scenes in which 
 their interests only are concerned, or of which they are but 
 remotely the occasion, contributed many helpful suggestions and 
 indirect explanations which spared the audience the flat and 
 undramatic expositions of the Banns or Doctor. The cyclic 
 arrangement of the matter, which is characteristic of the early 
 English dramatic writing, facilitated the treatment of the caste 
 and touches at more points than is evident at first view the 
 regular plot of the early Elizabethan dramatists. In no con- 
 nection do the advantages of the cyclic or serial action better 
 come to light than in contrast of the comic with the purely 
 serious element which we have just been considering. But 
 before passing to illustrate the nature of the lighter sentiment 
 in the Biblical plays it may be well to examine a play of non- 
 cyclic character which owes its existence to its own dramatic 
 worth. The independent play I choose is that treating of the 
 familiar theme, the Sacrifice of Abraham and Isaac, which is 
 preserved in the Brome manuscript.* It occupies only four 
 hundred and sixty-five lines in all, yet there is a proportion 
 in the distribution of the action that leaves an impression of 
 completeness. 
 
 Incidentally the simple and effective arrangement of this 
 dramatically pathetic and even tragical theme, certainly 
 unequaled by anything in the cycles in the way of character 
 treatment, shows how unnecessarily slow was the evolution of 
 the cycles — not to speak of the Moralities — in passing from the 
 liturgical acts to the beginnings of the secular drama. The 
 author of the Brome play chooses the point of dramatic interest 
 in Abraham's long life and excludes every circumstance foreign 
 to his purpose. In a few lines he suggests more than the 
 prologue speaker of the cycles would tell in fifty. The patriarch 
 opens with a direct address to the Almighty, thanking Him for 
 the gift of land in which he is to lead in grateful content the 
 evening of his life. More than for his life and land Abraham 
 is bound to God for the ''younge chyld Ysaac" whom he loves 
 half greater than all his children and next after '*der Fadir of 
 blysse." 
 
 * The text is re-edited from Miss Toulmin Smith in the Anglia VII., 
 316-337, by Professor Manly, Specimens of the pre-Shakespearean Drama, 
 Vol. 1, pp. 41-57, ^ ■ 
 
103 
 
 "And therfor, Fadyr of heuven, I the prey 
 Nowe, Lorde, kepe hym both nyght and day, 
 For hys helth and also for hys grace; 
 
 That neuer dessese nor noo fray 
 Come to my chyld in noo place." 
 
 Isaac is indeed deserving of his father's affection for his only 
 defect (it is a common fault in all the six Isaacs — with the 
 exception possibly of the virile little fellow in the Woodkirk 
 play) is his unreal, and rather theatrical protestations of respect 
 and obedience to Abraham. 
 
 "Abraham, myne own fader so mylde. 
 To followe youe I am full prest, 
 Bothe erly and late." 
 
 This glance at the relation of the father and son prepares for 
 what follows. On the scaffold above the patriarch and his 
 son, D'eus has been listening all the while. He summnos an 
 angel whom He commissions to descend "on-to medyll erth 
 anon" to inform Abraham that it is the divine pleasure that he 
 offer in sacrifice the blood of his child. 
 
 "Say I commanded hym for to take 
 Ysaac hys young sonne, that he love so wyll, 
 And with hys blood sacryfyce he make, 
 Yffe ony off my freynchepe he wyll ffell." 
 
 The angel descends the stairs from heaven and finds Abraham 
 engaged at his morning prayer, asking the Almighty what might 
 be His will and what manner of ocering would be most agreeable 
 in His sight. Ten Brink thinks that Abraham receives the 
 dreadful ansvv'er with too much coolness and resignation. 
 Abraham speaks like a moral preacher, not like a father."* 
 When we consider the origin and sanction of the command 
 which admitted of no alternative in connection with the temper- 
 ament of the patriarch, anything other than the fullest acquies- 
 cence was out of question. His action may not be so dramatic 
 as we can fancy a like scene would be presented to-day, but 
 the Brome Abraham is none the less true. He did precisely 
 what every father in the audience would have done ; and when 
 we recall with what facility the mediaeval mind looked back of 
 the symbol and seized on the reality of things, the didactic 
 and impersonal element in the patriarch's fiat is at once reduced 
 to a minimum. The words of the mitred craftsman above stairs 
 
 ^ English Literature, Vol, II, part 1, -p. 254, 
 
104 
 
 were easily understood as voicing the will of God which 
 Abraham receiving as such was bound by every dictate of 
 reason and propriety, even at the sacrifice of fatherly sentiment, 
 to obey unquestioningly. Had the command to slay Isaac 
 come from King Edward or Richard, Abraham might well waive 
 the test and defer obedience. A ready and implicit compliance 
 to such an authority would savor of socratic renunciation and 
 be justly chargeable with playing the part of the unfeeling 
 moral preacher and not that of a father. Only when we mistake 
 the mediaeval view does Abraham's attitude appear unreal. 
 
 The unswerving will in Abraham to do the angel's bidding, 
 while throughout appreciatively stronger than his fatherly 
 affection, becomes,^ as the actual process begins, swayed and 
 disturbed by natural sentiment. The touch is especially good 
 which shows this contrast betweeh the will and the deed. One 
 feels the conflict waging within the old man's bosom as the 
 hour for leaving for the mountain of sacrifice draws near. 
 "Now, Ysaac, my owne son dere, 
 Where art thow, ehyld? Speak to me." 
 
 Isaac as it "prerys to the Trenyte", but he breaks off at once 
 and holds himself ready to do his father's bidding. "The child- 
 like innocence of Isaac," says Ten Brink, '*is beautifully set 
 forth and in a way that must have touched the father's heart, 
 and which still greatly moves the spectator." Both collect and 
 bind the faggots, Isaac talking the while in the most endearing 
 way to his father. As Abraham puts the bundle on the boy's 
 shoulder he is overcome with grief. 
 
 "A! Lorde or heuyn, my handes I wryng, 
 Thys chyldes wordes all to-wond my harte, 
 
 And again as the father asks to make haste, Isaac answers: 
 "Go we, my dere fader, as fast as I may; 
 To followe you I am full fayn 
 All- thow I be slendyr. 
 Abraham: — A! Lorde, my hart brekyth on tweyn, 
 Thys chyldes wordes, they be so tender." 
 
 The dialogue and action on the mountain are transcripts of 
 nature, and yet are intensely dramatic. The naive inquisitive- 
 ness of the son as he first notices his father's "heauy chere", 
 and his acknowledged effort to make him feel bright and happy 
 is particularly fine, as well as the effect of all this on Abraham. 
 Isaac, failing to cheer his father, is naturally led to inquire intq 
 
105 
 
 the nature and cause of the unwonted dejection. But his mind 
 at once turns on an idea that may be the cause of the gtiei 
 and which proves besides to be of immediate personal interest. 
 The fire and the wood is ready but there is "no qwyke best" 
 for the offering. 
 
 "A qwyke best, I wot wyll, must be dede 
 
 Your sacryfyce for to make. 
 Abraham: — Dred the nowyth my ehilde, I the red, 
 
 Owr Lord wyll send me on-to thys sted 
 
 Summ maner a best for to take. 
 Throw hys swet sond. 
 Ysaac: — Ya, fader, but my hart begynneyth to quake 
 
 To se that scharpe sword in your bond. 
 
 Why here ye your sword drawyn soo? 
 
 Off your conwnauns I haue mych wonder. 
 Abraham: — A! Fader of heuen, so I am woo! 
 
 Thys ehyld her brekys my harte on-sonder. 
 Ysaac: — Tell me, dere fader, or that ye sea, 
 
 Ber ye your sword drawn for me? 
 Abraham: — A! Ysaac, swet son, pes! pes! 
 
 For i-wys thow breke my harte on thre. 
 Ysaac: — Now trewly sum-wat, fader, ye thynke 
 
 That ye morne thus more and more. 
 Abraham: — A! Lorde of heuen, thy grace let synke. 
 
 For my harte was neuer halffe so sore. 
 Ysaac: — I preye yow, fader, that ye wyll let me that wyt, 
 
 Wyther schall I heue ony harme or noo. 
 Abraham: — I-wys, swet son, I may not tell ye yyt 
 
 My harte ys soo full of woo. 
 Ysaac: — Dere fader, I prey yow, hyd it not fro me, 
 
 But sum of yowr thowt that ye tell me. 
 Abraham: — A. Ysaac, Ysaac, I must kyll thee! 
 Ysaac: — Kyll me, fader? alasse, wat haue I done? 
 
 Yff I haue trespassyd a-gens yow owt, t 
 
 With a yard ye may make me full myld; 
 
 And with your scharp sword kyll me noyght, 
 
 For i-wys fader, I am but a chyld. 
 Abraham: — I am full sory, son, thy blood for to spyll. 
 
 But truly, my ehilde, I may not chese. 
 Ysaac: — Now I wolde to God my moder were here on thys hyll! 
 
 Sche wolde knele for me on both hyr kneys 
 To saue my lyffe. 
 
 And sythyn that my moder ys not here, 
 
 I prey yow fader, schonge yowr chere. 
 
 And kyll me not with yowr knyflfe." 
 
 The son no longer pleads for his life when Abraham tells him 
 jt is God's wi}l that calls for the sacrifice of his blood, Is^ac 
 
106 
 
 with a brevity and directness that smites his father's heart, asks 
 "And ys yt Goddes wyll that I schulde be slayn?'* 
 
 He resigns himself to Abraham's answer, encourages Jiim to 
 
 do the command of God, but begs him not to tell his mother 
 
 what has happened. 
 
 "But, good fader, tell ye my moder no-thyng. 
 Say that I am in a-noyther euntre dwellyng." 
 
 This overpowers the father. 
 
 "Sone, thy worddes make me to wepe full sore; 
 Now, my dere, son Ysaac, spake no mare. 
 Ysaac: — A! myne owne dere fader, wherefore? 
 
 We schall speke to-gedyr her but a whyls. 
 And sythyn that I nedysse be ded 
 Yyt, my dere fader, to yow I prey, 
 Smythe but fewe strokes at my hed, 
 And make an end as sone as ye may. 
 And tery not to longe. 
 
 Abraham bursts into tears and embraces his son a second 
 time. Isaac complains that his father's grief affects him more 
 than the shedding of his own blood. Upon this Abraham takes 
 courage to bind the victim, but Isaac's question unnerves him : 
 "A! mercy, fader, wy schuld ye do soo?" He consents to be 
 bound and repeats his former request that his mother will hear 
 nothing of the deed, for if she should, he says, she would weep 
 ''full sore". All this prolongs the agony of the father who has 
 still to hear the further heart-rending petition for pardon : 
 "And of all the trespasse that euer I ded meue you. 
 Now, dere fader, forgyffe me that I haue done." 
 
 Abraham's emphatic answer betrays the extent of his grief: 
 "A! dere chylde, leafe of thy monys; 
 In all thy lyffe thow grevyd me neuer onys." 
 
 Isaac has yet to ask that his father's handkerchief be put over 
 his eyes that he might not see the sharp sword, and then that 
 his face be turned downward for the same reason, and finally 
 that Abraham will smite "hastely" and "not oftyn." 
 
 These favors are granted, though every word from Isaac 
 pierces his father's soul and hardly leaves him strength suffi- 
 cient to drav/ the sword. The poet, whose psychological insight 
 from the beginning is most acute and sure, gives here a touch 
 which shows how fully he was in sympathy with his theme. 
 Abraham all through had shown himself disposed to hurry the 
 
107 
 
 action and strove in every way possible to waive the questions 
 of Isaac or so to distract himself from the thought of the deed 
 that his fore-image of the bleeding child might not prevail on 
 his resolution. He would not suffer himself to listen to the 
 appealing words of Isaac nor look on his fair innocent face, for 
 fear his heart's affections would betray him and cause him to fail 
 Un the fulfillment of his duty: 
 
 "My hart be-gynnth strongly to rysse, 
 To see the blood off thy blyssyd body." 
 
 When the fatal moment comes, characteristically enough, it 
 is Abraham that delays the decisive blow. He bewails that he 
 should have lived to see the day, he prays that his heart 'breke 
 on thre' and offers to God the sacrifice of his life in place of 
 that of his child. He defers so long that Isaac asks him to 
 have mercy and not delay the stroke : 
 
 A! mercy, fader, wy tery ye so; 
 
 And let me ley thus longe on this hethe?" 
 
 This moves the patriarch to the final decision; addressing his 
 heart reproachfully he draws the sword: 
 
 "N"ow, hart, wy wolddyst not thow breke on thre? 
 Yt sehall thou not make me to my God on-myld. 
 
 I wyll no longer let for the. 
 
 For that my God agrevyd wold be; 
 Now hoold tha stroke, my owyn dere chyld. 
 
 The Angel stays his hand as the sword is to fall on Isaac's 
 neck, and explains to the patriarch how God was pleased with 
 the will for the deed. The heavenly messenger on departing 
 points to the ram caught in the thicket. Abraham, overcome 
 with joy, breaks forth into words of thafiksgiving : 
 
 A! Lord, I thanke the of thy gret grace, 
 Nowe, am I yeyed on dyuers wysse, 
 A-rysse up, Ysaac, my dere sunne, arysse; 
 A-rysse up, swete chyld and cum to me. 
 
 Unlike the Towneley play at this point Abraham will not speak to 
 the heavenly messenger until he himself has released and kissed 
 his son, in the Brome play Isaac knows nothing of the Angel's 
 intervention and all the while awaits the fatal stroke in silent 
 suspense. Consequently, now when Abraham bids him rise, 
 he fears that his father has been wanting in resolution. 
 
 "A! mercy fader, wy smygth ye nowt? 
 A! smygth on, fader, onys with your knyffp/' 
 
108 
 
 I Abraham tells him of the heavenly visitor and the happy issue 
 ' of their grief. Isaac wishes that he could believe it. Doubt 
 and fear possess his mind all through the remaining lines, despite 
 the fact that Abraham points to the "blyssyd scheppe" which 
 God has sent for the sacrifice. Even when the victim is ready 
 to be immolated and Isaac feels the joy of life and the pros- 
 pective happiness of seeing his mother again he can not persuade 
 himself that all danger is over. He asks for repeated assurances 
 that his life will be spared, as when he fans the fire: 
 
 But, fader, wyll I stowppe downe lowe. 
 
 Ye wyll not kyll me with yowr sword, I trowe. 
 
 'The patriarch gently assures him that their mourning is past 
 and that he must not entertain such idle fears. But Isaac can 
 not put them away. 
 
 Ya! but I woold that sword were in a gled, 
 For, i-wys, fader, yt make me full yll a-gast. 
 
 Abraham offers the sacrifice and Deus speaks from above accept- 
 ance of it. Father and son fall on their knees and thank heaven 
 for its manifold blessings. As Abraham and Isaac leave for 
 home, a 'Doctour' comes on the stage and explains at length the 
 lesson of the piece. 
 
 From this brief outline of the action it is sufficiently evident 
 that the author of this isolated, or at least, detached drama, 
 understood the spirit or inner movement of the contrast 
 between the tragic quality of the situation and the non-tragical 
 characters of the persons engaged in it. The struggle presented 
 in this most pathetic of incidents is singularly dramatic. For 
 the purposes of the playwright, a more inspiring theme than 
 this Biblical suggestion of the clash of highest interests between 
 obvious duty and fatherly affection, could hardly be conceived. 
 The characters develop not by any external agency but from 
 within, in a purely moral way. The outward action is informed 
 by an inner principle. The variety of motives, their apposite 
 arrangement, the logical growth of influencing causes into 
 effects and reactions — in a word, from the general impression 
 of the whole as well as from the effective and artistically 
 dramatic setting of its parts, one may conclude that he has here 
 in this religious drama of the fourteenth century, the highest 
 result of a conscious effort at dramatic effect through charac- 
 terization, It will be remembered th^t although the Brome plaj^, 
 
109 
 
 Abraham and Isaac, is thought to be independent of cyclic 
 influences, it differs however, only in degree of perfection from 
 its counter-part in the cycle series. Indeed, Ten Brink when 
 noticing the richness of motives and varieties of thought and 
 emotion as presented in the Brome scene, observes that some 
 passages in it arouse in hi'm the suspicion that motives from 
 other plays have been interwoven with the representation form- 
 ing the nucleus of this play. There is intrinsic evidences to 
 confirm the suspicion that the Brome play drew from many 
 sources and that its originality comes rather from the fusion 
 and recasting of foreign material than by way of a studied 
 deduction direct from the Biblical suggestion. In either case 
 the work is original for us — it being the best of the six plays 
 extant on the subject — and from the point of view of character- 
 treatment it is of the utmost value as illustrative, at so early 
 a date, of such perfection in the evolution of the caste. There 
 is a genuine growth and expansion of the persons outward from 
 within, the informing principle or process inside furnishes life, 
 motive and meaning to the external activity. There has been 
 this intrinsic inner force operating in the liturgic and cyclic 
 characters, but for its full perception special faculties were 
 required. These, it has been said, were supplied by the two j 
 senses of personality and responsibility which were developed j 
 beyond parallel all through the Middle Ages. The environment, 
 too, in disposing favorably the acts of presentation incited the 
 perceptive powers and aided in bringing out the significance of 
 the action. But in the present scene the matter is dramatic in| 
 itself, and it is its human side which is accentuated. It belongs! 
 to the Middle Ages but the sentiment, while peculiarly suited 
 to the mediaeval temperament, has power to appeal to any 
 audience in any age. There is an element of human interest 
 in the Sacrifice of Isaac with which no one who can appreciate 
 tragic action will be wanting in sympathy while he beholds this 
 most trying struggle within the range of the dramatic — the con- 
 flict between evident duty and fatherly affection. 
 
 The transition to the Elizabethan drama from the Brome, * 
 Dublin, or Chester plays of Abraham and Isaac, or from the 
 development of many situations all through the cycles might 
 have been easily effected. Many of the scenes such as those 
 treating of the Crucifixion, for instance, in the York set, or 
 
110 
 
 the play of the Last Judgment in the Chester Cycle, which is, 
 in its way, a tragedy in little, might be taken from the series 
 in which they are linked and worked over and extended into 
 an independent drama. This was tentatively aimed at by the 
 liturgic writer. All that had been needed was fb substitute for 
 the exclusively spiritual or supernatural motives of the religious 
 dramas incentives of a more sensible nature, connections less 
 occult between the directing thought or process within and the 
 outward act. Though it is the divine element within the 
 character which is the vivifying germ of all real human heroism 
 and this, as has been said, was intuitively understood by the 
 mediaeval mind, the later dramatist, however, felt it necessary, 
 not indeed to exclude the great mian-spring and the determin- 
 ative of human activity which dwells in man's nature, but to 
 assume its existence as the hidden root-virtue, whose acts and 
 manifestations it was his main task to emphasize. Here, perhaps, 
 we may see at the closest, how strictly one the early conception 
 ^- (of characterization was with the highest Elizabethan develop- 
 Iment of it, and how unbroken the continuity from the origin of 
 'the Gothic drama to its fullest perfection, had been the play- 
 wright's growing consciousness of the need of presenting his 
 persons in lifelike action, reasoning, willing and feeling. This 
 was the aim immutable. What ever contributed to realize 
 this great end was straightway canonized as dramatic material. 
 The Liturgical drama retained throughout close affinities 
 to its sacrosanct origins, never forsaking its solemn ritualistic 
 character, so far, at least as any conscious introduction of the 
 comic is concerned. With the cycles this was not the case. 
 Though in purpose and matter these, too, were essentially 
 . faithful to their Sacred beginnings, the religious element predom- 
 inating to the last, they were not, however, so exclusively serious 
 as not to admit at times a seasoning mixture of what was less 
 weighty, humorous touches, comical incidents and downright 
 incongruous farces. It is here at this early period in the 
 development of the drama that we find the crude beginnings of 
 what was later to be perfected by the Elizabethan writers — the 
 intermingling of the light with the grave, the trivial with the 
 serious, comedy with tragedy. Here also at the birth of the 
 comic element in the religious drama one sees best the difference 
 between the Biblical writer and the mediaeval playwright. Seen 
 
Ill 
 
 from this side one appreciates at its fullest the mite of origin- 
 ality in the treatment of the persons of the Bible and 
 particularly the attitude of the dramatist toward his non- 
 biblical caste. His constant attention to what is dramatic in 
 their lives, as was observed when speaking of his search for 
 contrasts, and his effort to recast the biblical material and 
 make it appeal to his audience by such indefensible processes 
 as modernizing and localizing by homely allusions of the day 
 in Mediaeval England events that took place at the dawn of 
 time in heaven and hell, Chaldea and Calvary, Bethlehem and 
 Egypt, show attempts at realism which facilitated and fostered 
 greatly the beginnings of English comedy. The insight one 
 gets into the dramatic purpose of the playwright from the 
 consideration of his partiality for the imponderable parts of his 
 matter is of the greatest importance in an estimate of character- 
 ization during the cyclic period. The introduction of the comic 
 — itself a natural outgrowth of a fuller treatment of the serious 
 and tragic — humanized the purely spiritual drama of the Sanc- 
 tuary and made it more concrete than any external influence 
 could have done. Similarly it will be the coarse comic element 
 that will keep the Moral plays in touch with the audience, and 
 give to the abstractions in appearance outwardly, the semblance 
 somewhat of the very close relation in which the allegorical 
 figures actually stood to the persons of real life. 
 
 Incidents and scenes of relief have been noted from time to 
 time in summarizing the action of the York Cycle. This set of 
 plays, however, is perhaps, the least remarkable for that display 
 of merriment on every occasion to be met with, for instance, 
 in the Towneley cycle of which Mr. Courthope says, that "it 
 would indeed almost seem as if the author, in attempting to 
 gratify the taste of his Wakefield audience, had studied the 
 York text, and had deliberately resolved to bring the comic 
 elements of that play into exaggerated relief." The York writer, 
 whose sense of dramatic proportions preserved him on the one 
 side from the didacticism of the Coventry Cycle, and on the other, 
 from the more supportable weakness of the Towneley play- 
 wright's bent to carricature and burlesque, divined perhaps, with 
 a surer instinct than any of his contemporaries the true function 
 of the comic in tragedy. His humorous incidents appear to grow 
 out of his material, or at least, they never strike one as such 
 
112 
 
 patent inorganic interpolations as do the Towneley Noah and 
 Secunda Pastorum, for instance, or Joseph's Jealousy and the 
 Trial of Mary in the VII and XIV plays of the Coventry Cycle. 
 
 In the presentation of the comic no less than in the purely 
 serious matter one finds reflected the spirit of the mediaeval 
 times and the unerring instinct of the playwright in divining a 
 process of dramatic action which the practice of Shakespeare 
 alone seemed capable of defending. "The parent stock of the 
 English Chronical Plays (as of the comedy of manners and 
 some other forms of realistic drama)/' writes Professor Schell- 
 ing, "is ultimately the comedy element in the old sacred drama. 
 It was thence that the Chronical play drew its sense of comedy 
 and its adhesion to simple realism in the representation of scenes 
 of actual life."* George Whetstone in the dedication of his 
 "Promos and Cassandra" gives this description of the nature 
 of the popular theatrical representation in 1578: "The English- 
 man in this quality is most vain, indiscreet and out of order. 
 He first grounds his works on impossibilities, then, in three 
 hours, runs he through the world, marries, gets children, makes 
 children men, men to conquor kingdoms, murder monsters and 
 bring the gods from heaven, and fetches devils from hell : and, 
 that which is worse their ground is not so imperfect as their 
 working indiscreet ; not weighing, so the people laugh, though 
 they laugh them for their follies to scorn. Many times to make 
 mirth, they make a clown a companion to the king; in their 
 general counsels they allow the advice of fools, yea they use 
 one order of speech for all persons, a gross indecorum. "t That 
 all these charges as stated might not be alleged against the 
 work of the cyclic playwright is evident; but it is nevertheless 
 true that what had become the ordinary license in the Chronical 
 play and Romantic drama before the time of Shakespeare was 
 quite in keeping with the spirit and practice of the religious 
 stage. 
 
 Five years later, about 1583, another theorist, Sir Philip 
 Sidney repeats in his Apology the complaint. Plays were 
 "neither right tragedies nor right comedies, mingling kings and 
 clowns, not because the matter so carrieth it, but thrusts in the 
 
 * Schelling, F. E., The English Chronical Play, p. 28. 
 t For Dedication, see Gregory Smith "Elizabethan Critical Essays," Vol. 
 I, 68-60. 
 
113 
 
 clown by head and shoulders, to play a part in majestical matters 
 with neither decency nor discretion ; so as neither the admiration 
 and commiseration nor right sportfulness is by their mongrel 
 tragi-comedy obtained." This censure, not at all addressed to 
 the Sacred drama for w^hich Sidney had little regard, was 
 however, as applicable to it as to the other species. Tragi- 
 comedy had its origin in the religious representations as the 
 Mystery of the Passion, before referred to, would show. In 
 that play the Mercator is not "thrust in by head and shoulders", 
 nor is there "the gross indecorum" of using one order of speech 
 for all persons, as the cosmetics are bought and the songs arc 
 sung in the vernacular. It is evident to every one how much 
 this shopping-scene, immediately preceding Magdalen's conver- 
 sion and the Crucifixion itself, served to heighten these subse- 
 quent parts of the play. Nothing could further the interests of 
 characterization more directly than the effort called forth here 
 to present, even with the faint semblance of reality, the truly 
 dramatic transitions in this brief play. 
 
 Numerous instances might be given which would go to 
 show that certain germinations of tragi-comedy manifest 
 themselves in the Cycles. I am not implying that all the pieces 
 of rusticity and buffonry one meets with existed "because the 
 matter so carrieth it", neither should I feel warranted to go to 
 the other extreme and say that nothing of the light, humorous 
 and even the burlesque was of organic growth, belonging to the 
 genius of the subject. This much is true, that one seldom finds 
 the comic introduced for its own sake but that in most cases 
 the contrast of the light with the grave adds considerably to 
 the general effect. The playwright has in mind the reproduction 
 of the actual scene and it is frequently remarkable with what 
 pains he aims at a certain fineness of truth. The vivid manner 
 in which the Towenely writer conceives the scene v/hich presents 
 the Sacrifices of Cain and Abel is an instance in point. Cain's 
 workman, Pyke-Harnes, "a merry lad, both blithe and glad" 
 speaks the prologue, calling on the audience to put an end to 
 noise and talk. His words are scarcely over when Cain enters 
 with a team — or more accurately, pulls up on a reserved space 
 of ground beside the scaffold. The ox and mare that draw 
 the plow are unmanageable — a circumstance which gives occa- 
 sion to present the ploughman in his heated moments. Cain's 
 
114 
 
 language is characteristic throughout; the Towneley author 
 strives to stamp every word uttered by his characters with a 
 peculiar accent unmistakably their own. When the gentle Abel 
 comes before the spectators wishing Cain and his man "a God 
 spede", he actually finds the ploughman and servant at fists. 
 He parts them and peace is restored, but Cain's disposition is 
 not changed. His very answer to Abel's salutation would show 
 the spiteful disregard of the insolent and envious miser towards 
 his brother. We have seen the reasons Cain gave in the York 
 Cycle for not wishing to ofi^er tithes to God, as Abel bids him 
 at this point to do ; among others these are what he alleges here 
 "When all mens come was fayre in feld. 
 
 Then was myne not worthe an eld; 
 
 When I should saw (sow), and wanted sede. 
 
 And of corne had fiille grete neyde. 
 
 Then gaf he me none of his, 
 
 No more wille I gif hym of this." 
 
 Fear rather than love or duty moves him to follow Abel to the 
 •place of sacrifice. Feeling it impossible to revenge himself on 
 God, he grows at every step more vindictive toward his brother 
 whose generous disposition is a continuous reproach to his 
 ungrateful spirit. Abel is shocked at the height of insolence 
 on the part of Cain, who deliberately assorts two dozen sheafs, 
 the poorest in his property, to offer as a holocaust to the Lord. 
 The clever commingling of the comic and serious elements here 
 would go far to justify Mr. Pollard's statement that the author 
 of the Towneley Mactatio Abel, was a genius.* The rejection 
 of his sacrifice, evident in that it was not consumed without 
 smoke, and the acceptance of Abel's lamb enkindle his wrath 
 the more, and as if it were impossible for jealousy and anger to 
 burn fiercer within his breast, when he hears the formal reprov- 
 ing voice from heaven his passion apparently calms. In the 
 whole round of the Cycle, I doubt that there be many touches 
 truer to nature than this manifested in the affected composure 
 Cain assumes to hide more effectively his murderous design. 
 The sudden transition from a violent hate to a hypocritical 
 placidity of mind reveals the depth of his passion. Abel, with 
 characteristic innocence is betrayed by the seeming sincerity of 
 his brother. He goes with Cain into the fields, where, without 
 
 * Journal of Comparative Literature, Vol. I, No. 4, pp. 324-344. The 
 Character of Cain, by Paul Hamelius. 
 
115 
 
 the remotest positive cause, the inhuman archmurderer falls 
 on his brother and crushes him to death. The divine curse is 
 pronounced over Cain, who seeks to hide himself from the face 
 of God. 
 
 The scene that follows the fratricide and malediction affords 
 the playwright an occasion to show the hero in the most 
 calamitous circumstance imaginable. The language and action 
 of Cain reflect his mental state — the traditional seven mortal 
 sins of which legend held him guilty, so operate within his 
 breast that he appears to be less a rational being than a sensible 
 composite of this seven-fold spiritual activity. And yet he is 
 intensely human. His fiendish exultation over the dead body 
 of his brother, only surpassed by the bold defiance he offers 
 to God, would lead one to infer otherwise. A careful study 
 of the play will justify the conclusion that the conduct of 
 Cain, even in the second part of the play, differs essentially from 
 the roles of Satan and his fellows (with whom, however, the 
 mediaeval painter was wont to associate the first murderer) as 
 these impersonations of evil are conceived by the playwright 
 of the Middle Ages. The two senses of personality and respon- 
 sibility, I should venture to say, are abnormally keen, though 
 dulled by his seven-fold guilt. The whole tenor of his actions, 
 notably his will, however reluctant to follow Abel to offer tithes, 
 and his effort to hide from the Lord after the murder, makes 
 it appear that Cain was fully sensible of the divine sanction 
 governing his conduct. At times his words would lead one to 
 infer the contrary, but his deeds are surer indices of his belief 
 than his words, and the opposition here between words and acts 
 is, or is analogous to, the rendering explicit through speech 
 and movement, the willingness or unwillingness to do a deed or 
 follow a course of action. This making objective, a personifica- 
 tion of the secret, inner prompting of the human spirit, would 
 appear to me the main work of the moral playwright. 
 
 How wide the playwright's conception was of the truth 
 in his presentation of this scene from Genesis, will always remain 
 an open question. That it illustrates the point for which I 
 have chosen to speak of it here, is evident to all who have 
 considered the nature of the tragi-comic in the Elizabethan 
 drama. To put into serious dramas sorcerers, peasants, drunk- 
 ards, buffoons, grave-diggers in the act of making a grave and 
 
116 
 
 singing drinking songs as they play with the skulls of the 
 dead, grated on Voltaire's sensibilities. But had he observed 
 closer he might have found, as Prof. Lounsbury aptly points 
 out, ''that the grave-diggers sing songs; but they are not 
 drinking songs, and in the exercise of their calling they throw 
 up skulls but they do not play with them.''* 
 
 Place side by side the narrative in the fourth chapter of 
 Genesis and its dramatization by the Woodkirk playwright and 
 it will appear that he came nearer to fact than is commonly 
 thought. To the meagre outline given by the sacred writer, 
 the author of the play worked out the suggestion Into reasonable 
 fullness in a just, dramatic progression. That his interpreta- 
 tion of the Scriptural passage is wholly in keeping with the 
 suggestion of the text no one will be likely to deny; on the 
 contrary, it is for his extreme realism that he is censured. In 
 his work one may perceive many of those germinations that 
 were to grow to fruitage in the Elizabethan drama. The lovable 
 character of Abel and the mild rebuke from God : "Cain why 
 art thou so rebelle. Agans thi brother Abelle?" are contrasted 
 with the insolent and irreverent attitude Cain manifests through- 
 out. The long scene that presents the hero choosing and count- 
 ing the poorest sheaves to pay the tithes brings out the antithesis 
 in Cain's moral life better than pages of analytical writing. 
 Again, the introduction of Pyke-Harnes, a personage wholly 
 unknown to the inspired writer, was the fashioning of a stage- 
 machine that looks like a creation of a born playwright. Pyke- 
 harnes is a fellow of infinite jest and seemingly as irresponsible 
 morally and socially as his descendants on the Elizabethan 
 stage. How happily he serves the author in the development 
 of the hero ! 
 
 More need not be said in this place in reference to the cyclic 
 playwright's view of the stage as an expression of life — the 
 whole life, tragic and comic. It is wonderful with what 
 directness and truth- in his inimitable, unvarnished way he 
 brought out, at times, with some dramatic intensity, the complex 
 existence of the Biblical characters. With obvious limitations. 
 Voltaire's confession is applicable to the Mediaeval stage. 
 "When I began to learn the English language, I could not 
 
 * Shakespeare and Voltaire, p. 61. 
 
117 
 
 understand how so enlightened a people could admire an author 
 (Shakespeare) so extravagant. But when I gained a fuller 
 acquaintance with the speech, I perceived that the English were 
 right, and that it is impossible for a whole nation to be deceived 
 in a matter of sentiment, and to be wrong in being pleased. 
 They saw, as I did, the gross faults of their favorite author, 
 but they felt better than I his beauties, all the more remarkable 
 because they are lightning flashes which have sent forth their 
 gleams in profoundest night."* 
 
 * Lounsbury, T; Shakespeare and Voltaire, p. 51. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 CHARACTERIZATION IN THE MORAL PLAYS 
 
 The development of the Liturgical drama into the Cyclic series 
 was a natural, and dramatic conditions considered, a necessary 
 growth. The idea undeveloped in the Sanctuary Scenes, however 
 essentially prolific we admit it to be in itself, would remain to a 
 great extent potential and inoperative as long as it abode within 
 the seclusion of the sacred precincts. We have seen in what sense 
 it was necessary for dramatic advancement that the Liturgical play 
 should cease to be liturgic. In passing out of the hands of the 
 clergy in their naves and choirs, to those of the laity in their market- 
 places and guild halls, the dramatic germ which drew its life from 
 the liturgy met with the needed conditions for growth. It may be 
 questioned, however, if the Middle English cycles contributed in a 
 more positive way to the Elizabethan drama than in affording a 
 more or less congenial atmosphere to the unfolding and developing 
 of what was germinally, at least, contained in Liturgical plays. No 
 doubt there is a great distance between the first informal sugges- 
 tion and actual execution of the idea in finished work. Moreover, 
 it is purely speculative to ask was it necessary to await the slow 
 round of the Cycles to reach the transition stage. The fact is that 
 in adapting, defining and enlarging the Sanctuary Scenes, which 
 was the great work of the cyclic playwright, much dramatic knowl- 
 edge was acquired. New aspects of the central idea were observed, 
 new dramatic points in the action were disclosed, invention was 
 elicited, efforts to condense, recast and harmonize loosely connected 
 incidents were called for, non-Biblical material was introduced, in- 
 terest was quickened and the auditors grew more exacting. 
 
 Characterization was advanced by the removal of the stage 
 from the sanctuary to the market-greens. Humanism had set in 
 and its spirit was slowly permeating all institutions and classes of 
 society, so that actions and incidents which at an earlier date edified 
 and pleased, edified indeed as before, but were now more apt to 
 grow tiresome. Unalloyed religious seriousness was no longer rel- 
 ished. Incidents of relief, not to say of profane burlesque, had to 
 
 118 
 
119 
 
 be introduced to attract and keep the audience. What ever widened 
 the sphere of the playwright meant a corresponding growth and 
 variety in his characters. New phases of the hero's Hfe appeared, 
 recesses of his soul that no analysis could translate into words 
 were shown open to the spectators by the brutal gesture, the scorn- 
 ful glance and slanderous tongue. Somewhat in this way it was 
 that an atmosphere favorable to dramatic life and character-treat- 
 ment resulted from the activity of the cyclic playwright. Remote 
 preparations were made for the Elizabethan drama. The historical, 
 comic, grotesque as well as dramatic elements of these early efforts 
 might be so verified as to become component parts of a Shake- 
 spearean play. At all events it was to be expected that a new in- 
 dependent species might at any moment be deduced from the ex- 
 perience and suggestion afforded by the adaptation and continual 
 revision of the cycles. The new species or sub-variety which grew 
 into prominence was known as the Moral Play. 
 
 As complement of the cycles the Moral play which emphasized 
 in a special way the ethical side of human existence and the sacra- 
 mental system of the Church had a distinct value and appropriate- 
 ness apart from its dramatic importance. In the plays that had to 
 do with Scriptural history the doctrinal side of Giristianity was 
 brought chiefly into the foreground, the playwright not unfre- 
 quently treating his material with an evident apologetic purpose in 
 view. However well it rounded out the religious teachings of the 
 cycles, the Morality as a dramatic species, was apparently the least 
 fitted of the many possible varieties suggested by the Biblical series 
 to lead long in the struggle for life. If one would expect in the 
 course of dramatic evolution the survival of the fittest from every 
 generation, it would seem that we should regard the moral play as 
 an anomaly, a barren and abortive side-growth from a stem of 
 promise. When the idea of struggle and conflict present incipiently 
 in the Liturgical drama had been elaborated and rendered so con- 
 crete by the long activity of the cyclic playwrights as to have re- 
 duced the general to the particular and personal — to be on the point 
 of introducing real persons and manners on the stage — a reaction 
 took place. It looked, at least from the point of view of character- 
 treatment, as if the drama were to begin its career over. Instead 
 of regular Comedy and Tragedy anticipating the dissolution of the 
 long-lived Mysteries, these were suffered not to die but to become 
 transformed into what would seem their primal state — the abstrac- 
 
120 
 
 tions of the Moralities. The Four Sisters, Mercy, Truth, Peace 
 and Justice, were to meet one another again on the stage from 
 which they had made their exit early in the Coventry cycle. 
 
 "Allegory in the literature of the Middle Ages," says Mr. 
 Courthope, "presents itself under three aspects: (i) As a philo- 
 sophical method of interpreting the phenomena of nature (2) As 
 an abstracting process of the mind which embodies itself in the 
 rhetorical figure of Personification ; (3) As specific form of Poetry." * 
 There is no question of the Mediaeval predeliction for this form 
 of writing. The extensive cultivation of allegory by poets and 
 romancers would of itself be sufficient to settle any doubt as to the 
 popular taste in this respect. This is noteworthy in the present con- 
 nection where it is in place to trace out the course by which char- 
 acter-treatment in this chief among the apparently destructive species 
 of drama had come to make contribution to the advance of charac- 
 terization in a positive way. f 
 
 Considered in itself, the return to the presentation of abstract 
 allegorical personages certainly would seem to indicate a retarding, 
 if not an actual retrogression in the growth of dramatic character- 
 ization. To substitute for the homely, historical persons of the 
 Bible, creations of the mind, such as Contemplation, Human Na- 
 ture, God's Felicity, Light of the Gospel, Ecclesia, Synagoga, Gen- 
 tilitas, etc., appears at first sight to put quite out of thought the 
 essentials of dramatic composition. Such a process, it would seem, 
 sapped at the very vitals of character-life and made all progressive 
 growth impossible. That the Moral plays, however, were in some 
 respects, in advance of the Cyclic drama, even in the way of charac- 
 ter-treatment, and its complement from a dramatic as well as re- 
 ligious point of view, will sufficiently appear from a brief account 
 of the species as a whole, and an analysis of a few representative 
 moralities. They recapitulated to some extent the vital dramatic 
 
 * W. J. Courthope, History of English Poetry, Vol. I, pp. 341-392. 
 
 t Professor Brander Matthews in describing the nature of the Moral 
 plav. indicates this relative dramatic advance of the Morality Species. "The 
 Moralitv was an attempt to depict character, but with the aid of the 
 primarv colors only, and with an easy juxtaposition of light and darkness. 
 Yet it 'helped along the development of the drama in that it permitted a 
 freer handling of the action, since the writer of the Moralities had always 
 to invent his plots, whereas the maker of Mysteries (Cyclic playwrights) 
 had his stories ready made to his hand. The Morality was frankly fiction, 
 while the Miracle play gave itself out for fact. Then also the tendency 
 seems irresistable, for any author who has an appreciation of human nature 
 to go speedily from the abstract to the concrete, and to substitute for the 
 cold figure of Pride itself, the fiery portrait of an actual man who is proud." 
 
121 
 
 qualities of the Liturgical and Cyclic period and added to them the 
 individuality of a new expression. This is true of the whole species 
 generally, yet there are important accidental differences between 
 the earlier and later Moral Plays. 
 
 Ordinarily it advances an explanation but little to say that there 
 is much similarity among the several species of a literary genus, or 
 among individual compositions of a species. We rea^d a sixth novel, 
 though we are convinced beforehand that the plot and denouement 
 are identical in the main, with one or other of the preceding five. 
 So, too, it is hardly true that there is no originality in the treatment 
 of the several Moralities. Everyman, New Custom, The Conflict 
 of Conscience and the Three Ladies of London, which are among 
 the later moralities in point of time, and in many respects reached 
 the perfection of the species in England, are at once very like and 
 very different, for instance, from the "Macro Moralities," which 
 are the earliest plays of the moral type. For the purpose of this 
 Essay, details must be dispensed with and only typical plays chosen. 
 Some definite idea of the characters may be formed with greater 
 precision by dwelling, first, on the early moral plays, to wit, those 
 contemporary with the Cyclic drama or those that drew their exist- 
 ence more directly and immediately from the Biblical Plays, as the 
 Coventry set would lead one to infer; and then it will be in place 
 to treat of character-presentation in the several later varieties which 
 were mediately derived from the Cyclic-series and directly the out- 
 growth, for most part, of the preceding moralities. 
 
 "In tracing the origin and course of unconscious growth," says 
 Ward, "it is well to abstain from any endeavor to draw hard and 
 fast, and therefore more or less arbitrary, lines of demarkation." * 
 This is very true and necessary. It is well, however, in the present 
 connection, to distinguish between earlier Moralities, that is, the 
 moral plays as such — didactic and allegorical ; and the later morali- 
 ties that were planned on a less extensive scale and ordinarily of a 
 less religious import, and subjected to secularizing influences which 
 in great part modified their nature. In this way we shall the better 
 see how the growing Humanism with its manifold offshoots and in- 
 terests, in arresting the progress of allegory and abstraction on the 
 stage, furthered the growth of dramatic characterization. 
 
 Generically a morality is a play enforcing a moral truth by 
 means of characters which are personified abstractions — figures rep- 
 
 * Historjr of English Dramatic Literature. Vol. 1, p. 70. 
 
122 
 
 resenting virtues and vices, qualities of the human mind, or abstract 
 conceptions in general. * The allegorical tendency prevalent in 
 every department of literature all through the Middle Ages, and 
 particularly owing to such widely popular works as the Visio con- 
 cerning Piers Plowman, the Roman de la Rose and the Confessio 
 Amantis, contemporaneous with the growth of the Moralities in 
 England, made it inevitable that the stage should escape the spirit 
 of the times. Mr. Chambers sees intimations of the moral plays of 
 the fourteenth century during the Liturgical period, and to ground 
 his claim he refers to the twelfth-century Latin play of Antichristus, 
 whose whole content in essence may be called allegorical, possessing 
 at this early date such distinctively allegorical characters as Ecclesia, 
 Synagogue, Gentilitas, Misericordia, Heresis, and Ypocrisis. t 
 Ward also is of the same opinion. He condemns as ''a fallacy" the 
 supposition that would have the Moralities nothing but the out- 
 growth of the Mysteries, a mere literary expansion of the alle- 
 gorical figures exhibited in those pageants (in the narrower sense 
 of the term, as Wart on and Collier would have it) which constituted 
 the chief popular attraction of the religious and other processions 
 of the Middle Ages." Ten Brink, Jusserand and Courthope agree 
 in referring the origin of the moralities to the same spirit that in- 
 troduced allegory into the current religious literature and court- 
 poetry — the effort to illustrate moral doctrines and abstract ideas in 
 bodily form, t 
 
 When the distinction between the earlier and later Moralities 
 is borne in mind one can determine in a general way what were the 
 influencing agencies which operated in either set. There are very 
 positive differences both in the matter and the manner of treatment 
 between the earliest moral plays and those which in point of time 
 at least, stood nearest to the perfection of the species. It will not 
 be questioned that in the early Moralities the allegorical and purely 
 symbolical element predominated to such a degree that it would be 
 impossible to eHminate it without the loss of an essential constituent 
 of the play. It was the inseparable shadow of their substance. The 
 simple frame or plot used in allegory which, to be worked out con- 
 sistently, necessitated special conventions in respect to the choice and 
 use of actors that were in keeping with its nature. A moral play 
 
 * Ward, A. History of Dram. Lit". Vol. I, p. 108. 
 
 t Chambers, The Mediaeval Stage, Vol. II, p. 62, 151-152. 
 
 $ Jusserand, Le Theatre en Angleterre, p. 320. 
 
123 
 
 was like a Mid-summer Night's Dream, the conception and process 
 dealt immediately with shadows of things, not with things in the 
 manner that we know, see and feel them. These shadowy actors 
 were real as long as one shut his eyes and dreamt, but the moment 
 he awoke and would touch and see, the caste for the greater number 
 vanished. "It was only necessary," says Ten Brink, "to take ser- 
 iously the personification and figures of speech, and to carry them 
 out consistently in order to complete the anthropomorphism." * 
 
 The early Moralities, then, could not be dissociated from their 
 allegorical setting, and seem to reflect more the spirit of the Liturgic 
 than that of the Cyclic drama. So far as the stage has given ex- 
 pression to Mediaeval life, one would find, perhaps, the truest 
 mirror of the times in the Liturgical and early Moral plays. It 
 strikes me as much to the purpose here in giving some general idea 
 of the characters and movements in this earlier variety of Moral 
 Play that which M. Jusserand says in speaking of physical types in 
 the Middle Ages as they are seen in the remains of the plastic arts." 
 "(Les) princes et gens du peuple ont des corps osseux et anguleux, 
 au geste brusque, passablement brutal, et dans Tesprit desquels il 
 est difficile de croire que des mots comme, grace, distinction, noblesse 
 de manieres aient un sens precis ou meme quelconque. Ce qu'on 
 trouve dans la realite, au Moyen-Age, des choses que designent ces 
 mots, paraient plus comme expressions d'aspirations vagues vers un 
 ideal supreme, a peine entrevu, que comme image de beaute pleines, 
 contemplee habituellment et en face." t 
 
 Something analogous to the transition from the Liturgic to the 
 Cyclic drama took place between the earlier and later plays of the 
 Moral type. In the Moralities, however, this evolution was prin- 
 cipally intrinsic, a growth from the abstract and general to the con- 
 crete and personal to the presentation of common life and manners ; 
 whereas the transition of the stage from the sanctuary to the fair- 
 grounds wrought also notable inner modifications, inevitable in 
 the process of elaboration that took place, but this change was 
 mainly a formal one. The importance attached to allegory (in- 
 cluding the moral lesson) in the respective plays of either period, 
 affords a common basis for a distinction between the earlier and 
 later Moralities. In the later Moral plays the allegory had not been 
 nearly so indispensable as in the earlier compositions of the species. 
 
 * English Literature, Vol. I, 297-298. 
 
 t Le Theatre en Angleterre, etc., pp. 331-332. 
 
124 
 
 For the most part it had direct bearing only on the plot ; the char- 
 acters were Httle affected by the allegorical surroundings in which 
 they moved. They continued in many instances to be known by 
 the familiar names, such as Avarice, Sensual, Suggestion, Hy- 
 pocrisy, Satan, Tyranny, Spirit and Conscience. But these resem- 
 blances were only nominal. It is interesting to notice how in the' 
 course of development these abstractions took on flesh and blood, 
 the qualities and manners of men, with human interests and evident 
 personal motives back of their conduct. They became capable of a 
 variety of action and their names signified only a predominant fea- 
 ture of their characters, not, as in the early Moral plays, their sole 
 activity. 
 
 The titles just given common to the very first castes, are taken 
 from the Conflict of Conscience, a Morality printed in 1581, a date 
 which probably marks the closing days of the Moral plays as such. 
 The play is purely controversial. It is particularly interesting, apart 
 from its indication of allegorical usage in the drama, as here for the 
 first time in the history of the religious stage we meet a hero taken 
 from contemporary life. Francis Spiera, the Philologus of the 
 Moral, was an Italian lawyer who "for fear of loss of life and 
 worldly goods forsook the truth of God's Gospel." Having entered 
 into himself after his apostasy from Galvanism, he was so smitten 
 with remorse that in despair of salvation he committed suicide. 
 This "most lamentable example of the doleful desperation of a 
 miserable worldlinge" affording the teachers of the New Learning 
 an apt illustration to point their discourses, very soon became widely 
 known in England. The thin veil of allegory which the playwright, 
 Nathaniell Woodes, minister in Norwich, threw over his "comedie," 
 barely hid the reality. The prologue gives the author's view of the 
 function of allegory in the drama after the following : 
 
 And here our author thought it meet the true name to omit, 
 
 And at this time imagine him Philogogus to be: 
 
 First for because a comedy will hardly him permit 
 
 The vices of one private man to touch particularly: 
 
 Again now shall it stir them more, who shall it hear or see; 
 
 For if this worldling had been named, we would straight deem in mind, 
 
 That all by him then spoken well, ourselves we would not find. 
 
 But sith philogogus is nought but one that loves to talk, 
 
 And common (commune) of the Word of God, but hath no further care. 
 
 According as he teacheth them in God's fear for to walk, 
 
 If that we practise this indeed, Philologi we are: 
 
 And so by his deserved fault we may in time beware, 
 
125 
 
 Now if, as author first it meant, you hear it with this gain, 
 In good behalf he will esteem that he bestowed his pain. 
 
 To this extent the stage had emancipated itself from the dominion 
 of the allegory even within the life-time of the Morality strictly so- 
 called. Lusty Juventus, written about 1550, New Custom, printed 
 in 1573, Hicke Scorner, Like Will to Like, in 1568, The Three 
 Lords of London in 1584, would show the gradual attenuation of 
 the allegorical element. Indeed, the Disobedient Child, printed in 
 1560, though in spirit a Moral, retains, however, none of the ab- 
 stract characters. But at this time Bale and Lyndsay had written, 
 and John Heywood was advanced in years. 
 
 This much in general. In the prologue to the Castle of Perse- 
 verance, the first of the three Macro Moralities, which are the 
 earliest extant plays of the species, one will find the main argument 
 underlying all plays of the Moral type, and incidentally an illustra- 
 tion of the nature and purpose of allegory in reference to construc- 
 tion and characters as conceived by the playwright at the inception 
 of the Morality on the English stage. 
 
 The cause of our comynge you to declare 
 
 Everyman in hymself for soth he it may fynde, 
 
 Whou mankynde into this world bom is ful bare 
 
 And bare shal beryed be at the last ende; 
 
 God hym yevyth two aungel ful yep and ful yare. 
 
 The goode aungel and the badde to hym for to lende; 
 
 The goode techyth hym goodnesse, the badde synne and sare, 
 
 Whanne the ton hath the victory the tother goth behende. 
 
 Be skyll. 
 The goode aungel covetyth evermore man's salvacion, 
 and the badde bysyteth hym evere to hys damnacioun, 
 And God hath gevyn man fre arbitracion 
 Whether he wyl him (self) save hy(s soul?). * 
 
 Throughout no less than 3,500 lines the argument here set forth 
 is worded out with all the nakedness and earnestness in which it is 
 stated. On inspection it will be manifest that the central idea of 
 the Castle of Perseverance is very nearly related to the motive which 
 gave dramatic unity in some sort to the Cycles. In both the con- I 
 flict is between Good and Evil, and the issue at stake is the soul of / 
 man. The story of Creation, Fall and Redemption was wrought 
 into dramatic form by the preceding playwrights. Deus was shown 
 in a most attractive manner, with attributes by nature benevolently 
 iriclined. He was solicitous for the highest good of his friends, 
 
 * Pollard A. W. English Miracle Plays p. xlv. 
 
126 
 
 and, as if one of them, He enjoyed their company and felt happy 
 in their happiness. His undisturbed reign while it lasted, was a 
 millenium of delights for his subjects. This is the beautiful picture 
 which the action of the first pageant suggests. The Fall of the 
 Angels was the birth of Evil and the beginning of the conflict be- 
 tween the divided powers. Milton's great Cycle was alone capable 
 of giving adequate expression to this high argument. Ten cen- 
 turies before Milton's day Caedmon and Cynewulf felt the inspira- 
 tion of this same theme. Three hundred years prior to the Eliza- 
 bethan drama, it was the concrete presentation of this historical 
 struggle which supplied the cohesive qualities and dramatic interest 
 in the Mediaeval cycles. 
 
 In a less broad scale in the Moral play there was a similar 
 conflict waged. The two Angels fight perseveringly for the pos- 
 session of Mankind whose "fre arbitracion" keeps the issue doubt- 
 ful to the last. The dubious nature of the struggle and the conse- 
 quences of surpassing magnitude resulting from each decision of 
 the hero contributed an abiding interest to the action. It made up 
 for what the drama lost in setting aside real persons such as the 
 Bible furnished, and introducing in their stead typical figures im- 
 personating abstractions of the mind. 
 
 By its very constitution the caste of the Moral play was limited 
 in its action. The author seemed to have grasped the subject in 
 its entirety, but not with the fulness that would give him mastery 
 over its details. He failed to embrace the significance of the re- 
 spective roles. He had yet to learn the way of justly apportioning 
 the parts and of nicely co-ordinating the several activities. The 
 actor presented himself in a formal way before his hearers on his 
 first appearance in the play and thus predetermined the range of 
 his activity. All was in a name. It ranked the bearer in one of two 
 classes : it set him in the companyof the confirmed evil-doers or it 
 fixed his role with the unchangeable righteous. There was no ques- 
 tion of a middle course. An actor was good or evil and he could 
 not help himself. Apparently the hero alone in the early moralities 
 enjoyed freedom ; all the rest on the stage were as their respective 
 names signified — irresponsible creatures, indissolubly wedded to the 
 one line of conduct which had been minutely defined at the begin- 
 ning, commonly by the actor himself. In the Castle of Perseverance, 
 Mankind was the only human person in the play ; his part was dra- 
 matic, he alone could deliberate and choose, elicit sympathy and in- 
 
127 
 
 terest in the audience. He ceased to be in a strict sense an allegori- 
 cal or representative figure, in so far as this would imply rigid 
 fidelity to an assumed and fixed course of action. The hero was a 
 component of defects and qualities, he felt he was a person that had 
 responsibilities. Modifying moral ingredients mingled with the good 
 and evil in him to a degree not so apparent in the elemental con- 
 dition of the subordinate players. These minor characters enjoyed 
 such large immunity from the ordinary laws which govern man*s 
 conduct that they could teach no forcible lesson in human ethics. * 
 They were merely facts of the hero's character and not themselves 
 persons, centres of responsibility. Their great value was in this, 
 that they pictured to the auditor in a sensible manner the psychic 
 activities going on within the hero. Every figure in the play repre- 
 sented, or was instrumental in bringing to life some definite peculiar 
 qality of the leading character. What was fluent, intuitive and tan- 
 gible in the Liturgic and Cyclic drama became incarnate in the 
 Moralities. The presence of such a distinct role as that of Con- 
 science and Free-Will exemplified clearly the organic growth in 
 power of character-treatment. The existence of the functional ideas 
 of personality and responsibility as influencing character presenta- 
 tion, need no longer be assumed. The metaphor has been realized 
 in fact by the moral playwright. He furnished a body to these two 
 senses which were present and had operated in an implicit or spir- 
 itual way in the earlier species of the drama, t 
 
 * Symonds, J. A., The Predecessors of Shakespeare, p. 118. 
 
 t What Newman says on the process of the development in ideas may be 
 applied analogically to illustrate to some extent the way by which the 
 morality playwright endeavored to realize a complete dramatic expression, 
 
 "The idea which represents an object or supposed object is commen- 
 surate with the sum total of its possible aspects, however they may vary 
 in the separate consciousness of individuals, and in proportion to the variety 
 of aspects under which it presents itself to various minds is its force and 
 depth and the argument for its reality. Ordinarily an idea is not brought 
 home to the intellect except through this variety; like bodily substances, 
 which are not apprehended under the clothing of their properties and 
 results, and which admit of being walked around and surveyed on all 
 sides and in different perspectives, and in contrary lights, in evidence of 
 their reality, and, views of a material object may- be taken from points 
 so remote or so opposed that they seem at first sight, incompatible, and 
 especially as their shadows will be disproportionate, or even monstrous, 
 and yet all these anomolies will disappear and all these contricities be 
 adjusted on ascertaining the point of vision or the surface of projection in 
 each case; so also all the aspects of an idea are capable of coalition, and 
 of resolution into the object to which it belongs; and the prima facie dis- 
 similitude of its aspects becomes, when explained, an argument for its 
 substantiveness and integrity, and their multiplicity for its originality and 
 power". (Development of Doctrine, pp. 34-35.) 
 
128 
 
 The intention in this on the part of the author of the Moral 
 plays to emphasize and have the thought more dramatic cannot be 
 mistaken. To realize fully his idea was wholly beyond his power, 
 but the attempt was praiseworthy. It is interesting to notice that 
 his energies worked in the right direction. He labored to give 
 concrete dramatic expression to the two great root principles of 
 ethical life, jln other words he proposed to decompose the moral 
 life of man, to single out his mental faculties to make objective the 
 intellect, will, imagination, memory, etc., so that while holding 
 apart their several activities he would present at the same time on 
 the undivided individual the ethical influences resulting from the 
 action of one psychic process on the other, its reaction and the 
 interaction of all the human powers in eliciting the human act. 
 Such an undertaking viewed in the light of after development in 
 power of character-presentation was along the right line. The face 
 value of the moral plays as finished works of dramatic literature is 
 unquestionably little, but when taken as evidences of characterizing 
 power the moralities acquire a very positive worth. They mark, if 
 not the birth of a new instinct, at least a realization of an old feeling 
 in things dramatic. 
 
 Take as illustrative of this the oldest morality extant — the 
 Castle of Perseverance. The prevailing idea is one of conflict be- 
 tween Good and Evil, and the point at issue being the soul of the 
 hero. Mankind, who is the representative of the human race. The 
 three great sources or agencies of evil are the first impersonations 
 in the opening scene. Mundus, Caro and Belyal enlarge on their 
 inexhaustible capabilities in the way of creating the moral ruin of 
 Humanum Genus. The three are of one mind and league their 
 respective resources toward the conquest of the hero. While they 
 are speaking Humanum Genus leaves his cradle and comes on 
 the stage. He is in a most helpless condition, only a day old "ful 
 feynt and febyl, not wedyr to gon ne to lende." He speaks four 
 thirteen-line stanzas, graphically setting forth with amazing insight 
 and prevision the general wretchedness of his present and future 
 state, and the immediate dangers which threaten him at the hands 
 of the three malicious veterans that stand by him on his left. A 
 Bonus Angelus stands on his right and warns him against his 
 enemies, counselling him at the same time to "fare well in all 
 thinge, and certes thou shalt not wante." A bad angel silences the 
 speaker and offers the hero this advice : 
 
129 
 
 Cum on with me, stylle as ston: 
 Whow sone thou schalt be ryche,. 
 And thanne thou schalt sen a-non 
 Thou and I to the werld sehul goon, 
 
 The Good Angel calls this "folye" on these grounds : 
 Why schuld he coveyt werldes goode, 
 Syn Criste in erthe and hys meynye 
 All in povert here thei stode?. 
 
 The response of the evil angel is not in the way of an answering 
 argument, but of an hortatory appeal to the hero to offer allegiance 
 to Mundus and to share at once in therights and privileges of a 
 subject. Humanum Genus is divided in mind and yet he cannot 
 remain passive nor avail himself reasonably of both counsels since 
 they are mutually exclusive. He has to choose. 
 "Whom to folwe wetyn I ne may: 
 
 I stonde in study e and gynne to rave, 
 
 I wolde be ryche in gret aray, 
 
 And fayne I wolde my sowle save. 
 As wynde in M^atyr I wave: 
 
 Thou woldst be to the werld I me toke. 
 
 And he wolde that I it forsoke, 
 
 Now so God me helpe, and the holy boke, 
 
 I not wyche I may have." 
 
 This nine-line stanza is perhaps the earliest formal statement in 
 English of that which constitutes the essence of the drama — an 
 inner conflict of magnitude. The struggle here presented is fol- 
 lowed out on the strictest lines. There is no question of the unity 
 of the Moralities. The simplicity of the action itself and the fixed, 
 invariable bent in the constitution of the caste made any swerving 
 from the main idea impossible. Only Humanum Genus could 
 change. The disadvantages under which the cyclic dramatist 
 labored by reason of the unavoidable familiarity of the audience 
 beforehand with his story and persons seemed to have been de- 
 liberately created by the moral playwright himself. No one doubted 
 the necessary attitude of Stultitia, Voluptas, or Detraccio toward 
 the hero the moment he heard from their own lips their respective 
 names and properties, any more than he could have hesitated to 
 predict infallibly the after activity of Abstinentia Charitas and 
 Solicitudo when he beheld their first ingress on the stage. From 
 the point of view of technique this was as if a detective-story writer 
 would insert his concluding chapter immediately after the title page. 
 True to his role, with instinctive readiness the Angel of Evil 
 
130 
 
 seizes on the opportune moment while the hero is undecided which 
 advice to follow. 
 
 "Cum on, man! where of hast thou care? 
 Go we to the werld, I rede the, blyve; 
 For there thou schalt now ryth wel fare. 
 In case if thou thynke for thryve, 
 No lord schal be the lyche." 
 
 Humanum Genus would compromise. He is strongly influenced by 
 the words of the bad angel and partly consents to follow his counsel, 
 but he feels pained at the remonstrance of the angel of good who 
 deplores that he should have made the slightest concession to the 
 
 evil adviser. 
 
 The werld is wyckyd and ful wod, 
 And thou schalt levyn but a whyle, 
 What covytyst thou to wynne? 
 Man, thynke on thyn endynge day, 
 Whanne thou schalt be closyd under clay, 
 And if thou thenke of that a-ray, 
 Certes thou schalt not synne.* 
 
 The Malus Angelus perfectly understands what is taking place in 
 the mind of Humanum Genus and feeling it impossible to refute in 
 a direct way the argument of the good angel, he waives the point 
 by an important remark, and paliates the doubts agitating the hero 
 by proposing a compromise, — following in this the hint given by 
 
 * The moral lesson taught here Calderon makes the climax of the auto 
 "Los Escantos de la Culpa." 
 
 Music {enters). Sin. 
 
 VVould'st thou, man, to rapture give Who is this whose voice breaketh 
 
 Life's young hours that flower and Rudely on my startled ear? 
 
 fly, Man. 
 
 Oh, forget that thou must die! 'Tis my inner voice you hear — 
 
 And but think that thou dost live! 'Tis my understanding speaketh; 
 
 (A sound of drums and voices Him my answering conscience seek- 
 
 typifying Doom-day's call is heard eth. 
 
 outside; all — Music and the Five Sin. 
 
 Senses, Circe and Seven Deadly Sins — Heed him not, no answer give. 
 
 — start in surprise). Man. 
 
 The Understanding and Penance Let him go! 
 
 answer within. Sin. 
 
 Sin {to Music) Thou goest to grieve. 
 
 Cease thy song! What voice doth Sing once more lest Man should 
 
 strive hear 
 
 Thus to mar our joy thereby? That mysterious voice severe. 
 
 Understanding {to Ulysees) Music. 
 
 Valiant soldier, from on high, Oh remember that thou must live. 
 
 Wouldst thou lasting bliss receive? — (MacCarthy, D. F., The Three 
 
 Penance {to Nero) Dramas of Calderon with the Span- 
 
 Oh, forget that thou must live. ish Text, p. 184.) 
 
 Understanding 
 And remember that thou must die! 
 
131 
 
 Humanum Genus himself to whom just now nothing could be more 
 agreeable than a middle course. 
 
 With the werld thou mayst be bold, 
 
 Tyl thou be sexty ^vynter odd; 
 
 Wanne thi nose waxit cold. 
 
 Thanne mayst thou drawe to goode.f 
 This suggestion is welcomed. After some hesitation and in spite 
 of the entreaties and "grisely grones" of his good angel, the hero 
 takes the decisive step. He is ushered to the throne on which 
 Mundus is seated and there plights unqualified obedience to the 
 monarch. His fealty insures to him all the pleasures he is capable 
 of enjoying, and Mundus himself introduces him to ''two lovely 
 ladies," Voluptas and Stulticia, and then to Detraccio, who becomes 
 his page, and later to Belyal and Caro. Avaritia finally takes the 
 hero to the Six Capital Sins — "the devylys chyldren," with whom 
 he abides till close on his fortieth year. 
 
 After this long career of the freest dissoluteness he begins to 
 taste "the sowre sweetenesse" as he calls it, of pleasure. All this 
 while the Angel of Good never lost interest in him, and now when 
 his charge is growing tired of companionship with the "develys 
 chyldren," the long-suffering angel calls to his help Confessio and 
 Schrift and the three with Penetencia succeed after much effort in 
 reclaiming the h^ro. They hurry him to the Castle of Perseverance 
 (which is "strenger thanne any in Fraunce") and there lodge him 
 out of reach of his enemies. Here in this "precyous port" with 
 Christ his "coumfort" he leads a "merry Hfe" in company with the 
 Seven Virtues. * 
 
 t Observe how Mediaeval-like is the scene in Marlowe's Faustus 
 0, Faustus, lay that damned book aside, 
 And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul, 
 And heap God's hea\'y wrath upon thy head! 
 Read, read the Scriptures — that is blasphemy. 
 The Evil Angel paraphrases the language of the Tempter of Eden: 
 Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art 
 Wherein all Nature's treasure is contained; 
 Do thou on earth as Jove is in the sky, 
 Lord and commander of those elements. (Act 1, Scene 1.) 
 Good Angel: Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and heavenly things. 
 Evil Angel: No, Faustus, think of honour and of wealth.' 
 
 (Act II, Scene I.) 
 * It is impossible for me to follow the action further. The Castle of 
 Perseverance has yet been printed only in part. Mr. Pollard who has 
 promised to edit the manuscript entire for the Early English Text Society, 
 has given a specimen of the play which has enabled me to speak of it this 
 far. To him and to Collier I am indebted in the main for what follows. 
 Cf. A. W. Pollard, 'English Miracle Plays and Moralities,' pp. xlv if; and 
 Collier, 'History of Dramatic Poetry,' pp. 279-287. 
 
132 
 
 Detraccio brings the news of Mankynd's conversion to Caro, 
 and after a brief counsel they report what has happened to Mundus. 
 Measures are taken by the powers of evil to secure Humanum 
 Genus. Belyl after he has abused and beaten his subjects, the 
 Seven Deadly Sins, for their negligence leads them to besiege the 
 Castle of Perseverance. Collier quotes the spirited address of the 
 leader to his followers before they assault the Castle. 
 "I here trumpys trebelen all of tene 
 
 The very werld walkyth to werre 
 
 Sprede my penon upon a prene. 
 
 And stryke we forthe now under sterre. 
 
 Schapyth now your sheldys shene 
 
 Yone skallyd shouts for to skerre — 
 
 Buske ye nowe, boys, belyve, 
 
 For ever I stonde in mekyl stryve, 
 
 Whyle Mankynde is in clere lyve." 
 
 Pride bears the banner, Caro rides on horseback and Quia 
 flourishes an immense lance. Humanum Genus is terrified at the 
 onslaught and implores "the Duke that died on rood" to take care 
 of his soul. A shower of roses flung from the wall drives the allied 
 forces of Mundus, Caro and Belyal into hopeless flight. The effec- 
 tive roses, it need not be observed, typified the Passion of Christ. * 
 Very soon afterward (though in the meantime the hero has 
 grown hoary and feeble) Mundus engages Avaritia to approach 
 stealthily to the Castle walls and induce Humanum Genus to de- 
 scend. Avaritia plays his part well and his arguments have the 
 desired effect. Humanum Genus descends from the Castle, re- 
 marking, 
 
 Certys this ye wel knowe 
 
 It is good whan so the wynde blowe, 
 
 A man to have sumwhat of his owe 
 
 What happe so ever be tyde. 
 
 The Virtues who do their utmost to keep him within the Castle are 
 
 * In Calderon's Auto "Los Encantos de la Culpa," Penetentia lets fall 
 on Man a bunch of flowers, 
 
 all dappled 
 O'er with virtues from the life-blood 
 Of a Lamb, whose crimson altar 
 Was a tree's unmeasured hardness 
 By whose mystic aid thou may est 
 All her (Sin's) poisoned snares down trample 
 Touch them with but this — that moment 
 Shall they lose all power to harm thee — 
 Take it, and adieu! 
 MaeCarthy, D. F., the Three Dramas of Calderon, p. 175. 
 
133 
 
 grieved at his departure. Largitas, as naturally most disconsolate 
 of all, addresses the audience: 
 
 *Now, good men alle, that here be 
 
 Have my systers excused and me, 
 
 Thou Mankynde fro this Castle flee! 
 
 Humanum Genus receives as price of his defection a thousand 
 marks from Mundus. Immediately he buries the money in the 
 ground, reserving it for the future. Much to the old man's sur- 
 prise, Garcio (a boy) representing the rising generation, lays claim 
 to the treasure in the name of Mundus. Humanum Genus pro- 
 tests, — 
 
 What devyl! thou are not of my kyn, 
 Thou didyst me nevere no maner good 
 I hadde lever sum nyfte, or sum cosyn, 
 Or sum man hadde it of my blod: — 
 
 But in vain. The minion of Mundus inherits what Avaritia and 
 Humanum Genus had accumulated. The hero's mind turns to the 
 happy days in the Castle, and this crowns his sorrows. Every 
 thought is a pang. He often tasted the "soure sweetenesse" of 
 pleasure's cup, but now they are the dregs he has to drink. The 
 remorse of Philologus and the terror of Everyman seem to torture 
 him, as abandoned by every succor he sees "drery Death" slowly 
 approach. Anima cries to Misericordia for help, but Malus An- 
 gelus is beforehand and will brook no delay. He seizes the de- 
 crepit Humanum Genus, hoists him on his shoulder and sets off 
 with him to the infernal regions, bidding the audience as he passes 
 
 Have good day; I goo to helle! 
 The closing act takes place in heaven. Misericordia, Pax, Justitia 
 and Veritas plead the cause of Humanum Genus. Miseri- 
 cordia at the command of Deus, who presides as judge, fetches 
 Anima from hell. After a process conducted largely after the 
 manner of the XI Coventry Pageant and the Hegge Play on the 
 Salutation and Conception in which, as in a larger scale in the 
 French Mystere Du Passion of Arnoul and Simon Greban, the 
 Heavenly Sisters, the Four Great Attributes of the Eternal Father 
 plead before the Holy Trinity the feasibility of man's salvation. 
 In the Biblical plays Mercy and Peace take the part of the fallen 
 race. Justice and Truth are opposed to the redemption of man. 
 They cannot understand how they will exist if the arguments of 
 their sisters prevail. The discussion stands two and two. Man's 
 fate hangs in the balance. How effect a decision? Mercy and 
 
134 
 
 Peace plead earnestly for pity and grace, but Truth urges that 
 there can be no amity between sin and law. The discussion con- 
 tinues with some warmth till Peace brings all to accord. "Mercy 
 and Truth have met each other, Justice and Peace have kissed." 
 The Sisters go to the ends of the earth to find a sinless man that 
 is willing to give his life for the salvation of all. But the search is 
 in vain; no such man can be found. They refer the whole matter 
 to the Council of the Holy Trinity. God the Son consents to under- 
 take the work of redemption, the Father agrees, and the Holy Ghost 
 promises to bring all to a happy issue. 
 
 Before a court of this nature the soul of Humanum Genus is 
 arraigned. The Sisters take sides as in the case of the Mysteries, 
 when the fate of the human race was at stake, and here, too, the 
 arguments of Misericordia prevail. Her appeal to Christ's passion 
 procures from Pater sedens in jiidicio a decision in favor of Hu- 
 manum Genus. Collier gives the epilogue, which is the moral, as 
 spoken by the Judge: 
 
 All men example here at me take. 
 To mayntein the good and mendyn here mys. 
 Thus endyth our ganys: 
 To save you fro synnynge, 
 Evyr at the begynnynge, 
 Thnke o nyour last endynge. 
 Te Deum Ladamus. 
 
 This in merest outline is the structure and content of the oldest 
 Moral Play extant. It is certainly as old as the reign of Henry VI. 
 The completeness with which the idea is treated implies the exist- 
 ence of predecessors in the same kind. Wycliff, who died in 1384, 
 refers to 'The Paternoster in Englysch tunge, as men seyen in the 
 pley of York." This play presumably old in Wycliff's time, *'set 
 forth" the goodness of the Lord's Prayer," and was so received 
 that after its first presentation a Guild, which in 1399 numbered 
 over a hundred members and their wives, was formed solely for the 
 purpose to secure its regular performance. It must have been in 
 the line of the Moralities, for in it "all manner of vices were held 
 up to scorn, and the virtues were held up to praise." Another play 
 or cycle of plays akin to the Moral type grew out of the Credo. 
 This play or series of scenes was of great length and was played at 
 Lammastide; but nothing more in the way of details concerning 
 these is known. Both plays or cycles antedate the Castle of Perse- 
 verance which itself would illustrate a clause of the Pater or Credo. 
 
135 
 
 Mundus et Infans, a play written probably early in the reign 
 of Henry VII, treats the same broad theme as that which formed 
 the subject of the Castle of Perseverance. The piece has too little 
 action, though the author at times arranges his extensive material 
 with much dramatic effectiveness. The structure of the play, how- 
 ever, is of the simplest kind. Just as in the preceding Morality, 
 Mundus here appears in the opening scene, boasting of his might 
 in a true Herodian measure. His supremacy is such on all sides 
 that he is "kynge in every case." "Me thynketh I am a god of 
 grace," is the conclusion he comes to from reflection on his person 
 and power. 
 
 Infans enters in as pitiful condition every way as little Hu- 
 manum Genus appeared in the earlier play. He begs the audience 
 to look at him and see how "mankynde doth begynne." After 
 speaking some lines on his lowly origin and the inconveniences of 
 poverty, he goes to the "worlde, some comforte of him for to crave." 
 Mundus receives him affably, and asks him his name, which is 
 Dalyaunce, clothes him in "garmentes gaye," promises him plenty 
 and rechristens him. Wanton is now the name which he is to bear 
 till he is fourteen years old. Wanton promises on his part the most 
 submissive allegiance to the "worthy Emperour." He leaves the 
 throne and with accents of triumph addresses the audience — 
 
 A ha! Wanton is my name 
 I can many a quayante game: 
 Lo, my toppe I dryne in same, — 
 Se, it turneth ronde! 
 I can with my scorge strycke 
 My felowe upon the hede hytte 
 And myghtly from hym make a skyppe, 
 And blere on hym my tonge. 
 
 He can cry, bite and kick and "make a skyppe" if his father or 
 mother chides him ; he can dance, whistle, rob a sparrow's nest or 
 an orchard, and absent himself from school. 
 
 After describing the "quaynte games" of childhood, as reckoned 
 from the age of reason "tyll xiiii yere be come and gone," he re- 
 turns to Mundus, who confers on him a new name, Love-lust and 
 Lyking. He comes back to the audience and tells briefly of his ex- 
 perience as before. He presents himself another time before 
 Mundus, who, on account of diligent obedience to his will, bestows 
 a third name on his faithful vassal. Manhode is the new name, 
 and the privileges attached to this title are far more numerous than 
 
136 
 
 to either of the preceding. Manhode is specially enjoined to wor- 
 ship seven kings whose characters Mundus outlines. The royal 
 personages to whom the hero swears by "Saynt Thomas of Kent" 
 that he will serve truly "with mayne and myght" are no other than 
 the Seven Deadly Sins. Mundus takes occasion of the ceremony 
 to address the audience in the most pompous manner, as Pharoah 
 or Herod might have done in the Cycle plays. Manhode adopts his 
 master's style of speaking. He ingratiates himself to the audience 
 in this manner: 
 
 'Peas, now peas, ye felowes all aboute; 
 Peas now, and herken to my sawes. 
 For I am a lorde both stalworthy and stout, 
 
 All londes are ledde by my lawes. 
 Baron was never borne that so well hym bare, 
 
 A better ne a bolder nor a bryghter of ble; 
 For I have myght and mayne ower countrees fare, 
 And Manhode myghty I am namyd in every countre. 
 
 He continues to recount his travels and triumphs as a conquering 
 knight, for he has broken breastplates and cracked "many a kyng's 
 crown." 
 
 *I have done harme on hedes and knyghts have I kylt; 
 
 And many a lady for my love hath said, alas. 
 
 At this point Conscience enters. He entreats the audience to join 
 with him in a prayer to the end that the evil one be set "sharpely 
 on syde" and Christ be crowned king. Then he defines himself at 
 length, — 
 
 *Me thynke it is a necessary thynge 
 
 For yonge and olde, both ryche and pore, 
 Poore Conseyence for to knowe. 
 
 For Conseyence clere it is my name 
 Conseyence counselyth both hye and lowe, 
 
 And conseyence comenly bereth grete blame, — Blame? 
 Ye, and often tymes set in shame.* 
 
 He goes on to state his knowledge of the secrets of the heart, "thay 
 be as symple as thay can," and the difficulties he meets within the 
 exercise of his office. He is interrupted by Manhode, who imperti- 
 nently asks, — 
 
 'Say, how felowe, who gave the leve this way to go? 
 What, wenest thou I dare not come the to? 
 
 Say, thou harlot, whyder in hast. 
 
 After some impolite altercation they com^ to a better understanding. 
 Conscience remarking, 
 
137 
 
 *Syr, thought the Worlde have you in Manhode brought. 
 To mantyne maners ye were never taught: 
 No, Conseyence clere ye know ryght nought. 
 And this longeth to a knyght. 
 Manhode — Conseyence, what the devyll, man, is he? 
 Conseyence — Syr, a techer of the spyrytualete. 
 
 Man. — Spyrytualete, what the devyll may that be? 
 Con. — Syr, all that be leders into lyght. 
 
 Man. — ^Lyght, ye, but herke, felowe, yet! Lyght fain wolde I see. 
 Con. — Wyll ye so, syr knyght? Than do after me. 
 Man. — Ye, and it to Prydes pleasynge be, 
 I wyll take thy techynge. 
 
 Conscience warns the hero to beware of pride, and illustrates his 
 teaching by referring to the pride of "Lucyfer and Kynge Robert 
 of Cysell." Manhode is not at all pleased with Conscience's open 
 denunciation of "Kynge Pryde," and taunts him that what ever he 
 may bring against Pride, he has nothing to reprove in the "Kynge 
 Lechery." Conscience proves that Lechery is to be obeyed not a 
 bit more than Pride, and so in turn convinces Manhode that his 
 worship of the seven kings is false and odious. The hero, enraged 
 at first, wishes woe to the day Conscience came near him, but ac- 
 knowledges finally that the "cunnynge" of the mentor is "moche 
 more" than his own. After a warning to shun the company of the 
 seven kings and an instruction on the Ten Commandments, Con- 
 science enjoins particularly that the penitent avoid 'Folye' on all 
 occasions. Manhode promises and prays to be told 'what is most 
 necessary for man in every tyme.' (Conscience repeats, 'beware 
 of Folye' and 'always thynke on the endynge') He then takes his 
 leave of the hero. 
 
 Manhode's conversation was not sincere; he will not 'clene 
 forsake the kynges of synne.' He will follow the advice of Con- 
 science in part and in part obey Mundus. But, as might be ex- 
 pected, when Folye, who is the seven deadly sins personified, comes 
 on the stage, the hero, after weak resistance, takes him for his 
 servant. Folye fetches him a 'draught of drynke' which, he assures 
 the audience, will prevail on Manhode to cast away Conscience. 
 And so it does. Folye, to deceive Conscience, at Manhode's re- 
 quest, changes the hero's name from Manhode to Shame and then 
 both hero and servant set off for the Tavern. Here his career is 
 fully in keeping with his name. Conscience begs him to give up 
 his wicked life, but he answers : "Why, frere, what the devyll hast 
 fhou to do, whyder I go or abyde," Conscience takes occasion of 
 
138 
 
 this answer to illustrate to the audience 'the freylnes of Man- 
 kynde/ He then goes in search of 'his borne brother' Persever- 
 ance, who comes on the stage and after much pious talk goes to 
 reclaim Shame. 
 
 Shame, who henceforth is called Age, arrives, old and broken. 
 His long lament which recapitulates his eventful career, begins 
 "Alas, alas, that me is wo! 
 
 My lyfe, my lykyng I have forlorne; 
 
 My rentes, my ryches, it is all ygo, 
 
 Alas the daye that I was borne!" 
 
 As he is leaving the stage 'hymself to spyll,' Perseverance 
 enters and prevents the suicide. Age does not want to listen at 
 first, but is induced by Perseverance not to despair. Then follows 
 the instruction on 'Contrycyon' and on the 'fyve thynges nessary to 
 Wynne hevyn.' Age 'plightes' sorrow for his sins, and receives 
 the name of Repentance on accepting the twelve articles of the 
 Creed and the Ten Commandments. The moral is spoken in part 
 by the hero himself and is completed by Perseverance. 
 
 The morality 'Everyman' is unquestionably a favorable speci- 
 man of the entire species, and illustrates in a special manner the 
 perfection of what I am calling the earlier or allegorical variety of 
 the Moral Play. Ten Brink refers the subject of this piece to a 
 parable of Buddhist origin, viz., 'Friendship's Test in Time of 
 Need,' which became known to the Christian nations through the 
 legend of 'Barlaam and Josaphat.' * The theme was widely 
 popular and a long series of adaptations of it have been met with 
 in the Latin, German and Dutch — from which last source the 
 English Everyman was derived. The moral teaches substantially 
 what we have learned from the two preceding plays, but the manner 
 of treatment, it is significant to notice, differs much from either of 
 them. In the Castle of Perseverance and in Mundus et In fans, 
 the writers were content to follow the example of the Cycle play- 
 wrights, and present the successive incidents of the hero's exist- 
 ence rather than choose the dramatic points of his life, the crisis of 
 his career; Everyman, on the contrary, has the action confined to 
 a single event of the greatest moment, and only inferentially do we 
 get to know the antecedent life of the hero. This characteristic 
 would of itself give the play a marked value over the Morals 
 we have seen. It was quite impossible to hope for any measure of 
 
 History of English Literature, Vol II. Part 1. Pp. 279 ff, 
 
139 
 
 success so long as the playwright undertook to dramatize the whole 
 life of the hero — from babyhood to old age, chronologically. The 
 effort of the author of Mundus et Infans, for instance, to keep in 
 touch with life, so far as choosing the besetting follies of each suc- 
 cessive period in his hero's career is concerned, merits to be noted 
 as an intimation of better work in copying life and manners on the 
 stage. It gives promise of more artistic characterization; but in 
 itself, for the most part, it is an altogether too oral presentation of 
 nature. Infans and Love-lust and Lyking scarcely did more than 
 affirm what was asked in the Table of Sins of any Mediaeval Peni- 
 tentiary. 
 
 Everyman shows indeed, close affinity to the cyclic drama. The 
 very opening scene itself would sufficiently establish the author's 
 indebtedness to the technique of the Biblical playwright. The sub- 
 ject of the piece is the summoning of the hero, Everyman, out of 
 the world by Death. There is not the slightest deviation from this 
 truly dramatic situation all through the scene. The subject and 
 moral are opened in a brief prologue by the Messenger, but the 
 action proper is begun in heaven, where God, looking down on sin- 
 ful earth, perceives the degeneracy of mankind, who, the more the 
 Almighty forbears, the worse becomes. The spectacle rouses the 
 divine indignation and God summons His mighty messenger Dethe 
 and orders him to bring Everyman without delay 'before the hye 
 Juge Adonay.' Dethe obeys. Everyman now appears on the stage 
 and receives the summons with all the marks of confusion and 
 terror. With prayers and bribes he begs the summoner 'to deferre 
 this mater tyll another daye ;' but Dethe assures the hero, 
 
 'Everyman, it may not be no waye 
 I set not by golde, sylver nor rychesse 
 Ne by pope, emperour, kynge, duke ne prynces 
 For, and I wolde receyve gyftes grete, 
 All the worlde I myghte gete; 
 But my eustome is elene contrary, 
 I gyve the no respyte, come hens and not tary.' 
 
 However a brief respite is accorded in which Everyman may 
 prove his friends to see whether any of them be so hardy as to 
 accompany him on the 'pylgrymage' whence there is no return 
 'till the day of dome.' He addresses himself in a most pitiful 
 manner to Felawshyp, Kyndrede, Cosin, and Goodes or Ryches, and 
 later to Beaute, Strengthe, Dyscrecyion and Fyve Wittes, but none 
 of these will go with him on the journey. Each successively re- 
 
140 
 
 nounces and forsakes him. The conversation that passed between 
 Felawshyp and the hero is typical of the rest. 
 
 Felawshyp. — Everyman, good morrow be this daye, 
 
 Syr why lokest thou so pyteoiisly? 
 
 If any tynge be amysse I pray the me saye. 
 
 That I may helpe to remedy. 
 Everyman. — Ye, goode Felawshype, ye, 
 
 I am in grete jeoparde. 
 Fel. — My true friend shew me your mynde 
 
 I will not forsake the to thy lyves ende. 
 
 In the way of good company. 
 Everyman. — That was well spoken and lovingly. 
 
 Fel. — Syr, I must needes know your heavy nesse 
 
 I have pyte to see you in dystresse. 
 
 If ony have you wronged ye shall revenged be 
 
 Though I on the ground be slayne for the. 
 
 Though that I knowe before that I scholde dye. 
 Everyman. — Veryly, Felawshype, gramercy. 
 
 Fel. — Tusshe, by thy thanks I set not a strawe, 
 
 Shewe me your grefe and saye no more. 
 
 He continues to protest his fidelity through some lines in this 
 fashion, and will accompany Everyman even to hell if needs be. 
 When, however, the hero tells him the message of Dethe, Felaw- 
 shyp forgets the assurances which he has so heroically pledged and 
 waives an answer; but when he hears that there is no return from 
 the 'vyage,' his refusal to go is unconditional, 
 
 "In fayth than wyll not I come there." 
 Everyman laments pitifully that the comrade with whom he played 
 and sported should prove so faithless in time of need. His appeal 
 to his other bosom friends only aggravates his disappointment. In 
 this disconsolate state, abandoned by all whom he most regarded, 
 he has recourse to a distant relative, Good-dedes, whom he finds 
 lying *colde in the grounde' 
 
 'Thy synnes hath me sore bounde 
 
 That I cannat stere'. 
 She responds to his entreaty and introduces him to her sister Knowl- 
 edge, who leads him to 'holy man' Confession from whom he re- 
 ceives the precious jewel 'called penaunce,' which his 'garment of 
 Sorowe' has procured for him. As he receives the last Sacrament, 
 Strength, Beaute, Dyscretyon and Fyve Wittes stand round him 
 on the stage. He next makes his will, bequething one-half of his 
 possessions to charitable purposes. His allotted respite, however, 
 is over and with feebly step, he begins his last journey to the grave. 
 
141 
 
 Beaute, Strengthe, Dyscrecyon, Fyve Wyttes join in the pilgrimage, 
 but successively as the procession advances, each, despite the en- 
 treaties of the hero, begs to be excused from proceding farther. 
 As Beaute catches sight of the grave she turns back and . bids 
 'Adevve' to Everyman who begs her not to be so heartless as to 
 
 leave. 
 
 "What, Beaute, whyder wyll ye? 
 Beaute answers, — 
 
 "Peas! I am defe, I loke not behynde me, 
 Nat and thou woldest gyve me all the golde in thy chest. 
 
 Everyman deplores this ingratitude most pathetically, but is inter- 
 rupted by Strengthe, who, too, wishes him farewell, saying, 
 "Ye I have you ferre ynoughe conveyed 
 
 Ye be olde ynoughe, I understande. 
 
 Your pylgrymage to take on hand. 
 
 I repent me that I hyder came." 
 
 As Dyscrecyon "wyll after Strengthe begon," the hero begs him for 
 the love of the Trinity to look into the grave. But Dyscrecyon 
 pays no heed to his appeals and is followed by Fyve Wyttes off the 
 stage. As Everyman finds himself thus forelom on the very brink 
 of the grave, he exclaims, 
 
 "0 Jesu helper all hath forsaken me!" 
 Good-dedes answers, 
 
 "Nay, Everyman, I will byde with the." 
 Everyman's face lights up with hope as his' only friend descends 
 with him into the grave. The hero's repentance, though tardy, was 
 sincere, for heavenly voices (so Knowlege tells the audience) chant 
 his requiem. A Doctour speaks the lesson. 
 
 Only Mr. Ben Greet's presentation brings out the character 
 of Everyman. The argument is at such odds with modern popular 
 tastes that the success which attends the performance of the play 
 before EngHsh and American audiences is a present day proof of 
 the perennial vitality of that essential dramatic element whose 
 existence in the pre-Elizabethan drama affords a basis for what is 
 said in this Essay in reference to character-treatment. In no play 
 may the processes of the early dramatist be studied at nearer view 
 than in the unfolding of the intense action presented in Everyman. 
 The whole scene is a transcript from nature. He takes hold of the 
 situation in its entirety and sets forth the personality of the hero 
 with a psychological insight characteristic of few dramatic pieces 
 of this date. But the analysis, which so accurately reproduces in 
 
142 
 
 the personifications, the sequence of phenomena in actual life, is not 
 peculiar to the author of Everyman; it is illustrative of what one 
 frequently meets with in the work of the mediaeval playwright. 
 His aim was to image life on the stage, and in this all men agree 
 that the writer of Everyman has fairly succeeded. "The whole 
 pitiful pathos of human life and death is here and with it the solu- 
 tion of the problem which — theological controversies apart — has 
 most enduringly commended itself to mankind. What wonder that 
 a Morality which is successful in bringing these things before the 
 hearers and readers, should by a consensus of opinion to which I 
 know of no exception, be regarded as the flower and crown of the 
 literary species to which it belongs." * 
 
 The cursory notice of the Castle of Perseverance, Mundus et 
 Infans, and Everyman, is sufficient to show the progress in dra- 
 matic form which the morality play evinces from the beginning. 
 The effort to emphasize the inner processes of the moral agent by 
 personifying the virtues and vices, mental faculties and inclina- 
 tions, — all the ethical influences which determine the actions of the 
 hero, prepare the way for original treatment of the plot. "Each of 
 the moralities," says Mr. Courthope, "treats in its own fashion one 
 fundamental idea, namely, the struggle between good and evil in 
 human nature; just as in the mysteries different dramatists handled 
 variously the story of the Fall and Redemption of man."f The 
 main idea in both species of drama is the same but the constructive 
 principles involved differ widely in each. In the Cycles the Bible 
 and Legend furnished the framework in which to set the characters 
 and left but little room for the exercise of invention. All that fell 
 to the playwright was to arrange pre-existing material in dramatic 
 form. In developing ideas and incidents merely suggested by the 
 Sacred Text or Apocryphal writings the dramatist in these acci- 
 dents of his theme gives evidence of his power to work indepen- 
 dently. In bringing the historical and traditional material on the 
 stage the author repeatedly gives proof of a dramatic sense in the 
 choice and disposition of his matter. In such scenes as the Fall of 
 the Angels in the several cycles, the Slaying of Abel by Cain, the 
 Story of the Ark, the Sacrifice of Abraham, the Deliverance from 
 Egypt, Moses and Pharaoh, Balaak and Balaam, the numerous in- 
 cidents relating to the Nativity, Joseph's Jealousy, Holy Mary's 
 
 * Ward, A. W., History of Dramatic Literature, Vol. I, p. 124. 
 t W. Courthope, A. History of English Poetry, Vol. II, p. 331-378. 
 
143 
 
 Detractors, Mak, The Slaughter of the Innocents, Herod, Sir Grym- 
 bald and Sir Launceler, the scenes treating of the Conspiracy and 
 Passion, The Casting of the Die, the Marian Plays and the original 
 handling of the events of Doomsday testify to the playwright's 
 ability of synthesizing indifferent material, turning it into dramatic 
 form, and of creating when need be, the connecting incident between 
 isolated scenes. 
 
 In the Moral plays the dramatist had no pre-existing frame- 
 work in which to set his persons. He had to form his own plot. 
 He was no longer filling in an apocryphal story or giving dramatic 
 point to an historical record. The task at which the Moral play- 
 wright was engaged was a process of drawing out into action an 
 idea, an ethical precept or lesson. His was a creative work. In all 
 the nakedness of infantine art-form, one meets with here a grand 
 conception struggling for expression. Marlowe will come nearest 
 in compassing it while retaining the idea or soul-struggle in its 
 elemental state. Dr. Faustus, yearning for omniscience on a stage 
 occupied by good and evil Angels, by the Seven Deadly Sins in 
 person, and Hell in view with its "damned souls tossing on burning 
 forks," bears striking resemblance to the leading characters of the 
 Moralities. Tamburlaine the Great, ambitious of universal con- 
 quest and Barabas of universal wealth are for the most part 'per- 
 sonified vices in tragical pursuit of unattainable ideals.' * Mar- 
 lowe — every Elizabethan for that matter — might attach a moral 
 lesson to his play after the formal manner of the earlier play- 
 wrights, t 
 
 The principles involved in the construction of the morality 
 species of drama afforded the author amplest freedom in determin- 
 ing the nature of his composition. It devolved on him to provide 
 a suitable action through which he might express the ethical truth 
 he had in mind. There was no possibility that his auditors could 
 have predicted the action had he so desired, any more than they 
 could foretell events and consequences in actual life. The hero was 
 in conflict from start to finish, at any time capable of losing his 
 vantage ground or being wholly overcome, but always perfectly 
 conscious that the issue would be as he deliberately chose. This 
 was all that was fixed. The manner of conducting the struggle was 
 open to the playwright-motive, situation, incident, intrigue, all was 
 
 * Sidney Lee, 'The Cambridge Modern History,' Vol. III., p. 374. 
 
 t W. Boyd Carpenter, 'The Religious Spirit in the Poets,' pp. 81-102. 
 
144 
 
 at his disposal. How, at an early date he availed himself of these 
 advantages to reach his great end, namely, the presentation of the 
 hero in action, reasoning, willing and feeling, may be seen from an 
 analysis of Mankynd, the third of the Macro Moralities. 
 
 Though no fast line of demarkation can be drawn between the 
 varieties of the species, I think, however, Mankynde may be re- 
 garded as a transition drama between the earlier and later morali- 
 ties. * It falls far short of the simple solemnity, the sustained 
 force and intrinsic dramatic quality of Everyman ; but it stands in 
 advance of any of the earlier Moralities in the arrangement of what 
 may be called the plot. The structure of the Castle of Perseverance, 
 apart from its impossible scope, is extremely artless. Humanum 
 Genus grows into evil and forsakes his bad habits as easily as he 
 contracted them. It is true the remorse which the voice of his 
 good angel aroused at the beginning, abides with him amid the 
 pleasures of the Tavern and does not leave him till he has found 
 safety in the Castle. This conflict within the breast of the hero — 
 the *sowre swe^tnesse' of pleasure, as he expresses it — was, in an 
 elementary way, dramatic. But Humanum Genus so deliberately 
 embraces vice in preference to virtue that the logical process by 
 which he feels his way makes him unworthy of sympathy. He is 
 never surprised into wrong doing and he does not turn to 'goddys 
 servyse' till he has tired of 'faryn wel at mete and mele.' His 
 temptation to leave the Castle has been so manifestly overt that his 
 consent to the pleadings of Avaritia deserves a genuinely dramatic 
 catastrophe which no one, save Mercy from Heaven, would feel 
 obliged to prevent. 
 
 In Mundus et Infans the line of least resistance is followed in 
 the construction of the framework. Indeed, it would be impossible 
 to conduct the action in a more obvious and less artistic and effec- 
 tive manner. Conscience or opposition, does not enter till the hero 
 is dubbed 'knyght,' and even then the half-hearted conversion of 
 Manhode has not produced the abiding deep-felt remorse which 
 Humanum Genus experienced as the result of his fall. There is no 
 depth in the moral nature of Manhode, he has no sense of responsi- 
 to decisive Conscience, from Manhode to Shane. Yet there is more 
 
 * Mr. Pollard finds the leading varieties of the Mediaeval drama resumed 
 in the play, St. Mary Magdalene (e. 1480-90). Not only is every type of 
 drama familiar to the stage in England represented here, but scenes reminis- 
 cent of the French miracle are introduced into this motley composition which 
 is more descriptive than dramatic. 
 
145 
 
 bility as is clear from his easy consent to 'folowe' Follye who gra- 
 ciously grants the hero's sole request, viz., that his name be changed 
 human interest in the closing scenes of this Moral than in the 
 corresponding parts in the Castle of Perseverance. Age is more 
 deserving of sympathy than old Humanum Genus. The extreme 
 spiritual ignorance, as is quite apparent from the long explanations 
 of Perseverance on essentials of salvation, wins the affection of the 
 audience for dying Age. 
 
 Both these Moralities aimed at giving a detailed account of 
 the whole course of human existence. Their efforts to present the 
 life of man in its entirety after this fashion were necessarily doomed 
 to defeat. Concentrated attention on the crucial point of the hero's 
 career can alone succeed to show with dramatic effectiveness the 
 one or two ideas which influence his moral life. Only with this 
 emphasis and exclusiveness as the leading English dramatists have 
 proved, is it possible to portray the complex activities that make up 
 character-life. 
 
 Quite the opposite pole is reached in Everyman. The action 
 here is so contracted that there is no plot, properly speaking; the 
 whole is rather a scene or incident in a play than a play itself. In 
 Mankynde there is not the breadth of action of the Castle of Perse- 
 verance or Mundus et Infans; neither, on the other hand, is it 
 reduced to the episodic proportion of Everyman. There is evident 
 pains taken in the structure of this transition moral which from the 
 point of view of dramatic form, marks an advance beyond what is 
 reached in the earlier play of the species. Progress in form im- 
 plies a more concrete presentation of the theme which in turn in- 
 volves more human traits, or at least, more individuality in the 
 caste. There is an effort in Mankynde to bring the hero in touch 
 with nature and to provide a reasonable motive for his actions. 
 The other actors, it will be seen, are supposed to represent typical 
 heroes in their very low social state. The character of Mercy, how- 
 ever, is fashioned after the usual manner. 
 
 The nature of Mankynde, as indeed to a great extent that of 
 most moral plays, may be inferred from the names of the caste. 
 "Mankynde Mercy 
 
 New Gyse Now-A-Days 
 
 Nought Tityvillus Myscheff 
 
 Mercy, who is apparently dressed in the robe of a friar, is alone in 
 the play to sustain the cause of righteousness. New Gyse, Now-a- 
 
146 
 
 Days and Nought, veritable enfants sans soiicis, stand for worldly 
 temptations as Mercy interprets (1. 878). * Tity villus, who pos- 
 sesses the preternatural power of rendering himself invisible, 
 'propyrlly sygnyfieth the fend of helle.' t Myschefif is a sort of go 
 between. There is much more action in this play than in the Castle 
 of Perseverance, or in the other moralities this far noted. 
 
 In the opening scene the whole future action is made known. 
 There is a certain discrimination exercised in the presentation of 
 the matter which contributes much to precision of outline in the 
 treatment of the characters. Mercy, the first speaker, exposes some- 
 what diffusively, though in easy verses, the duty and advantage of 
 leading a righteous life, the means of so doing and the obstacles to 
 be met with by one who espouses the cause of virtue; and in a 
 closing quatrain he announces the nature of the sanction which 
 gives his word and the subsequent action genuine dramatic value. 
 Mercy does not speak abstractly nor urge in a vague way submis- 
 sion to impersonal laws. "The very fownder and begynner of ower 
 fyrst creacion" who sent "amonge us, synfull wrechys, hys own 
 son to be torne and crucyfeyde" is represented as one personally 
 interested in the salvation of Mankynde. Mercy is his vicar and 
 bears toward the hero such anxious solicitude as to make it needful 
 to ask at the close of the play the pardon of the auditors for giving 
 way to tearful sentiment. 
 
 My mynde ys dyspersyede, my body trymmelyth as the aspen leflfe; 
 
 The terys xuld trekyll down by my chekys, were not yower reuerence 
 
 Yt were to me solace — the cruell vystacyon of deth. 
 
 Opposed to this is the 'mortall enmye' — again no abstract or indif- 
 ferent principle — who, so far as the procuring of man's ruin is con- 
 cerned, is possessed with the power that equals the creator's, and 
 which is here, as invariably throughout the religious drama, far 
 more effectively applied. The good angels cannot compare dra- 
 matically with those of the enemy. They commonly speak most 
 generally and but little to the purpose (their 'body ys full of Eng- 
 lysch Laten' as New Gyse aptly remarks) ; whereas the evil agents 
 are not given to rant without a very evident motive; they speak 
 little and do much and their words are always apposite, urging to 
 immediate action and present results. 
 
 * J. M. Manly, Specimens of the Pre-Shakespearean Drama, Vol. I, 315-352. 
 
 t Collier, H.* E. D. P., Vol. II, pp. 222-223, has interesting data on 
 the etymology of the name Tity villus (totus vilis) and on the evolution of 
 the partly elfish and partly human role that he plays in Mediaeval literature. 
 
147 
 
 Mercy ends his long- discourse with an exhortation to the audi- 
 ence to reflect on the account Mankynde will have to render of his 
 words and works of Doomsday. 
 
 "The corne xall be salvyde, the chaffe xall be brente 
 I besech you hertyly, haue this premedytacyon." 
 
 As Mercy pronounces these words, whose sound abides as deterrent 
 echoes in the ears of Mankynde, Myscheff enters and improvises a 
 parody on the parable referred to by Mercy. 
 
 "I besech vow hertyly, leue yower caleiilacyoii, 
 
 Leue yower chaffe, leue yower corne, leue yower dalyacyon. 
 
 Yower wytt is lytyll, yower hede is mekyll, ye are full of predyeacyon. 
 Mercy remonstrates, 
 
 "Why come ye hyder, brother? Ye were not dysyryde." 
 But he holds himself altogether indifferent to Mercy's wishes, and 
 proceeds to give his interpretation of the parable ; 
 
 "Corn seruit bredibus, chaff horsibus, straw fryrbusque. 
 
 Thys is as moche to saye, to yower leude undyrstandynge. 
 
 As the corn xall serue to brede at the next bakynge; 
 
 Chaff horsibus & reliquid 
 
 Mercy again begs him to desist. But no ; he continues to gibe and 
 cavil till at length his companions. Nought, New Gyse and Now- 
 A-Days, come on the stage. They carry on the roughest species of 
 rusticity and horse-play. Mercy's reproofs are wasted on them; 
 they make sport of him and beat him, take off his habit and have 
 him join in their dance. This Morality shows to what extremes the 
 early playwrights were wont to go in their efforts to be realistic. 
 Surely no picture of society could be drawn with a freer hand than 
 that which this scene illustrates. The behavior of Nought, New 
 Gyse and Now-A-Days represents no very elevated strata of human 
 intercourse and is no doubt a caricature of inn-life in the reign of 
 Henry VI, or Edward IV. * It need not be implied that the author 
 was more in sympathy or better conversant with the manners of 
 the lower caste than with those on a higher level of society. It had 
 been his art that was at fault. Contrast was the principal, not to 
 say the sole law of dramatic technique which he knew ; — a realistic 
 presentation being rather the end proposed than a means or law 
 governing a method. The playwright here effected the desired 
 opposition in the strict ethical teaching of Mercy and the loose 
 moral practices of his "undysyryde" visitors. 
 
 * Cf. Piers the Plowman (Passus V) for a realistic picture of a London 
 ale shop. 
 
148 
 
 As New Gyse, Now-A-Days and Nought leave the stage, Mercy 
 breathes a sigh of relief. He sets to prove "by reason" to the 
 auditors that such fellows are worse than beasts. The brutes obey 
 his instincts, but these sin against all law. 
 
 "Ther joy and delyte ys in derysyon 
 Of ther owyn Cryste to his dyshonur." 
 What account must. they yield to the "Justyce of all" on the last 
 day, when "for euery ydyll worde us must yelde a reson ?" 
 
 With this sad reflection he closes, and is on the point of leaving 
 the stage when the hero enters. After recommending by way of in- 
 troduction the "holl congrygacyon" to the mercy of God's provi- 
 dence, Mankynde remarks briefly on the composition of man in 
 general which brings him to the very heart of his "lamentable 
 story." 
 
 "To se my flesch of my soull to haue gouernance: 
 Wher the goode-wyflF is master, the goode-man may be sory.** 
 He resolves to seek 'gostly solace' in his distress. Falling on his 
 knees at Mercy's feet he prays for counsel to strengthen his 'onsted- 
 fastnesse' in well-doing and to be his shield against his 'gostly 
 enemy' that is ever urging him to sin. Mercy gives him the desired 
 comfort, and bids him have courage : 'Vita hominis est milicia super 
 terram.' 
 
 "Oppresse yower gostly enmy & be Cryates own knyght, 
 Be neuer a cowarde agayn yower aduersary. 
 If ye wyll be crownyde, ye must nedes fyght 
 Intende well & God wyll be yow adiutory." 
 He further advises Mankynde to 'dystempur not' his brain with 
 either good ale or wine, and in general to shun all excess : 'Mesure 
 ys treasure.' The horse that is over-well fed will disobey the rein, 
 'and, in happe, cast his master in the myre.' 
 
 At this New Gyse, back of the scene, interrupts the conversa- 
 tion on the stage, and takes his cue from Mercy's latest remarjc : 
 "Ye say trew, sir; ye are no faytour! 
 I have fete my wyflf so well tyll sche ys my master; 
 I have a grett wonde on my hede; lo! & thereon leyth a plaster. 
 Mankynde asks in indignation "wher spekys this felow? Wyll he 
 not come nere?" Mercy gravely answers: "All to sone, my 
 brother, I fere me, for you," and goes on to explain that shortly 
 New Gyse, Now-A-Days and Nought will come to tempt him. 
 After some brief advise and words of encouragement, Mercy tells 
 Mankynde that "Within a schorte space I must nedes hens." Now- 
 A-Days speaks from his hiding place : 
 
149 
 
 "The sonner the leuer, & that be ewyen a-non! 
 I trow yower name ys do-lytyll, ye be so longe fro horn." 
 
 I trow yower name ys do-lytyll, ye be so longe fro horn." And 
 Nought in the same strain : 
 
 "Yower potage xall be for-colde, ser; when wyll ye do dyne? 
 I haue sene a man lost XX noblys in as lytyll tyme." 
 
 Mercy is provoked at such foolish talking. He repeats his former 
 directions to Mankynde, warning him not to meddle with the vicious 
 visitors. "Thei harde not masse this twelmonyth, I dare say; Do 
 truly yower laboure, & kepe yower haly-day." His parting words 
 to the hero are instructions how to treat Tityvillus, who is more 
 malicious than the others and whose hidden snares are everywhere 
 laid to entrap man. With this he embraces Mankynde and with- 
 draws. 
 
 The hero sets to "tytyll in papyr" the resolution that Mercy's 
 words have inspired him. 
 
 "Memento, homo, quod cinis es et in cinerem reuerteris: 
 Lo! I ber on my brest the bagge of myn armys!" 
 
 New Gyse enters at the back of the stage, but Mankynde, who 
 is provided with a spade, keeps on digging, according to the counsel - 
 of Mercy, "to eschew ydullness." Now-A-Days and Nought shortly 
 arrive on the stage, and these with New Gyse sing some stanzas 
 whose refrain very appropriately typifies the quality of the vulgar 
 song itself. "Yt ys wretyn with a coll. Yt is wretyn with a cole !". 
 
 Mankynde grows indignant and drives them off the stage with 
 his spade. He kneels to thank heaven whose "grace and this spade 
 haue putt to flyght myn enmys." He leaves the stage "ryght sone 
 to reverte," and bring corn to plant in the soil he has tilled. Mys- 
 cheff enters and deplores that Mercy has succeeded too well in 
 teaching Mankynde ; but resolves to undo what has been done. He 
 invites the three who are outside groaning over their wounds, to 
 come in and offers them his sympathy. This fellowship in woe 
 assuages the smarts of the spade, and shortly all set to plan how to 
 revenge themselves on Mankynde. They conjure up Tityvillus, who 
 is soon heard outside: "I com with my legges under me." He fi^. 
 enters, arrayed like a devil wi th a net i n his hand, and takes entire 1>^ 
 control of the business on the stage. He sends New Gyse, Nought 
 and Now-A-Days upon expeditions to commit depredations of all 
 kinds. "Yf ye fayll of hors, take what ye may ellys." They beg 
 him as they go not to forget what Mankynde did to them. He 
 
150 
 
 promises to "venge the quarell," which he proceeds to do after he 
 has given them a left-handed blessing as assurance of his pledge and 
 smpathy. 
 
 Tityvillus now begins operations against the hero, "to assay hys 
 goode purpose for to sette asyde." As illustrative of the play- 
 wright's effort at invention and his desire to give a palpable motive 
 for the subsequent action of the hero, I will transcribe Tityvillus' 
 scheme which he confidentially commits to the audience. 
 
 "Euer I go invysybull, yt ys my rett, 
 Ande befor hys ey thus I will hange my nett 
 To blench hys syght; I hope to haue hys fote wett. 
 
 To yrke hym of hys labur I xall make a frame. 
 Thys borde xall be hyde under the erth preuely; 
 Hys spade xall enter, I hope, on-redyly; 
 Be then he hath a-wayde, he xall be uery angry 
 And lose hys pacyens, peyn of schame. 
 
 I xall menge hys come with draw & with durnell, 
 Yt xall not be lyke to sow nor to sell. 
 Yonder he commyth, I prey of cownsell; 
 
 He xall wene grace were wane." 
 
 Mankynde comes on the stage to plant the corn, but as he begins 
 to dig his spade sticks into the board which Tityvillus has buried. 
 
 "Thys londe ys so harde, yt make unlusty & yrke, 
 I xall sow my corne at winter & lett Gode werke. 
 Alasse my corne ys lost! Here ys a foull werke. 
 I se well, by tyllynge lytyll xall I wyn." 
 
 He throws away his spade which Tityvillus stealthily picks up and 
 removes to the back of the stage. Mankynde begins his "ewyn- 
 songe" on his knees, but he has hardly begun the Pater Noster 
 when Tytvillus returns to distract him. "I xall go to hys ere and 
 tytyll ther-in." Mankynde becomes weary of praying and imagines 
 he is seized with the colic, and leaves the stage, remarking as he 
 retires: "My bedes xall be here for who-summe-euer wyll cume." 
 While Mankynde is absent Tityvillus tells the audience how 
 easily he has triumphed over the hero's resolution. He takes them 
 into his confidence again and explains further his plans in refer- 
 ence to Mankynde, who, as he now enters, begins : 
 
 "Ewynsonge hath he in the saynge, I trow, a fayer wyll; 
 
 I am yrke of yt, yt ys to longe be on myle. 
 
 Do wey ; I wyll no more so oft on the chyrche-style ; 
 
 Be as be may, I xall do a-nother. 
 
 Of labure and prayer I am nere yrke of both; 
 
 I wyll no more of yt, thowgh Mercy be wroth." i 
 
151 
 
 He lies down and sleeps. Tityvillus charges the audience on "peyn 
 of XL pens" not to utter a word. He then whispers in the ear of 
 Mankynde the ingenious calumny that Mercy has stolen a mare and 
 was hanged for the theft. He bids the hero to dismiss all further 
 thought of Mercy, to arise and ask pardon of New Gyse, Now-A- 
 Days and Nought for *'mekyll sorow with thi spade beforn thou 
 hast wrought." The fiend sees that his charm has had its effect, 
 and his work is over. He addresses parting words to the audience : 
 
 "For-well, eiierychon, for I haue done my game 
 For I haue brought Mankynde to myscheflf and schame." 
 
 Mankynde awakes transformed to all evil dispositions and unques- 
 tioningly accepts the vision as literally true. He believes that he 
 has been deceived by Mercy and the consciousness of this leads him 
 to the rash resolve : 
 
 "A-dew fayer Mastere! I will hast me to the ale-house 
 And speke with New Gyse, Now-a-days and Noght, 
 And get me a lemman with smattrynge face." 
 
 The interim between this purpose and its realization is filled out by 
 the humorous recital of the ''narrow escapes" of the four explorers 
 whom Tityvillus commissioned. New Gyse enters with a broken 
 halter round his throat ; and explains how he "was twychyde by the 
 neke." Later, when Mankynde asks what gave him the crick in the 
 neck, the villain answers : 
 
 "In feyth Sent Andrys holy bende; 
 I haue a lytyll dyshes as yt plesse Gode to sende, 
 With a runnynge rynge-worme." 
 
 Nought and Now-A-Days arrive famished with hunger, and Mys- 
 cheff, who has slain the jailor, enters in fetters pretending humor- 
 ously to be a man in armour. 
 
 Mankynde asks pardon for the injuries he inflicted on the com- 
 pany with his spade. His request is granted. They enroll his name 
 in their list and provide him with a new jacket, which is symbolical 
 of the moral change in his life. These details as well as the actual 
 dubbing, which consists of reiterated pledges on the part of Man- 
 kynde to commit the six deadly sins ("lechery ys non") are con- 
 siderably protracted, though apparently not unduly. 
 
 Scarce is the ceremony over and Mankynde clothed in his 'ioly 
 iakett' when the reproving voice of Mercy is heard : 
 
 "What, how, Mankynde ! fle that felyschyppe, I you prey. 
 Mankynde turns his back on Mercy and goes with his companions 
 
152 
 
 "to kepe his fader's yer-day." He is under the special tuition of 
 Myscheff, who spares no pains to secure his spiritual destruction. 
 In the meantime Mercy bewails the prodigal through some thirty 
 lines. His lament is not wanting in elevation of thought and depth 
 of feeling. There is much variety, also, in the rapidly changing 
 mood of the speaker. At one time he mourns his sad lot to be 
 charged with such a creature as Mankynde "dyspectous and odyble, 
 so on-curtess, so inconsyderatte ;" at another time he upbraids the 
 hero, but suddenly breaks off and in self-reproach, exclaims: 
 "Alasse, who is me?" And again immediately addresses the absent 
 Mankynde "as the fane that turnyth with the wynde, so thou art 
 convertyble." Finally, from a direct personal attack, he enlarges 
 on the nature of ingratitude and inconstancy in general. 
 "In trust ys treson, the promes ys not credyble; 
 
 This peruersyose ingratytude I cannot rehers; 
 
 To go oner all the holy corte of heuyn, thou art despectyble. 
 
 As a nobyll versyfyer makyth mencyon in is verse: 
 
 Lex et natura, Christus et omnia jura 
 
 Damnant ingratum; lungetur eum fore natum.'* 
 
 At length Mercy entreats "the goode Lady and the Mother of 
 Mercy" to "haue pety and compasyon of the wretchydness of Man- 
 kynde, that is so wanton and so frayll." He resolves to turn the 
 hero from the "allectuose ways of detestabull lyvynge." 
 
 Myscheff does his utmost to hide Mankynde, who, when he 
 hears that Mercy is "here fast by," and wishes to speak with him, 
 despairs and calls for a rope to hang himself. Myscheff gives him 
 the rope and commissions New Gyse to show the hero how to ad- 
 just it properly. Mercy arrives in time to prevent the crime. All 
 the evil agents fly on his entrance. Mercy urges Mankynde not to 
 despair, but to take courage and to have confidence. He explains 
 to the hero the grounds for hope and the danger of "weyn con- 
 fidens of Mercy." Mankynde is beside himself for joy at this happy 
 deliverance. 
 
 "O Mercy my solasius solas and synguler recreatory 
 My predilecte speeyall, ye are worthy to haue my lowe; 
 For, wyth-out deserte and menys supplicatorie, 
 Ye be- com pacient to my inexcusabyll reprove." 
 
 Mercy at great length warns him of the dangers which beset his 
 path : "Libere velle, libere velle. Ye may both saue and spill yowre 
 sowle that is so precyous." Then he cautions him to beware of 
 Tityvillus with his net and all hys enmys wyll" and finally bids him 
 
153 
 
 to depart in peace and to persevere. Alone on the stage Mercy 
 speaks the elilogue which unfolds a moral. 
 
 From the point of view of dramatic structure Mankynde is, 
 though probably antecedent in date, easily in advance of the earlier 
 species of Morality. The playwright brings the hero into close re- 
 lation with the action which in some manner is specially suited to 
 express the characteristics of a definite individual, or at least a 
 specific type and not a frame work within which Humanity or 
 Everyman could fit just as well. In other words, Mankynde de- 
 velops in a more life-like way than either Humanum Genus of the 
 hero of Mundus et Infans, and to some extent the spectators wit- 
 ness a process of growth. In the rudimentary attempt at precision 
 of outline, the motive, however, rationally inadequate to account for 
 his action, gives semblance of reason for Mankynde's change of 
 resolution and prevents the violent transition from good to evil 
 which is the common fault in the earlier of the moral plays. There 
 is a conscious eflFort not merely to draw the hero with distinctness, 
 but also to render his doings probable. Mankynde is perhaps the 
 earliest Moral that comes closest to the Renaissance or Humanistic 
 varieties of Allegorical dramas of which it is now in place to speak 
 briefly. 
 
 At this point in the development of the Moral play a number 
 of dramatic growths present themselves. These sub-varieties of 
 the Morality species, offshoots of the parent stem which drew its 
 existence mediately through the Cycles from the Liturgical germ or 
 root, afford valuable indices towards an estimate of characteriza- 
 tion on the eve of the Elizabethan drama. Certainly at no period 
 of the early Gothic theatre had there been such dramatic activity 
 in so varied directions as during these years when the gradual in- 
 flux of Renaissance ideas were becoming perceptible on the stage. 
 At no time does it appear so evident that the great animating prin- 
 ciple beneath the ever-changing forms was the intuitive perception 
 on the part of the dramatist, that the secret of success lay in the 
 concrete treatment of the caste. From no other viewpoint may one 
 see so clearly the advantages and shortcomings, respectively, of the 
 diverse themes dramatized. The presentation of his persons is the 
 sure test, the last analysis in determining the dramatic worth of his 
 subject and the capability of the author. This is especially true 
 during an epoch of transition and at a time when neither law nor 
 convention excited a restraining influence on the native resources of 
 the playwright. 
 
154 
 
 At the opening of the sixteenth century dramatic activity was 
 so varied that the new experiments considerably modified the old 
 Morality. It lost in a great measure its former identity and grad- 
 ually became only one among many species which were destined to 
 contribute to the formation of the Elizabethan drama, in its be- 
 ginnings. All these several attempts at dramatic expression, how- 
 ever, were influenced in the way of form by the structure of the 
 Moral play. The commodious nature of the Allegorical mould made 
 it an easy task to fit in any conceivable topic with sufificient con- 
 gruity. Theological dogma and philosophy, the physical sciences, 
 mythology, history and politics were cast into it and adjusted as 
 nicely as had been the purely satiric and ethical themes. Authors 
 whose aim was primarily to amuse followed also the current con- 
 ventions of the stage and sought their effects, at least in part, 
 through an allegorical presentation. It has been noted already in a 
 quotation from the Castle of Constancy what the author's attitude 
 at this late date was in respect to allegory and how little this shaded 
 the reality of his persons. In proportion as character-treatment de- 
 veloped and genuinely individual features were presented on the 
 stage to that degree the allegorical element dwindled into insignifi- 
 cance. An increased proficiency on the part of the playwright and 
 the novel interest imminent in his subject contributed very effec- 
 tively to replace the earlier abstractions with characters taken from 
 common life. * 
 
 A word in reference to the respective classes or varieties of dra- 
 matic endeavor will be sufficient to indicate the direction taken and 
 show the power in character-presentation noticeable at this stage 
 of dramaturgical experience. At the beginning of the reign of 
 Henry VIII, a branch issued from the Morality stem which directly 
 contributed little to the advance of character-treatment. Fittingly 
 enough a first Morality of this new type had for its author John 
 
 * Referring to the English theatre of Early Renaissance years, M. 
 Jusserand writes: "A Londres, la part de la vie rpelle, s'accrut sans 
 cesse; les trivialites et les menus incidents qui encombrerent les existences 
 ordinaire, encombrerent aussi les pieces qu'on pretendait calquer sur le modele 
 vivant; les personnages abstraits disparurent, et les comedies des moeurs 
 et d'observation demeura en possession de la scene. Mais un signe visible 
 de I'ancienne origine demeura toutefois I'habtude de donner au personnages 
 des noms qui sent des etiquettes; les faiseurs de comedie la prirent aux 
 faiseurs de Moralities; Sheridan I'accepta comme Massinger; apres Ambition, 
 et Hypocrisie, on eut sir Giles Overreach et Joseph Surface. Cette coutunie 
 qui remonte si loin n'est pas encore entirement abolie," L'Histoire Litteraire 
 du peuple Anglais. T. II, p. 484. 
 
155 
 
 Rastall, brother-in-law of Sir Thomas More. It was a species of 
 Moral in the interest, not of religious but of secular education. 
 This modification of motive, due to incipient enthusiasm for Hu- 
 manistic learning, in turning the attention of the listeners from the 
 immediate consideration of moods and passions, from actions and 
 reactions within the soul of the hero to problems of cosmography 
 and physics — "poyntes of phylosophy naturall" — would transform 
 the stage into a school-room. It was impossible that such sheer 
 didacticism would long continue to be relished by the play-goers, 
 many of whom, no doubt, could not grasp the inner meaning which 
 the writer intended, though insisted on with less pains than he took 
 in displaying his learning. In fact, the author of the earliest speci- 
 men of this variety of drama, The Nature of the Four Elements, (c. 
 1 517) anticipated the unpopularity of his theme and promised in 
 the prologue to enliven his lessons by introducing less serious mat- 
 ter. These hors-d'oeuvres brought his production within the province 
 of the dramatic for everybody by supplying a large mite of human 
 interest. 
 
 But because some folk be a little disposed 
 To sadness, but more to mirth and sport, 
 This philosophical work is mixed 
 With merry conceits, to give men comfort 
 And occasion to cause them to resort 
 To hear this matter whereto if they take heed 
 Some learning to them thereof may proceed. 
 The "matter substancyall" which Natura Naturata; Studyous, 
 Desyre, and Experyens undertake to teach Humanyte is reduced to 
 the following heads : 
 
 *0f the situation of the four elements, that is, the earth, 
 water, the air and fire; and of their qualities and properties 
 and of the generation and corruption of things made of the 
 commixtion of them. 
 
 *0f certain conclusions proving that the earth must needs 
 be round, and that it hangeth in the midst of the firmament 
 and that it is in circumference above 21,000 miles. 
 
 'Of certain conclusions proving that the sea lieth round 
 upon the earth. 
 
 "Of certain points of cosmography, how and where the sea 
 covereth the earth, of diverse strange regions and lands and 
 which way they lie and of the new found lands (America), 
 and the manner of the people. 
 
 'Of the generation and cause of stone and metal, and 
 plants, and herbs. Of the generation and cause of well- 
 springs and rivers, and of the cause of hot fumes that come 
 
156 
 
 out of the earth; and the cause of the baths of water in the 
 earth which be perpetually hot. 
 
 ^Of the cause of the ebb and flow of the sea. 
 
 *0f the cause of rain, snow and hail. 
 
 'Of the cause of winds and thunder. 
 
 'Of the cause of lightning nnd blazing stars and flames 
 flying in the air. 
 
 The main object of the author in explaining this program was 
 not solely to create a taste for the study of nature, but to lead 
 Humanyte from a consideration of created things to a more worthy 
 concept of the Creator. First, a knowledge of the theology of na- 
 ture befitted the student of divinity, in the more limited sense. 
 This is made clear by the speaker of the prologue. Humanyte de- 
 lights in the disquisitions of Natura Naturata and ponders them 
 over in the company of Studyous Desyre, who, too, is capable of 
 giving "suffycyent solucyon" to cosmological questions which 
 Humanyte can in "no maner wyse parceyve nor see." But the 
 author, true to his promise, did not forget the groundlings. Sen- 
 sual Appeytyte comes on the stage and in the absence of Studyous 
 Desyre prevails on Humanyte not to waste his strength on study. 
 By the time Studyous Desyre arrives with Experyence, a man that 
 is never without "dyvevrs instrumentys," Sensual Appetyte has 
 taken the hero "for a pastime of recreation to a tavern where Ignor- 
 ance Shortly joins the company. Humanyte loses all taste for 
 study and prefers to "refreshe nature, with drynkes plesaunt and 
 delycate vyand" than to return to the lessons of Experynce v/ho in 
 the interim has been instructing Studyous Desyre. 
 
 .In root this play is not so different as it seems to be from the 
 purely religious Morals. It meant to illustrate the strife between 
 good and evil in man from a new point of view. Nature and Expe- 
 rience would lead the hero along the path of truth to a higher and 
 happier mode of life ; their antagonists, Sensual Appetyte and Ignor- 
 ance were bent on his ruin. 
 
 Another branchlet in this new arm of the old trunk is the play 
 Wyt and Science, by John Redford. Mr. Manly, who has edited 
 the text, says it is one of the most perfect Allegories extant and 
 illustrates well the variety of the Moral play which concerned itself 
 with the diffusion of secular learning. All the dramatis personae 
 bear abstract names and there are no fewer than nineteen engaged 
 in the presentation. These plays, however, are by no means inani- 
 mate; each has many personal interests and a will to realize them. 
 
157 
 
 What contributes most to the Hfe of this piece is that there is no 
 formal program to be disposed of, as in the Nature of the Four 
 Elements. The author is less concerned in the kind and amount 
 of what he actually imparts than in the manner in which instruction, 
 in general, is imparted. His purpose is mainly to show the diffi- 
 culties, in their way at times dramatic, that beset those who pursue 
 after Wyt and Science. A struggle takes place in the intellectual 
 order similar to that experienced by the hero when ethical interests 
 were at issue. Tediousness, Idleness and Shame work harm in its 
 kind as fatal to Wyt and Science as were the efforts of Mundus 
 Caro, and Belyall, of Tityvillus and the three 'unthryfty gestes' 
 unthryfty gestes to Humanum Genus and Mankynde. The intellect 
 had its enemies even as the will, and their mode of attack was not 
 quite dissimilar. It was this inner conflict Redford sought to make 
 objective as his predecessors had solidified the fluent, intangible and 
 spiritual processes that affected the human will. 
 
 The Marriage of Witte and Science is closely modeled on John 
 Redford's Morality which preceded it on the stage fully half a cen- 
 tury. The play is regularly divided into five acts and in every re- 
 spect shows this subvariety of the moral species at its perfection. 
 Though the author in many instances only modernizes the language 
 of the older play, the whole treatment, however, is not merely more 
 perfect on the literary side, but the later playwright's sense of the 
 dramatic in the way of technical effects is far keener and more sure 
 than that which may be ascribed to his predecessor. The blending 
 of the light with the serious in the action and the proximity of the 
 whole to actual life prove a more developed dramatic instinct. The 
 allegory affects the construction merely. The caste is abstract only 
 in name. There is a prayer for the King and Queen at the close of 
 the play which fixes the date. According to Collier it must have 
 been written "late" in the regn of Henry VIII. 
 
 "The lesson," says Ward, "which the Marriage of Witte and 
 Science enforces is thoroughly sound and sensible." In this respect 
 at least it brings us close to a parallel branch, which, as itself, 
 draws sap from the old stem. The variety of Morality to which I 
 refer, may be illustrated by the Disobedient Child, "a pretie and 
 mery new Enterlued," by Thomas Ingelande, "late student in Cam- 
 bridge." This play is of interest for many reasons, though it is 
 merely representative of a large number of others. Lusty Juventus, 
 the Interlude of Youth, New Custom, Nice Wanton, The Longer 
 
158 
 
 Thou Livest the More Foole Thou Art, Like Will to Like, The 
 Three Ladies of London, and especially The Three Lordes and 
 Ladies of London, set forth in sum, the lesson contained in the Dis- 
 obedient Child and would illustrate my point fully as well. The 
 teaching presented in the plays that had to do with education in 
 general is illuminated on the negative side by the variety of drama 
 of which this of Ingelande's is a fair specimen. The Disobedient 
 Child is in structure simplicity itself, the author evidently having 
 in mind throughout the one idea of illustrating in a telling manner 
 the evil effects of bad education and of hasty and imprudent wed- 
 lock. There is no abstract figure introduced if we except Satan, 
 the devil whose part stands in no vital relation with the main move- 
 ment, but a mere interpolation of the author either to supply in- 
 terest in the piece or in deference to the old time convention. Satan 
 here is so little himself that he quite forgets his role, and after a 
 long explanation of his powers and experiences among men he ad- 
 vises the younger part of the audience to take heed of his tempta- 
 tion, for he goes on to say, unless God supports them "they can- 
 not agaynst me sticke or stande." With this he retires from the 
 stage. 
 
 The Disobedient Child not only marks the passing away of 
 allegorical abstractions from the Mediaeval stage and the introduc- 
 tion of real, though still typical life, but in the use of dramatic 
 technique there is a noticeable advance. The action in brief is 
 this: The Rich Man's Son asks his father "what is the best way 
 to spend short life?" The answer given is first to go to school. 
 But the lad detests nothing more than to "consume" his life at a 
 book. He prefers any task to the "business" of the school — "the 
 house and prison of the school-master." He brings forward rea- 
 sons to convince Rich Man, his father, that there is nothing to be 
 gained by study; the thing is tiresome in itself, and what is more, 
 there is mortal danger in attending the local school owing to the 
 vigorous discipline flourishing there. He illustrates this last point 
 by the narration of the tragic fate of one of his companions who 
 fell a victim of the master's rod. Nothing of all this, however, has 
 any weight with Rich Man, because his son is grounding his argu- 
 ments on mere hearsay and has no direct experience of school-life. 
 The old man could tell many catastrophes — not so tragic, indeed, 
 as that of his son's illustration, but none the less fatal — that re- 
 sulted from non-attendance at school. Rich Man's Son does not 
 
159 
 
 see things as his father and only grows more wilful in his resolu- 
 tion not to go to school. He boldly asks for a wife — a request 
 which he thinks his age and the practice of everybody around ought 
 to make sufficiently reasonable. The father, presaging the bitter 
 consequences of this rash act, reluctantly permits his son to go in 
 search of a bride. 
 
 The son leaves home and shortly wins the affection of Rose. 
 During his absence an amusing scene takes place in the kitchen be- 
 tween the man-servant and the maid-servant who are in extreme 
 ill-humor on account of the extra work involved in the elaborate 
 preparations — buying, baking and boiling — "for the great bridal 
 against to-morrow." The cooks converse in very natural tones and 
 freely exchange their sentiments touching their master's choice. 
 A glance and a word suffice for Blanche to tell the temperament of 
 
 the bride: 
 
 "The tip of her nose is as sharp as mine, 
 Her tongue and her tune is very shrill. . . ." 
 
 The priest who is to preside at the ceremony is no ordinary 
 pastor; he has many personal traits which remove him from the 
 conventional type and efface family resemblance. He appears be- 
 fore the audience quite out of patience. The reason of his provoca- 
 tion is that "many a time and oft" he must "play priest, clerk and 
 all," owing to the irregular life led by his sexton — "whose nose is 
 not greatly pale." He officiates, however, at the nuptials, as shortly 
 after the husband and wife come before the audience. 
 
 Rich Man's Son so delights in his new experience that he finds 
 its sweetness has surpassed even his anticipations. 
 
 "0 Lord, what pleasures and great commodity 
 Are heaped together in matrimony"! 
 
 Shortly, however, these pleasant sensations are changed for others 
 less disagreeable when his wife orders him to work. 
 
 "0 Mirth, O Joy, O Pastime and pleasure, 
 How little a space do you endure!" 
 
 She has him to gather faggots and carry them on his back to the 
 market. To overcome his reluctance the stage direction bids her 
 "to strike him handsomly about the shoulders with something." She 
 is not pleased with the sale he has made and again seizes the rod 
 "to make the brains in his skull more deeply to settle." This over 
 she bids him fetch a pail of water from a distant well and on his 
 return she hurries him to the stream to do the washing. He brings 
 
160 ^ 
 
 back the clothes, in his opinion, "white as a lily," but she detects 
 a stain and "must knock him down," as the rubric directs. Finally 
 she goes to visit her friends, but warns her husband not to leave 
 the house during her absence. In this, however, he does not obey. 
 As soon as she is out of sight he goes to his father's home to be 
 relieved of his termagant spouse. The devil keeps house in his 
 absence. 
 
 The meeting of the father and the prodigal is well worked out. 
 When the father asks "what cheer with thee?" the son falls on his 
 knees and confesses his imprudence : 
 
 "All such sayings as in my mind 
 At the first time ye studied to settle 
 Most true, alas, I do them find, 
 As though they were written in the Gospel.*' 
 
 The father artfully enough has forgotten what his advice had been, 
 so that the son goes over the whole history of his experiences, tell- 
 ing how his "seely poor shoulders have been thwacked full often 
 with the staff. She spareth no more my flesh and bone than if my 
 body were made of stone." Rich Man is not prodigal of his sym- 
 pathy, so that despite entreaties the young man has to return to 
 his wife. This logical outcome is a very unusual ending of the 
 action in a Moral play. Qui parcit virgae odit filium is the lesson 
 the speaker of the epilogue enforces, with a less pitiless exhorta- 
 tion to despise the vanities of this life "and set the mind on the 
 Holy Ghost." 
 
 Such in outline is the form and content of this representative 
 Moral play which dates from the middle of the sixteenth century. 
 The margin that separates it from Gammer Gurton's Needle is not 
 broad. Long before the appearance of either, however, John Hey- 
 wood (who died about 1580) had written in a true Chaucerian vein 
 six plays that had anticipated many of the qualities for which the 
 Disobedient Child is chiefly deserving of mention here. Heywood's 
 Johan and Tyb and Margery Corson are surely as real as Rich 
 Man's Son, Rose, or Blanche. 
 
 Heywood was a typical dramatist of his time. Endowed with a 
 good voice and musical ability he was at an early age attached to 
 the court of Henry VUI, and enjoyed the lucrative as well as hon- 
 orable office of Master of the King's Children-Comedians. Like 
 Chaucer, whom he resembles in very many lines, Heywood was 
 not a polemist nor a Crusader. He preferred to hold aloof from 
 
161 
 
 all religious and political strife. Not wishing to conform to the 
 religion of the state nor to adopt the teachings of the New Learning, 
 he gave up his living and quietly retired to Mechlin where he was 
 living as late as 1575. 
 
 His dramatic work, perfectly presenting the mediaeval concep- 
 tion of life with all its unobtrusive serious-joyousness, is so like 
 that of the moral playwright, and yet in so many ways touching 
 the coming drama, that it marks a transition stage between the 
 Mediaeval and Elizabethan. The lively realistic action of Hey- 
 wood's Interludes (a very appropriate name in its literal meaning 
 and historical reference) was sure, by degrees, to push the abstrac- 
 tions of the moralities from the stage. In extracting from its re- 
 ligious and didactic surroundings the comic element incidental in 
 the cycles and early moralities, and emphasizing it almost exclu- 
 sively, Heywood did much to further the interests of dramatic 
 characterization. It is chiefly in this respect that he merits his im- 
 portant position in the history of the English drama. In point of 
 construction and dramatic development, Heywood is scarcely better 
 than the least gifted moral playwright of his time. It would, in- 
 deed, be truer to say that his plays are dramatic episodes than 
 dramas. He possessed, however, qualities that his contemporary 
 fellow-workers might have profitably imitated. Ten Brink says of 
 him that "he did not create English Comedy, but certainly many 
 of its essential elements. He prepared the way for it much in the 
 same way as the Comedia dell' Arte served as the first stage to 
 Moliere's art." Further on the same writer places the value of 
 Heywood not in any cleverness of technique, but in "successful 
 delineation of character (even though not carried to any great 
 depth) an inexhaustible fund of whimsical ideas, dramatic anima- 
 tion and in the development of an effective though drastic species 
 of comicality." * 
 
 If, as Brunetiere holds, t freedom of satire be an essential 
 condition for the birth and growth of the comedie de caracteres, 
 Heywood was in no way withheld from the freest treatment of his 
 caste. Perhaps he comes nearer to his prototype in this respect 
 than in any other. Like Chaucer and Sir Thomas More, he could 
 let his fancy play with no thought of danger. What Professor 
 Egan says of them is applicable in a measure to Heywood. "His 
 
 ♦History of Eng. Lit., Vol. II, part 2, pp. 134-147. 
 t Lea Epoques due Theatre Fraicais, pp. 142 ff. 
 
162 
 
 geniality, his acuteness in the knowledge of the foibles of humanity, 
 his optimism, his power of picturing, his grace and immortal fresh- 
 ness make him beloved of the world As the Cathedral 
 
 carvings of his time, we find in his work strange things which 
 modern taste, more delicate, rejects. Like all men of genius, he 
 was of his time, but not of the worst of it." * No one could be 
 lost among the pilgrims to Canterbury more easily than Heywood's 
 Four P's. No one as this type of mediaeval playwrights could laugh 
 so heartily at the traditional bogus Pardoner who was perpetually 
 offering for sale a flask of Saint Michael's sweat, the finger-nail of 
 a cherub, the whole finger of the Holy Ghost and the jaw-bone of 
 All Saints. 
 
 Heywood's manner of writing, combined with the wide- 
 spreading Humanism did much to weaken the influence of mediaeval 
 dramatic motives. The auditors could no longer rest satisfied with 
 the serious religious and didactic presentations that they had for- 
 merly enjoyed. This drastic reaction, wholly unconscious on the 
 part of the pioneer of English Comedy, did much to advance the 
 interests of the stage. He came before the public opportunely. In 
 every department of mental activity there was a quickening interest, 
 a selective and assimilative process going on. Obviously more 
 than for anyone else it was the playwright's business to gauge the 
 spirit of the times. This, of course, had not yet so generally be- 
 come the vital necessity it was later when popular approval meant 
 considerably more for the needy dramatist than the satisfaction of 
 an empty vanity. The efforts of the playwright to keep pace with 
 current thought and taste, the tendency on his part to treat his 
 matter more consciously, or, on what may be called artistic prin- 
 ciples, have been noted. In all this Heywood was of his time. In 
 his manner of appropriating, selecting and rejecting material to 
 fit his purposes he see^J^ to have had no compunctious visitings. 
 He was as indifferent in this respect as his son, Jasper, a free trans- 
 lator of Seneca's plays, or any of the Elizabethan dramatists. In 
 the spirit of Chaucer and of the Towneley playwright he gathered 
 suggestions from every source — from the cycles and moralities, 
 from poetry and romance, from gossip and his own inexhaustible 
 imagination. He recast and shaped this motley material into his 
 one-act drama, giving the twice-told tale an original freshness and 
 charm. 
 
 • Egan, M. F., Studies in literature, pp. 26-27. 
 
163 
 
 The religious stage, Liturgical, Cyclical and Moral, was com- 
 paratively well fitted for a highly dramatic presentation of sacred 
 themes, as long as the religious motive, so repeatedly referred to, 
 
 ftained its mediaeval effectiveness ; but when at the passing away 
 mediaeval habits of thought and life, the ''two senses" were grad- 
 ually losing point, and the "functional ideas" that predominated 
 almost to exclusiveness the life of man in the Middle Ages ceased 
 to operate in the manner and degree of former times, it was im- 
 perative for the dramatist to have recourse to other means to secure 
 new motives of appeal. To this John Heywood's work and the 
 pieces of the later Moral playwrights evidently point. The first 
 notable attempt at purely English Comedy in the Towneley Secunda 
 Pastorum, is the best proof of a like feeling in the cycles. The de- 
 sire on the part of the playwright to widen and vary his scope of 
 appeal manifested itself the moment the drama left the Sanctuary 
 when the playwright seemed first to awaken to the consciousness 
 of his work. The development of this dramatic instinct, virtually 
 synonymous with growth of pov/er in character-treatment has been 
 sufficiently illustrated in its different degrees and directions that it 
 is not necessary to dwell on it further here. Yet in one other 
 branch of the Morality one finds a very conscious effort to supple- 
 ment a purely religious motive by one scarcely less effective — an 
 appeal to national sympathy and interest. 
 
 Bale's Kinge Johan shows this clearly and is, moreover, a very 
 favorable specimen of that numerous class of later moralities in the 
 interests of the New Learning as distinguished from those moral 
 plays which, as was seen, reflected in their measure the spirit of 
 Humanism. In Kynge Johan, Bale, says Mr. Saintsbury, in re- 
 ferring to the historical character of the play, "first blundered on 
 a path which led to the heights of English literature." The word 
 "blundered" aptly defines the process. Looked at from the point of 
 view of the morality, Kynge Johan is a decided advance toward 
 the drama of secular and historical purpose, though as Mr. Schell- 
 ing points out, it had no influence on the coming theatre, but may 
 well be regarded as the connecting link between the Morality species 
 of drama and the Chronicle play. * This, however, is high 
 tragedy, Gorboduc, "King of Great Brittaine," contributed in a 
 praise as the same author (p. 273) doubts that our earliest English 
 positive way to the growth of the Historical drama. 
 
 ♦ The Chronicle Play, pp. 16-17, 272 ff. 
 
164 
 
 Bale, in choosing an historical name for his hero, sought a new 
 motive of appeal. In presenting King John, despite the historical 
 facts, (for John Bale shows himself wholly destitute of any faculty 
 to perceive truth) as the champion of "Crysten libertie and Cristes 
 holy gospell," the playwright not only rendered concrete and signifi- 
 cative the action of the abstractions that plot against the King and 
 the welfare of religion and the realm, but in associating all these 
 wrongs with English interests, the dramatist secured a direct hold 
 on the main springs of genuine dramatic power. In the Conflict of 
 Conscience, it will be remembered, the process v/as just the reverse 
 of this ; the didactic purpose was much less veiled. Francis Spiera 
 is translated by Philologus, whereas Crysten libertie or Veryte is 
 personified in a passionate manner by an English King. With this 
 change of dramatic motives the moral play lost its identity and 
 ceased to be an independent species. It would be an idle under- 
 taking to pursue it further in the vain hope of extracting its ele- 
 ments from the heterogeneous mass compounded by the varied and 
 extraordinary activity of English playwrights during the first twenty 
 years of Elizabeth's reign. 
 
 Briefly, to summarize : The reference in the opening section to 
 a parallelism of origin and growth existing between the Greek and 
 Gothic drama has been to some extent justified. If the two indis- 
 pensable conditions for the rise of a great national theatre be "on 
 the one hand, a wide-spread rehgious beUef, accompanied by splendor 
 of religious ritual ; on the other, flexibility of imagination enabling 
 the dramatist to give form, life and individuality to the floating 
 conceptions of the people — both requirements were satisfied by 
 Athenian genius; and Attic tragedy and comedy were the joint 
 products of the religious spectacles of the Dionysia and the succes- 
 sion of great inventors who interpreted the feelings of the specta- 
 tors." The Gothic drama "in its infant form, is the direct product 
 of the religious Ritual; the festival of Corpus Christi becomes as 
 powerful an instrument as the Dionysia at Athens for the encourage- 
 ment of the actor's art." * 
 
 It was not intended to lean too much on this fact of similarity 
 and development; for, though the parallel may be true in general, 
 it does not, however, bear to be pressed on equally at all points along 
 the line. At Corinth and Athens the classic drama which was an 
 integral part in the worship of the deity developed in a true sense 
 *Courthope, W. A. History of English Poetry, Vol. I., pp. 392 473. 
 
165 
 
 organically from the earlier informal liturgies, the spontaneous, re- 
 ligious and dramatic expression of the rural populations at their 
 several seasonal gatherings. After one has left the Moral plays, 
 whatever connection in other respects he may see between them and 
 the other species of the English drama, it would be difficult, except 
 in a most general way, to carry out the parallelism evident enough 
 between the earlier forms of the theatre in England and Greece. In 
 referring to this analogy the main purpose in view had been to show 
 apropos of Grecian worship that in connection with the Christian 
 cult, and particularly in the liturgy of the Mediaeval Church, there 
 were dramatic germs which under suitable conditions and like treat- 
 ment were capable of growing into a drama not inferior to its proto- 
 type. This might have been; the fact is, no practice or institution 
 has had part in creating what may be called the essential qualities 
 of a Gothic drama to any degree comparable to that effected by the 
 ecclesiastical Ritual all through the Middle Ages. Other important 
 influences there had been, but the Liturgical germs as containing 
 in a peculiar manner the root-principle of dramatic life and growth 
 alone deserved to be named the source of the Gothic drama. 
 
 Intimately connected with the awakening consciousness of the 
 dramatic instinct is the origin and application of the basic law which 
 governs dramatic movement — the law of characterization. The re- 
 lation of the Mediaeval English drama to the Liturgical Offices is 
 observable from no point so fully as in the presentation of the wor- 
 shipped realities which were back of the symbols. The univer- 
 sality of appeal so marked in the Ritual sprang from the effort to 
 bring the veiled actuality more and more within the perception of 
 the senses which was the direct object of the Lturgical drama. Pre- 
 cisely in the very reason of its origin we have defined the nature 
 and purpose of the drama of all times. It was intended to supple- 
 ment the Liturgical Acts proper which themselves aimed at the 
 fullest realization possible of the loftiest spiritual ideas and of em- 
 bodying human feelings and aspirations in a tangible form. It 
 meant from the start to show Truth his face, to hold the mirror up 
 to nature, or more concretely, to present m.an as a whole — reasoning, 
 willing and feeling — on a deeply moral background. 
 
 From the beginning the playwright dealt with a reality peculiar- 
 ly suited to his capacity and tastes. There was nothing to tramel 
 the flexibility of the imagination, as the Autos Sacramentales of 
 Calderon, abundantly prove; sheer incapacity alone impeded the 
 Mediaeval playwright from giving through the medium of words 
 
166 
 
 and action, (as was actually effected by the mediaeval builders and 
 painters) "form, life and individuality to the floating conceptions of 
 the people." The fault was not with his subject-matter, it was in 
 himself. 
 
 It has not, perhaps, been always sufficiently recognized, at least 
 seldom adequately acknowledged, to what extent after development 
 in the treatment of the caste was due to the fact that the earlier play- 
 wright at first identified his purpose with that of the Liturgy, and 
 later worked on doctrinal and ethical themes. Ordinarily in all be- 
 ginnings at expression through art, much energy is expended in- 
 effectually. There are few or no positive results of value from the 
 early exercises at dramatization that would influence in a direct way 
 the Elizabethan writer of plays. This is beyond question. None 
 the less the idea that the playwright conceived at the beginning was 
 essentially dramatic; it involved the only really important problem 
 of his day, for it engaged itself with nothing less than the criterion 
 that regulated the intrinsic worth or worthlessness of personal acts 
 and policies. Surely such material might be easily prepared for 
 the stage and considerable effect produced without great effort. 
 Free from rule and precedent, all the author's energy and talent 
 were directed to the one end of presenting in the clearest and most 
 emphatic way in his power this essence of all dramatic action. The 
 struggle of the human will against opposing forces of preternatural 
 malice and might was a conflict of intense interest to the mediaeval 
 man, and one, as was seen, which he could justly appreciate by rea- 
 son of the very keen perception of the sanction governing the ever 
 doubtful issue of the combat. Founded on ethical ideas these un- 
 couth, incipient attempts at dramatic expression served to intensify 
 in the mind of the auditor that consciousness of personal responsi- 
 bility which already dominated his life. * 
 
 * Brander Matthews, The Development of the Drama, pp. 120-121. "Altho 
 The priests who put it together had not given a thought to this aspect of 
 it, the story of Jesus is truly dramatic, not only in its humanity, in its 
 color, in its variety, in its infinite pathos but also and chiefly in its full 
 possession of the prime essential of a true drama — in its having at the 
 heart of it a struggle, an exhibition of determination, a clash of contending 
 desires. Indeed, it is the most dramatic of all struggles for it is the 
 perpetual conflict of good and evil. To us moderns, the issue is sharply 
 joined; but in the mediaeval church it was even more obvious; since in the 
 middle ages no one ever doubted that a personal Devil was forever striving 
 to thwart the will of a personal God. In the passion-play, which showed 
 in action all the leading events of the life of Christ, both contestants were 
 set boldly before the spectators — God himself high in Heaven, and the 
 Devil escaping from Hell-mouth to work his evil among mankind.'* 
 
167 
 
 This was a preliminary, of some importance if one would arrive 
 at an accurate estimate of the intrinsic dramatic worth of the sub- 
 ject-matter itself, which, when viewed relative to the mediaeval 
 author and audience, acquired a value not easily perceptible from 
 the text. It was chiefly this implicit quality I have tried to show. 
 An exaggerated stress on the dramatic possibilities of the epical and 
 lyrical recitations in the halls of the nobility by the successors of the 
 Anglo-Saxon Scop and Gleeman, and the hopelessly barren manoeu- 
 vres before the people of the mediaeval histriones, mimi and jocu- 
 latores weakens the emphasis that justly belongs to the liturgical 
 drama in which alone, there is apparent genuine dramatic promise. 
 It possessed, so far as the drama is concerned, what was essential 
 in them ; and besides its depth of interest, the university of its ap- 
 peal, its inexhaustible nature in every way — were so many essential 
 dramatic qualities not wholly hidden in the comparatively few rem- 
 nants of the early Gothic drama. 
 
 Character was defined to be the summed qualities of man and 
 its presentation nothing less than a setting forth of the processes 
 and acts of the human reason, will and perception, through whose 
 innumerable varieties of activity the sum was reached. The great 
 aim of the dramatist was to present the whole life of his hero — 
 action, situation and emotion — every dramatic factor that will help 
 to bring out the "whole life" entire is nicely adjusted and receives 
 the necessary emphasis. In the early drama the instinct to repro- 
 duce real life on the stage manifested itself from the beginning. 
 Realism even to the minutest detail by any means was the main 
 object of the playwright. He knew no other law of composition 
 than that which gave the fullest utterance to his mind. It could 
 not be a question with him whom to imitate. He wrote as he con- 
 ceived and felt, and he understood that his business was closely to 
 imitate life, to reproduce the Holy Night of Bethlehem or contrast 
 the sadness and joy of Easter morning in the most eflfective manner 
 possible. And as with the liturgic so with the Cyclic playwright. 
 How bring home to the spectators in the most striking way the 
 origin of sin and the history of Redemption? What manner of 
 appeal could best attract and hold, what device of workmanship 
 would bring clearest in relief the idea of struggle between the two 
 concrete and personally interested powers that underlie the ethical 
 history of the Human Race ? Some attempt has been made to point 
 out the playwright's design to give connection, unity and emphasis 
 
168 
 
 by referring to his attitude toward his theme. The freedom with 
 which he invents interpolates, transposes and rejects is sufficient 
 evidence that his conception of his work differed widely from the 
 mere historical point of view. He respected the facts of history, 
 but he did not restrain his fancy from amending them in the in- 
 terests of his purpose. It is clear what advantages he possessed 
 over the historian and how much his unity of design through forty 
 acts contributed to distinctness of presentation. This multiplicity 
 of impressions unified by reason of singleness of view, when cast 
 on the sympathetic mind of the onlooker was sure to leave there an 
 after-image, a kind of composite photograph in which could be seen 
 the leading idea of every scene, not as an entity apart, but incor- 
 porated into the structure of the whole, contributing, as it were, a 
 feature to the living countenance which was formed in the memory 
 of the spectator. 
 
 In passing to the Moral plays the aim of the dramatist was to 
 present the same dramatic idea under a new, more concrete and em- 
 phatic form. It was easier in this species of drama to show the 
 intrinsic relations of character and passion or the vital sequence of 
 mental and moral development. It was no longer question to speak 
 of the origin of evil in general, and the persistent conflict waged 
 between it and the good as affecting the human race at large ; but to 
 present this warfare within an individual, through the medium of 
 anthropomorphized abstractions which would externalize the pro- 
 cesses of the secret spiritual agencies going on within. Thus, in 
 making objective the several activities of the mind by raising each 
 to the dignity of an independent role the writer of the Moral play 
 contributed not a little to dramatic precision of outline in detail — 
 in the measure the impossible scope of his theme would allow — 
 without deviating from the old idea and line of development indi- 
 cated in the Liturgical drama and realized in the perfect imitation 
 of the Liturgy itself which leads to the grand climax where the sub- 
 stance and symbol meet and actually become one. 
 
 This was the early Moral play which in many respects stands 
 in such close relation to the drama of the Sanctuary that it may be 
 looked on, to some extent, as the fuller expression and complement 
 of the Liturgical presentation. The later Moralities, in root for the 
 most part, no different from the earHer plays of the type, were in- 
 fluenced, however, more than these by the work of the Cyclic play- 
 wright. In time as well as in ms^tter and manner they mark, broadly 
 
169 
 
 speaking, the transition stage between the Mediaeval and Eliza- 
 bethan drama. At every step the author seems to look back toward 
 the old religious exhibitions, but this only delays his progress. His 
 own preferences and the tastes of his audience incline him to ad- 
 vance in the way of the new theatre. While retaining the form 
 and to a degree the didactic tendency of the earlier Moral plays, 
 the author in the later varieties of the species guarded against ab- 
 straction in the presentation. In keeping the allegorical action he 
 is merely following the old convention and the line of least re- 
 sistance, for his allegory clothes the reality only in the airiest of 
 undress costume. One can perceive the countenance beneath the 
 veil. The caste is abstract only in name; satire is introduced; 
 points of native humor and wit, and incidents of personal interest 
 so outline individual features that there is little in the actor to sug- 
 gest his representative character. Thus, in emphasizing what had 
 been introduced into the cyclic scenes merely as points of relief or 
 with the view of giving local color to the workmanship, the moral 
 plays imperceptibly pass from considerations affecting the ethical 
 life of a Humanum Genus and Everyman in general, to a more con- 
 crete presentation of ordinary existence with its manifold interests. 
 
 The change of motif, the humanizing of the theatres, did not, 
 however, escape the weakness usually attendant on transition. The 
 essential dramatic qualities easily perceptible in the earlier forms of 
 the Gothic drama were missing from the stage during this brief 
 period. The dramatic action from being mainly intrinsic came quite 
 on the surface for a time. Instead of beginning at the heart of 
 their persons and working outwards, the dramatists of the transi- 
 tion stage began at the surface and worked the other way — noting 
 merely the incongruous accidents of the character with little rela- 
 tion to the cause of their being. With the earlier writers of Morali- 
 ties all this was just reversed. They conceived their persons not 
 from the outside, but in their rudiments and first principles. They 
 began with the heart of the character and unfolded it outwards. 
 But the time was not now distant when power sufficient arose that 
 drove the impracticable allegory as well as meaningless buflFoonery 
 from the stage, and restored in an artistic and explicit manner, 
 motifs equal in force of appeal to those that were previously im- 
 plied in the action on the religious stage. 
 
 From this cursory review of a main line of Mediaeval dra- 
 piatic activity, I think it may be concluded that the theatrical reper- 
 
170 
 
 tory of this long period is of a much richer quality than appears 
 from a purely textual analysis of the material. From the viewpoint 
 of character-presentation, the religious drama possessed a consider- 
 able wealth and variety of dramatic life which, when seen in the 
 light of influencing circumstances as affecting author and audience 
 respectively, was far more concrete, actual and personal than may 
 be easily conceived at the present day. When the religious drama 
 is studied with the help of collateral information it will appear that 
 the playwright was occupied throughout on a genuinely dramatic 
 and original idea, and that his constant effort had been to present 
 this idea with all the realism and actuality in his power. The in- 
 stinct to reproduce in the strongest colors, born with the drama, 
 was cultivated as time went on. The several sub-varieties of the 
 main species of dramatic growth evidence ambitious attempts of 
 the ceaseless activity of the same instinct for something novel and 
 attractive. Whatever would arrest attention or afford emphasis, 
 anything that would renovate the familiar theme was welcomed. 
 This was a sign of life, and a promise of hope when a public would 
 compel the author, as eventually it did, to choose and adjust his 
 material in a more artistic manner. 
 
 This injecting of lighter matter into the substance of the com- 
 position not only added the element of interest, but contributed 
 much to a concrete and enlivened presentation of the whole which 
 ever remained in purpose distinctively serious. Not, however, to 
 . this flavoring of the main subject, but to the vital dramatic quali- 
 ties intrinsic in the theme itself that the theatre of the Middle Ages 
 owes its real value and longevity. After all, it was the impulse to 
 find fitting and forcible expression for the essentially dramatic in 
 the underlying idea that led to the introduction of heterogeneous 
 elements. The Mediaeval author of religious plays perceived the 
 essence of the drama — this is evident and important — and sought 
 by every means within his reach to present it in a telling and at- 
 tractive manner. The measure of his success — a minor considera- 
 tion — is best ascertained when we have projected ourselves into his 
 surroundings and seen life as he saw it. When we have under- 
 stood the business of the stage, with what it implies, and above all 
 when his motifs which give full meaning to what seems to us mere 
 elliptical utterances, are duly appreciated, we shall be minded to 
 believe that a Mediaeval imitation of dramatic existence on the 
 
171 
 
 reported, but that in spite of inadequate and awkward expression, 
 there flourished a vigorous and healthy dramatic vitality; just the 
 manifestations of life that admirers of Shakespeare — apart from any 
 knowledge of the pre-Elizabethan drama — would on very reasonable 
 grounds have divined to be peculiarly fitting the Poet's ancestors. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Abel. 75, 113, 116 
 
 Abraham, and Isaac, isolated play, 68, 
 76; in Brome play, 102 
 
 Adam, and Eve, 74, 79 
 
 Adam, of St. Victor, 51 
 
 Aeschylus, 18 
 
 Alcman, 17 
 
 Alexandrian, dramatists, 18 
 
 Allegory, 59, 60, 120, 124; emanci- 
 pation from, 125; in drama, 153; 
 attenuation of, 154; a perfect, 156 
 
 Ambrosian, song, 50 
 
 Ammianus Marcellinus, 19 
 
 Anglia, 66, 102 
 
 Annas, 94 
 
 Antichrist, 66 
 
 Apocryphal, 64, 94 
 
 Aquinas, St. Thomas, 51 
 
 Architecture, Mediaeval, 51, 61 
 
 Art, 53 
 
 Aristophanes, 18 
 
 Aristotle, 18, 28 
 
 Athens, 17, 164 
 
 Atonement, 69 
 
 Attic, and early English Stage, 18; 
 tragedy and comedy, 164 
 
 Augustine, 66 
 
 Autos Sacramantales, 55, 165 
 
 Bale, 125, 163, 164 
 
 Baptism, and Church discipline, 22 
 
 Bates, 59 
 
 Benedict, St. Rule of, 42 
 
 Ben Greet, on Everyman, 141 
 
 Bible, 14; Poor Man's, 49; persons of, 
 
 56, 95, hi; caste, iii, 116; series, 
 
 119 
 
 Boniface, Pope, VIII, 27 
 
 Boyd - Carpenter, 27, 143 
 
 Bossier, 22 
 
 Brambs, 26 
 
 Brome, play, 102, 109 
 
 Brewbarret, 75 
 
 Bruaeti^re, 15, 161 
 
 Byzantine, drama, 29; mimes, 24, 25 
 
 Cain, 75, 113, 114, 115, 116 
 
 Caiaphas, 89 
 
 Calderon, 29, 55, 59, 130, 132, 165 
 
 Campbell, 18, 39 
 
 Cassiodorus, and Tribune of Pleasures, 
 21 
 
 Castle, of Constancy, 37; oldest Mor- 
 ality extant, 128, 134, 142, 144, 154 
 
 Chambers, E. K., 21, 24, 25, 42, 56, 
 57, 65 
 
 Characterization, Shakespearean, 12; 
 defined, 29-32; technical meaning, 
 37; accessories of, 79, 117; of 
 Christ, 96; on eve of Elizabethan 
 drama, 153 
 
 Chaucer, 98, 160, 161, 162 
 
 Chester, cycle of, 64, 88, 109, no 
 
 Credo, 134 
 
 Christianity, mediaeval, 15, 27, 31; 
 and the stage, 21 
 
 Christmas, origin of, 23, 46, 47 
 
 Christus Patiens, 26 
 
 Chronicle, play, 60, 62, 63, 112 
 
 Church, and stage, 21, 22 
 
 Classics, 28 
 
 Collier, 12, 88, 131, 134, 146, 158 
 
 Collins, 16, 27 
 
 Comedy, Aristotle on, 18; New Greek, 
 19; in Towneley Cycle, no; in 
 Moral play, 11 1; in Coventry 
 Cycle, in; and tragedy, 119; of 
 Woodes; 124 
 
 Corpus Christi, Cycles, 57, 71 
 
 Courthope, li, 18, 28, 69, in; on 
 
 Allegory, 120, 122; on Moralities, 
 142, 164 
 
 Coventry, Cycle plays of, 64, 87, 100; 
 comic element in, in 
 
 Cycle, scenes, 14; Four compared, 64, 
 120; vernacular, 67, 93; series, 68, 
 69; playwrights, 120; dramatic 
 unity of, 125 
 
 Cynewulf, 126 
 
174 
 
 Dill, on the Roman stage, 19 
 
 Diouysia, 17, 164 
 
 Dodsley, 58 
 
 Dollinger, 20 
 
 Dowden, 32, 39 
 
 Drama, liturgical and cyclic, 14, 59, 
 62, 63, 64, 66; compared, no, 167; 
 Gothic, 23, 24, 27, 164, 167; his- 
 torical, 60, 62, 63, 163; seculariza- 
 tion of, 60, 169; Italian and Renais- 
 sance, 16; Modern, 17, 20 
 
 Dryden, 12 
 
 Duchesne, origin of Christian worship, 
 23 
 
 DuMeril, 19, ari, 24, 27, 43, 47, 54 
 
 Eastertide, ecclesiastical drama of, 23; 
 office at, 42-45, 46 
 
 Ebert, on the drama of Hrotswitha, 25 
 
 Eckedard, 50 
 
 Edward, IV, 147 
 
 Egan, 29, 162 
 
 Elizabethan, drama, 16, 26, 28 40, 95; 
 hero, 98; dramatist, 102; contribu- 
 tion of Mediaeval to, 118, 119; 
 transition to E. drama, 169 
 
 Emmaus, drama of the Travellers, 68 
 
 Empire, 20, 24 
 
 Epicurus, philosophy of, 18 
 
 Epos, 17, 36 
 
 Eucharist, 88 
 
 Evangelist, 92, 94, 96 
 
 Everyman, 121, 133; outlined, 138; 
 its dramatic value, 141, 144, 145, 
 153. 169 
 
 Faguet, 29 
 Fathers, Church, 22 
 Fate, 33 
 
 Faustus, 131, 143 
 Free-will, 35 
 
 Freytag, definition of dramatic action, 
 36, 38, 54 
 
 Gascoigne, 49 
 
 Geoffrey, of Paris, 26 
 
 Gospel, 85; of Nicodemus 89, 96; 
 personified, 120 
 
 Gothic, drama, 23, 24, 27, 165; play- 
 wright, 31, 49; architect, 49 
 
 Gorboduc, 163 
 
 Greban, Myst^re du Passion, 133 
 
 Greece, 17, 29 
 
 Greek, theatre, 17, 33 
 
 Gregory, VII, 27 
 
 Gregory, the Great, 50; Gregorian 
 
 Melodies, 52 
 Guild, 68, 134 
 
 Hamelins, on the character of Cain, 
 
 114 
 Hazlitt, on Shakespeare's achieve- 
 ment, 13 
 Heliogabalus, 19 
 Henry, VI, 147 
 Henry, VIII, 154, 157, 160 
 Henslowe, dairy, 61 
 Herod, 66, 67, 84, 135 
 Heywood, John, 125, 160, 161, 162 
 Hey wood, Jasper, 162 
 Humanism, 16, 26, 57, 58, 59, 60; and 
 
 and the Moral play, 118, 153, 162, 
 
 163, 169 
 Hohlfeld, 65, 71 
 Hymnology, Mediaeval, 51 
 
 Ingelande, Thomas, 957, 158 
 
 Introit, 48 
 
 Italian, drama, 16,24 
 
 Joculatores, 24 
 
 Jouglers, 24 
 
 Joseph, St., 65, 81, 95, 98, 100 
 
 Jusserand, 14, 16, 24, 25, 122, 123; Eng- 
 lish theatre at time of Rsnaissance, 
 154 
 
 Justinian, 19, 20, 24 
 
 Katharina, lyudus de St., 26 
 Ker, 55 
 Krehbiel, 55 
 Krumbacher, 20, 24, 26 
 Kyrie, 50 
 
 Ivammastide, 134 
 
 Law, dramatic, 40 
 
 Lazarus, 68, 87 
 
 Learning, New, 71, 124, 161 
 
 Lee, Sidney, on Shakespeare's 
 
 characters, 13, 32, 54, 143 
 Lounsbury, 116, 117 
 
175 
 
 Liturgy, origin, 23; Old Roman, 52; 
 
 effects on history of drama, 166 
 Liturgical, drama, 14, 19, 52; an 
 
 estimate of, 56, 168; office, 41, 45; 
 
 opera, 55 
 Lucifer, 71, 72, 78, 79, 85 
 Lycophron, 26 
 Lyiy, 49 
 
 Macbeth, climax in, 37 
 Macro, Moralities, 121, 325, 144 
 Magdalen, 43, 44, 45, 55, 67, 94, I44 
 Mankynd, outlined, 144 
 Mauly, 42, T02, 156 
 Marian, plays, 78 
 Marienklage, 100 
 Mallowe, 32, 143 
 Mary, 95, 98 
 Massinger, 35, 154 
 
 Matthews, on the Moral play, 120, 166 
 Maury, on Mediaeval legends, 23, 94 
 MacCarthy, 130, 132 
 Mediaeval, playwright, 14, 165, 170; 
 stage, 15; architecture, 52, 166; 
 hymnology, 51 ; audience, 54; caste, 
 56; predilection for Allegory, 120 
 Menander. 18 
 Middle Ages, dramatic activity, 32; 
 
 allegory during, 122 
 Migne, 25, 42 
 Milton, 126 
 Minstrel, 28 
 Moral, plays, 14, 37; a new species, 
 
 It8; caste of, 126, 168 
 Morality, plays, 59, 60; and Cycles, loi; 
 and dramatic evolution, 102, 119; 
 earlier and later, 122. 123, 168, 169; 
 educational, 154 
 Moore, Sir Thomas, 155, 161 
 Morgann, 38 
 
 Mundus et Infans, outlined, 135, 142 
 Mystery, celebration of Christian, 122; 
 of Nativity, 46; du Passion, 133 
 
 Neumann, 50, 51 
 Nash, 61 
 
 New Comedy, 19 
 New Learning, 71 
 
 Newman, 21; on development of ideas, 
 
 127 
 Nicodemus, 67, 89 
 Novel, 36 
 Novelist, 37 
 
 Ober-Ammergau, 92 
 
 Oberle, on nature of Christianity, 21 
 
 Opera, 51, 58 
 
 Origin, of drama in Greece, 17 ; of 
 Gothic Drama, 23, 27; ot Christ- 
 mas, 23; of the Liturgy 23; Eng- 
 lish comedy, 161 
 
 Palestrina, 51 
 
 Pageant, 70, 71; Doomsday, loi; 
 
 Coventry, 133 
 Paris, Mathew of, 26 
 Pater, Walter, on the Renaissance, 26 
 Paternoster, 134 
 
 Personality, versus character, 31-32 
 Pharaoh, 77 
 
 Philologus, 124, 133, 164 
 Piers Plowman, 122, 146 
 Pilate, 66, 87; wife of, 89, 93, 94 
 Plautus, 26 
 Pleasures, Tribune of, 19, 21; tables of, 
 
 23 
 Plays, liturgic, cyclic and moral, 14, 
 118, 120, 127; chronicle, 60, 163: 
 passion, 59; historical, 60, 62 
 Playwright, York, 81, 95, 98; 
 
 Towneley, iii 
 Poetics, of Aristotle, 18 
 Pollard, 21, 73, 114, 125, 131. 144 
 Pyke-Harnes, 113, 116 
 
 Quem quaeritis, 57, 66 
 Queen's Progress, 61 
 
 Rastall, 155 
 Redford, 156, 157 
 Renaissance, (see Humanism) 
 Resurrection, in dramatic history, 47, 
 
 49; plays after, 100 
 Ritual 64; dramatic influence, 165 
 Rome, stage and life at, 19, 20, 21, 22; 
 
 mediaeval, 24; playwright, 25, 26 
 Ruskin, 61 
 
176 
 
 Sackville, 49 
 
 Saintsbury, 163 
 
 Salisbury, John of, quoted, 24 
 
 Sanctuary, scenes, 19, 40, 48, 118, 168; 
 
 of Venus, 22 
 Saracens, 20 
 
 Satin, 74, 75, 80, 85, 93, 124 
 Sathas, 20 
 
 Schelling, 61, 62, 112; on Bale, 163 
 Scholastics, 57 
 Scop, 167 
 Senec, 26, 162 
 Sepet, 14 
 Sepulchre, 43, 44 
 Sequence, 45, 46, 50, 51 
 Shadan, origin of Christmas, 23; 
 
 middle ages, 53, 61 
 Shakespeare, and the early stage, 11-12, 
 
 171; characterization, 13, 40, 91; 
 
 achievement of, 31, 32, 33, 35; 
 
 Voltaire on, 116 
 Sidney, on pre-Elizabethal drama- 
 tists, 112, 113 
 Smith, L. T., 65, 102 
 Smith, S. S., 112 
 Sophocles, 39 
 Spain, 20, 29 
 Spectacula, 19 
 Stage, Attic, 18; before Shakespeare, 
 
 12, 14; Roman, 21; liturgical, cyclic 
 
 and moral, 163 
 Stoddard, F., 65 
 Symbolism, 69, 79 
 Synagogue, 66; personified, 112, 120 
 Symonds, on the Moral Play, 60, 127 
 
 Tables, of pleasures, 23 
 
 Taylor, on mediaeval symbolism, 53 
 
 Testaments, 69, 70, 78 79; New T. 
 
 series, 81; a twofold life of Christ 
 
 in, 97 
 
 Terence, 25, 26 
 
 TertuUian, 22 
 
 Ten Brink, on the moral plays, 59; 
 Abraham and Isaac, 10, 77, 109; 
 on St. Joseph, 84; on the Myste- 
 ries, 89, 122; on personification, 
 123; sources of Everyman^ 138 
 
 Theatre, 17; English, 18; Roman, 20; 
 Gothic, 153 
 
 Theodoric, 20 
 
 Thespis, 17 
 
 Ticknor, 20, 29. 55 
 
 Tity villus, 145, 146, ijO, 151 
 
 Towneley, cycle, 64, 77, 78, 88, 107, 
 III; author, 113, 162; Secunda 
 Postorum, 163 
 
 Tragedy, Aristotle's definition, 18; and 
 comedy, 112, 113, 119 
 
 Tribune of pleasures, 23 
 
 Trope, 41, 47, 50 
 
 Tunison, dramatic traditions, 16, 20, 
 24, 25, 26, 27, 70 
 
 Udall, 49 
 Unities, 37, 40 
 
 Venus, 25 
 
 Virgin, Blessed, 66, 68, 69 
 Vogt-Koch, on Hrotswitha, 25 
 Voltaire, 116, 117 
 
 Wakefield, iii 
 
 Ward, 81, 83, 87, 88, 100, 121, 122, 131, 
 142, 157 
 
 Whetstone, G, 112 
 
 Will, freedom of, 35 
 
 Witsuntide, 51 
 
 Wright, 43 
 
 Wyclif, 134 
 
 York, Cycle, 64, 68, 71, 81, 109; esti- 
 mate of, 94, III; Joseph and Mary 
 in, loi; incidents of relief, iii 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Before appending the following list of works consulted in the preparation 
 of this Essay, I would refer the reader to Mr. B. |ft. Chamber's volumes noticed 
 below. No student of the Mediaeval Stage can afford to ignore them as they 
 contain information, the latest and probably the most authoritative on the 
 subject and much of which is not accessible (at least not in English) elsewhere. 
 They are furnished with exhaustive bibliographies : 
 
 AlbrechT, a. 
 American Catholic 
 
 Quarterly. 
 ArisToTI^E. 
 
 AUBERTIN. 
 
 Blackwood^ s Magazine. 
 Barry, W. 
 
 Bates, K. L. 
 Batimer, S. 
 
 BOSWEIvVSTONE, W. 
 BOUGOT, A. 
 
 bowden, h. s. 
 Boyd-Carpenter, W. 
 Brambs, J. E. 
 
 Brooke, S. A. 
 Brou, Le R. p. 
 
 BRUNETliSRE, F. 
 
 Bruneti^re, F. 
 
 Brunkti^re, F. 
 
 Butcher, S. H. 
 
 Campbei.1., L. 
 Campbei,!,, U 
 Chambers, J. D. 
 
 Das Englische Kindertheater, dissertation, Halle, 1883. 
 The Religious Element in Mediaeval Guilds, Vol. 
 
 XXX, No. 100, pp. 647, ff. 
 Poetics, S. H. Butcher, 3rd ed., 1902. 
 Histoire de la Langue et de la Literature Fran^aise au 
 
 Moyen-Age, 2 vols., 1876-8. 
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BIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 The writer of this Essay was bom at Kilmallock, Ireland, Janu- 
 ary 1 6, 1880. He received his primary education chiefly in a school 
 of his native city. In 1896 he registered as student of the French 
 Language and Literature at the " Kcole Ste. Croix," Le Vesinet (a 
 suburb of Paris), and in the winter term of the following year he 
 entered the University of Notre Dame, Indiana. Here his work in 
 English was directed by Drs. Cavanaugh and O'Malley. In 1902 
 he was graduated with the degree of Bachelor of Arts. The same 
 year he was admitted into the Congregation of the Holy Cross and 
 during the scholastic terms of 1902-03, he attended classes in Early 
 and Mediaeval Church History and Liturgy at Notre Dame. He 
 matriculated in the department of English Literature in the Faculty 
 of Philosophy of the Catholic University in 1903. Here he has 
 attended the lectures of Comparative Philology of Dr. Boiling and 
 pursued his subordinate studies under Drs. Shahan, Shields and 
 Pace, to all of whom he begs to acknowledge his gratefulness not 
 only for the use of their libraries but for the particular interest they 
 have shown in his work. To Dr. Egan, however, as professor of his 
 major study, he is most indebted especially in the preparation of 
 this Essay. 
 
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