she repeated her assertion. I lost all patience; and, not thinking it worth while to conceal my sentiments any longer, I plainly declared, that it would require a more implicit faith than I was master of to take so bold and mercantile a hand-writing for that of a young girl; “No more it is,” replied the accused, “my little friend has hurt her arm, and her father has been good enough to act as her secratary since the accident.” The assurance with which all this was advanced drove me almost mad, and I resolved to set aside all delicacy. Consequently, I said, “This kind father has then rather outstepped his commission, since he writes in his own name; ‘hasten into the arms of him who cannot live without you.’” “There I must beg your pardon, Mr. Haller, here is the note, and, according to your own remark, the writing is very good and legible; here stands ‘into the arms of her,’ as plain as letters can make it,” “Astonishing (I ejaculated, whilst looking at the note;) I have read it three times, and every time the fatal him presented itself to my eyes, though I cannot now deny that it is her.” Emma smiled again, and I rather think I looked a little foolish at the time. Suddenly my joy became as great as my vexation had been a moment before. In my ecstasy I overleapt all the barriers of form and precedent; and, coming to the point at once, I spoke as follows:—“Dear Emma! after all that has passed to-day, this dwelling must have become more unpleasant to you than ever, and you cannot too speedily change your residence; in my own there is far more room than I shall ever want for myself alone, and all our discussions about indemnifications or loans would be best settled by your becoming my wife.” “Mr. Haller,” retorted Emma, “you do me infinite honour; but I should prefer the declaration made on calm conviction, to one which seems to be the effect of spontaneous feeling.” “Never mind all that, dear girl, I have now seen enough to be convinced that you are the very person I want.” Four weeks afterwards we became man and wife, and neither of us repent of it. My friends are freed from the fear of seeing me die an old bachelor; and the pattern of embroidery, which I purchased from Emma on the memorable day, has been given as a present to the lady whose instigations had caused me to bespeak the garret, in which my happiness began.
Literature, Criticism, &c.
ORIGIN OF THE FRENCH STAGE.[1]
[ORIGINAL.]
NO. I.
The dramatic art constitutes an important portion of the literature of the French people; and it appears natural to him, who wishes to fix the era of their theatrical representation, to examine whether any traces of an art so inseparably connected with their poetic eminence can be discovered among the first dawnings of their poetry. Thus almost every writer, who has investigated this part of their literary history, has ransacked the annals of the ancient troubadours, to find, if possible, some resemblance between the latter and the first dramatic authors of the country. The only relation, however, which exists between them is, that rhyme, which, as it is said, was brought into Europe by the Moors, and introduced into France by the provincial troubadours, was employed many ages afterwards in the first theatrical compositions. If their exists any order of succession from the troubadours to the first dramatists, it is certainly not in a direct line. We should find some difficulty in conceiving how this succession could have descended from William, Count of Poitou, the first-known troubadour of the Oc, and from the Count of Champagne, the first poet of the Oyl, to the Confreres de la Passion, the true founders of the French theatre. We need only read the first attempts of both to be convinced of the difference of their origin. The delicacy of the former, and the coarseness which characterizes the latter, notwithstanding the proximity of their era to our own, would be a sufficient proof, if even we could not find another, in the difference of their subjects. The first poets sung of love: the dramatic authors subjected religion and morality to the laws of representation. The object of those was to please; of these to instruct. A more polished language, more refined ideas, and more chastened images were the means which the former employed to penetrate and touch the heart; the latter endeavoured to give additional interest to their subjects, and to impress them more deeply on the memory. Poetry, as an amusement of the mind, originated at the courts of princes: plays, the end of which was to strike the senses, were invented, and continued to be performed, for the people.
Long before the fifteenth century, rude dramatic sketches in poetry were well known in France; but in them we should in vain look for what properly constitutes the drama,—the illusion produced by the disposition of a theatre, and by the variety of actors. They were a species of tale in dialogue, which the poet, attended by a musician, sung in the houses of the great. His singing was accompanied with such gestures and tones as were calculated to produce a comic effect. These performers were liberally rewarded by the nobles. But this kind of poetry, at length, created disgust; and, as the ancient manners decayed, its professors fell into neglect. They have degenerated into jugglers, merry-andrews, &c.; and the mountebanks, the bear-dancing, and perhaps the puppets of Pont Neuf, are all that remains of the spectacles which once charmed the courts of the Counts of Thoulouse, of Provence, and of the gallant Thibaut de Champagne, whilst the career, in which Corneille, Racine, and Molière attracted so much admiration, had been opened to them by some of the lower orders of the people. The latter, having returned from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, walked with the pilgrim’s staff in their hands along the carrefours of Paris,
“Et jouant les saints, la vierge, el Dieu par pieté.[2]
It was towards the close of the fourteenth century, that this singular company of comedians, the first which had ever appeared in France, arrived at Paris. It must, however, be acknowledged that the idea of these dramatic representations, in which scenes from the Old and New Testaments were exhibited, was not entirely new. On great festivals, the multitude had long been amused by scenes sometimes pantomimical, sometimes recitative, the representation of which, as given by the pilgrims, was but an improved imitation of the spectacles invented for the churches. These spectacles generally referred, in some degree, to the solemnity of the day. On the Twelfth Day, for instance, three priests, adorned like kings, and guided by a starry figure which appeared on the top of a church, presented themselves before a manger, and there offered their gifts. On Christmas Day, the Fêtes des Anes, (so named in the French ritual) was observed at Rouen. “All the prophets of the old law,” says Fontenelle in his History of the French Stage, “appeared on that day in the church, each in a habit peculiar to himself. Balaam was there mounted on his ass, which he endeavoured to spur along, but which a little angel prevented from proceeding. A person, concealed under the body of the ass, spoke for it.
From this circumstance alone, that festival, in which a thousand other things were introduced, derived the name of Fêtes des Anes: for Balaam with his beast had, no doubt, greater influence on the assembly than all the graver prophets taken together.”
“These representations,” continues the same author, “being thus established in their religious worship, the people were not willing to perceive that sacred things cannot properly be turned into dramatic exhibitions.” So far indeed were these exhibitions from being considered as profane, that every candidate for holy orders was obliged in some degree to participate in them.
The superstitious pilgrims recently returned from Pale tine, were considered as persons of peculiar sanctity, whose spectacles and songs could not fail to be instructive. Excited by these, the more enthusiastic of the citizens wished to improve them by giving them a more regular form. For this purpose they met at St. Maur, near Vincennes; and in the spring of 1398, they represented upon a stage in an enclosed place, the passion of our Saviour. This was an agreeable and unexpected amusement, which enchanted all the spectators. But the provost of Paris, unwilling to permit a spectacle, unauthorised either by the church or the king, forbade the continuance of it. The parties concerned soon perceived by what means they might obtain the approbation of government. They met again, not at the former place, but at Trinity Church, where they formed themselves into a fraternity of the passion; and obtained, in 1402, full permission from Charles the Sixth, to represent when and where they pleased, any subject taken from the lives of the saints, or from the holy scriptures. Thus authorised, they hired a large room in Trinity hospital, near the Porte St. Denis, and there they established their theatre.
It may then be literally said, that the French stage was born in the bosom of the church; and the latter acknowledged her maternity so well, that when the theatre of Trinity Hospital was regularly established, some parishes agreed that vespers should be celebrated at an earlier hour, that the people might not be prevented from attending such edifying spectacles.
Liverpool. R. W. S.
EDUCATION.
TO THE EDITOR.
Sir,—I am glad to see this subject brought forward; the absurdity of modern education cannot be too often exposed. The aptest part of our lives is wholly taken up in learning two dead languages, with the old accent of which we have no more notion at this day than the Jew has of that of Hebrew. Let clergymen study them as much as they like, or even let physicians continue to write death-warrants in Latin. An English boy may learn the proprieties of grammar and elegant composition from standard works in his own language. In what way are long classical sentences, with the most material word affectedly put at the end, a guide to him more than English ones? When grown up, he laments the time wasted in learning languages merely to enable him to understand a parcel of fusty ancient authors, and finds out then that there are very faithful translations of them all, had he been allowed to possess them. I was, when very young, several years at the great school at Winchester, where, as the Edinburgh Review says, we were continually fagging at Latin, as if we were all intended to set up afterwards as schoolmasters. Whatever we learned we also needlessly got off by heart like parrots, so that many could repeat the Latin grammar all through without half a dozen mistakes. We also had to write all the Greek grammar out, ornamenting it with text, and illuminating it with red ink. In short, we were continually ploughing the ground and never allowed to sow any thing but a few useless flowers. Of geography we learnt only so far as copying maps went, accompanied by a few sentences to be got off by heart. Two play hours on Saturday afternoon only we were at liberty to devote to drawing, fencing, music, French, and Italian. As I grew up, there was the same dull digging and fagging at dead languages, and the same eternal getting off by heart in Homer, Horace, and Virgil. We never had a whole holiday, nor even a half one, unless some man of rank came to see his eldest hopes. On leaving school, I found all the world was reading and speaking French, while I could hardly translate a page of Telemachus. Of geography and English history I knew little or nothing. I had been drilled all the time in dead languages, under the frown of a tyrant, who used to flog us by way of exercise, and to get an appetite for his own
