capable of stupifying small animals, and preventing their escape. On this subject there is much difference of opinion, for, while some contend that serpents have absolutely no odour at all, others contend that they give out a most offensive odour from every part of the body, similar to that of flesh in the last stage of putrefaction, and extending to a considerable distance. It has also been said that horses are sensible of, and greatly agitated by, this odour at the distance of forty or fifty yards from the place where the snake is concealed, and show their abhorrence by snorting and starting from the road, endeavouring to throw their riders in order to make their escape.

In Dr. Barton's memoir on the fascinating power of serpents, published in the Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, the experiments of Vosmaer are quoted; several birds and mice were thrown into a cage where a rattle-snake was confined; the little animals immediately endeavoured to squat in a corner, and soon after, as if seized with deadly anguish, ran towards their enemy, who continually shook his rattles.

Any one looking at this experiment with his mind preoccupied with the theory of fascination, would say that the little animals were fascinated by the serpent; others, who had no particular theory to advocate, would say they were impelled by the strong instinct of fear, first to secrete themselves in corners, and finding these unsafe, would run or fly across the cage in search of a more secure retreat, when they would fall victims to their enemy. So necessary is it, in order to observe facts properly, to keep the mind free from prejudice. Dr. Barton well observes, "Perhaps facts are never related in all their unadulterated purity except by those who, intent upon the discovery of truth, keep system at a distance, regardless of its claims. The strong democracy of facts should exert its wholesome sway." Experiments similar to those of Vosmaer have been made with different results. Birds put into a cage with a rattle-snake, flew or ran from the reptile as though sensible of their danger. The snake made many attempts to catch them but seldom succeeded. When a dead bird was thrown in he devoured it immediately. He also soon caught and devoured a living mole, an animal much more sluggish than the bird. Dr. Barton confined during several hours a small snow-bird with a large rattle-snake. It exhibited no signs of fear, but hopped about from the door of the cage to its perch, and frequently hopped about on the snake's back. Its chirp was in no way tremulous, but perfectly natural, and it ate the seed put in for it. The snake, it is true, was languid, and had not eaten for a long time, and it was somewhat early in the season for snakes. This experiment proves at least the absence of any mephitic vapour; indeed, if such existed, the natural haunts of serpents would be fatal to other animals which frequent them, such as frogs and many species of birds. The rattle-snake is often known to lurk for days together at the bottom of a tree, or near a small bush, upon the branches of which the thrush or the cat-bird are rearing their young. Birds of the eagle and hawk kind will hover over the spot, and at length dart down upon the reptile, and carry it off to their young If the animal had the power of generating any mephitic vapour, it would surely do so for its own protection in such a case as this. Persons who have kept rattle-snakes in confinement for months at a time have been quite unable to detect any odour in them.

Some writers suppose the instrument of fascination in the rattlesnake to be the crepitaculum, or set of bells,' which the animal rings at dinner-time, and then its prey comes running towards the reptile, as if to say, "eat me!" "eat me!" It is unfortunate for this theory, that most writers state, that the rattle-snake in the supposed act of charming keeps its rattles perfectly still. There

(1) Serpent à sonnette is the French term for rattlesnake.

also seems to be some mistake about Blumenbach's statement, that an imitation of the hissing of serpents will lure rabbits, &c. to their destruction. Those best acquainted with the habits of the Indians know nothing of this practice; but they speak of one, which is likely to have originated the idea. The young Indians put arrows across their mouths, and by the quivering motion of their lips, imitate the noise of young birds, thus bringing the old ones near them, so that they can be readily shot at. In like manner the great shrike, hiding in a thicket, and imitating the cry of a young bird, often succeeds in seizing the old ones, which have been solicited by the counterfeited noise to the assistance of their young. It is also said that the titmouse will make a noise, by night, at the entrance of the bee hive; and when a bee comes out to see what is the matter, will seize and devour it. In this way he will secure a dozen in succession.

In endeavouring to trace to its source the origin of this supposed mysterious power in serpents, Dr. Barton was led to inquire, 1. What species of birds are most frequently observed to be enchanted by serpents? and, 2. At what season of the year has any particular species been most commonly seen under this wonderful influence?

Some birds build on the summits of lofty trees; others hang their nests from the extremity of a branch, or even on a leaf; others on the lower branches, among bushes, and in the hollows of decayed and other trees. Some species build on the ground, in cavities in stones, or holes in the earth, among the grass of fields and meadows, in fields of wheat, &c. Now, of all these varieties, those most liable to the attacks of serpents are ground nests, and nests built on the lower branches of trees and on low bushes, especially on the sides of rivers, creeks, and other waters, that are frequented by different kinds of serpents; and, on opening the stomachs of serpents, birds which build in the manner just mentioned are most frequently found in them.

The rattle-snake seldom or never climbs trees; it is found about their roots in wet situations. Upon the lower branches of such a tree, it is very likely a bird or squirrel may have been seen exhibiting symptoms of fear and distress. Is this a matter of wonder? Nature has taught different animals what are their enemies; and, although the principal food of the rattle-snake is the peat frog, yet, as he occasionally devours birds and squirrels, he is to these animals an object of fear. That the terrified creature will sometimes run towards the serpent, then retire and return again, is not denied; but that it is irresistibly drawn into the jaws of the serpent is denied. On the contrary, it is not uncommon for a bird to attack a serpent and chase it away, in doing which, it may get a fatal bite from its enemy. The black snake, whose bite is harmless, has the power of climbing trees, and feasts on the eggs and young of birds. Audubon has given a vivid description of a Baltimore oriole attacking the black snake, which sought to plunder her nest.

In general, serpents attack birds at the seasons of incubation, and of hatching and rearing the young brood, while the latter are defenceless. The cries and fears of birds, supposed to be under the influence of fascination, are but a strong expression of maternal solicitude for their young. So also, when the parent bird is teaching her young to fly, there is great danger from the attacks of serpents. Their flights are awkward and broken by fatigue, and falling to the ground, they often become victims to their lurking enemy. The mother, attempting to save them, will dart upon the serpent, but fear compels her to retire; she returns again, attacks him with wing and beak and claws. Should the serpent succeed in capturing the young, the mother is in less danger, for while engaged in swallowing them, the serpent has no power to seize the old bird; but the appetite of the serpent tribe being great, and the capacity of the stomach not less so, the snake having devoured the young, attempts to seize the parent bird, and in doing

so completes the catastrophe, which crowns the tale of fascination.

An anecdote, related by Mr. Rittenhouse, will further illustrate this view of the subject. This gentleman, walking out in the country, had his attention excited by the peculiar melancholy cry of the swamp blackbird, which led him to suppose that a snake was near, and that the bird was in distress. He threw a stone at the place from whence the cry proceeded, which had the effect of driving the bird away. The poor animal, however, immediately returned to the same spot. Mr. R. now went to the place where the bird alighted, and to his great astonishment, he found it perched upon the back of a large black snake, and pecking it with its beak. The serpent was in the act of swallowing a young bird; and from the enlarged size of the reptile's belly, it was evident that it had already swallowed two or three other young birds. After the snake was killed, the old bird flew away.

These, and similar instances by careful observers, illustrate the method adopted by these reptiles in procuring food, and indeed they often find it very difficult to do so. The rattle-snake lies insidiously in wait for his prey at the water's edge, employing no machinery of enchantment, but trusting entirely to his cunning and his strength. The black snake, which is much more active than the rattle-snake, will ascend the loftiest trees in search of its prey. If gifted with the power of fascination, why take so much trouble? why not remain at the bottom of the tree and practise its enchantments? A trustworthy observer describes a black snake climbing a tree, in order to get at the young of a Baltimore bird in a nest at the extremity of a branch, which was so slender that the serpent found it impossible to come at the nest by crawling along it; he therefore took advantage of another branch which hung above the nest, and, twisting a portion of his tail round it, was able, by stretching the remainder of the body, to reach the nest, into which he insinuated his head, and thus glutted his appetite with the young birds. There is evidently no fascination here, for we see the reptile exerting all his ingenuity to obtain his prey.

If the serpent really possessed this fascinating power, how does it happen that all the American serpents are the food of different kinds of birds? Even the rattlesnake, whose poison produces such alarming symptoms in man and other animals, is frequently devoured by some of the stronger and more courageous birds, such as the swallow-tailed hawk and the larger kinds of owl. Even the hen has been known to leave her affrighted chickens and attack with her beak a rattle-snake, kill it, and devour the greater part of the reptile's body. Nor is this surprising, when it is considered how very small a stroke upon any part of its body disables it from running, and a slight shock on the top of its head is followed by instant death. The skull-bone is so remarkably thin and brittle, that a stroke from the wing of the thrush or robin is sufficient to break it.

it forms a part of a more extensive plan; the effects of which, he will assert, are prominent and unequivocal, though its ways, he will confess, are incomprehensible to mortal minds."

FRANK FAIRLEGH;

OR, OLD COMPANIONS IN NEW SCENES.1

CHAPTER XI.

THE COUNCIL OF WAR.

easily discovered, and having tied my horse up under a THE place of meeting appointed by Peter Barnett was shed, which served the double purpose of stable and coach-house, I took possession of a small room with a sanded floor, and, throwing myself back in a most uneasy easy chair, began to think over the interview I had just had, and endeavour to devise some practicable plan for the future. The first thing was to establish free to accomplish by the assistance of Peter Barnett. I means of communication with Clara, and this I hoped should thus learn Mr. Vernon's proceedings, and be able he should attempt to force on the marriage immediately, to regulate my conduct accordingly. If, as I dreaded, would Clara, alone and unassisted, have sufficient courage and strength of purpose to resist him? I feared not; and how was I effectually to aid her? The question was more easily asked than answered. It was clear that her fortune Mr. Vernon or his nephew likely to be actuated by diswas the thing aimed at, for I could not believe either interested motives; and it was to their avarice then that Clara was to be sacrificed-had she been portionless she all sources of evil and misery money appears to be the would have been free to marry whom she pleased. Of most prolific; in the present case its action was twofold,-Clara was rendered wretched in consequence of possessing it, while the want of it incapacitated me from boldly claiming her hand at once, which appeared to be the only effectual method of assisting her.

arrival of my future privy counsellor, Peter Barnett, My meditations were at this point interrupted by the to his full height, which very nearly equalled that of who marched solemnly into the room, drew himself up salute, and then, closing the door cautiously, and with the room, brought his hand to his forehead in a military an air of mystery, stood at ease, evidently intending me to open the conversation.

for I felt the greatest difficulty in entering on the sub"Well, Peter," began I, by way of something to say, ject which then occupied my thoughts before such an auditor. "Well, Peter, you have not kept me waiting long; I scarcely expected to see you so soon: do you imagine that Mr. Vernon will remark your absence?" "He knows it already," was the reply. "Why, bless ye, Sir, he ordered me to go out hisself." "Indeed, how was that?"

"Why, as soon as you was gone, Sir, he pulled the bell like mad. 'Send Mr. Richard here,' says he. Yes, Sir,' says I, 'certingly, only he's not at home, Sir.' When he heard this he grumbled out an oath, or sumthin' of that natur, and I was going to take myself off, for I see he wasn't altogether safe, when he roars out 'Stop! "halt" if you'd a been a officer or a genyou mean by letting people in when I have given tleman, which you ain't neither,' thinks I.) What do orders to the contrary? says he. Who was it as blowed me up for sending away a gent, as said he wanted to That bothered him nicely, and he didn't know how to see you on partiklar business, only yesterday?' says I. be down upon me, but at last he thought he'd serve me one of his old tricks. So he says, 'Peter, what are you doing to-day?' I see what he was at, and I thought I'd ketch him in his own trap. Very busy a cleaning plate, Sir,' says I. This was enough for him : if I was a cleaning plate, in course I shouldn't like to be sent out,

much more.

(1) Continued from p. 263.

"And do you imagine I could ever feel content to be the creature of my wife's bounty? prove myself a needy fortune-hunter, as that old man dared to term me?" exclaimed I, forgetting the character of my auditor.

Why, that I'm afraid was scarcely to be avoided," replied I, "as my business was to inform him that I considered his nephew an unfit.person to marry his ward."

"Oh! did you tho'?-did you tell him that?" cried my companion, with a chuckle of delight; "that was right I wonder how he liked it!"

"As he did not exactly agree with me in this opinion, but, on the contrary, plainly declared his intention of proceeding with his scheme in spite of me, it is necessary for me to consider what means I can best use to prevent him from accomplishing his object; it is in doing this that I shall require your assistance.' "And what does Miss Clara say about it, young gentleman?" inquired the old man, fixing his eyes on me with a scrutinizing glance.

39

"Miss Saville dislikes Richard Cumberland, and dreads the idea of being forced to marry him above everything."

"Ah! I know she does, poor lamb; and well she may, for there ain't a more dissipated young scoundrel to be found nowhere than Mr. Wernon's precious 'nephew,' as he calls him, tho' it's my belief he might call him 'son' without telling a lie."

"Indeed! I was not aware that Mr. Vernon had ever been married."

66

No; I never heard that he was reg'lar downright married; but he may be his son for all that. Howsumever, pr'aps it is so, or pr'aps it ain't; I'm only a tellin' you what I fancies, Sir," was the reply. "But what I wanted to know," he continued, again fixing his eyes on my face, "is, what does Miss Clara say to you? eh!" "You put home questions, my friend," replied I, colouring slightly, "however, as Miss Saville tells me you are faithful and trustworthy, and as half-confidences are never of any use, I suppose you must hear all about it." I then told him as concisely as possible of my love for Clara, and my hopes of one day calling her my own; pointing out to him the difficulties that stood in the way, and explaining to him that the only one which appeared to me insurmountable, was the probability of Mr. Vernon's attempting to force Clara into an immediate marriage with Cumberland; being thus situated, I showed him the necessity of establishing some means of communication between Clara and myself, as it was essential that I should receive the earliest possible information in regard to Mr. Vernon's proceedings.

"I understand, Sir," interrupted Peter, "you want to be able to write to each other without the old 'un getting hold of your letters; well, that's very easily managed; only you direct to Mr. Barnett, to be left at the Pig and Pony, at Barstone, and anything you send for Miss Clara I'll take care and give her when nobody won't be none the wiser for it; and any letters she writes, I'll put into the Post myself. I'd do anything rather than let that young villain Cumberland have her, and make her miserable, which his wife is safe to be if ever he gets one; and, if you likes her, and she likes you, as seems wery probable, considering you saved her from being burnt to death, as they tell me, and is werry good-looking into the bargain,-which goes a great way with young ladies, if you'll excuse the liberty I takes in mentioning of it,—why, the best thing as you can do, is to get married as soon as you can."

Very pleasant advice, friend Peter," returned I, "but not so easily acted upon; people cannot marry nowa-days without something to live upon."

"Well, ain't Miss Clara got Barstone Priory, and

"Barstone Priory to live in, and more money than you know what to do with, ain't to be sneezed at, neither," was the answer, "though I likes your independent spirit too, Sir; but how do you mean to manage, then?"

66

Why, Mr. Vernon hinted that if his ward married without his consent, her fortune was to be forfeited." "Ah! I believe there was something of that nature in the will; my poor master was so wrapped up in old Wernon, that he wrote just wot he told him; if he'd only a lived to see how he was going to use Miss Clara, he'd a ordered me to kick him out of the house, instead." 'Perhaps that pleasure may be yet in store for you, Peter," replied I, laughing at the zest with which he uttered the last few words, and an involuntary motion of the foot by which they were accompanied: "but this power, which it seems Mr. Vernon really possesses, of depriving Miss Saville of her fortune, removes my greatest difficulty; for in that case, if he should attempt to urge on this match, I can at least make her the offer of sharing my poverty: there is my mother's roof to shelter her, and, if her guardian refuses his consent to our marriage, why, we must contrive to do without it, that is all. And now, Peter, if you will wait a few minutes, I will give you a note for your young mistress, and then get to horse without further loss of time;" and, calling for pen, ink, and paper, I hastily scribbled a few lines to Clara, informing her of the events of the morning, and of my unalterable determination to save her from a union with Cumberland, begging her at the same time to continue firm in her opposition, to acquaint me with everything that might occur, and to rely upon me for protection in the event of anything like force being resorted to. I then entrusted my note to old Peter, begged him to watch master Richard Cumberland closely, told him that upon his care and vigilance depended in great measure the happiness of his young mistress's life; tipped him handsomely, though I had some trouble in making him take the money, and, mounting my ill-disposed horse, rode back to Hillingford, on the whole tolerably well satisfied with my morning's work.

I found two letters awaiting my return: one from my mother, to say that she should be at Heathfield Cottage on the following day, and begging me to meet her; the other from Ellis, telling me that at length he hoped Oaklands was in a fair way to recover, it having been ascertained that a piece of the wadding of the pistol had remained behind when the ball was extracted; this had now come away, and the wound was healing rapidly.

As his strength returned, Harry was growing_extremely impatient to get back to Heathfield, and Ellis concluded by saying that they might be expected any day, and begging me at the same time to remember, that from the first he had always declared, in regard to his patient, that it would have killed any other man, but that it could not kill him.

Days glided by, the absentees returned, and matters fell so completely into their old train again, that the occurrences of the last eight months seemed like the unreal creations of some fevered dream, and there were times when I could scarcely bring myself to believe them true.

Harry Oaklands had recovered sufficiently to resume his usual habits, and, except that he was strictly forbidden to over-exert or fatigue himself, (an injunction he appeared only too willing to obey,) he was nearly emancipated from medical control. Fanny had in great measure recovered her good looks again; a slight delicacy of appearance, however, still remained, giving a tone of spirituality to the expression of her features, which was

not before observable, and which to my mind rendered her prettier than ever: the listlessness of manner which had made me uneasy about her in the autumn had vanished, and her spirits seemed good; still she was in a degree altered, and one felt in talking to her that she was a child no longer. Like Undine, that graceful creation of La Motte Fouqué's genius, she appeared to have changed from a "tricksy sprite," into a thinking and feeling woman.

One morning Oaklands and Ellis came to the cottage together, the latter in a great state of joy and excitement, produced by a most kind and judicious exercise of liberality on the part of Sir John. About a month before, the grave and pompous Dr. Probehurt had been seized with an illness, from which in all probability he would have recovered had he not steadily refused to allow a rival practitioner to be called in, in order that he might test a favourite theory of his own, embodying a totally novel mode of treatment for the complaint with which he was attacked. Unfortunately, the experiment failed, and the doctor died. Sir John, who had been long anxious to evince his gratitude to Ellis for the skill and attention he had bestowed upon his patient, the moment he heard of the event, determined to purchase the business: he had that morning completed the negotiation, and offered the practice to Ellis, stating that he should consider his accepting it in the light of a personal favour, as in that case he would be always at hand, should Harry feel any lasting ill effects from the wound. Ellis's joy was most amusing to witness.

I tell you what, Sir," he exclaimed, seizing me by a button of the coat," I'm a made man, Sir! there isn't a better practice in the county. Why, poor Probehurt told me himself, old Mrs. Croaker Crawley alone was worth 100%. per annum to him :-four draughts and two pills every day prescription very simple - R. Pil. panis compos. ij. nocte sum.-haust. aqua vitæ, aqua pura, saccar. viij. grs. pro re nata. She's a strong old girl, and on brandy-and-water draughts and French-roll pills may last for the next twenty years. Noble thing of Sir John, very; 'pon my word it has quite upset me-it's a fact, Sir, that when Mr. Oaklands told me of it, I sat down and cried like a child; I'm not over tender-hearted, either; when I was at Guy's, I amputated the left-leg of a shocking accident, and dissected the porter's mother-inlaw (whom he sold us cheap for old acquaintance' sake) before breakfast one morning, without finding my appetite in the slightest degree affected; but, when I learned what Sir John had done, I positively cried, Sir."

"I say, Ellis," interrupted Harry, "I am telling Miss Fairlegh I shall make you take her in hand-she has grown so pale and thin I am afraid she has never recovered all the trouble and inconvenience we caused her."

"If Miss Fairlegh would allow me, I should recommend a little more air and exercise," replied Ellis: "are you fond of riding on horseback?"

'Oh, yes!" replied Fanny, smiling, and blushing slightly at thus suddenly becoming the topic of conversation, "that is, I used to delight in riding Frank's pony in days of yore, but he has not kept a pony lately."

"That is easily remedied," returned Harry; "I am certain some of our horses will carry a lady. I shall speak to Harris about it directly, and we'll have some rides together, Fanny; it was only this morning that I obtained my tyrant's permission to cross a horse once more," he added, shaking his fist playfully at Ellis.

"The tyrant will agree to that more willingly than to your first request. What do you think, Fairlegh," continued Ellis, appealing to me, "of his positively wanting to go out hunting?"

"And a very natural thing to want, too, I conceive," replied Harry," but what do you think of his declaring that, if I did not faithfully promise not to hunt this season, he would go into the stables, and divide, what he

Come, Doctor, we positively cannot stand any more of your Chronicles of the Charnel House' this morning; you have horrified Miss Fairlegh already to such a degree that she is going to run away. If I should stroll down here again in the afternoon, Fanny, will you take compassion on me so far as to indulge me with a game of chess? I am going to send Frank on an expedition, and my father and Ellis are off to settle preliminaries with poor Mrs. Probehurt, so that I shall positively not have a creature to speak to. Reading excites me too much, and produces a state of- what is it you call it, Doctor?"

"I told you yesterday, I thought you were going into a state of coma, when you fell asleep over that interesting paper of mine in the Lancet, 'Recollections of the Knife,' if that's what you call excitement," returned Ellis, laughing.

66

Nonsense, Ellis, how absurd you are," rejoined Oaklands, half-amused and half-annoyed at Ellis's remark; "but you have not granted my request yet, Fanny."

"I do not think we have any engagement-mamma will, I am sure, be very happy,"-began Fanny, with a degree of hesitation for which I could not account, but, as I was afraid Oaklands might notice it, and attribute it to a want of cordiality, I hastened to interrupt her by exclaiming, "Mamma will be very happy-of course she will-and each and all of us are always only too happy to get you here, old fellow-it does one's heart good to see you beginning to look a little more like yourself again. If Fanny's too idle to play chess, I'll take compassion upon you, and give you a thorough beating myself."

"There are two good and sufficient reasons why you will not do any thing of the kind," replied Oaklands,"in the first place, while you have been reading mathematics, I have been studying chess, and I think that I may, without conceit, venture to pronounce myself the better player of the two-and, in the second place, as I told your sister just now, I am going to send you out on an expedition."

"To send me on an expedition," repeated I, "may I be allowed to inquire its nature-where I am to gowhen I am to start-and all other equally essential particulars?"

66

They are soon told," returned Oaklands, "I wrote a few days since to Lawless, asking him to come down for a week's hunting before the season should be over, and this morning I received the following characteristic answer:- Dear Oaklands, a man who refuses a good offer is an ass, (unless he happens to get a better one,) now, your's being the best offer down in my book at present, I say "done, along with you, old fellow," thereby clearly proving that I am no ass. Q. E. D.-eh? that's about the thing, isn't it? Now look here, Jack Bassett has asked me down to Storley Wood for a day's pheasant shooting, on Tuesday: if you could contrive to send any kind of trap over about lunch-time, on Wednesday, could have a second pop at the long-tails, and be with you in time for a half past six o'clock feed, as it is not more than ten miles from Storley to Heathfield. I wouldn't have troubled you to send for me, only the tandem's hors de combat-I was fool enough to lend it to Muffington Spoffkins, to go and see his aunt, one fine day. The horses finding a fresh hand on the reins, began pulling like steam engines-Muffington could not hold them-consequently they bolted-and after running over two infant schools, and upsetting a retired grocer, they knocked the cart into immortal smash” against a turnpike-gate, pitching Spoffkins into a horsepond, with Shrimp a-top of him. It was a regular

sell for all parties: I got my cart broken to pieces, Shrimp was all but drowned, and Muffington's aunt cut him off with a shilling, because the extirpated squadron of sucklings turned out, unfortunately, to have been composed of the picked infants of her own village. If you could send to meet me at the Feathers' public house, which is just at the bottom of Storley great wood, it would be a mercy, for walking in cover doesn't suit my short legs, and I'm safe to be sown up.--Remember us to Fairlegh, and all inquiring friends, and believe me to remain, very heartily, yours, George Lawless."" "I comprehend," said I, as Oaklands finished reading the note, 66 you want me to drive over this afternoon and fetch him; it will be a great deal better than merely sending a servant."

to

"Why, I had thought of going myself, but, 'pon my word, these sort of things are so much trouble, at least me, I mean, and, though Lawless is a capital excellent fellow, and I like him extremely, yet I know he'll talk about nothing but horses all the way home-and not being quite strong again yet, you've no notion how that kind of thing worries and tires me."

"Don't say another word about it, my dear Harry; I shall enjoy the drive uncommonly. What vehicle had I better take?"

"The phaeton, I think," replied Oaklands, "and then you can bring his luggage, and Shrimp, or any of his people he may have with him."

So be it," returned I, "I'll walk back with you to the Hall, and then start as soon as you please."

THE DRAMA IN THE MIDDLE AGES.

SECOND ARTICLE.

In a recent notice on this subject, we briefly sketched the history of the drama down to the fourteenth century, illustrated by a few specimens of the religious plays, or Mysteries. In the present article, we propose to show the further changes which the drama underwent until it finally merged into the historical plays of the Elizabethan period. With the progress of language, and the spread of intelligence, the people began to grow tired of the grave and tedious Mysteries, and a new kind of dramas, called Moralities, made their appearance; which, although frequently of a tragic character, were generally interspersed with scenes of gallantry or satire; and, notwithstanding the decrees of the Councils forbid ding the employment of any but the Latin language in dramas at all related to sacred subjects, they were written in the popular idiom, and performed on temporary stages, erected wherever an audience could be brought together. The jongleurs and minstrels began to take a part in the performances which became the chief attraction at the festivals, and plenary courts of the nobles; and, as the popular element increased in power, and the knowledge of Latin was lost, so did the populace at markets and fairs delight in plays written in the vulgar idiom.

The minstrels and players began to find it as profitable to amuse the rising class of artisans as to divert the nobles. They lent themselves to the growing spirit of the age, and their plays were the vehicle by means of which the lower orders vented their grievances, or satirized the vices and tyranny of their superiors. The laxity of manners among the clergy was made a standard subject of reproach and ridicule: the popular eye was quick to detect any dereliction of principle, and the popular tongue to speak its rebuke. That, in many instances, the public sarcasm was not unmerited, may be inferred from a description of the ceremonial to take place on Easter Sunday, by Father Isla, one of the clerical fraternity. "The Sermon of Pleasantries," he says, "will be preached at o'clock in the morning. In this sermon, it is necessary for the preacher to have all the merry tales, droll fancies, jests, jokes, and witticisms;

all the quips, cranks, bams, banters, and buffoonery he can rake together, to divert the immense concourse who come to hear him. He has no need to be nice and squeamish, let them be of what kind they will, however filthy, beastly, or indecent; for it is well known that every thing passes upon this day.... The Father Preachers who have brought a droll lay-brother with them for their companion (for some have brought such an one) have ordered the lay-brother to get up in the pulpit and preach a burlesque sermon, with all manner of Merry-Andrew tricks. In general, these sermons end with a mock act of contrition, and instead of a crucifix, the lay-brother brings out from under his habit a pye, an hock of bacon, or a bottle of wine, which he addresses with a thousand amorous expressions in the tone of repentant sorrow, making the audience ready to die with laughter."

From this specimen of the character of the clergy, as described by one of themselves, we may well imagine that the popular writers of the period would be unsparing in their burlesque and satire upon the priesthood. The trouveres, a portion of the minstrel class, who composed their poems and plays, as well as sung them, laughed at the edicts issued to prevent the degradation of the Latin language, and wrote numerous pieces, full of life and originality, abounding in bitter personalities and cutting sarcasm. Leaving grave subjects to the erudite, they threw their whole genius with singular exuberance into their plays. These plays were, in fact, what popular lectures are now, a means of communicating information to large numbers of hearers at once, but relieved and highly seasoned with the author's wit. So great was the number of saints' days and holidays in the period of which we write, that it would, perhaps, have been difficult to keep the turbulent population in good humour, without some such recreation as that afforded by the half-serious, half-comic dramas. The holidays were not unfrequently made the subject of complaint: all work being forbidden on those occasions, some of the artisans remonstrated that the loss of so many days' work was a serious injury to them. Voltaire has left on record a curious account of a gentlemanfarmer, ruined by the priest for preferring to plough his fields on a saints' day to drinking in a tavern. 'The prodigious number of holidays," it was said, "is the contrivance of tavern-keepers: the religion of peasants and artisans consists in intoxicating themselves on the festival of a saint whom they know only by this means. It is on these days of idleness and debauchery that all sorts of crimes are committed: it is the holidays which fill the prisons, and support the guards, notaries, criminal officers, and executioners. Catholic fields are scarcely tilled; while those of the heretics, cultivated every day, produce abundant harvests."

Plays of the character above described, were frequently acted at the festivals of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children and scholars. This was one of the occasions on which the church relaxed a little of her discipline. From the sixth century downwards, St. Nicholas had been celebrated by songs and games, sometimes of a dramatic character, held either within the convents to which schools were attached, or in their immediate neighbourhood, by the schoolmaster and his scholars. One of these, written by Hilary, is-" Concerning saint Nicholas and a certain Jew." The latter had confided his treasure to the keeping of the statue of the saint; during the absence of the over-confident Israelite, a party of robbers found and carried off the deposit. The Jew on his return, enraged at his loss, lays violent hands on the statue, and overwhelms it with the most opprobrious insults. The saint, to avenge his compromised honour, appears to the thieves at night, and forces them to return the money.

The Jeu de Saint Nicolas, or Play of Saint Nicolas, is a piece full of life and movement, and bacchanalian gaiety. The discourse, intermingled with gibes and jests of gamblers and drunkards, now very obscure,