when they want to find out how deep the sea is,” explained Master
Gyseburn. “Don’t forget that this is the Shipwrights’ pageant, and they
are learned in all seafaring business, as you may imagine.”
“Yes! he’s unwinding the line!” cried Colin; “and I suppose he finds
that the water has gone down? He can see the tops of the mountains
now—can’t he?”
“The _whole_ of the mountains, I should think!” returned Master
Gyseburn, laughing. “Listen! he’s going to speak.”
“Now forty days are fully gone (Noah began),
Send a raven I will anon;
If aught were earth, tree, or stone,
Be dry in any place.
And, if this fowl come not again,
It is a sign, sooth to say,
That dry it is, on hill and plain,
And God hath done some grace.”
“Oh! he’s going to let out a _real_ raven!” said Margery joyfully. “What
a big black thing! Look, how he’s clapping his wings!”
“There!—now he’s flown!” exclaimed Colin. “He’s gone right over the
roofs of those houses opposite. See how the people are staring after
him. _He’ll_ never come back again!”
“But the dove will!” declared Margery excitedly. “Noah’s going to let a
dove fly now. He’s talking to him—see!”
“Thou wilt turn again to me,
For of all fowls that may fly
Thou art most meek and hend [kind],”
said Noah, as he threw the bird up into the air.
“It won’t be the _same_ bird that comes back—will it?” asked Colin,
looking up at Master Gyseburn, who smiled again.
“No—there’s another dove already fastened with a cord from the top of
the stage. We shall see it in a minute!” And, sure enough, while he was
speaking, the bird came fluttering down, almost into Noah’s hands.
“Oh! it’s got the olive-branch in its beak!” exclaimed Margery. “That
shows that the trees are out of the water—doesn’t it?”
“Yes; listen—then you will hear Noah saying that the flood has gone
down.”
“By this sight I well may say,
This flood begins to cease (Noah was declaring).
My sweet dove to me brought has
A branch of olive from some place;
This betokeneth God has done us some grace,
And is a sign of peace.”
By this time all the windows in the ark were open, disclosing the whole
family, including Noah’s wife, who looked much subdued.
“She’s glad she’s saved now!” Margery remarked. “Look!—they’re all
coming out, and God is talking to them.”
“He is promising that the rainbow shall be a sign from heaven that the
earth shall never more be drowned,” said Master Gyseburn. “It’s all over
now. Look!—the men are dragging the pageant away to the next
halting-place.”
“And _now_ it’s Abraham and Isaac!” said Margery joyfully.
VI
The Story of Abraham and of Isaac
Both the children looked anxiously in the direction from which all the
pageants coming from the gates of the Priory, approached the
market-place.
“It isn’t in sight yet!” said Colin in surprise, for hitherto one
pageant had followed swiftly upon another.
“Oh! but here’s a man on horseback, dressed _splendidly_!” Margery
cried. “What is he going to do?”
“He’s part of the play,” Master Gyseburn explained. “He is a messenger
who is going to tell us what it’s all about.”
By this time the rider, who came from a side-street, was clattering over
the stones of the market-place. Just beneath the window he drew up his
horse, and, raising his plumed cap, began in these words to address the
multitude:
“All peace, Lordings, that be present,
And hearken now with good intent
How Noah away from us he went
With all his company;
And Abraham, through God’s grace
He is come forth into this place,
And you will give him room and space
To tell you his storye.
This play, forsooth, begin shall he,
In worship of the Trinity,
That you may all hear and see
What shall be done to-day.
My name is Gobbet-on-the-Green,
No longer here I may be seen;
Farewell, my Lordings, all by dene [in haste]
For letting [hindering] of your play.”
Setting spurs to his horse, the messenger, a brilliant figure in a
doublet of sapphire blue laced with gold, and long crimson hose, rode
away, disappearing at the opposite corner of the market-place from that
at which he had entered.
And now another figure came into view, also riding.
This was a stately man in long robes, wearing a curious turban of linen.
“Is that Abraham?” asked Colin. “But where is Isaac?”
“He doesn’t come yet,” answered Master Gyseburn. “The story, you see,
begins long before Isaac is born. Abraham has just returned from his
victory over the four kings. Listen! He is explaining how the kings took
his nephew Lot prisoner, and how he released him, and conquered the
kings.”
“Now there’s another man coming on horseback!” said Margery. “Oh! look
how beautifully he is dressed, with rubies on his gown, and on the thing
that comes over his forehead. Who is he?”
“That’s Melchizedek, King of Salem, and priest of the Most High God. He
is coming to bless Abraham for conquering the kings, and to give him
bread and wine.”
“Yes! A servant is holding up a golden cup to him and a golden plate!”
said Colin. “And now he’s going to give the bread and wine to Abraham, I
suppose.”
This duly happened as Colin had guessed, for Melchizedek, reining up his
horse close to Abraham, began to speak, offering him presently the
golden cup and platter:
“Abraham, welcome must thou be,
God’s grace is fully in thee;
Blessed ever must thou be
That enemies so can make.
I have brought, as thou may’st see,
Bread and wine for thy degree;
Receive this present now from me,
And that I thee beseke [beseech].”
Then Abraham, taking the bread and wine, answered in this fashion:
“Sir King, welcome in good say,
Thy present is welcome to my pay.
God has helped me to-day,
Unworthy though I were.
He shall have part of my prey
That I won since I went away.
Therefore to thee thou take it may,
The tenth I offer thee.”
At this moment a horse richly laden with all sorts of precious gifts of
gold and silver and jewels was led forward by a page. The beautiful
animal had splendid harness and trappings upon him, and he walked
proudly as though conscious of the royal presents he brought.
Melchizedek accepted the gift and, after further talk with Abraham, rode
away, followed by his servants, who led the laden steed.
Abraham now wheeled his horse aside to make room for the messenger, who
rode into the cleared space, and once more addressed the audience. In a
long speech he explained to the people that the scene they had just
witnessed was a sort of parable, and meant the Holy Communion, the Bread
and Wine commemorating Christ’s sacrifice for the world.
So far the pageant or wooden stage had not been used at all. All the
characters had come riding in to act their parts. But now the platform
which stood waiting in the background, was drawn into the midst of the
open space, and the rest of the play took place as usual, upon it.
First God the Father appeared, and Abraham entreated Him to send him a
child to be his heir. The Almighty promised to grant his request, laid
various commands upon him, and told him that his descendants should be
as the stars of heaven for number; and the scene ended with Abraham
kneeling to bless and thank the Lord for His mercy.
The curtains were now drawn, and before they were once more unclosed,
the messenger again rode up, and explained to the people how some of the
commands which God had just given to Abraham pointed to and foreshadowed
the Sacrament of Baptism, which followed the birth of Christ.
When he had ridden away, and the curtains of the pageant again swung
back, the children grew very excited, for almost the first words of the
scene told them that Isaac might soon be expected to appear.
“You see,” said Master Gyseburn, “that some years are supposed to have
passed between the last scene and this. God’s promise has been
fulfilled, and Abraham now has a son. Listen!”
Abraham was alone on the stage, but just as Master Gyseburn finished
speaking, God’s voice was heard:
“Abraham, My servant Abraham!”
“Lo, Lord, already here I am,”
replied Abraham.
“Take Isaac thy son by name,”
the voice continued,
“And in sacrifice offer him to Me
Upon that hill, beside thee.
Abraham, I will that it so be
For aught that may befall.”
Though almost stunned with grief at the command, Abraham at once
declared himself ready to obey the Lord. He said that all his household
should remain at home except Isaac, with whom he would go to the
appointed hill.
By this time Mistress Harpham was leaning anxiously over the children’s
shoulders, for she knew that Giles in the character of Isaac was waiting
to come on to the stage. All the guests were also very excited and full
of expectation.
“It’s well that the boy acts with so good a man as Master Eliott!”
exclaimed a woman who stood close to her hostess.
“Aye! John Eliott is a rare good player!” answered Mistress Harpham
nervously. “We’ve never had a better ‘Abraham’ than he makes, and he’s
taken such pains with Giles too, teaching him and training him for the
part.”
“There he is! There he is!” cried Margery, as a pretty, delicate little
figure in a linen tunic entered. “Oh! _doesn’t_ he look nice!”
And indeed, with his fair curly hair and sweet face, Giles made quite a
touching little Isaac.
“Hush! Hush! Abraham is speaking,” Master Gyseburn reminded her.
“Make thee ready, my darling,” he was saying in a voice which made
Margery feel as though she wanted to cry:
“Make thee ready, my darling,
For we must do a little thing;
This wood upon thy back you bring,
We must not long abide.
A sword and fire I will take,
For sacrifice I must make;
God’s bidding will I not forsake,
But ay obedient be.”
There was a deep silence in the crowd, as speaking in a very clear,
gentle voice, Isaac made reply:
“Father, I am all ready
To do your bidding meekly;
To bear this wood full bound am I
As you command me.”
Abraham then in trembling tone gave a blessing to his son, whose look of
bewilderment and growing fear brought tears to the eyes of some of the
women at the window.
Then, after the old man had bound the wood on the boy’s back, he was
suddenly overcome with misery.
“Oh! my heart will break in three,
To hear thy words I have pity,”
he exclaimed. But the cry of despair was immediately followed by
“As thou wilt, Lord, so must it be.”
Still wondering and afraid, Isaac spoke:
“Are you anything adread? (he asked)
Father, if it be your will,
Where is the beast that we shall kill?”
And when Abraham told him that he saw no animal at all, the boy went on
in a shaking voice:
“Father, I am full sore afraid
To see you bare this naked sword.
I hope for all middle-yard [instead of any creature from the
farmyard],
You will not slay your child?”
Then the father, who could not bear to detect the fear in his boy’s
voice, tried to comfort him by saying that the Lord would surely provide
some beast that might be slain for the sacrifice. But Isaac was not
satisfied. He begged the old man to tell him whether any evil would
happen to him, and at the entreaty Abraham could no longer hide his
terrible grief, but broke into wild words.
“Ah, dear God, that me is woe!
Thou bursts my heart in sunder,”
he exclaimed, wringing his hands; and finally, when Isaac again implored
him to hide nothing from him, he told the dreadful truth.
“O Isaac, Isaac, I must thee kill!”
he cried.
Then poor little Isaac went down on his knees and entreated his father
to spare him:
“Alas! father,” he sobbed, “is that your will,
Your own child here for to spill
Upon this hill’s brink?
If I have trespassed in any degree
With a rod you may beat me;
Put up your sword, if your will be,
For I am but a child....
Would God my mother were here with me!
She would kneel upon her knee,
Praying you, father, if it might be,
For to save my life.”
By this time Mistress Harpham was crying, and so were many other mothers
in the crowd, while they listened to the boy’s voice, and the words of
Abraham as he explained to his son that this terrible thing must come to
pass because it was God’s command.
Isaac listened, and, forgetting himself, tried very sweetly to comfort
his poor father, begging him not to linger, but to do the deed quickly.
“Father, tell my mother of nothing,” he implored, anxious to spare her
the knowledge of his fate; and then he asked that a handkerchief might
be tied over his eyes to prevent him from seeing the flash of the sword.
Most of the women hid their own eyes while poor little Isaac was bound
and laid upon the altar; when the boy spoke again, for the last time,
they sobbed aloud.
“Now, father, I see that I shall die!
Almighty God in Majesty,
My soul I offer unto Thee;
Lord, to it be kind.”
Margery could not look when Abraham, snatching up the sword, held it
high over the child’s head, and it was only when she heard a gentle
voice that she dared to take her hands from her eyes.
“Abraham, My servant dear!”
“Look up! He’s not going to be hurt,” whispered Colin. “The angel has
come. _Two_ angels!”
With great relief Margery gazed at them. They were beautiful, she
thought, with their long golden wings, and their white gowns; and she
loved them for coming to save poor little Isaac.
She saw that Abraham had dropped his sword, and she heard his trembling
voice saying,
“_Lo, Lord! I am already here._”
“Lay not thy sword in any manner
On Isaac, thy dear darling!”
replied one of the gracious angels, while the other pointed to a ram
which was struggling in a thicket of bushes close by, and bade Abraham
sacrifice the animal instead of his only son.
Then Abraham rejoiced, and offered praise to God:
“Ah, Lord of heaven, and King of bliss!
Thy bidding I shall do, I wis;
Sacrifice here to me sent is,
And all, Lord, through Thy grace.
A hornèd wether here I see,
Among the briars tied is he.
To Thee offered it shall be
Anon, right in this place.”
Margery drew a long breath when, just before the curtains were closed,
she saw Abraham unbinding and embracing his poor little son. But even
then the play was not quite over, for again the messenger rode forward,
and, placing himself in front of the pageant, explained to the audience
that Isaac was a type of Christ, and that the sacrifice was meant to
foreshadow His death upon the Cross. These were the words of his
message:
“Lordings, the signification
Of this deed of devotion,
An you will, it is shown,
May turn you to much good.
This deed you see done in this place,
In example of Jesus done it was,
That for to win mankind grace
Was sacrificed on the rood.
By Abraham you may understand
The Father of heaven that can fand [find means]
With His Son’s blood to break that band
The devil had brought us to.
By Isaac understand I may
Jesus Who was obedient ay,
His Father’s will to work alway,
His death to undergo.”
VII
The Shepherds’ Play
Many were the exclamations of wonder and delight at the performance, and
many the congratulations to the parents of the little actor, when _The
Sacrifice of Isaac_ passed on its way to the next halting-place. Indeed
so excited and talkative were the guests at the house of Master Harpham,
that the four following pageants received little attention from them.
“The poor child will be worn out before evening comes!” declared the
women again and again, and Giles’ mother agreed. “Though he so loves
playing,” she said, “that I don’t think he feels the fatigue as much as
one might imagine. I know who _will_ be worn out, though!” she
exclaimed, turning to Mistress Short. “Your little ones ought to go and
rest awhile. It’s altogether too long a day for them.”
Colin and Margery protested, but their mother was firm, and they were
obliged to follow her to Mistress Harpham’s guest-room, the grandest
they had ever seen, where Margery was placed on the big four-posted bed
of oak, and Colin, grumbling a great deal, was forced to lie down on a
little truckle-bed at its foot.
“You’ll be all the fresher, and enjoy the plays all the better for a bit
of a sleep,” Mistress Harpham assured them. “And you shall be called in
time for the Shepherds’ play—that I promise you.”
Margery brightened at this, for she had heard that the Shepherds’ play
was the most popular of all the pageants, and she had been afraid of
missing it. Though she and Colin had laughed at the idea of “a bit of a
sleep,” each found a strange feeling of drowsiness creeping nearer, and
considering that they had been up since daybreak, and it was now past
noon, this was not so surprising as they considered it. At any rate,
when their mother softly entered the room an hour later, she roused both
children from sleep.
The Shepherds’ play, she told them, was expected in a few minutes; and
they ran eagerly into the front room to take their old places at the
window.
“Do tell us what they’ve been acting!” begged Margery, as their friend
Master Gyseburn welcomed them with a smile.
“Well! we’ve had _Moses lifting up the Serpent in the Wilderness_. That
was the Hosiers’ pageant. Then came the Grocers with the _Salutation of
Mary to Elisabeth_. Next came _Mary and Joseph with an angel commanding
them to go to Bethlehem_, acted by the Pewterers; and the last one was
the Tylers’ (Thatchers’) pageant of the _Stable at Bethlehem, with the
Child Jesus in the Manger_.”
“Oh! we wanted to see that!” exclaimed both the children, very
disappointed.
“You will,” Master Gyseburn assured them. “After this pageant, the
Shepherds go to the stable to worship the Child, so the manger scene
appears again; in fact it appears several times.”
By the stir and noise in the crowd below, it was evident that the
Shepherds’ play was awaited with great eagerness. There was a pushing
and scrambling in the throng, which had greatly increased in numbers.
Many people who had strolled away to get something to eat and drink had
returned, and were trying to recover their lost places.
“Is this a funny play?” asked Colin.
“Yes,” said Master Gyseburn. “The Shepherds’ play, or at any rate the
first part of it, is always expected to be amusing. It is an old custom,
and the people would be very disappointed, and perhaps angry, if it were
changed. This particular play is one that is always acted at Wakefield,
but our Chandlers have borrowed it this year, because it is such a good
one.”
“Oh! this is the Chandlers’ pageant, then?” asked Margery.
Master Gyseburn nodded. “Here it comes,” said he. “You will find that it
has very little to do with the Bible story about the Shepherds.”
“Just a made-up play, I suppose?” said Colin.
“That’s it. Just a funny story to make people laugh.”
By this time the pageant stood in its place before the Harphams’ window,
and the children noticed that the big stage was divided into two parts.
One part represented a field, in which three shepherds were seated with
their sheep huddled round them; and next to this scene, on a line with
it, there was a sort of separate compartment, at present covered by
curtains.
The shepherds began at once to grumble about the weather. They
complained of the cold, which one of them said made his legs cramped,
and his hands all chapped.
Neither Margery nor Colin, nor indeed any of the simple people who
watched the play, found anything strange in this. Indeed very few of
them realized that all the events they were watching, took place in an
Eastern country, whose scenery and climate were very different from
anything that was represented by the pageant. They imagined all the
scenes as happening in a country very like England—if not in England
itself! So the shepherds talked about the “moors,” which, as you know,
spread through Yorkshire, and of “bannocks,” which are special cakes
made in the North of England, and of “ale,” the usual English drink; and
no one criticized nor found fault, because scarcely anybody knew, or
remembered, if they knew, that Christ’s life was spent in a warm
far-away Eastern land, whose manners, customs, and language were as
different as possible from those of England.
The shepherds talked about many things familiar in the every-day life of
most of the people in the crowd. They grumbled about the taxes they had
to pay, and they gossiped about their wives, who they said were always
scolding and nagging; and they complained bitterly about their hard
work, and their low wages. And the listening people laughed and were
delighted, because all they heard came home to them and was thoroughly
well understood.
Presently another shepherd entered, dressed like the rest in a linen
smock, though over it he had thrown a heavy cloak. His appearance was
hailed by a shout of delight from the audience, for he was a favourite
actor, and the part he was going to play was well known.
His name was Mac, and with the shepherds he evidently had the reputation
of a thief, for directly he arrived one of them warned the others.
“Is he come?” he asked. “Then each one take heed to his things!” And to
make sure of him when they thought of going to sleep, the men forced him
to lie down in the midst of them, so that if he stirred they would be
warned.
But no sooner did his companions begin to snore than Mac got up, and
walking round the men, he worked a spell upon them to make them sleep
heavily, chanting these words:
“Be about you a circle as round as the moon
Till I have done that I will, till that it be noon,
That ye lie stone-still till that I have done.
Over your heads my hand I lift, ...
Out go your eyes, fore to do your sight....”
Then seeing that they were all motionless, he crept to the flock, and
taking a fat sheep, put it under his cloak.
At this moment the curtains in front of the other division of the stage
were pulled aside, showing a poor cottage room, in which sat Mac’s wife
spinning. A little wicket-gate in front of the cottage was locked, and
Mac (who was supposed to have walked some distance to his home) began to
knock upon it, and to beg his wife to let him in. At first she was angry
with him, saying that one day he would be hanged for sheep-stealing. But
the first question after all was to decide how they were to hide the
sheep during the search which was sure to be made by its owners. And
here Mac’s wife showed her quick wits, for she suggested a splendid way
out of the difficulty. This was to dress the creature up as a baby, and
put it in the cradle!
Mac agreed, and there were roars of laughter as the poor struggling
sheep was wrapped in flannels and robes, and at last tucked so securely
in the cradle that it could not move.
When this was at last accomplished, Mac went back to the field, and
lying down quietly in his old place, pretended to be fast asleep. Then
one by one the shepherds awoke, and began to tell their dreams. All of
them except Mac had dreamt that a sheep had been carried off; and _Mac_,
so he said, had dreamt that his wife was very ill. He pretended to be
much concerned and, telling the men he must go and see whether anything
had happened to her, he got up and once more went home. Meanwhile the
shepherds began to count their flock, and presently found that a sheep
was missing. It was Mac, of course!—who else could have stolen it?—and
at once in a body they rushed to his house, and insisted upon searching
it.
No sheep could they find, and Mac and his wife pretended to be so angry
at being disturbed, that at last the shepherds were leaving the cottage
in despair, when an idea occurred to one of them.
He suddenly exclaimed that he would like to give something to the little
baby.
“_Mac, by your leave, let me give your bairn but sixpence_,” he said.
“_Nay, go ’way, he sleeps_,” returned Mac. “_When he wakens he weeps_,”
he added. “_I pray you go hence._”
“_Give me leave him to kiss, and lift up the clout_,” begged one of the
other men. And before Mac’s wife could prevent him he had pulled down
the blanket.
“_He has a long snout!_” exclaimed the shepherd, who had only caught one
glimpse of the strange “baby” in the cradle.
But Mac’s wife was most indignant, and at once declared that it was a
beautiful baby:
“A pretty child is he
As sits upon a woman’s knee;
A dylly-downe, perdie,
To make a man laugh!”
But all she could say was useless, for by this time of course the
shepherds were very suspicious, and the sheep was pulled out from the
cradle, while the market-place rang with laughter. The angry shepherds,
seizing a blanket, now forced Mac into it, and to the huge delight of
the crowd, before returning to their field they tossed him violently, as
a punishment for his evil-doing.
The laughter caused by this farce had scarcely died away when the
serious part of the performance began. A second stage had been drawn
meanwhile to the market-place, and was stationed at a little distance
from the first one, where to the shepherds, once more quietly guarding
their flock, there suddenly appeared an angel. The simple countrymen
gazed in awe, while in a sweet voice he sang _Gloria in Excelsis_, and
then, as he came closer, they sank on their knees, while he addressed
them:
“Rise, gracious hired-men, for now is He born
That shall take from the fiend that Adam had lorn [lost] ...
God is made your friend: now at this morn
He behests [commands]
To Bedlem go see
There lies that free [Divine One]
In a crib full poorly,
Betwixt two beasts.”
In amaze the shepherds listened, and in amaze they talked together when
the shining angel had gone.
Pointing to a brilliant star, one of them declared it was a token to
guide them “where the young Child lay.”
“Hie we thither quickly;
If we be wet and weary,
To that Child and that Lady,”
another urged. And so descending from the stage-field, they began their
journey to Bethlehem, a journey represented by the space between the two
pageants.
On the other platform meanwhile a charming scene was disclosed. There
was the stable at Bethlehem, with its broken roof, and within the stable
Mary in a long blue robe knelt beside the manger, at which, with their
kind, patient eyes, an ox and an ass were also gazing.
Now the shepherds had arrived, and finding themselves in the presence of
“that Child and that Lady,” they bent low their knees, and began to talk
to the Baby Jesus as though they loved Him, and as though He were a
child of their own to whom they had brought tiny presents.
“Hail, comely and clean; hail, young child!”
said the first shepherd.
“Lo, He merry is;
Lo, He laughs, my sweeting,
A welcome meeting!
I have given my greeting,
Have a bob of cherries?”
Then in the same homely, delightful way, the second shepherd greeted the
Baby:
“Hail, Sovereign Saviour, for Thou hast us sought!
Hail! I kneel and I cower.... A bird have I brought
To my bairn.
Hail, little tiny mop [little tiny pate] ...
Little day-starn [star].”
And the third shepherd said:
“Hail, darling dear, full of Godheed!
I pray Thee be near when that I have need....
Hail, put forth Thy dall [hand],
I bring Thee but a ball:
Have and play Thee with all,
And go to the tennis.”
Mary, bending down to the shepherds, then spoke to them gently, telling
them that she would pray her Son to keep them from woe, and bidding them
spread the glad tidings of His birth. After a while the shepherds left
her presence, singing glad songs in honour of the new-born King.
“I like that best of all, except Abraham and Isaac!” Margery exclaimed,
as the pageants were drawn away. “And _now_ we shall see the wicked King
Herod, shan’t we?”
VIII
King Herod, the Wise Men, and the Massacre of the Innocents
That the children should long to see the pageant in which Herod appeared
was no wonder, for he was a very well-known character in the miracle
plays. Just as in some fairy tales the wicked giant is well known, and
is always expected to be as wicked as possible, so in these plays Herod
was always represented as a furious tyrant and a great boaster, who
raged and stormed and used such exaggerated language that he seemed more
like a madman than a sane human being. Though in the time of Queen
Elizabeth miracle plays were growing rare, it is just possible that
Shakespeare as a boy may have seen some of them, and when he makes
Hamlet say that one of the actors in the play-scene “out-herods Herod,”
he may have been thinking of the particular stamping and shouting Herod
whom he himself had watched. But in any case, during the lifetime of
Shakespeare the memory of the furious king must have lingered in the
minds of old people at Stratford-on-Avon, many of whom as children must
often have seen him blustering and screaming and ordering people to be
killed.
At the windows of Master Robert Harpham’s house at any rate, on this
June day when Henry V was king, there was much talk about the coming
“Herod,” who was said to be an excellent player and to rage more
furiously than any of the actors who had taken part in previous years.
Excitement therefore ran high, when the Goldsmiths’ pageant drew up, for
in their play—_The Three Kings coming from the East_—Herod was for the
first time to appear.
The stage represented Herod’s palace. It was a very small palace, and it
looked something like an enlarged sentry-box, brightly painted and
ornamented at the top with a dome and various pinnacles. From its
doorway, on to the space in front of it, there presently stepped a
herald, who in these pompous words announced the coming of the King:
“Peace, Lord Barons of great renown!
Peace, Sir Knights of noble presence!
Peace, gentleman companions of noble order!
I command that all of you keep silence.
Peace, while your noble king is in presence!
Let no person stint to pay him deference;
Be not bold to strike, but keep your hearts in patience,
And to your lord keep heart of reverence,
For he, your king, has all _puissance_!
In the name of the law, I command you peace!
And King Herod—‘_la grandeaboly vos umport._’”
The last words, spoken by the herald in a low voice and with a knowing
smile, were greeted with a roar of delight, for Herod was to some extent
a comic character, at whom every one might laugh and “_la grandeaboly
vos umport_” is bad French for “_the devil run away with you_!”
And now Herod himself majestically strode forth, and again laughter,
half derisive, half admiring, rang out, for in spite of all the boasting
and stamping which every one knew was coming, he made a magnificent
figure.
Dressed as a Saracen, he wore wonderful Eastern robes, and a jewelled
turban. His black hair was dishevelled, his face red and angry, and with
his flashing eyes, and huge flashing sword, he looked formidable enough.
“_Qui status in Jude ex Rex Israel_,” he began in a loud commanding
tone.
“That means—‘He that reigns King in Judea and Israel,’” explained Master
Gyseburn to the children. “Now listen to his boasting.”
“Qui status in Jude et Rex Israel,
And the mightiest conquerer that ever
Walked on ground” (Herod went on),
“For I am even he that made both heaven and hell,
And of my mighty power holdeth up this world round.
I am the cause of this great light and thunder.
It is through my fury that they such noise do make.
My fearful countenance the clouds doth so encumber,
That often for dread thereof the very earth doth shake.”
This was only part of the foolish king’s boasting, for he went on to
declare that with one word he could destroy the whole world from the
north unto the south; that he was prince of purgatory and chief captain
of hell. No tongue, he declared, could tell of his possessions, his
wealth, and his power. At last, turning to his servant the herald, he
warned him to allow no strangers to pass through the realm without
paying tribute to him, and bade him be gone hastily,
“For they that will the contrary,
Upon a gallows hanged shall be.”
Then ordering “trumpets, viols, and other harmony” to announce his
presence to all the world, Herod re-entered the palace, and the herald
departed to do his bidding.
Now appeared riding through the market-place in great state, two of the
three kings from the East. They were mounted on white horses with
beautiful trappings, and each horse had a long cloth of velvet over his
back. The kings were Gaspar (or Jaspar) and Balthazar. The first was an
old man with a long white beard, the second a man in the prime of life.
They both wore crowns of gold upon which the sunshine sparkled, and
their dresses of wonderful colours were embroidered with jewels. Both of
them had seen the Star in the East, and from a far country had followed
it into Herod’s kingdom. As they rode, they talked together, reminding
one another that the prophets had foretold the birth of a wonderful
Child.
Presently, riding from another direction, came the third king, Melchior,
a handsome youth also crowned and richly clothed. He was looking about
him as he came, evidently seeking some guide, and his words showed that
he too had seen the Star in the East.
“I ride wandering in ways wide,
Over mountains and dales, I wot not where I am.
Now King of all kings send me such guide,
That I may have knowledge of this country’s name....
Two kings yonder, I see, and to them will I ride,
For to have their company I trust they will me abide [await].”
Spurring his horse, he rode up to the two monarchs and addressed them:
“Hail, comely kings augent [gentle],
Good sirs, I pray you, whither are ye meant?”
“To seek a Child is our intent,
Which betokens yonder star as ye may see,”
said the old king, Gaspar.
“To whom I purpose this present,”
added Balthazar, showing him a golden vase full of frankincense.
Then the third king, Melchior, replied,
“Sirs, I pray you, and that right humbly,
With you that I may ride in company;
To Almighty God now pray we
That His precious person we may see.”
Thus having greeted one another, the kings rode aside, while on the
pageant, Herod came out of his palace to meet the herald, who, on seeing
him, exclaimed:
“Hail, Lord, most of might!
Thy commandment is right.
Into thy land is come this night
Three kings, and with them a great company.”
“What make those kings in this country?”
returned Herod.
“To seek a King and a Child, they say,”
answered the herald.
“Of what age should He be?”
Herod inquired angrily.
“Scant twelve days old fully,”
said the herald.
Whereupon Herod, restraining his wrath, commanded the herald on pain of
death to follow the kings, to speak gently to them, in order to deceive
them into imagining that they would be well treated, and then to speed
in hot haste to Jerusalem to make inquiries about the Child they sought.
So the herald, descending from the stage, followed Gaspar, Balthazar,
and Melchior, and very courteously told them that Herod, “king of these
countries wide,” desired to speak with them. The travellers, immediately
agreeing to his wish, were brought before the palace. There Herod
received them courteously, wished them a safe journey, and begged them
to return the same way.
“And with great concord banquet with me,
And that Child myself then will I see
And honour Him also,”
he added, allowing his guests to depart with many compliments on either
side.
But no sooner had they mounted their horses and ridden away than Herod’s
rage blazed forth.
“When they come again, they shall die that same day,
And thus these vile wretches to death shall be brought!”
he exclaimed, stalking into his palace, while the kings rode a little
distance to another pageant where again the stable at Bethlehem was
represented, with Mary watching by the manger.
Here, just as the shepherds had done, but in much more stately language,
they offered their costly gifts to the Child.
Gaspar gave a cup of gold. “_In tokening Thou art without peer_,” he
said, as he laid his offering at the foot of the manger.
A cup full of frankincense was Balthazar’s gift, “_In tokening of
priesthood and dignity of office_;” while the young king Melchior had
brought a precious goblet, with “_myrrh for mortality, in tokening Thou
shalt mankind restore to life by Thy death upon a tree_.”
Then Mary spoke to the kings as sweetly as she had addressed the
shepherds, and presently they withdrew a little from her presence and
began to discuss their homeward journey. Gaspar declared that according
to their promise they must return through Herod’s land; and though the
others agreed, they were all so fatigued that they decided to lie down
and rest awhile. Accordingly, at a distance from the manger, they threw
themselves on the ground. Before long they slept, and while they slept,
a beautiful vision appeared to them.
An angel, who seemed to be hovering in the air, descended from the
darkness of the stable-roof, and bent still hovering above them.
“Is he _really_ flying?” exclaimed Margery, in an awed voice; and Master
Gyseburn smiled.
“It looks as though he were, certainly,” he agreed; “but there’s a
clever contrivance arranged by the carpenters and fastened to the roof
up there, by which the angel is let down and made to look as though he
were fluttering in the air.”
“He is _lovely_!” declared Margery, sighing with pleasure. “Look at his
golden curls and his long wings! What is he going to say to the kings?”
“Listen!” Colin advised her.
“King of Tarsus, Sir Gaspar!” (exclaimed the angel)
“King of Araby, Sir Balthazar!
Melchior, King of Aginara!
To you now I am sent.
For dread of Herod, go you west home ...
The Holy Ghost this knowledge hath sent.”
Then, bending a moment longer over the still sleeping kings, he flew
upwards and was lost to sight.
When the kings awoke, it was to discover that each one of them had heard
the angel’s warning; so taking a last leave of the Babe and His Mother,
they set out on their journey, carefully arranging not to pass through
the dominions of the wicked and treacherous Herod.
Meanwhile, the herald, in fear and trembling, once more ascended the
steps leading to the palace-portal, and broke the news to his master:
“These three kings that forth were sent,
And should have come again before thee here present,
Another way, Lord, home they went,
Contrary to thine honour.”
Then indeed the audience had an opportunity of watching Herod’s rage:
“Another way!” (he exclaimed, trembling with fury)
“Out! Out! Out!
Hath those foul traitors done me this deed?
I stamp, I stare, I look all about;
Might them I take I should them burn at a glede [fire].
I rend, I roar, and now run I wood [mad] ...
They shall be hanged if I come them to.”
Roaring and stamping and raving, as he said of himself, the king rushed
down the pageant steps and “raged” in the market-place amongst the
people, to the delight of the grown-up folk and the terror of the
children in the crowd. And all the while he was running to-and-fro,
screaming with fury, he was giving orders that “all young children”
should be slain.
But even the rough soldiers who had come from the palace to follow their
master, and had at last succeeded in getting him to return to the stage,
were horrified at this cruel command, and one of them spoke indignantly:
“My Lord, King Herod by name,
Thy words against my will shall be.
To see so many young children die is shame,
Therefore counsel thereto gettest thou none of me.”
Another one agreed with his companion, and warned Herod that to murder
little children in such wholesale fashion would be sufficient
provocation for a general rising among his subjects.
“A rising! Out! Out! Out!”
shouted the mad tyrant; and, raging and stamping once more, he commanded
both soldiers to be hanged on the gallows unless they immediately
carried out his orders.
So for very fear the soldiers were obliged to obey, and Herod drove them
forth to do the cruel deed, telling them to bring all the little dead
children “before his sight,” so that he might be sure his orders had
been carried out.
But now the attention of the audience was directed towards the other
pageant representing the Stable at Bethlehem. Here the beautiful angel
who had already appeared to the three kings was seen fluttering down
towards the Mother of Jesus and her husband Joseph, and soon his voice
was heard:
“Mary and Joseph, to you I say,
Sweet word from the Father I bring you full right;
Out of Bethlehem into Egypt forth go ye the way,
And with you take the King, full of might,
For dread of Herod’s red [order].”
In reply, Joseph turned to Mary:
“Arise up, Mary, hastily and soon!
Our Lord’s will needs must be done,
Like as the angel bade.”
And Mary answered:
“Meekly, Joseph, mine own spouse,
Toward that country let us repair;
In Egypt—some tokens of house—
God grant us grace safe to come there!”
While she spoke, she was tenderly lifting the Baby from His cradle, and
the curtains closed upon the Holy Family making preparations for their
journey.
The play now went on in the street, for presently, threading their way
through the crowd, a company of women entered, each bearing in her arms
her little baby. And as the mothers walked to-and-fro and rocked their
children, they sang this pretty song:
“Lulla, lulla, thou little tiny child;
By, by, lullay, lullay, thou little tiny child.
By, by, lully, lullay.
O sisters too! how may we do,
For to preserve this day
This poor youngling for whom we do sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Herod the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day
His men of might, in his own sight,
All young children to slay.
That woe is me, poor child, for thee!
And ever, morn and day,
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.”
The poor distracted mothers, with their faces full of grief, won the
pity of the crowd, and many women exclaimed aloud, half believing that
the babies were really going to be snatched from them and killed!
Then one of the women, in a voice shaken with fear, sang alone:
“I lull my child wondrously sweet,
And in my arms I do it keep,
Because that it should not cry.”
And another replied, calling on the new-born King:
“That Babe that is born in Bethlehem so meek,
He save my child and me from villainy.”
Yet another said:
“Be still! be still! my little child!
That Lord of lords save both thee and me;
For Herod hath sworn with words wild
That all young children slain they shall be.”
Now the soldiers come rushing forward with drawn swords, and though
Colin assured her that it was only pretence, Margery could not look
while they grasped the screaming women by the arms or by the hair and
snatched their little baby-boys away from them.
In vain the poor mothers struggled and implored. Their children were all
killed, and presently the soldiers went away to fetch “wains and wagons”
on which to heap the little bodies.
“I suppose they are only dolls?” Margery asked anxiously; but though
Master Gyseburn reassured her, she could not bear the sound of the
screams and the shouting.
It was a relief when all the women went sobbing away, and the herald
stood once more before King Herod, and addressed him:
“Herod, king! I shall thee tell,
All thy deeds is come to naught.
This Child is gone into Egypt to dwell,
Lo, sir, in thine own land what wonders byn [have been] wrought.”
Margery sympathized deeply with the herald’s indignant tone.
“He’s killed all the babies, and it was no good after all!” she
exclaimed. “He’s the wickedest and the most horrid man I ever saw! Look
at him ‘raging’ again! What is he going to do now? See! the servants are
getting his horse ready.”
“He’s going to ride into Egypt to see if he can find the three kings, to
put them to death,” said Master Gyseburn.
“But he won’t!” observed Colin with much satisfaction. “There he goes
riding through the crowd, still storming. Now he’s out of sight—and a
good thing too.”
The last they saw of Herod was his huge sword brandished aloft; and the
last sound they heard was his foolish voice raised in anger.
IX
At the End of the Day
The children had been so absorbed and interested in the last play, which
was a long one, that when the pageant was wheeled away, they were
surprised to find the market-place all glowing in the light of sunset.
Little pink clouds like feathers were floating in the sky, across which
flights of birds were winging their way to nests in the trees round the
city.
“Giles will soon be home!” said Mistress Harpham. “If there’s time for
one more play this evening I shall be mistaken. It will soon be dark.”
“Do they stop when it gets dark?” asked Margery.
“But there are lots more to come!” objected Colin, looking at the
“pageant book” which Master Gyseburn held open on his knee. Though he
could not read, he saw by the long list which followed the _Massacre of
the Innocents_ that scarcely half of the plays had as yet been
performed.
Mistress Harpham had turned away to superintend arrangements for the
supper she was about to offer her guests, but Master Gyseburn answered
the children’s questions.
“The plays will go on all day to-morrow, and the next day too, I
expect,” he told them. “It very seldom happens that any town gets
through all its pageants on one day. Certainly not here in York, where
we generally act forty of them.”
“But suppose it gets dark in the middle of a play?” asked Margery. “What
happens then?”
“Then the torch-bearers are called out,” said Master Gyseburn. “I expect
they’ll be needed before the next one is over,” he added. “The daylight
will scarcely last.”
“And they’ll go on to-morrow, and we shan’t be here!” sighed Margery, so
dolefully that Master Gyseburn laughed.
“You’re not tired of them? And yet you’ve had a long day of it!”
“Tired? Oh! I should love to see every one of them!” Margery declared.
“And so should I,” echoed her brother.
“A great many sad and dreadful scenes will come to-morrow,” said Master
Gyseburn. “I really think you’ve seen all that would please you. The
others are for grown-up people. And some are too horrible for _them_,”
he added. “At least I think so.”
“Now children, come to supper!” called Mistress Harpham, who was busy
lighting candles on the table, for the room with its dark oak-panelling,
and heavy beams overhead, was growing very gloomy.
“We shall have to think about saying good-bye directly!” declared Farmer
Short as he took his seat. “’Tis a long ride home, and we have to get
the horses out of the stable.”
“Plenty of time for a meal!” said Mistress Harpham, bustling about and
filling the children’s plates with good things.
“Will Giles come before we have to go?” asked Margery. “I do hope he
will!”
Almost as she spoke, the door opened, and Giles came in.
He was welcomed rapturously by all the guests, and though the poor boy
looked very tired, he was made to answer a hundred questions about the
success of the Parchment-makers’ pageant in other parts of the town.
It had been well received everywhere apparently; and though Giles was
very modest, his mother learnt with pride that her son’s acting had been
praised almost as much as she desired.
“We missed you so much after you went,” whispered Margery to her cousin,
a little shyly, for she was still very much impressed at the thought of
his talents.
“But Master Gyseburn explained everything to us,” put in Colin. “And all
the plays were _splendid_!”
Before long there was a general bustle and movement round the table.
Many of the guests, like the children, had a long way to go to reach
their homes, and they were anxious to set out before the day’s pageants
were quite over.
“There’ll be a fine crowd in the streets by the time they’re all done,”
said Master Harpham. “But if you go now, while some of the folk are
still looking at the plays, you’ll reach the inn without much trouble.”
“Aye, and Robert will go with you and show you the quickest by-ways to
reach it; won’t you, Robert?” suggested his wife, as she prepared to
follow Mistress Short and the children to the best bedroom, where they
had left their cloaks.
Colin and Margery were soon ready, and with their little hoods tied
round their necks they returned to the parlour, and ran eagerly to the
window, anxious up to the last moment to see all that was going on.
They found Giles kneeling on one of the wide window-seats, looking out
into the street, and Margery climbed up beside him. She had taken a
great fancy to her clever, interesting cousin, and she thought how
pretty he looked with his fair head resting against the woodwork of the
window.
“What are they doing now?” she asked before her own curly head appeared
above the level of the window-sill.
“_The Child Jesus in the Temple_,” said Giles. “It’s the Spur-makers’
and Bit-makers’ pageant, and Andrew Martin is the Child Jesus. He’s a
friend of mine,” he added.
“Oh! the torch-bearers are there!” exclaimed Colin. “It _has_ got dark
quickly!”
“Doesn’t it look nice in this light?” said Margery; and Giles nodded,
too intent upon the play to reply.
At the foot of the pageant, all holding flaming torches aloft, four boys
were stationed, and the ruddy glow flickered over a beautiful group on
the stage. The learned doctors in their long robes leant upon one
another’s shoulders or whispered together, their eyes fixed upon a
youthful figure in their midst, Who in a grave yet charming voice was
reading something from a roll of parchment.
“It’s Jesus when He was a Boy, isn’t it?” whispered Margery; and again
Giles nodded.
The boy wore a long sheepskin coat, and his fair hair was made brighter
by gilding. His legs were bare, and on his feet were sandals.
“Andrew is wonderful!” said Giles gravely, “all his gestures are good
and dignified. And so is his voice. This was the part they wanted me to
play, but I would not attempt it. I knew Andrew would do it better.”
Margery glanced at her cousin admiringly. In her little mind she felt
sure that Giles too was wonderful, and that all she had heard about the
great things he was to do in the future had not been exaggerated. Some
day, she was certain, Giles would be a famous man. Her thoughts were put
to flight, however, by the entrance of her mother and a large company of
other guests all ready for departure; so leave-takings were very
hurried.
But she found time to hug Giles, who in spite of the laughter which went
round, allowed himself to be kissed with very good grace.
“We will go out by the back way,” called Master Harpham, and the
children soon found themselves in a quiet street, where the noise from
the market-place sounded only as a faint murmur.
By winding lanes and passages Master Harpham led his guests towards the
“Dragon” inn where they had left their horses and their wagons. Every
now and then however, when they turned a corner, Margery and Colin
caught a glimpse of a crowd, of flaming torches, and of the top of one
of the pageants stationed sometimes half-way up a street, sometimes in a
little open space, sometimes beneath a city gate.
“They are still going on!” Colin exclaimed.
“Yes; but only till the pageant of the _Doctors in the Temple_ has been
played at the last halting-place,” said Master Harpham, looking back
over his shoulder at the little boy. “It’s all over for to-night in our
market-place, for instance; but the Doctors’ play won’t reach
Girdlegate, the last place, for another half-hour, perhaps.... Now,
here’s the inn! Hurry, all of you, and you will get out your horses
before there’s too much of a crush.”
Dobbin and Jock, looking quite fresh after their long day’s rest, were
soon led out from their corner of the stables, and in a moment Margery
was perched on Dobbin’s back, in front of her father.
“Good-nights” were called, and, in company with various other
travellers, the children rode along the cobble-paved streets towards
Mikelgate, from which the pageants had long ago departed, leaving the
road to the gate clear.
“’Tis luck to have moonlight!” exclaimed Farmer Short, as they emerged
upon the country-road.
Margery looked back towards the city they had left, over which hung a
dull red glow from the torchlights which still streamed and flickered
there; and as she looked she drew a long sigh.
“She’s tired!” said her mother; but Margery indignantly denied the fact.
“I was thinking what a lovely day it’s been,” she declared; “and about
all the plays they will be acting to-morrow and the next day. But Master
Gyseburn says they will be sad plays. So perhaps I shouldn’t like to see
them after all. I didn’t like it when the babies were killed!”
“Yes,” said a neighbour; “there are about twenty still to come. They’ll
need two days more at least. The saddest plays will come last, when the
Tapestry-weavers act the _Trial of Christ_; and the Tile-makers and
Painters _The Crucifixion_.”
“’Twas a mercy it was fine,” exclaimed Mistress Short. “And likely to be
fine to-morrow,” she added, with a glance at the clear sky, in which a
full moon sailed.
Both the children grew silent as they jogged towards home along the
white road, upon which fell their shadows and the shadows of the horses
and of overhanging trees. It was very quiet and peaceful in the country,
and they were both sleepy. All the curious and novel things they had
seen during the day began to appear like a dream, in which the three
kings passed and re-passed; and Herod, with his flashing sword, stamped
and raved; and beautiful angels, with golden wings, hovered above a
stable in Bethlehem; and the serpent talked to Adam and Eve. But more
frequently than any of the other figures in the plays Margery saw the
little white-robed Isaac begging for his life; and, when the cottage was
reached at last, and she was in bed and really asleep, it was of him she
dreamt.
X
Everyman
As some of you may have noticed, the miracle plays to which long ago
Colin and Margery listened were for the most part badly written, in such
rough, uncouth verse, that a great deal of each play may be described as
mere doggerel. Very few of them have any claim to be called
_literature_. They are just rhyming stories, often very badly rhymed, to
be acted before uncritical people, thousands of whom were poor and
simple folk who, if the stories were sufficiently exciting and the
actors well enough dressed, neither knew nor cared that the words were
poor. Every now and then, indeed, in these old plays a fragment of verse
is charming. For instance, in the Nativity scene, which used to be acted
at Coventry, there are some delightful words. Here are a few lines from
the prophets’ speeches about the new-born King.
Second prophet:
“Yet do I marvel
In what pile or castle
These herdsmen did Him see”
And the first prophet replies:
“Neither in halls not yet in bowers,
Born would He not be,
Neither in castles nor in towers
That seemly were to see;
But at His Father’s will,
The prophecy to fulfil,
Betwixt an ox and an ass
Jesu this King born He was.”
The lullaby to the babies in the same play is pretty too, and so is the
shepherds’ song when the angels have announced to them the birth of
Christ. Here are the words:
“As I out rode this enderes’ night,
Of three jolly shepherds I saw a sight,
And all about their fold a star shone bright;
They sang, Terli, ter low;
So merrily the shepherds their pipes can blow.”
But the best of all the plays is one that does not appear in either of
the four sets known as the York, the Coventry, the Chester, and the
Wakefield series. It was probably first written in Dutch, and afterwards
translated into English. For we must remember that not only in England
were these miracle plays acted; they were just as popular in France, in
Germany, and in Holland, as in our own country. This particular play is
called _Everyman_, and it is in many ways different from any of the
pageants we have so far talked about.
In the first place, instead of being a Bible story, it is an allegory,
something like the allegory of the _Pilgrim’s Progress_. Just as
Christian, the “Pilgrim,” stands for any human being born into this
world and passing through it on his way to another life, so Everyman
means just what the word says. Every man or woman of us. _Everyone_, in
fact; since every one of us is born into this world and, after
journeying through life, has to pass out of it at the gate of death.
Though the play is so old (it was first written and acted, perhaps, in
the reign of Henry V), it remains true for people who live nowadays, and
for the people who will live after us. Not only because it is true, but
also because it is so dignified and touching, certain people who lately
read it, thought that it might very well be acted again, and presented
as nearly as possible in the same way as it was played by actors in
bygone days—five hundred years ago.
So men and women were found to study it, to learn the parts, and to copy
old dresses for the characters, and the first revival performance of
_Everyman_ was given in London some years ago, in the open air, at
Charterhouse, the old city school for boys. Since then it has been acted
in many theatres, but perhaps that first performance was the best of
all, because the play, like all other miracle plays, was meant to be
acted out of doors, and Charterhouse, with its old courtyard and its old
grey walls, was the best frame that could possibly have been devised for
an old play.
In the courtyard of Charterhouse, then, a big wooden platform or
scaffolding was set up, close against the wall of the school chapel.
Steps at either end of the platform led down to the cobble-paved yard,
and on the wooden stage itself, there were one or two little recesses,
like shrines, hidden by curtains. There was no other scenery.
Some of the spectators sat on benches in front of the platform, and all
the windows looking into the courtyard were filled with people, just as
the windows overlooking that market-place in York were crowded, when
miracle plays were acted long ago. And just as some of those plays began
with the coming of a herald to explain what was going to take place, so
this play of _Everyman_ began with the appearance of a messenger or
_doctor_. He was dressed in a long black gown, something like those
still worn by the dons and students at Oxford or Cambridge. Round his
neck was a white ruff, and on his head a flat cap of velvet. Coming from
one of the doorways which opened into the courtyard, he walked towards
the platform, ascended its steps, and addressed the audience, beginning
with these words.
Messenger:
“I pray you all give your audience,
And hear this matter with reverence,
By figure a moral play—
The _Summoning of Everyman_ called it is,
That to our lives and ending shows
How transitory we be all day.
This matter is wondrous precious,
But the intent of it is more gracious
And sweet to bear away.”
Continuing, he reminded his listeners that _Everyman_ would be required
to give an account of his life before “the Heaven King,” and he called
upon them to listen to the voice of the Almighty Himself.
His speech ended, he left the platform, and in a moment, a stately
figure representing God the Father appeared at the chapel window which
overhung the stage, in much the same way as five hundred years ago God
Almighty used to come from a window above the church porch.
A balcony with a stone balustrade projected from the window, and leaning
upon it the Figure, dressed as in olden days, like a pope, in costly
robe and mitre, addressed the audience.
“I perceive here in My Majesty
How all creatures are to Me unkind”—