'e speak littl' more, an' littl' more; but 'e was de Injun boy, an' h'all w'at 'e say not make ver' long string ef 'e was say 'eem h'all to once. But de t'ing was, 'e can speak, an' 'e can speak de French pretty good, too.

I'll see Phinée was watch de boy, an' one night, w'en we was 'ave de supper, 'e was look ver' 'ard on de boy, w'at begin for look like live Injun some more, an 'e

say:

"I'll 'ave 'eem! You're de son to de Canard Noir. I'll see you wid 'eem on de Spanish River, two year pas'."

An', bagosh! w'en 'e say dat, de littl' feller get scare', like 'e was de firs' night, an' 'e begin for tell de lies; but Phinée say to h'everyt'ing w'at 'e say:

"Dat's not good! Dat's not good! I'll know de Injun like I'll know de dog. You're de son to de Canard Noir!"

An' dat night we was 'wake h'up by de dog, an' we jump on time for see Phinée run h'out on the dark, an' bym by 'e come back, an' 'e 'ave le P'ti' Barouette wid 'eem, an' 'e say, "Now you try an' run 'way some more an' I'll cut h'out your 'eart, an' I'll give 'eem to de Windegos for h'eat!" an' de boy 'e look like 'e was die, 'e was so scare'.

An' bymby Phinée 'e say: "Now dere's no good for go h'on like dis way. Tell us w'at de trouble was, an' 'ow 'e arrive." Den we h'all sit on de fire, an' bymby de boy begin for speak, an' 'e tol' us 'ow 'e was de son to de Canard Noir, an' 'ow de h'ol' man was sick w'en dey start on deir way for make de 'Odson Bay, an' 'ow de res' dey go h'on an' lef' dem. Dere was de h'ol' man, an' de modder, an' 'eem, an' de littl' baby; but firs' dey make dem good cabane, an' lef' dem plenty powder an' somet'ing for h'eat. An' after w'ile de h'ol' man not be no worse, an' bymby e get some more better, an' den de snow come, an' dey wait for de river's take so dey be go h'up on de h'ice.

Bymby h'all dey 'ave lef' was h'eat, an' de col' was make more 'ard an' more 'ard, an' h'every day dey 'ave to go more far on de bush for fin' de game; an' h'all de time de game was go more far too, an' h'every day dey was more 'fraid for start de voyage for de bay; for ef de game was bad dere, 'e was sure for be worse w'en de go more nort'.

Den de storm come, an' dey can' go h'out, an' bymby h'only de wolf an' de snow was lef', an' de Canard Noir 'e won'

'E

go h'out w'en de storm was h'over. jus' sit on the fire an' 'e smoke, an' don' say nodding w'en de littl' feller fix h'up for start.

An' dat day de boy 'ardly fin' de trail, de snow was so dry dere was no mark, an' h'everyt'ing was so change 'e can' fin' de mos' deir trap; but the littl' feller go h'on, an' go h'on, an' 'e try for foller w'at trail 'e fin', but 'e's no good, an' w'en 'e turn 'e was 'mos' die 'e was so tire' an' 'ongry before 'e come on de cabane.

'E pull back de clot', an' 'e crawl on de h'inside. Dere was de fire burn h'up good, an' dere was de Canard Noir w'at sit on de fire, but de modder was cover h'up 'er 'ead wid 'er blanket-an'-dere was somet'ing on de fire.

De littl' feller look firs' on de Canard Noir, an' den 'e look on de modder. Den 'e take 'es blanket an' 'e crawl h'out de cabane some more, an' 'e make de 'ole on de snow, an' some'ow on de morning 'e was still 'live.

An' den

An' de Canard Noir come h'out, an' 'e stan' dere, an' 'e say, "De wolf stay 'ere, an' de wolf h'eat an' not die." dey bot' go back on de cabane. An' now de boy speak h'only Injun talk.

'E tol' us 'ow bymby dey was 'ongry some more; 'ow de modder an' de Canard Noir sit dere on de fire an' won' go h'out; 'ow 'e see de modder was watch de Canard Noir, an' 'ow 'e was 'fraid for go h'out an' lef' dem dere wid demself. An' 'ow one day 'e can' stay dere no longer; an' 'ow 'e go h'out, an' dere was no game; an' 'ow, w'en 'e was come back, de Canard Noir was 'lone on de cabane, an', like de firs' time-dere was somet'ing on de fire.

Den, jus' like de modder, 'e was watch de Canard Noir, an' de Canard Noir was watch 'eem. On de night dey was never lie down, an' ef de one was move, de h'odder jump h'up for show 'e was 'wake.

But

One day de Canard Noir say 'e go wid de boy for 'unt too. An' dey was start h'out, an' de littl' feller start de one way, an' de Canard Noir start de h'odder. de boy not go ver' far w'en 'e look roun', an' dere 'e see 'es fadder was stan' dere an' watch 'eem. Den de boy know w'at 'e was t'ink, an' h'all de time 'e watch be'in' jus' de same like 'e was look on front. An' bymby 'e was sure 'e see de fadder w'at foller be'in'. An' w'en 'e see

Well, we was talk an' talk, an' we h'ax w'at was bes' for do, an' we don' know. Phinée, 'e say dere's no good for 'ang de boy, an' dey be 'ang 'eem sure ef we tol'. An' 'e was good boy, too; 'e work 'ard; 'e never say nodding for de col'; 'e don' talk. So w'en we get down on Notre Dame du Désert, an' we fin' de Père Gendron was pass on de settlement for make 'es mis

sion, we tol' 'eem, an' we sen' 'eem de boy.

An' de nex' day w'en we h'ax de Père w'at 'e t'ink, 'e jus' say: "Poor littl' chil'! Poor chil'!" Den we h'ax 'eem w'at 'e do, an' 'e say: "Do? I'll jus' give 'eem slap on de side 'es 'ead, an' tol' 'eem for not do 'eem some more!"

An' p'r'aps dat was de bes'.

W

HEN the rule limiting speeches to an hour was adopted by Congress, which was before most of you were born, an eminent but somewhat discursive person spent more than that measure of time in convincing me that whoever really had anything to say could say it in less. I then and there acquired a conviction of this truth, which has only strengthened with years. Yet whoever undertakes to lecture must adapt his discourse to the law which requires such exercises to be precisely sixty minutes long, just as a certain standard of inches must be reached by one who would enter the army. If one has been studying all his life how to be terse, how to suggest rather than to expound, how to contract rather than to dilate, something like a strain is put upon the conscience by this necessity of giving the full measure of words, without reference to other considerations which a judicious ear may esteem of more importance. Instead of saying things compactly and pithily, so that they may be easily carried away, one is tempted into a certain generosity and circumambience of phrase, which, if not adapted to conquer Time, may at least compel him to turn his glass and admit a drawn game. It is so much harder to fill an hour than to empty one!

These thoughts rose before me with pain ful vividness as I fancied myself standing

VOL. LXXXV.-No. 505.-8

here again, after an interval of thirtytwo years, to address an audience at the Lowell Institute. Then I lectured, not without some favorable acceptance, on Poetry in general and what constituted it, on Imagination and Fancy, on Wit and Humor, on Metrical Romances, on Ballads, and I know not what else-on whatever I thought I had anything to say about, I suppose. Then I was at the period in life when thoughts rose in coveys, and one filled one's bag without considering too nicely whether the game had been hatched within his neighbor's fence or within his own-a period of life when it doesn't seem as if everything had been said; when a man overestimates the value of what specially interests himself, and insists with Don Quixote that all the world shall stop till the superior charms of his Dulcinea of the moment have been acknowledged; when he conceives himself a missionary, and is persuaded that he is saving his fellows from the perdition of their souls if he convert them from belief in some æsthetic heresy. That is the mood of mind in which one may read lectures with some assurance of success. I remember how I read mine over to the clock, that I might be sure I had enough, and how patiently the clock listened, and gave no opinion except as to duration, on which point it assured me that I always ran over. This is the pleasant peril of en

thusiasm, which has always something of the careless superfluity of youth. Since then, and for a period making a sixth part of my mature life, my mind has been shunted off upon the track of other duties and other interests. If I have learned something, I have also forgotten a good deal. One is apt to forget so much in the service of one's country-even that he is an American, I have been told, though I can hardly believe it.

When I selected my topic for this new venture, I was returning to a first love. The second volume I ever printed, in 1843, I think it was-it is now a rare book, I am not sorry to know; I have not seen it for many years-was mainly about the Old English Dramatists, if I am not mistaken. I dare say it was crude enough, but it was spontaneous and honest. I have continued to read them ever since, with no less pleasure, if with more discrimination. But when I was confronted with the question what I could say of them that would interest any rational person, after all that had been said by Lamb, the most sympathetic of critics, by Hazlitt, one of the most penetrative, by Coleridge, the most intuitive, and by so many others, I was inclined to believe that instead of an easy subject, I had chosen a subject very far from easy. But I sustained myself with the words of the great poet who so often has saved me from myself:

"Vagliami il lungo studio e il grande amore Che m'ha fatto cercar lo tuo volume."

If I bring no other qualification, I bring at least that of hearty affection, which is the first condition of insight. I shall not scruple to repeat what may seem already too familiar, confident that these old poets will stand as much talk ing about as most people. At the risk of being tedious, I shall put you back to your scales as a teacher of music does his pupils. For it is the business of a lecturer to treat his audience as M. Jourdain wished to be treated in respect of the Latin language-to take it for granted that they know, but to talk to them as if they didn't. I should have preferred to entitle my course Readings from the Old English Dramatists with illustrative comments, rather than a critical discussion of them, for there is more conviction in what is beautiful in itself than in any amount of explanation why, or exposi

tion of how, it is beautiful. A rose has a very succinct way of explaining itself. When I find nothing profitable to say, I shall take sanctuary in my authors.

It is generally assumed that the Modern Drama in France, Spain, Italy, and England was an evolution out of the Mysteries and Moralities and Interludes which had edified and amused preceding generations of simpler taste and ruder intelligence. 'Tis the old story of Thespis and his cart. Taken with due limitations, and substituting the word stage for drama, this theory of origin is satisfactory enough. The stage was there, and the desire to be amused, when the drama at last appeared to occupy the one and to satisfy the other. It seems to have been, so far as the English Drama is concerned, a case of post hoc, without altogether adequate grounds for inferring a propter hoc. The Interludes may have served as training-schools for actors. is certain that Richard Burbage, afterwards of Shakespeare's company, was so trained. He is the actor, you will remember, who first played the part of Hamlet, and the untimely expansion of whose person is supposed to account for the Queen's speech in the fencing scene, "He's fat and scant of breath." I may say, in passing, that the phrase merely means 'He's out of training," as we should say now. A fat Hamlet is as inconceivable as a lean Falstaff. Shakespeare, with his usual discretion, never makes the Queen hateful, and made use of this expedient to show her solicitude for her son. Her last word, as she is dying, is his name.

It

To return. The Interlude may have kept alive the traditions of a stage, and may have made ready a certain number of persons to assume higher and graver parts when the opportunity should come; but the revival of learning, and the rise of cities capable of supplying a more cultivated and exacting audience, must have had a stronger and more direct influence on the growth of the Drama, as we understand the word, than any or all other influences combined. Certainly this seems to me true of the English Drama at least. The English Miracle Plays are dull beyond what is permitted even by the most hardened charity, and there is nothing dramatic in them except that they are in the form of dialogue. The Interludes are perhaps further saddened in the read

ing by reminding us how much easier it was to be amused three hundred years ago than now, but their wit is the wit of the Eocene period, unhappily as long as it is broad, and their humor is horseplay. We inherited a vast accumulation of barbarism from our Teutonic ancestors. It was only on those terms, perhaps, that we could have their vigor too. The Interludes have some small value as illustrating manners and forms of speech, but the man must be born expressly for the purpose-as for some of the adventures of medieval knight - errantry who can read them. Gammer Gurton's

It

Needle is perhaps as good as any. was acted at Christ's College, Cambridge, in 1566, and is remarkable, as Mr. Collier pointed out, as the first existing play acted before either university. Its author was John Still, afterwards Bishop of Bath and Wells, and it is curious that when Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge he should have protested against the acting before the university of an English play so unbefitting its learning, dignity, and character. Gammer Gurton's Needle contains a very jolly and spirited song in praise of ale. Latin plays were acted before the universities on great occasions, but there was nothing dramatic about them but their form. One of them by Burton, author of the Anatomy of Melancholy, has been printed, and is not without merit. In the Pardoner and the Frère there is a hint at the drollery of those cross-readings with which Bonnel Thornton made our grandfathers laugh:

Pard. Pope July the Sixth hath granted fair

and well

Fr. That when to them God hath abundance

sent

Pard. And doth twelve thousand years of pardon to them send

Fr. They would distribute none to the indigent

Pard. That aught to this holy chapel lend.

Everything in these old farces is rudimentary. They are not merely coarse; they are vulgar.

In France it was better, but France had something which may fairly be called literature before any other country in Europe, not literature in the highest sense, of course, but something, at any rate, that may be still read with pleasure for its delicate beauty, like Aucassin and Nicolete, or for its downright vigor, like

the Song of Roland, or for its genuine humor, like Renard the Fox. There is even one French Miracle Play of the thirteenth century by the Trouvère Rutebeuf based on the legend of Theophilus of Antioch, which might be said to contain the germ of Calderon's El Magico Prodigioso, and thus remotely of Goethe's Faust. Of the next century is the farce of Pathelin, which has given a new word with its several derivatives to the French language, and a proverbial phrase, revenons à nos moutons, that long ago domiciled itself beyond the boundaries of France. Pathelin rises at times above the level of farce, though hardly to the region of pure comedy. I saw it acted at the Théâtre Français many years ago, with only so much modernization of language as was necessary to make it easily comprehensible, and found it far more than archæologically entertaining. Surely none of our old English Interludes could be put upon the stage now without the gloomiest results. They were not, in my judgment, the direct, and hardly even the collateral, ancestors of our legitimate comedy. On the other hand, while the Miracle Plays left no traces of themselves in our serious drama, the play of Punch and Judy looks very like an impoverished descendant of theirs.

In Spain it was otherwise. There the old Moralities and Mysteries of the Church Festivals are renewed and perpetuated in the Autos Sacramentales of Calderon, but ensouled with the creative breath of his genius, and having a strange phantasmal reality in the ideal world of his wonderworking imagination. One of his plays,

La Devocion de la Cruz, an Auto in spirit if not in form, dramatizes, as only he could do it, the doctrine of justification by faith. In Spain, too, the comedy of the booth and the plaza is plainly the rude sketch of the higher creations of Tirso and Lope and Calderon and Rojas and Alarcon, and scores of others only less than they. The tragicomedy of Celestina, written at the close of the fifteenth century, is the first modern piece of realism or naturalism, as it is called, with which I am acquainted. It is coarse, and most of the characters are low, but there are touches of nature in it, and the character of Celestina is brought out with singular vivacity. The word tragicomedy is many years older than this play, if play that may be called which is but a