These were the gay minstrel
abroad in the world singing in hall and market-place, and the
patient monk at work in cell or cloister. And as year by year
our literature grew, strengthened and broadened, we might say it
flowed on in two streams. It flowed in two streams which were
ever joining, mingling, separating again, for the monk and the
minstrel spoke to man each in his own way. The monk made his
appeal to the eye as with patient care he copied, painted and
made his manuscript beautiful with gold and colors. The minstrel
made his appeal to the ear with music and with song. Then after
a time the streams seemed to join, and the monk when he played
the miracle-plays seemed to be taking the minstrel's part. Here
was an appeal to both the eye and ear. Instead of illuminating
the silent parchment he made living pictures illustrate spoken
words. Then followed a time when the streams once more divided
and church and stage parted. The strolling players and the trade
guilds took the place both of the minstrel and of the monkish
actors, the monk went back once more to his quiet cell, and the
minstrel gradually disappeared.
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