PHILIP . VAN ARTEVELDE.* Philip van Artevelde is a noble drama.

It is not only penetrated by varied wisdom and calm insight into motives, but it rises, by

the most natural stages, to the height of tragic purpose. The characters are the makers of their own fates, and yet a certain sense of some over-ruling presence in human affairs is powerfully felt. This seems but a common-place to say, but it is of the essence of tragedy, and is only found in the works of the masters. We have read criticisms to the effect that the Second Play is inferior to the first, but we have never been able to understand them. For it is in the Second Part that we clearly see the development of those seeds of misdirected passion, revenge, and ambition which finally led to the overthrow of a truly great spirit, and the pathos of Philip's fall is the justification of the drama.

The first part, read by itself, were little else than a piece of his- torical narrative, disguised in dramatic form, carefully finished, showing us, amid many fine touches, the ascent of a born leader of men, to a position in which his heroic qualities can find scope. Philip acquits himself with such wisdom, foresight, and decision in every emergency as simply confirmed the choice of these men of Ghent of the fourteenth century. He leads them on step by step, always striking at the right point, till he has subdued the Earl of Flanders, and driven him out of his dominions. The Captain of Ghent has become Regent of Flanders in his stead. Success, however, soon sows its own canker in his heart. So long as he was in peril, and needed to put forth heroic efforts for his own safety and that of those who have confided their cause to his hands, his steady heart, as it were, spontaneously freed itself from the incumbrance of secondary and dividing desires, which become powerful influences the moment that the pressure of conflict has

been lightened. Philip cannot fall back into the secluded quiet- ness which once his soul had loved,—ambition and passion, and the memory of the pure delights of his earlier days urge him in different directions. He cannot any more be true to the impulses which had been the reservoir in which strength was

treasured up for the day of action, while as yet he dreamed not of action. Sir Henry Taylor's art is in nothing better seen than in the way he suggests to us from the first the possibilities of such division and inward strife. Revenge is not a passion for

which a man of the fourteenth century, placed as Philip van Artevelde was, in a position of difficulty and danger, can be very harshly dealt with ; but we feel that when the prospect of revenge comes in as a kind of determining element in his assumption of a great office, there is a seed of evil lodged in his heart that may spring up to bitter fruit in the end :— "Is it vain-glory which thus whispers ma That 'tie ignoble to have led ray life In idle meditations,—that the times Demand me, echoing my father's name ? Oh I what a fiery heart was his! Such souls, Whose sudden visitations daze the world, Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind A. voice that in the distance far away Wakens the slumbering ages. Oh may father Thy life is eloquent, and more persuades Unto dominion than thy death deters ; For that reminds me of a debt of blood Descended with my patrimony to me, Whose paying-off would clear my soul's estate."

We feel in reading this that more is meant than a mere general suggestion of the spirit of the age. Sir Henry Taylor hardly wastes definite touches in that way. We are rather inclined to see in it a vague intimation of that which is to come. And in order that nothing may seem to be merely forced and mechani- cally adjusted, it is noticeable that when this revenge (which here has been definitely set forth to the mind as a separate object to be sought after) has been obtained, it is indirectly,—the men who are stabbed as the treacherous messengers sent to negotiate a dishonour- able peace between Ghent and the Earl of Flanders, being iden- tified afterwards as the men who had slain Philip's father in the streets of Ghent.

And thus it does not seem inconsistent to us that the man who in his seclusion had shown so much contentment and capacity of quiet enjoyment, and under a sense of duty borne so brave a part in action, should, nevertheless, on his introduction to a corrupt society fall under its fascinations, surrender himself to a passion which, if not all unworthy, carried with it the seeds of tragic complications. It is the very man who has drunk with satisfaction the sweets of solitude and found support in a habit of meditation, who is most likely to surrender uncalculatingly to such influences, if he comes near to them at all, when the con-

• Philip ran Arterelde. Vol. I. of the Works of Sir Henry Taylor. London : Kogan Paul and Co. 1877.

trolling force of a great purpose has been -withdrawn, or when a supreme success has been attained. The passion for Elena, the discarded mistress of the Duke of Bourbon, is the tragic tie be- tween the First Play and the Second. As the success which developed the restless ambition that made the passion for Elena possible, is presented to us in the first part, the effect of that passion in paralysing the powers of will and action and lowering the ideal of duty is the burden of the second. The interlude of the "Lay of Elena," with its charm of varied rhythm, is thus seen to have a special dramatic fitness in the place which it occupies ; we feel that it comes there by the energy of an imperious instinct, and not by mere fancy or whim. The two parts would be incomplete without it.

When Philip, owing to the entreaties of Elena, desists from carrying into effect the execution of the traitor, Sir Fleureant of Heurl6e, we feel that the die is cast, that he has imperilled an that he had won by wise counsel and heroic actions. And here the same skill is shown as we saw in the case of that revenge which came not pure and simple. Sir Henry Taylor is wiser than to allow us to feel for a single moment that Philip, in fore- going his opportunity over Sir Fleureant, was conscious, even remotely, of imperilling Flemish liberty. That would only have had the effect of withdrawing him from our sympathies, but one step aside from the clear line of rational action is certain to lead to others, and the results are never to be measured. The man who, on the promise of protection for a mis- tress as against one who had already wronged her, would set free a person who had plotted against him, might expect nothing else than a repetition of the offence ; and we feel that things are only working out their natural issues when, amid the rout of Philip's followers in the war with France, Sir Fleureant chooses his oppor- tunity to plant a dagger in the heart of the man who had, against his better judgment, spared his life. It is an allowable poetic justice by which Elena is permitted to revenge the death of her lover by striking down Sir Fleureant with frantic energy,—herself to fall by the pikes of the soldiers. And the last speech of the Duke of Burgundy rebuking the Duke of Bourbon comes in finely at the close :— "Bourbon.—Tako forth the bodies. For the woman's cores, Let it have Christian burial. As for his, The arch-insurgent's, hang it on a tree Where all the host may see it.

Burgundy.— Brother, no ; It wore not for our honour, nor the King's, To use it so. Dire rebel though he was, Yet with a noble nature and groat gifts Was he endowed,—ccurage, discretion, wit, An equal temper and an ample soul, Rook-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 F40 calm, He little lacked in sovereignty save right, Nothing in soldiership except good-fortune. Wherefore with honour lay him in the grave, And thereby shall increase of honour come Unto their arms who vanquished one Bo wise, So valiant, and renowned."

By this dramatic expedient, our sympathy for Philip is kept alive to the close ; we see only the greater and better elements in his character, which his enemy can cheerfully celebrate, as only adding thereby to his own laurels. What we regard as the most effective passages, looked at in the light of pathos and dramatic simplicity of expression, are to be found in the scenes where Philip takes farewell of Elena, before going forth on what they feared were fatal quests :—

" Elena.—I fool assured That you will win to-day Artevelde.—You choose to say so. Elena, think not that I stand in need

Of false encouragement. I have my strength, Which, tho' it lie not in the sanguine mood,

Will answer my occasions. To yourself, IV to none other, I at times present

The gloomiest thoughts that gloomy truths inspire,

Because I love you.. But I need no proof,

Nor could I find it in a tinsel show Of prosperous surmise. Before the world I wear a cheerful aspect, not so false As for your lover's solace you put on; Nor in my closet does the oil run low, Or the light flicker.

Elena.—So now! you are angry Because I try to cheer you.

Artevelde.—No my love,

Not angry, that I never was with you ; But I deal not falsely with my own, So I would wish the heart of her I love To be both true and bravo, nor self-beguiled, Nor putting on disguises for my sake, As though I faltered. I have anxious hours, As who in like extremities has not ?

But I have something stable here within Which bears their weight.

Elena.—Farewell, my lord.

Artevelde.—And if we meet no more, it heart thou bast,

Tho' heretofore misled, and like mine own, Bedarkened in the gloom of devione ways, Yet surely destined from the that by Heaven To issue into light. My shade removed, The radiance of redeeming love shall shine Upon thine after-life, and point the path Thro' penitence to peace. Pray for me then, And thou shalt then be heard.

Elena,—Farewell, my lord.

Artevelde.—And is it thus we part ? Enough, enough;

Full hearts, few words. But there is yet another I would not leave unsaid. If time be short To seek for pardon of my sins from Heaven,

To thee and for my sins against thyself,

I shall not in the shortest sue in vain.

For reparation of one fatal fault, I would that I might bo preserved to-day ; If not, I know that I shall fall forgiven.

Elena.—Try me no further, Artevelde. Go, go

If I should speak to thee one word of love,

I should not hold myself on this Bide, reason ; Go, whilst I have my senses, Artevelde,

Or stay and hear the passion of my heart Break out,—and not in words. If throes and shrieks Thou wouldst be fain to witness, stay ; if not, Content thee with one bitter word,—Adieu!

Artevelde.—This fair hand trembles. Dearest, be thou calm,

Calm and courageous. I commend thy silence."

In Philip van Artevelde Sir Henry Taylor, nearly forty years ago, tried an experiment by way of rebuking certain prevalent tenden- cies in dramatic poetry. The influence it has exercised is on all hands admitted, and the appearance of it in this form may be taken as an augury that its career is as yet far from finished. Seldom has a poem which was written with such a purpose so long held a place in men's sympathies, a conclusive testimony to the creative genius of the man who wrote it. Here, at all events, Sir Henry Taylor did not merely "translate cold maxims into dramatic dialogue," but set real men and women before us, and made them finely interpretive of our own hearts.