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screams of wounded horses, and the crash | Philip van Artevelde grew more and more of broken timbers. On the night before apprehensive of the supernatural as his cathe fatal battle, a still more ominous appa- reer darkened towards the close. ration is granted him, the recounting of which to Elena is worked out with extraordinary power. We extract a few lines:

Artevelde. The gibbous moon was in a wan decline,

And all was silent as a sick man's chamber.
Mixing its small beginnings with the dregs
Of the pale moonshine and a few faint stars,
The cold uncomfortable daylight dawned;
And the white tents, topping a low ground-fog,
Showed like a fleet becalmed. I wandered far,
Till reaching to the bridge I sate me down
Upon the parapet. Much mused I there,
Revolving many a passage of my life,
And the strange destiny that lifted me
To be the leader of a mighty host,
And terrible to kings. What followed then
I hardly may relate, for you would smile;
And say I might have dreamed as well a-bed
As gone abroad to dream.

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And rigid was her form and motionless.
From near her heart, as if the source were there,
A stain of blood went wavering to her feet.
So she remained inflexible as stone
And I as fixedly regarding her.
Then suddenly, and in a line oblique,
Thy figure darted past her, whereupon,
Though rigid still and straight, she downward
moved;

And as she pierced the river with her feet,
Descending steadily, the streak of blood
Peeled off upon the water, which, as she van-
ished,

Appeared all blood, and swelled and weltered

sore,

And midmost in the eddy and the whirl

My own face saw I, which was pale and calm
As death could make it :-then the vision passed,
And I perceived the river and the bridge,
The mottled sky and horizontal moon,
The distant camp, and all things as they were.
Like Marius, Wallenstein, and Cromwell,

mind of Elena was but the reflex of his own; and their mutual insight into the future is picturesquely recorded by Froissart.

The fight at Rosebecque was fatally mismanaged, and more than twenty thousand of the popular side are said to have fallen. In the dramatic version of the day's events Elena having avenged Philip's death on the recreant Sir Fleureant of Heurlée, is herself killed on the great captain's corpse, in sight of Bourbon, her former treacherous lover. His voice is given for treating the remains of Artevelde with outrage; but this proposal is overruled by the generous Duke of Burgundy, who, while urging the concession of a soldier's funeral, sums up the character of the departed hero:

Dire rebel though he was, Yet with a noble nature and great gifts Was he endowed, courage, discretion, wit, An equal temper and an ample soul, Rock-bound and fortified against assaults Of transitory passion; but below Built on a surging subterranean fire, That stirred and lifted him to high attempts. So prompt and capable, and yet so calm, He nothing lacked in sovereignty but the right, Nothing in soldiership except good fortune.

These lines furnish a good example of the force and dignity of Mr. Taylor's style. Within quite recent times we have had the blank verse of Wordsworth, Keats, and Shelley; of Mr. Tennyson, Mr. Matthew Arnold, and Mr. Henry Taylor. These examples are all of a perfectly distinct character, but all excellent. The last is equable, well sustained, and always vigorous; rising sometimes to a majestic flow of rhythm, and capable of sustaining an unusual weight of sententious apophthegm without being injuriously encumbered. The style is, in a word, the exactly fitting vehicle of the author's great conceptions. Philip van Artevelde is a philosophical poem of the most genuine kind. Mr. Taylor's reflections are not calculated to create a petty surprise, nor to disturb the feelings of a reader belonging to a less liberal school than his own. Sensation, in the acceptation which recent slang has bestowed upon the word, is about the last thing that a perusal of his poems would produce. His liberalism is not the clamorous and reiterated shibboleth of a party; it is the well weighed result of much revolving the thoughts and ways of men. His tone is, perhaps a little in excess, the tone of a scholar, of a writer in the closet. In most,

if not in all, of the plays, with the single oniacal arts, a charge which (as Turner reexception of St. Clement's Eve, there is a marks) gives demonstration of the talents want of distinct individual life about the mi- and knowledge of the person so accused; nor characters; the principal figure has been it was by his skill in music that he first won elaborated and meditated on until it seems the favour of Edred, and he was equally to cast somewhat too deep a shadow over ingenious in the practice of other rare acthe rest. But this is a subject which, in the complishments-writing, painting, and enface of such transcendent excellences and so much thoroughness of work, we do not care to pursue further. It is enough to say that in reading Mr. Taylor we seem to breathe a finer moral atmosphere; and one rises from his poems with a confirmed confidence in the worthy and noble uses of Art.

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graving. Nor has Mr. Taylor omitted to notice his fame as a mechanic, introducing him during his flight at the blacksmith's forge in Hampshire, in the act of giving a lesson on a improved method of making coulters. He was familiar, in short, with the omne scibile of his times, and with a great deal more which the mere scholars of After an interval of eight years Philip that age, and indeed of any age, would van Artevelde was followed by Edwin the hardly admit to be scibile at all. By much Fair. In selecting a subject from the tenth painful inward strife he had attained comcentury, Mr. Taylor wisely allowed himself plete mastery over himself; and he had considerable latitude of treatment. The gradually learned the most difficult lesson letter of history being so scanty and doubt-in the world-the secret of swaying the ful, he resolved to be true at any rate to wills of his fellow men. The whole of his its spirit. Characteristic incidents from immense energies were at last interpenebordering reigns have therefore been in- trated and guided by the single impulse of cluded in that of Edwin; and certain devotion to the Church, not merely as a events such as the exile of St. Dunstan spiritual authority, but as an institution in in Flanders - which actually occurred society an institution, the idea of which within that narrow space of time have, for was ever present to the inner eye of his the sake of compression, been omitted. soul, but was feebly realized in the world The powerful impulse given to monachism visibly existing around him. Mr. Taylor in the tenth century by the spread of the makes him soliloquize thus, while waiting Benedictine discipline throughout Europe the arrival of two of his party, the Bishops was the origin of the collision which took of Worcester and Winchester: place in Edwin's reign between the crown and the cowl. The feud between regulars Is holy, is ineffably divine! and seculars occasioned great national exSpiritually seen, and with the eye of faith, haustion, and by far the larger part of the The body of the Church, lit from within, military strength of the country was ar- Seems but the luminous phantom of a body: rayed on one side or the other. The The incorporeal spirit is all in all, Danes, who preferred the sack of a monas- Eternity à parte post et ante tery to the storming of a castle, were on So drinks the refuse, thins the material fibre the alert; the prayer of the Anglo-Saxon That lost in ultimate tenuity liturgy, for deliverance a furore Northman-The actual and the mortal lineaments; norum, proved futile to those who had renounced the duty of helping themselves; and the play ends with a rush of the enemy into the very precincts of the cathedral at Malpas, in Cheshire, where funeral rites are being performed over the body of Elgiva.

The stirring, stormy motion' of the times has been perfectly conceived by Mr. Taylor, who has transferred the effect to his picture as the accessory colouring of one stupendously powerful central figure. It is on St. Dunstan, of course, that the main interest of the drama is fixed. The vast intellectual energy and acuteness of that extraordinary man can scarcely be over-estimated. He was so far ahead of his contemporaries at court in mathematical and liberal studies as to be accused of dem

The Church is great,

The Church in time, the meagre, definite, bare
Ecclesiastical anatomy,

The body of this death, translates itself,
And glory upon glory swallowing all
Makes earth a scarce distinguishable speck
As seen by faith; but otherwise regarded,

In universal heaven. Such is the Church

The body of the Church is searched in vain
To find the seat of the soul; for it is nowhere.
Here are two bishops; but 'tis not in them.

It is this keen inward vision which keeps him always a march in advance of his enemies, and sustains in him that marvellous fertility of resource without which a leader in troubled times is nothing. Ethelwald, Bishop of Winchester, canvassing the prospects of the approaching synod, when the grave question is to be raised whether the private marriage of Edwin and Elgiva shall

be ratified by the Church, expresses a fore- | this: that, more than any single historian boding of opposition to the monastic influence. 'Tis said the synod, when it meets, will not be pure, nor of one mind.' To which St. Dunstan unhesitatingly replies: 'Tis ignorantly said:

I am the synod's mind.

But like other men who have seen farther than their contemporaries, he reasons himself into the persuasion that practical means must be employed, in order to supplement the operations of Providence. The question of ratifying the king's marriage within the prohibited degrees was one of vital importance to the regulars' cause. Earl Athulf, brother to Elgiva, was already threatening the capital; and Wulfstan the Wise, his aged chaplain, backed by a large muster of secular clergy, was to attend the synod, bringing the earl's conditions. St. Dunstan foresees what will be the natural bent of the majority in the council; to them the ratification will seem to be no great matter in itself, but an easy method of restoring peace. This is not the view of a man who lives rapt in the ideal of an everlasting Church. And as to its eventually becoming the resolution of the synod, cannot that be prevented by timely precaution? He has no misgiving about the voice which inwardly to himself declares the will of God. The problem is, how to cause the synod to hear the same voice manifestly coming from heaven. For the successful solution of this problem he is at length persuaded that Heaven would have him provide; and he provides accordingly. His speech before the synod begins in a tone of tottering mistrust:

Brethren, seek not in me Support or council. The whole head is sick, The whole heart faint.

But he presently lashes himself into a confident assurance of supernatural direction, and appeals to the large crucifix at the end of the hall, from the interior of which a voice - probably that of his follower Gurmo- twice ejaculates the ominous words, Absit hoc ut fiat. From that moment, the secular party have lost all chance, and retire amidst the shouts and curses of the regu

lars.

I

who had appeared before he wrote, he has clothed the figure of the saint with the garb of reality, and made him live, move, and act before our eyes: bringing out in full relief his splendid mental endowments, his magnificent aspirations, his natural tender ness, as shown by his bitter grief on the death of his aged motherMy friend - I had but her- no more, No other upon earth-and as for heaven, am as they that seek a sign, to whom No sign is given. My mother! Oh, my mother - together with those darker hues of character which fell upon him as the shadow of the age he lived in, and which remind us that, though he was in truth a mighty leader, a son of the genus Deorum, he was a child of the tenth century also.

If Philip Van Artevelde is the greatest of Mr. Taylor's works, and Edwin perhaps the best studied, and the most forcibly impressive, St. Clement's Eve is, beyond question, the most carefully finished. And though departing from chronological sequence, we shall proceed to notice it here, as our space forbids more than a few words on Isaac Comnenus, our author's earliest drama, and on The Virgin Widow (henceforward to be called A Sicilian Summer) which appeared in 1850.

The scenes of St. Clement's Eve are laid

in the year 1407, at a period when political disorder and ecclesiastical schism had combined to reduce society in France to about the worst condition of which the middle ages afford an example. The intermittent madness of Charles VI. le bien-aimé, placed the reins of government nominally in the power of the Council; but they were in reality tossed from hand to hand through the rivalry of Lewis, Duke of Orleans, the king's brother, and Jean Sans Peur, Duke of Burgundy, son to Philippe le Hardi, the king's late uncle. France, as in the vision of Robert the Hermit, resembled

A woman's body, whereupon were perched
Two birds, a falcon and a kite, whose heads
Bore each a crown, and each had bloody beaks,
And blood was on the claws of each, which
clasped

Fought with the other, nor for that they ceased
To tear the body.

This the right breast and that the left, and each

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This is not the occasion for discussing the true character and position of St. Dunstan; The central figure in the drama is the 'faland in passing the subject over we must not con' of the vision the Duke of Orleans. be supposed to imply that the drama of Ed-Rien si chevaleresque... D'allieurs étoit win the Fair contains a complete account aimable, agréable et doux dans ses manières, of the saint, or one that, even as far as it son language étoit facile, raisonnable et ségoes, is in all points historically trustwor- duisant; il savoit s'entretenir mieux qu'au thy. Mr. Taylor's achievement has been cun prince avec les docteurs et les hommes

habiles des conseils du roi.' To complete and most distinctly drawn in all Mr. Taythe concurrent testimony to the fascination lor's compositions. With the further exof the character, in personal beauty he re- ception of Theodora in Isaac Comnenus, sembled his brother (le bien-aimé) and sapi- and of Elena, his female creations fall natebat sicut angelus Domini. In the Convent urally into two groups. There are the of the Celestines in Paris, there is at the blindly, fondly loving so fondly as to bortime of the play a novice, possessed of won- der on the insipid-Anna Comnena, Roderful grace and beauty, but of the loftiest salba, and (in a less degree) Adriana; and devotion, by name Jolande St. Rémy. A the sarcastically brusque, as Clara van Arretainer of Jean Sans Peur, named Montar- tevelde, Emma, daughter of Wulfstan the gis, the Iago of the play, who has already Wise, and Fiordeliza. Flos is the most hopelessly ensnared Flos de Flavy, Jolande's genuine woman throughout the play, and bosom friend, is possessed with a wanton Clara the noblest female character. Here whim to seize the latter, and forms the de- is her answer to Van Aeswyn, the emissary sign of carrying her off to a distant château of her devoted lover, Sir Walter D'Arlon, of his own, on her return from vespers who begs that she will fly from the famine in the Celestine Chapel in the Rue Bar- and the pestilence of Ghent to one of his bette. Tidings of this villany reached the castles, and ventures to hint that her removal ear of the Duke of Orleans, who disguis- might be a relief to her brother Philip: ing himself and five picked retainers in pilClara. grims' weeds-meets and baffles the party of Montargis, whom he disarms and wounds, and having rescued Jolande is himself led captive by the grace and loveliness of her character. The following are his opening words in the interview which he obtains with her on the day after the affray;

Once in a midnight - 'twas when the war
With Brittany broke out-tired with the din
And tumult of the host, I left the road
And in the distant cloisters of the wood
Dismounted and sat down. The untroubled moon
Kept through the silent skies a cloudless course,
And kissed and hallowed with her tender light
Young leaf and mossy trunk, and on the sward
Black shadows slumbered, softly counterchanged
With silver bars. Majestic and serene,

I said, is Nature's night, and what is Man's?
Then from the secret heart of some recess
Gushed the sweet nocturns of that serious bird

No, sir, you mistake,
Knowing nor him nor me: we two have grown
Inseparably together, as two grafts
From birth on my side, boyhood upon his,
Out of the self-same stock; we've shared alike
The sun and shower and all that Heaven hath

sent us;

I've loved him much and quarrelled with him
oft,

And all our loves and quarrels past are links
That no adversary shall e'er dissever.
And I am useful, too; he'll tell you that
We Arteveldes were made for times like these;
The Deacon of the Mariners said well
That we are of such canvas as they use
To make storm-stay sails. I have much in charge
And I'll stand by him and abide the worst.
Aeswyn. Then must I tell Sir Walter that
you never—

Clara.

Alas, poor D'Arlon! did I then say 'never'?

Whose love-note never sleeps. With glad sur- It is a sharp unkindly sounding word.

prise

Her music thrilled the bosom of the wood,
And like an angel's message entered mine.
Why wander back my thoughts to that night-
march?

Can you divine? or must I tell you why?
The world without and world within this precinct
Are to my heart, the one the hurrying march
With riot, outrage, ribaldry, and noise,
Insulting Night- the other deep repose,
That listens only to a love-taught song
And throbs with gentlest joy.

Jolande stands alone among Mr. Taylor's female characters. She is in fact little more than a lay figure, momentarily diverted from the devotion which is the natural life of her spirit by a passion for the duke, but restored to herself during the effort she makes to cure the king's insanity by a miracle, the failure of which hufries on the duke's death and her own. Flos de Flavy, though a slight character, is one of the best

Tell him to ask me when the siege is raised.
But then he shall not need; he can come hither.
But tell him of your knowledge- not from

me

The woman could not be of Nature's making
Whom, being kind, her misery made not kinder.

St. Clement's Eve contains several passages illustrating the power of humorous writing, in which the author sometimes excels. Two ruffians, personating exorcist monks from Eu, arrive in Paris, ostensibly to track the sorcerer who is supposed to have caused the king's madness, but really to work in the interest of Jean Sans Peur. They falsely accuse and seize in the street Passac, the king's barber, who is by and by rescued by the Duke of Orleans. In the crisis of his danger this converstion occurs:

Father Betizac. Truly the Father of Lies Sits like a weaver at his loom, and weaves. You'll find him, sirs, as hardy to deny

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Cæsar, and holds your clubs are no better than oaten straws, and will not frighten the flies from lighting on your noses. But mark you thisDid Cæsar ever consort with wicked magians? Did Cæsar ever hit St. Basil in the eye? Citizens. No, no.

1st Citizen. And though I think he be neither a saint nor a martyr, yet I'll be bound for him he was no blood-thirsty heretic. Why then, if Cæsar was no heretic, a heretic can be no Cæsar. And look ye, what I say is this,shall all Constantinople be starved to death be

2nd Citizen. Oh monstrous liar! I saw thee cause of one man? with mine eyes

Ranging and scouring round about the gibbet,

At midnight chimes; yea, with mine eyes I saw
thee.

Thou hadst put on the body of a cur,
A cock-tail'd cur.

Two monks in Edwin the Fair, conversing
about St. Dunstan in the monastery of
Sheen, are scarcely more rational:

1st Monk. He slept two hours then raised his head,

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2nd Monk.

And then he spat.

1st Monk.

All. Never, never. Burn his house. Cut his throat.

1st Citizen. Then look ye, what I say is this, if he be not already fled forth the city gates

Citizens. Stop him, seize him, secure the gates.

2nd Monk. Smite him hip and thigh, hew him in pieces before the Lord.

Isaac Comnenus, though overloaded with no more; sententious speeches, and cumbered with a very ill digested scheme of action, is one of the most remarkable first works that have ever been produced. The hero, Isaac, who is a blighted man before he appears on the scene, says virtually in every deed and

Twice he cough'd

movement

He raised himself and said 'Methinks it raineth,'— pointing with his hand. The word was even as though an angel's tongue Had spoken, and when I look'd it rain'd apace. I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by And the popular impeachment of Isaac Comnenus is written with great cleverness in the same vein :

1st Citizen. But how did Comnenus bring it about, answer me that? You're dumb, ye know not. Now hear me. You all know that some years by-gone this Comnenus was out in the Persian war, fighting in as Christian-like a manner as I myself or any of you. Now mark; after he was taken prisoner, there comes to

despair.

He has lost his early love, Irene, and is now, to use his own expression, riding his heart with spurs'; in which mood he is persecuted by the passionate attachment of Theodora, daughter of the reigning Emperor Nicephorus, who like another Scylla - would gladly make common cause with the foe of her tottering sire. He steadily rejects her advances; and, in the him in his tent one evening an old man, wrapped family, when the moody Isaac has handed moment of triumph for the Comnenian in a flowing mantle, and holding, look ye, a cup in one hand and a mighty volume in the other. over the reins of empire to his younger He was as wicked a magian as you shall see in and more popular brother, Alexius-when all Persia; and he said to him, look ye, he said the aged patriarch is dead, and the deby the sweat of St. Isidore I have for-posed Nicephorus has perished in prison gotten what he said. But ever since, this Comnenus has been one of your bloody schismatics and heretical murdering villains.

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All. We know it. We know it.

1st Citizen. Ay, and you know too the holy image of the blessed St. Basil, in the niche over the monks of St. Conon's gate. Now this Comnenus, no farther back than one night I know not when, riding past like a madman with two or three more such heathen pagan knights from over-sea, puts me his lance in the rest with the butt end to the onset, and drives it two inches and a half into St. Basil's eye.

2nd Monk. Anathema esto!

1st Citizen. But they'll tell you, they of the green faction, that he's a very Socrates, a second

by his own hand-she seeks an interview with the man who has set her aside, and stabs him in the heart. There is something about the tragedy of Isaac Comnenus which reminds one more forcibly of the unflinching Nemesis in the Greek dramatists than of any modern conception. The fall of Isaac after the successful capture of Constantinople and the magnanimous rejection of power on his own behalf, if it resembles anything in art at all, can only be likened in its suddenness and its horror to the fall of Agamemnon after the capture of Troy.

The motto of Leviore plectro has been justly prefixed to A Sicilian Summer

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