In accomplishing this, four persons play somewhat involved parts: Nicholas Udal, sometime head master in Eton School; Thomas Wilson, who published a "Logicke" in 1551; a certain Rev. Mr. Briggs, an old Etonian; and J. P. Collier, the dramatic critic. Udal's share was in writing a comedy or interlude called " Ralph Roister Doister," and Wilson's share in quoting a part of this comedy in his Logic, published in 1551. For two centuries every copy of Roister Doister was supposed to be lost; and that it had once existed was known only from the quotation in Wilson. So matters stood till 1818, when Mr. Briggs discovered a very old play, unfortunately lacking title-page, and had a few copies printed. The original, by a very happy stroke of fate, he gave to Eton Library. Lastly, Mr. Collier discovered that the passage cited in Wilson from Udal's comedy, Ralph Roister Doister, formed an integral part of the titleless play. Thus was accomplished the dethronement of Bishop Still, erstwhile first of English comic dramatists.

Nicholas Udal was a man of note in his day, as a schoolmaster and theologian. As a schoolmaster he evidently "impressed" his pupils. One of them has left us his impression in the following significant lines:

"From Paul's I went, to Eton sent

To learn straightways the Latin phrase,

Where fifty-three stripes given to me at once

I had."

"For fault but small, or none at all,

It came to pass, thus beat I was.
See Udal, see, the mercy of thee to me,
TUSSER.

poor lad.

He apparently used kindred methods of persuasion in theology, for after taking his B. A. at Oxford in 1524, his religious opinions prevented him from getting his M. A. till ten years later. The resentment of his pupils was undoubtedly keen. His theological views, however, seem to have been of more immediate concern to him, for in 1543, while head master of Eton, a position which he obtained on taking his Master's degree, his zeal for reform carried him to the extent of joining with two of his scholars and his own servant in the appropriation (he called it removal) of some valuable silver images from the school chapel. Now Henry VIII. had reforming tendencies, to be sure, but he allowed no one but himself to reap the temporal rewards of reform, and consequently Udal lost his position. For the rest of his life he was active as a preacher and writer. From such apparently uncongenial soil English comedy took its rise.

Many things confirm us in the belief that Ralph Roister Doister was written early in the life of the author. The play itself, in connection with the circumstances of the author's life, leads us to think that it was written while he was at Eton.

The Eton boys used to act plays, even before Udal came there in 1534, but in Latin, and their parents and friends came to see the spectacles. Udal, thinking probably the custom a good one, conceived the idea of writing a comedy in English, not in Latin, and of having the boys present it. Working with the best Latin models constantly before him, Udal produced a play, in the full sense of the word, a regularly constructed play, having scarcely any relation to the Moralities and Miracle Plays which were at that time and had been so popular among the vulgar. And here lies its great historical interest: the relation of all subsequent English comedy to this first exemplar; its relation, or lack of relation, to the preceding English scenic productions; and its immediate descent from the Latin comedy of Plautus and Terence.

But it is not less interesting as a literary and social study. It presents us with a bustling, fairly intricate plot, cleverly setting forth an amusing story of every-day life of the time. The plot is carried on in a series of keenly humorous and at times almost farcical scenes and situations, while a stream of bright and witty dialogue is poured forth continuously from the first line of Act I., Scene I., to the singing of the prayer for the sovereign by all the actors on their knees (then the custom at dramatic representations).

The motif of the play is the wooing by a "doughty kite," Roister Doister by name, of one Dame Custance, who scornfully rejects his suit, as she is already promised to another. Thereupon Ralph, who is a cowardly, blustering fellow, arms his men-servants, and goes to attack his beloved, who arms her maids with spit and distaf, and after a lively battle beats off the invaders. In the meanwhile, the report of Roister Doister's actions has aroused suspicion in the heart of Dame Custance's true love, and further complications ensue, but all finally ends well.

Happily, as it was written for schoolboys, it is entirely free from the gross license of so many

of the early dramatists. No line of the play need be omitted for other reason than to bring it within easy acting compass. Vigorously presented, as a mere play, it should arouse interest.

But more than entertainment is intended. The aim of the department is to reproduce, as closely as the very limited means at disposal will allow, the conditions of its first production. The intention is not so much to give us the flavor of 1540 by scenery, stage settings, etc., but to present to us the actual circumstances of its Eton presentation: the plain, bare platform for stage, no scenery, no footlights, no side-scenes, no curtains. It must not be thought, however, that this means a mere abandonment of these stage accessories. The early stage, it is well known, lacked those accessories which play so important a part in modern dramatic production. Consequently the absence of these aids to the imagination will necessitate all the more care in the presentation. Old contemporary music for the songs and for the three or four violins which were the germ of the modern orchestra must be patiently sought and adapted, costumes must be made to represent exactly those of the steady middle-class London citizens of the day, while questions regarding the facilities possessed by the Eton scholars for presenting plays must be carefully weighed and investigated now for the first time, in a great measure, for it must not be forgotten that Ralph Roister Doister antedates the Elizabethan stage by some thirty years. Such an attempt, it must be seen, concerns the whole college, and not alone the English department. It brings Tufts into line with the other colleges which have been investigating minutely some particular period of dramatic history. The co-operation and interest of all friends of the college, undergraduates, and alumni are required to successfully complete the undertaking.* CHAS. ST. C. Wade.

20

TO MISS N—————T.

Upon the train I oft have seen a maid,
And sat behind her; yet she knows me not.
Beside her little self a cello's laid,

Of which I'm jealous, lying on the spot
Where I so fain would be; 't is not my lot.
Her hair as black as night, her dainty hat,
Her face, demure, her tender hands, have caught
Long since, my heart, when, ali intent, I sat
Enraptured in the presence of a sight like that.

Beneath her chin, and nestling close to it,
Some violets breathe fragrance thro' the air.
They seem her soul's pure sweetness to emit;
And I, enchanted by this maiden fair,

Build dreamily my castles in the air.

I call her mine; I hear her sweet lips tell

In trembling tones the love beyond compare

She brings to me; the house wherein we'll dwell—

The cello, she, and I-I see. All's well. So well.

But ah! these day-dreams are of fragile kind.

The sudden stop abruptly calls me back

To earth; arrived in Boston now I find

The dream is o'er; again upon the rack

Of unrequited love myself I see.

Once more the whole world suddenly grows black,

For now my darling and her cello flee

Away, and leave the world to darkness and to me."

TRAJAN.

*The writer has aimed to give merely a succinct account of the play and its author, free from technical details. Several assumptions have been made which the student of English literature probably would not accept without proof, such as the early date of the comedy and the assignment of its origin to the Latin rather than to a development from the Moralities as is generally held,

Two Children.

THE LIGHT DIVINE.

When joy and mirth have fled the soul's abode
To seek in other realms some heart to glad,
And melancholy with its train so sad
Enters the void to chant its mournful ode,
The resplendent sun resolves into a gloom

And mid-day rays of light no hope reveal.
In vain we search the glowing orb, to steal
A guiding torch from out the gruesome tomb.
Yet to the worst despair God's Light shall go
And banish far dread melancholy's train,

Bidding return to dwell in peaceful bliss
Fair hope and joy and love's unceasing flow.
Ah, never is His Light looked for in vain,
Howe'er so far we may have strayed amiss.

ลอ

R. K. M.

A BIT OF HISTORY.

ONCE upon a time there was a little girl, a tiny little girl, with large brown eyes and soft brown hair, small runaway feet, and dimpled hands that sometimes did a great amount of mischief. And oh, she was so very, very wise; and her name was Carol when she was good, but Caroline when she was naughty. She had a big, tall sister, whom in her baby fashion she called "Tusan," and whom she loved three bushels running over full.

Suppose it to be a winter's morning. At five o'clock Miss Carol suddenly opens her bright eyes, and finding herself six whole inches away from Susan, with one quick movement winds her arms around that beloved sister as a little barnacle glues itself to a rock. Then a small hand begins to smooth Susan's face. Dear sister groans drowsily, "Carol, go right to sleep again; it's all dark and no one 's up." Carol replies sweetly, as she continues her smoothing, “O my dea tister! O my dea tister!" "Caroline, shut your eyes immediately; why, the birdies are n't up yet." This argument sometimes quiets her for a moment; but Susan's breathless suspense is soon broken. "O my dea tister! O my dea tister!"

"Tister" gives up in dismay, and for the next hour and a her cares for the coming day. Suddenly the electric light in Carol sits up and begins to blow like a small pair of bellows. awake, asks her what she is doing.

"Oh, I'm tryin' to blow 'at 'ittle 'tar out!

half Caroline meditates aloud upon front of the house goes down and Susan, who, strange to say, is wide

The elder sister, looking through the window, sees a great morning planet shining in the sky, and while beginning to dress that one small child ponders upon her astonishing ideas. Then Miss Carol is very apt to begin a series of questions like this:

"Where do shoeses come from?"

"Oh—out of the stores up-street."

"Where's up-stite?"

“Oh, up-town, where all the high buildings are."

"Why are the b'ildin's high?

"So people can have a great many offices in them.”

"Why do people want a dreat many offices?"

"Oh, to carry on their business in." By this time Susan gives a weary sigh.

"What's bizness?"

"Oh, trying to make money." The sigh is louder.

“What 's——,” but she gets no farther, for Susan catches her up and whirls her down-stairs so fast she does n't have breath to speak with till she is landed in her high-chair, and then breakfast occupies her attention.

On summer mornings she runs out-of-doors and brings in a great yellow dandelion for sister to admire.

"Where did you get that pretty, pretty flower?"

"O, I got it where it growed up!"-spoken very nonchalantly.

When night-time comes and sister is taking off the little rumpled clothes, she asks, “ When the birdies go to bed, do they take their feathers off?" Sister says "No," and explains while slipping on Carol's robe of oblivion; and now it is prayer-time. Usually she kneels and meekly says, "God bless papa and mama and sister and brothers and Bridget and Mary Ann and help Carol to be a good little girl. Amen." But saying prayers is getting to be an old story, so to-night, as she clambers into bed, she startles her dear sister by loudly remarking, “All of 'em! Amen!" And then she goes to sleep while Susan sings her cradle songs and prays the dear God to watch over that little one forever and forever.

A FANTASY.

Once upon a time, early in a summer morning, a little girl stood in a meadow sweet with clovers and tall waving grasses. She had always lived midst the frowning walls of a great city, and now, as she gazed over the far-stretching vista of woodland and meadow, her heart was filled with unspeakable joy. In silence she stood, with her blue-ribboned hat fallen back on her shoulders, and the fresh breezes tossing her yellow hair about her wondering face. In her hands were the pretty field-flowers she had gathered, and her eyes, as blue as the skies of that June morning, were raised toward the fleecy clouds sailing like white-winged ships o'er the fathomless deep. The great snowy masses were piled and billowed in every fantastic shape, and the little maiden, as she looked, smiled and thought, "If I were a bird, I'd fly up there to that great white castle with shining turrets and silver walls, and on the topmost tower I'd sit, and sing and sing, and sail and sail, till I reached the golden stars that swing and sway above."

And then she went on, wandering away across the meadow, and the tallest grasses reached her waist and her little slippers were wet with dew. A runaway brook came gurgling by and she exclaimed, “ O you baby river! How unsteady you are on your feet! When you find your mother she will put her soft arms about you and keep you from tumbling and scrambling so!" Off she ran with the little brook till they came to a beautiful wood. The unthinking stream flowed on, but the child stood still, her soul was touched by the great silent loneliness before her.

The tall trees lifted their brown columns on high, and through the interwoven boughs some sunbeams fell, spattering their molten gold over the green leaves, and here on a lichen-covered log, and there on a carpet of emerald moss. The song of a sweet-voiced bird afar, the patter of the little brook's hurrying feet, the rustling of the leaves in the gentle noonday wind, disturbed not the silence, but only made it the more profound. Over the woodland path wandered the child, walking with hushed feet through the aisles of the temple of God. She ate the red berries and plucked the blue violets that grew there, and once burst into a little song when a great gaudy butterfly lazily floated across her way. She was perfectly happy, but, alas, she was too young to know that! By and by she sat down at the foot of an old tree, a monarch of the wood, and leaning her gentle head against its rough bark, fell asleep. The flush of the setting sun was just dying from the sky when a mother bent over her lost child and cried, “Why, where have you been this long day, little girl?" The blue eyes opened, and a reverent voice dreamily answered, “In heaven.” F. L. C., 'q-.

Exchanges.