In reply, Joseph turned to Mary:

And Mary answered:

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:

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:

And another replied, calling on the new-born King:

Yet another said:

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:

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:

And the first prophet replies:

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:

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:

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.

He began in solemn tones—

He reminded them of the great Sacrifice which seemed to have passed from their thoughts.

“And now,” went on the Almighty, “I must bring Everyman to a reckoning, for he is so cumbered with worldly riches that he forgets how all riches and pleasures are only lent to him for a time, and are to be used for My glory. I will send Death to him.”

He called in grave accents. Then from a door beneath the stage there came a curious and grotesque creature.

He was like a skeleton; or rather the bones of a skeleton were painted on his close-fitting dress of black leather. The mask of a skull was over his face; his head was crowned with fading roses, and he carried a drum, upon which he beat with warning blows.

To whom Death replied that he would run the world over and search for all who lived “out of God’s laws.”

And indeed it seemed as though the slim and handsome youth who at that moment came from one of the houses in the courtyard had never thought seriously of anything. Careless and light-hearted, beautifully dressed, and playing on a lute as he walked, he was thinking only of amusement and gaiety, when, as he reached the platform, he was suddenly confronted with Death.

At these words poor Everyman trembled and hesitated, and Death went on to say that he had been sent to him in great haste “from God out of His Majesty” to tell him he was bidden to take a long journey and to bring with him his book of reckoning, to answer before God for all his deeds in this, his present life. In vain Everyman begged for a delay.

But Death replied that “to cry, weep, and pray” was of no avail, since he took neither gold, silver, nor riches from pope, emperor, king, duke, nor princes. He must instantly set forth on the journey from which there was no returning.

Then, in his great trouble, Everyman called upon God:

he asked of Death. For he dreaded to take the long journey alone.

Death replied.

Then Everyman began to think of his friends, and to wonder which of them loved him well enough to go with him into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. And presently he saw Good Fellowship approaching. Now in this story “Good Fellowship” means all the companions with whom Everyman had spent gay and delightful hours—men with whom he had laughed and jested; men who had professed the greatest affection for him. So when he saw the smiling face of Fellowship, he was full of hope, and he went eagerly to meet him.

Everyman admitted that he was in great trouble, and nothing could have been kinder than Fellowship’s voice, as he declared himself ready to do anything for his friend. If any one had wronged him, he was ready to kill the offender. That he would never forsake his dear companion Everyman might rest assured.

So, greatly consoled, Everyman told him that he must take a long journey, and he begged that Fellowship would be his travelling companion. Then, for the first time, the gay and cheerful fellow began to look serious. “I promised not to forsake you,” he said; “but we must discuss the matter at greater length. If we took such a journey, when should we come again?”

“Nay, never again till the day of doom,” answered Everyman sadly.

At these words Fellowship started back in fear.

“Who hath you these tidings brought?” he asked in a strange voice.

“Indeed, Death was with me here,” Everyman replied.

Then Fellowship, more than ever afraid, absolutely refused to go on a journey commanded by Death. If Everyman had wanted him to eat and drink with him, or to help him in any of his pleasures, he would never have forsaken him, he declared. Even if he had wanted him to commit murder he would have been ready to serve him. But this request was an impossible one, so impossible that he would not even accompany him as far as the town gates.

So, very mournfully, Everyman wished him farewell, gazing after him as he hurried away, a brilliant figure in his scarlet doublet and hose, with his sword clanking at his side.

Good Fellowship had failed him; “but surely,” thought Everyman, “my own relations will be faithful to me in my sorrow?” And when he saw them strolling across the courtyard, hope once more revived in his heart.

Of the little company of young men who now came on to the platform, one was Everyman’s cousin, of whom he was very fond; and this cousin, seeing that something was wrong, begged for an explanation, which, in these words, Everyman gave:

Now, as he spoke, the faces of the young men grew very grave and anxious.

demanded one of them.

And Everyman replied:

But the kinsmen started back in horror.

exclaimed one of them.

And the cousin said:

One by one they hastened away, and poor Everyman was left lamenting, till suddenly a thought struck him:

No sooner had he called, than the curtains before one of the recesses on the stage slid back, and disclosed a man richly dressed, seated within. Before him money-bags were piled, and huge chests containing gold and precious stones.

So Everyman began to relate his trouble, while Goods gazed at him with his cold inhuman eyes.

concluded Everyman, falteringly;

declared Goods; and, when Everyman spoke to him indignantly,

he exclaimed.

stammered Everyman.

returned Goods; and went on to assure him that Goods were only lent, and that they generally killed a man’s soul. Then, in his great despair, Everyman cursed the cruel spirit, who only laughed mockingly, refused to follow him out of this world, and before Everyman could speak again drew close the curtains of his shrine.

Once more he strove to think of some help, and, at last, he recalled Good Deeds, only to remember that she was so weak that she could “neither go nor speak.”

“Yet will I venture on her now,” he told himself.

Again, at the other end of the stage, a recess opened, and there, lying on the ground, so feeble and starved that she could scarcely move, was a beautiful woman dressed in a long white robe embroidered with stars.

Very humbly Everyman approached her, for he knew that it was through his fault that she was so weak and ill. He had neglected and scorned her, but now she seemed his only hope, and so he implored her to take the journey with him.

“I would full fain, but I cannot stand verily,” she declared. And then she showed him how his “book of accounts,” in which his good deeds should have been numbered, was almost empty, and the pages were so blurred and the letters so confused that Everyman could not decipher them. He was almost beside himself with grief and fear, when Good Deeds advised him to seek counsel of her sister, who was called Knowledge, for she possibly might help him “to make that dreadful reckoning.”

So Everyman stood before her shrine, and, when the curtains parted, he saw that Knowledge was grave, and beautiful, and kind.

To his great joy she promised to be his guide; but before all things she told him he must first seek Confession, who would cleanse him from his sins.

So Knowledge brought him to Confession, a stately figure in a monk’s cowl. Confession stepped from his shrine to counsel and instruct poor Everyman, who confessed his sins, and begged that Good Deeds might be strengthened.

Kneeling before Confession, he prayed earnestly to God, and presently Good Deeds stood at his side.

With an encouraging smile, Knowledge bade the penitent Everyman be of good cheer; and, with these words, she gave him a robe, which she told him to wear.

So Everyman put on the sad-coloured robe, and was preparing to set forward on his journey with the two beautiful women, when Good Deeds told him that three other people must go with them, their names being Discretion, Strength, and Beauty.

So Everyman called aloud, and Discretion, Strength, Beauty, and the Five Senses (or wits), one after another, came towards him. They were all splendid and stately figures, and the Five Wits were five beautiful women dressed in rainbow-coloured garments.

Then Good Deeds addressed them, praying them all to accompany Everyman on his last long journey, and each one in turn promised faithfully never to forsake him.

It seemed, therefore, as though the poor traveller had many friends with him after all, and when Knowledge advised him to go to a priest and take the Holy Sacrament, he consented gladly and humbly.

On his return, Everyman found his companions waiting for him, but suddenly he felt so weak that he knew he was almost at the end of that journey commanded by Death.

In the courtyard below the platform, at some distance, there was an open grave; and looking at it he said to Beauty:

Then, full of fear, Beauty declined to go with Everyman.

she exclaimed; and turning from him in spite of her promise, she hurried away.

Strength followed, crying:

And, after him, fled Discretion, saying:

Deserted by these three friends, Everyman, who had descended the steps of the stage, was now quite close to the grave, and the scene was very solemn and impressive. Evening was drawing near. Long shadows were cast upon the courtyard, and across the sky, still clear, but rosy with sunset, flights of birds moved slowly. The last rays of the sun touched the roofs of the old grey houses, and the bells from the city churches near were chiming together.

One by one the beautiful figures who had forsaken him crossed the courtyard and filed back to the world, across the stage, while Everyman, in his black robe of sorrow, attended only by Knowledge and Good Deeds, stood at the brink of the tomb.

And now the Five Senses, who had come near to the tomb and formed a shining group round it, also one by one turned away; and, in a failing voice, Everyman murmured:

But Good Deeds, with a sweet smile, drew close to him.

Thus Everyman found that though he had loved all his other friends better than Good Deeds, she alone was faithful, for even Knowledge, who had so far followed him, now sadly moved aside, and he knew the truth of the words uttered at the very edge of the grave by Good Deeds:

Right into the grave she followed Everyman, and when, as he was sinking back, he cried: