tongue in which the summons is written. In vain he asks his sons or his kinsmen to go with him, or even his wife; each has his excuse, but advises him to take his slaves. Plutus, too, his daily god, rebels against being taken, and only succumbs to main force. Alas! he is on his road, with nought but slaves and wealth. Anon, Virtue-his old, tattered, despised friend Virtue--meets him, and promises to send him a priest. The priest comes, and for once the brothers agree-in keeping watch, lest he should persuade the dying man to give aught of his wealth to the poor. Satan comes to his chamber-door, sits on his threshold, and draws his indictment against the dying man. Here it is, "proud and arrogant in mind, body, and manners." So commences the bill. But, within, the priest questions him of his faith-it is merely historical, a faith in facts: soon springs up a better faith, as Faith herself rules his chamber with Virtue. At the door Death meets Satan, gets abused for his delay, follows his master into the death-chamber as soon as he has sharpened his dart. But the contest soon grows warm, and Satan flies before Faith, Virtue, and the priest, and the soul departs on its mission freed from the power of evil. Such was George von Langeveldt's play, represented by his scholars in 1550. "Non sine magno spectantium applausu,"-" crowded houses,' "continued applause until the fall of the curtain," as Messrs. Bunn and Co. now have it in the large type of their bills, with "Free List suspended." Of the success of the English "Everyman we have no contemporary record. Its prologue says, "This matter is wondrous precious, The story saith, Man in the beginning Death is sent to Everyman with a message.— A pilgrimage he must on him take, And that he bring with him a sure reckoning Everyman asks for twelve years' delay, to make up "No in the garment of Contrition, and makes him call on And turn to earth, and there to sleep,"→ then one by one, Discretion, Strength, and Beauty fly away, and Good Deeds alone remains with him in his need. Next, with a moral applicable to the faith of that day, as the song of the angel who receives his spirit is heard in the air, a learned doctor warns the audience of the transitory nature of earthly gifts, and bids them remember that even good deeds are of little avail "an they be small." And now, if there be only one amongst our readers who regrets that these glories of the ancient drama have long since ceased, and that even before the days of Marlowe and Shakspeare, they, and their kindred, though less spiritual, moralities, had ceased to be the staple amusement of our people, or who wish that they could have witnessed the last of these "iniquities," as old Pryme calls it, that was played before James I. and many thousands of his subjects, at Ely House, in Holborn, on a Good Friday; if there be any one such, we remind him and them that a miracle-play, such as we have described from Southey, will be played in the autumn of 1850 in the secluded and romantic village of Ammergan, on the German side of the Tyrolese Alps. Two hundred and four years have passed since the village of Ammergan was desolated by a virulent and contagious disease that spread throughout the valley of the Ammer. No cordon sanitaire could defend the little village, and within three weeks of the first victim's death more than eighty of the villagers fell beneath the pestilence. Then it was that, in the spirit of their religion, they vowed the decennial performance of a mystery called "The Atoning Sacrifice of Golgotha, and the History of the interruptions during the desolating wars of Napoleon, Passion and Death of Jesus." With only a few until the present time. Just outside the village the the mystery has been performed every tenth year in the old days, and alone covered in from the sky, wooden theatre is raised, the stage in three stories, as whilst the seats remain unprotected. alteration has taken place of late years, and the cauldrons and other paraphernalia of hell have been discarded, along with the chorus of dæmons with which the old play opened. "The stage," says Görres, "is appropriated to the nature of the piece. As this is composed of dumb shows from the Old Testament and acted scenes from the New, the stage is divided into two parts. In the centre and towards the back of the great stage stands a smaller one con"Goods" to come with cealed by a curtain; on either side were two streets of his accounts, and offers 1,000l. for the time. "Who calleth me?' answers Goods; 'Everyman! what, hast thou haste ? I lye here in corners, trussed and piled so high, Also sacked in bags, thou may'st see with thine eye Sir, an ye in the world have sorrow or adversity, Again his owner presses 866 I follow no man in such voyages, For an I went with thee, Some little Jerusalem, between the side walls and the double stage, and the intermediate space is filled up with the houses with balconies." Through these streets the long processions of the Tableans Thou shouldst fare much the worse for me.' Vivants march, whilst on the inner stage the scenes Good Deeds is willing enough to go with him, but from the New Testament, the types of what is being lies cold on the ground, bound sorely by his sins; but represented in dumb show, are acted. The actors are she introduces Knowledge, who leads him to Con- as numerous as in the monkish days, between three fession, who gives him a jewel called Penance, and and four hundred, and character far more than then Good Deeds rises in her strength and prepares dramatic talent determines the role of the performers. to go with him. Besides this, Knowledge clothes him | A drunken or debauched Roscius would hardly obtain a more prominent part than that of a mute, | pen, have appeared in the Revue des Deux Mondes, whilst a moral tyro would assume the principal part. under the title of "Philippe de Morvelle," the destiny The neighbours come in thousands to witness the that she has adopted would be sufficient, in my eyes, passion-spiel of Ammergan, and sit from sunrise to to prove that hers is a noble heart, a noble mind. sunset, with the intermission of one hour for refreshment at midday. The wits of Paris ridiculed the length of M. Dumas' drama of "Monte Christo," and pictured the actors marching to the reading of the play with their night-dresses and provisions. The sight-seers of Ammergau in the autumn of 1850 may reasonably be provided with one of these acA bad example must be our plea for having rambled from Southey to Görres, from England to Germany. A table spread with various viands doth provoke a varied appetite. Anon we shall come to a sad jumble-rats and killicrops, Luther's table-talk and fairies. cessories. A VISIT TO AUGUSTIN THIERRY. On reaching the eminence which overlooks the charming valley of Montmorency, not far from the Hermitage immortalized by Jean Jacques Rousseau, you perceive to the left a narrow winding road, bordered with villas built in the Italian style. About half way down this road, on the right-hand side, our carriage drew up at a little gate, the threshold of which we passed, full of that respectful emotion ever created by the contemplation of great talent, dignified by great misfortune. Here, in the summer months, dwells Augustin Thierry; hither he comes, with the return of spring, to seek strength from the fresh, pure air of the valley, to enable him to continue his labours. We found ourselves in an elegant garden; before us was a lawn varied with flower-beds, and beyond that a sloping shrubbery. On the right were a greenhouse and a summerhouse; in front of the latter lay, at full length, a handsome Newfoundland dog, which, raising its head, gave us a look of welcome with its mild, good-natured eyes. To the left, on the opposite side of the lawn, rose a rectangular house, white, simple, and in good taste, consisting of two stories, the lower windows opening into the garden. Entering a small apartment on the ground floor, which was furnished with simple elegance, we were received by a lady attired in black; still young, of small stature, graceful manners, and an intellectual, but pensive countenance. It was Madame Thierry, the wife of the historian; she who has so appreciated the glory and happiness of associating her own with a great name,-her life with one of suffering,-of quitting the vain pleasures of the world, to devote herself wholly to the noblest part in the drama of life that can be assigned to a woman, the part of a guardian angel, of a spirit descended to earth, to watch over a great soul, imprisoned in a suffering body. Even had I not known that Madame Thierry is endowed with faculties that qualify her to take a direct and active part in all the labours of her husband; even had I not read the pieces, so remarkable for thought and for expression, that, proceeding from her We were soon joined by M. Amédée Thierry, the brother of the historian: a man of middle height, grave in speech as in countenance, wherein one may read the profound depression of his fraternal heart. On his arrival, the conversation became more general; but, for my own part, I scarcely listened to it, so deeply absorbed was I in expectation of him whom I was about to see, and in endeavouring to picture to myself, beforehand, the extent to which evil is able to attain to the soul through the medium of the body. At length I heard the sound of approaching footsteps; a door on my right opened, and a domestic appeared, carrying on his back a man, blind, paralyzed, and incapable of movement. We all rose; my heart was penetrated with emotion at the sight of a man so powerful in intellect, so powerless in body. The servant, in his every motion, exhibited a respectful solicitude that sensibly affected me: he seemed thoroughly to appreciate the value of his precious. burden; he bent gently back towards an arm-chair, in which he deposited his charge, and then proceeded to cover up the lower part of the motionless frame with a wrapper. This done, in an instant the scene changed, and that passage in the Essai sur la Littérature Anglaise, in which Chateaubriand describes the visit of a contemporary to Milton, came vividly to my mind. The passage is this:-"The author of 'Paradise Lost,' attired in a black doublet, was reclining in an arm-chair; his head was uncovered; his silver hair fell upon his shoulders, and his fine dark eyes shone bright, in their blindness, upon his pallid face." It was the same head, with the exception of the silver hair, that I now saw before me; the same face, more youthful and vigorous,-the noblest blind face that can be conceived. The head was firmly set upon broad shoulders; glossy hair, of the deepest black, carefully parted over an expansive forehead, fell in curls beside each temple; beneath their arched brows opened the dark eyes, which, but for the vagueness of their direction, I should have imagined animated with light; the nose was of the purest Greek form; the mouth, with fine, delicate, and expressive lips, seemed endowed with all the sensibility of which the eyes had been deprived; the finely turned chin had a slight dimple at its extremity. There was, in the contour of the face, and in its general expression, a remarkable combination of energy, subtleness, and sedate tranquillity. The tones of his voice were clear, well poised and distinct, though, from the feebleness of his health, not sonorous; his bearing was in the highest degree elegant; the lower portion of the frame, as I said before, was paralyzed; but the movement of the bust and of the arms was free; the hands, of which only the forefinger and thumb seemed capable of action, were gloved. When the name of the lady who had introduced us was announced to him, the handsome blind man smiled; and like the smile of Chactas in René, "that smile of the mouth, unaccompanied by the smile of the eyes, partook of the mysterious and of the celestial." The lady approached him, and Thierry kissed, with a chivalrous air, the fair hand placed in his own. Conversation once fairly begun, that fine head seemed, as it were, radiant in the light of the still finer intellect within. I have been in the company of many persons who have the reputation of being good talkers, and who really do talk admirably, but I never remember to have heard anything comparable to the colloquial language of Augustin Thierry, for facility, perspicuity, and elegance. It is, doubtless, the habit of dictation that has given so much of style to his conversation; but, whatever be the cause, it may, indeed, be said of him, that without any effort, without any affectation whatever, he speaks like a book. Throughout the conversation, to which I was a silent and attentive listener, I could detect in him not the slightest trace of selfishness, not the least reference to self; on the contrary, he who had been so cruelly tried by fate, spoke of the sufferings and infirmities of others with the most unaffected and touching commiseration. And thus, from day to day, does this martyr to learning intrepidly pursue the task he has imposed upon himself. At times only, when his pains are most racking, he is heard to murmur: "Oh! that I were only blind!" Except in such moments of depression, which are few and far between, and discernible only by his most intimate associates, he seems more a stranger to his own condition than those who surround and listen to him. Science, history, poetry, anecdotes, reminiscences of his youth-he applies to these and all other subjects the same full, rich, elegant, nervous, noble diction; every shade of thought is reflected on his lips. At times, when an idea of a more peculiarly grave and lofty character arises in his mind, you can discern a movement in the muscles of the eye: those blind eyes, the dark pupil of which stands out in bold relief from the cornea, open wide. The thought within seems essaying to make its way through the opacity of the ball, and, after vain efforts to effect this, returns within, descends to the lips, which, receiving it, give it forth, not only in language, but with the expression of the look. From time to time, the blind man passes his poor weak hand over these, in every sense, such speaking lips, as if cherishing the precious organ, enriched, for him, with all the faculties that the other organs have lost. The two hours we spent with him seemed not so many minutes. A. R. S. EDITOR'S POSTSCRIPT. ANOTHER Month has glided down the stream of time, carrying with it a twelfth part of the yearly hopes and fears, joys and griefs, which, like the lights and shadows of an April day, chase each other over the play-ground of man's life; daguerreotyping in their rapid course his every thought, word, and action, on the pages of the New Year, and its robe of virgin white stained by day-book of Eternity. The gloss is already worn off the man's crimes and blotted by his tears, though here and there a bright little spot remains untouched, fit setting for the priceless gem of some noble deed and generous action; or, richer and rarer still, of sorrows endured with of some heart idol more dear than life itself; or, rarest patient submission, faults eradicated, even at the cost of all, because hardest to attain, that patient continuance in well-doing, which forms the brightest jewel in the sparkling coronet that awaits the life-long sacrifice of the spirit-martyr. Dear Readers, do you ever think of these things? We do sometimes, and if it happens to be when we are penin-hand, we write, as in the present instance, a sermon instead of a postscript. Never mind, kind Readers, excuse us this once, and we will promise not to intrude our heaven-born fancies upon you too often for the future. And now, what shall we say to you this time? We must not write any more about our improvements, or how unmistakeably they have succeeded; for one of you, of course a gentleman in the conventional, if not in the literal meaning of the word, (for ladies can never be disagreeable,) writes to us to find very great fault with our "puffing postscripts." We are not sure that we can quite agree with him in the principle that self-praise is no commendation; for a man, or a magazine, must be utterly besotted with vanity to vent self-gratulations on the possession of a quality in which he (or it) is notably deficient. We can forgive a man, with a Grecian nose, aristocratic upper lip, lofty brow, and well-formed chin, for looking in the glass, and thinking himself a very pretty fellow, as, after all, he has but come to a right conclusion it is only when the result of such a course of self-examination fails to convince a person with a countenance calculated to fit him for an Ethiopian Serenader, that his face is not his fortune, that we hold him to be ridiculous. If, however, we do not agree with our correspondent in regard to the axiom above quoted, we go heart and hand with him, when he adds that good wine needs no bush;" and acting on the hint, we will leave our good wine to produce its exhilarating effects upon our readers, only begging them not to be ache in a hogshead of it." afraid of taking it in freely, for "there is not a head But if we may not talk about our success, we may at least thank our Subscribers for the liberal kindness with which they have met our change from a weekly to price by which this change was accompanied; owing to a monthly publication, and the necessary advance in which kindness, our circulation has, if anything, rather increased than otherwise. Dear Readers, we must condole with you on one sad event, our "Maiden Aunt" is no more. We have for some time foreseen that her end was approaching, and now the melancholy event has come to pass,-in the Part before us she has positively breathed her last; but do not be too much dispirited, for, after one month's mourning for poor Aunt Peggy, we hope to have the pleasure of introducing to you-well, we ourselves are not aware of the precise name, so we had better drop metaphor, and say, in plain booksellers' English, a new tale by the Authoress of the "Maiden Aunt." And if the aforesaid Authoress be at all given to hoaxing, she will merely have to withhold her MS. in order to make very decided "April fools," not only of you, dear Public, but of our editorial self also. However, we will hope better things of her, and a hopeful being an agreeable frame of mind, we will e'en take leave of you therein until the arrival of blustering March. Heads of the People, (Oriental) The Dragoman, 160. I. Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla, 298. Journal that was never kept, 277. Last Age, 38, 58. L. Laughing, Orthography of, 288. Letters from New Zealand, 180, 273. Louvre, Midnight at the, 93, 124. M. Maiden Aunt, 24, 69, 89, 99, 131, 163, 248. Maude Allinghame, 147, 241. Meaning of the word Cockney, 102, 126. Memoranda of Natural Phenomena, 21, 300. Midnight at the Louvre, 93, 124. Mill of Mariemont, 110. Minor Writings of Cervantes, 149. Murillo, the Boy Painter of Spain, 5, 28. N. Natural Phenomena, 21, 300. New Zealand, Letter from, 180, 273. 0. Orthography of Laughing, 288. Oxford Man's Diary, 19, 55, 122, 137, 193, 264. POETRY: Mors Janua Vitæ, 128. Music, 80. Nature, 80. Poetry of Geo. P. Morris, 259. Shadow from the Valley, 64. Solution of Charade, 79, 304. Sonnets of Ireland, 32, 144. Speak Gently, 256. The Armada, 95. The Old Year, 144. Village Lyrics, 63. Visions of the Past, 187. Voice of Moonlight, 112. What makes the Gentleman, 16. Winter, 291. Woman's Love, 143. Maiden Aunt, 24, 69, 89, 99, 131, 168, Marguerite of Province, 41, 59. Tale of Florence, 74. Too Handsome, 77. Tempora Mutantur, 208. The Last Age, 38, 58. Thierry, Augustin, Visit to, 303. Thoughts for the Season, 142. Three Generations of Genius, 244. Turenne, Early Days of Marshal, 163. U. Undine, Meaning of, 223. V. Visions of the Past, 187. W. Walmer Castle, 140. VOL. V. L |