BOOKS.

SIR HENRY TAYLOR'S WORKS.*

A COMPLETE edition of Sir Henry Taylor's works, and one in a form worthy of them, has long been a desideratum. It is now about to be supplied. The instalment of it which lies before us corresponds in print and paper with "the Author's Edition" of Mr. Tennyson's poems, and needs no higher praise. This edition will consist of five volumes, three containing Sir Henry Taylor's dramatic and poetical works, and two his prose works, while each series is to include matter not found in his previous editions. The present volume contains "Thank Comnenus " and "Edwin the Fair." "Isaak Comnenus" is the author's earliest play, and in some respects it may be called an anticipation of much that came to ripeness in "Philip van Artevelde." But the earlier work differs from the latter in qualities remote from those in which such diversity might have been expected. "Thank Comnenus" has nothing of youthful exuberance about it, little of the figurative, and less of the exaggerated. It is in a remarkable degree a business-like play, steadily and swiftly making way through the details of a well-managed plot to a catastrophe momentous and unexpected. it ought to be successful on the stage, if adequately acted. On the other hand, compared with "Philip van Arte- velde," the reader might call it a dry and stern poem, abounding far less in imagination, in humour, and in pathos. Time, which hardens the nut, softens the peach. An author's prose under- standing consolidates with the years, but his mind poetic expands

* Bin Henry Taylor's Works. Edwin the Fair; bank comnenns. Author's Edition. London : Henry S. King and Co.

and grows richer. " Isaak Comnenus " is a severer work than

any of that brotherhood of dramas, at once so massive and so bright, which have followed it ; and yet compared with them, the

severity is rather that which refuses to be beguiled from a single purpose than that of more compact thought or strength more concentrated. It has been the favourite of the series with some few ; but in this instance the severer estimate is not the juster. It treats a great theme in the spirit of greatness, and a bitter, if not cynical tone occasionally to be found in it is not out of place in a play the scene of which is laid amid the corruptions of the Byzantine Court. Still it is negatively, not positively, that , " Isaak Comnenus " is more dramatic than the later drama in 1 two parts which, combining a greater, though not a more rigid, strength with larger thought, and both with an ampler beauty,

raised the author at once to that high place in our literature which he has illustrated ever since. In the present edition this, the earliest of Sir Henry Taylor's dramas, is raised nearer to the level of its successors as regards diction and metre ; and other improve-

ments, important in their cumulative effect, will be found not I infrequently, especially in the first scene of the fifth act, and in

pages 217, 228, and 232.

"Edwin the Fair "is, of all Sir Henry Taylor's dramas, the one in most striking contrast to its earliest predecessor. In structure it , is the least compact of the six. In the case of a play so well known an analysis of the plot is needless, and our limited space will be better occupied by a few remarks on the more prominent char- acteristics of this drama. More than any of the rest, it abounds in meditative power, in artistic loveliness, and in felicitous descrip- tion. In none of the others do we find a more various or more accurate knowledge of human nature. Its characters are never mere qualities personified, a common fault even in works of genius, if that genius be not essentially dramatic. This merit is attested by the circumstance that qualities which necessarily bear the same name become here, when illustrated in different personages, them- selves substantially different qualities. The wisdom of the Chan- cellor Clarenbald, which comes from experience and action, has little but the name in common with that of Wulfstan, which proceeds from meditation. Courage in Athulf is light-hearted and enterprising, in Elgiva restless and reckless ; in Edwin it rises to a deliberate heroism, which prefers death to the betrayal of his country ; in Dunstan, it is a fanatical audacity. If the characters of this play have nothing of the abstract about them, as little are ' they mere copies from nature, concrete and conventional. We often hear the " real " and the " ideal " contrasted with each other. True dramatic genius combines them. In the work of one dramatist the ideal comes first, originating the conception of a character the delineation of which is subsequently vivified by graphic details supplied by observation. In that of another, the process is reversed,—the character appears to have been in the first instance suggested by a sharp, though generalising observation, while yet it has been brightened in the course of delineation by gleams of an idealising imagination. But which- ever be the poet's method, his ideal, if genuine, is neither that of the mere copyist nor that of the metaphysician, but that of nature, which has its genera, as well as its species and its individuals, and which, while it never loses sight of the individual, yet stamps the impress of the genus most strongly on its noblest types.

The last of these two dramatic methods seems that most fre- quently used in "Edwin the Fair," but there are two remarkable exceptions, in the characters of Dunstan and Wulfstan the Wise,

which last has sometimes been spoken of as a sketch from Coleridge. This remarkable embodiment of wisdom is no abstraction of it.

The human touch" is in Wulfstan. Suddenly informed of his daughter's secret marriage, the Contemplative's first reply is,— "'Tin singular

She never mentioned it to me."

I But soon after comes a line, the sadder because it implies no ' resentment,—

" She is my daughter, but no more my child." (p. 62.) Wulfstan and Dunstan are both of them pictures for the first time added to the grand historic gallery of the English drama. Wulfstan is thus described :— " This life, and all that it contains, to him Is but a tissue of illuminous dreams Filled with book-wisdom, pictured thought, and love That on its own creations spends itself.

Yet so much action as might tie his shoe Cannot his will command."

In this last statement Leolf is mistaken. The man of contem- plation, in spite of danger and difficulty, makes good his passage into the Synodal Hall, where the great discussion as to peace or

•

war is held, having previously prepared and described a speech so practical that Dunstan himself might have been foiled by it. Unluckily he begins with an allusion to Mount Olympus, and is met by the cry,—

" He is a Heathen : shall a Heathen speak ?"

On the failure of all his hopes for his country, the Wise man resolves to leave the world of confusions :—

" WidIstan.—I will return. Sidroc.—To Mount Olympus ?

Wulfstan.—Yes.

To such a sanctuary as that was once.

So tranquil were the elements there, 'tis said That letters by the finger of the priest Writ in the ashes of the sacrifice Remained throughout the seasons uneffaced ; And Oxford now has academic bowers Sacred to many a Muse, where such as I May write, though in a rough, tempestuous age, What Time shall spare.

Atladf—God keep you in His peace.

If good betide us, it will bring you joy ; If evil, you are not so chilled by age But that you'll mourn.

Wulfstan.—Long, long, my Lord, if long

I live to mourn, which may not be ! 'Ti, true The sharpness of our pangs is less in age, As sounds are muffled by the falling snow ; But true no less that what age faintly feels It flings not off. I'll pray for your success." (p. 135.)

The character of Dunstan is one which makes him, not Edwin (the nominal hero of the play), its chief source of interest. As Dunstan triumphed, living for many a year the ruler of England, and as Edwin failed and fell, history has here supplied a theme which, as regards complete dramatic effect, includes a defect not to be remedied by any amount of skill. It cannot be said, in- deed, that either the hero or the heroine of this play is its chief

object of interest, though the scene in which we last meet Elgiva is a rare specimen of solemn and subdued pathos, and that in which Edwin dies has not been surpassed in tragic intensity since Ford wrote the Broken heart. It is, however, with Dunstan's

character that we are now concerned. In the conception of that character the author has apparently considered himself free to select at will among the various estimates of Dunstan which have been held at various periods, appropriating and embodying whatever he found best suited to dramatic ends. In early days Dunstan was regarded as a saint ; in the last century as an impostor, at war with the lawful governors of his country ; while in Mr. Greene's recent history, he is described as one of those statesmen to whom England has most owed her liberties and her happiness. Sir Henry Taylor's Dunstan is a man combining sincere and impassioned religious zeal with the ut- most of spiritual pride, and working out the end of an ambition founded on fanaticism with a marvellous genius and a heroic though reckless courage. We are introduced to him first in the following soliloquy :—

" Dunstan.—Spirit of speculation, rest, oh, rest, And push not from her place the spirit of prayer ! God, Thou bast given unto me a troubled being— So move upon the face thereof, that light May Le, and be divided from the darkness ! Arm Thou my soul, that I may smite and chase The n of that darkness, whom not I, But Thou, through me, compellest—legions vast, The mind's glad host for victory arrayed, Hast thou committed to my large command, Weapons of light and glittering shafts of day, And steeds that trample on the tumbling clouds. But with them it bath pleased Thee to let mingle Evil imaginations, corporal stings,

A swarm of Imps and Ethiops, dark doubts, Suggestions of revolt." (p. 12.)

The misgivings here expressed are not inconsistent with pride in its fiercest form, as is well indicated by the following memorable lines :— " Methinks that I could be myself that rock

Whereon the Church is founded,—wind and flood Raging, and rushing, boisterous in vain."

The domineering temper of Dunstan, in spite of his repute for sanctity, makes enemies for him everywhere, the secular clergy and the Bishops disliking him almost as much as the statesmen and courtiers ; but every obstacle breaks down before him. The speech in which he compels to his side the Synod, when on the point of accepting the King's terms of peace, is perhaps the best illustration of his power. We have room but for a fragment. It begins with the utmost expression of human weakness, that the strength to which it ascends by skilful degrees may wear the appearance of a strength divine :—

"Dmistan.—(Rising slowly from his knees.)

I groan in spirit. Brethren, seek not in me Support or counsel The whole head is sick, The whole heart faint, and trouble and rebuke Come round shout me, thrusting at my soul. But, brethren, if long years of penance sore, For your sake suffered, be remembered now, Deem me not utterly of God forsaken, Deem not yourselves forsaken ; lift up your hearts; See where ye stand on earth ; see how in heaven Ye are regarded. Ye are the sons of God, The order of Melchisadeck, the law, The visible structure of the world of spirit, Which was, and is, and must be ; all things else Are casual, and monarchs come and go,

And warriors for a season walk the earth,

By accident ; for these are accidental, But ye eternal ; ye are the soul of the world, Ye are the course of nature consecrate, Ye are the Church ; one spirit is throughout you, And Christendom is with you in all lands.

Who comes against you ? 'Scaped from Hell's confine, A wandering rebel, fleeting past the sun.

Darkens the visage of the Spouse of Christ.

Bat 'tis but for a moment ; he consumed Shall vanish like a vapour, she divulged Break out in glory that transcends herself."

Marvellous is the change of Dunstan's tone when, the Synod won, he excommunicates his chief foes. No more human sink- lags or heavenly soarings, but words hard, dry, and sharp as daggers. Throughout these dramas, the metre ever accords with the sense. Here every pulse of it vibrates beneath the message of destruction.

In this scene is to be found one of the chief improvements that mark this edition. In earlier editions, a false miracle is so introduced as to be unequivocally Dunstan's work. In the present one a happy modification leaves it doubtful whether a voice claiming to be supernatural has had its origin, assuming it to have been a

fraud, in Dunstan's craft, or in that of some unscrupulous partisan. Whatever may be their estimate of the historical question, which is here left undecided, judicious readers will, on grounds of art, rejoice at a change which removes a discrepancy painfully ex- cessive between the sublime sowings of Dunstan's earlier ad- dress, and the sacrilegious trick with which it originally closed. From the next scene we learn that opposite opinions as to the miraculous voice prevailed among Dunstan's enemies and his ad- mirers. The dispute about Hamlet's madness will go on for ever. Should it be disputed among future readers of "Edwin the Fair" whether or not Dunstan was here impostor as well as zealot, it will also be admitted that the play has wisely left doubtful what the historians have not been able to agree upon. The earlier editions here seriously erred ; and the cause of that error may be guessed. A character sometimes gains upon the dramatist as he writes, and some intended incident thus becomes incon- sistent with it. Sympathy enters into everything. No such mistake could have been made in the delineation of Wulfstan. The poet was evidently in sympathy with one of those two crea-

tions of his genius, and in dispathy with the other.

Next to these two delineations we should place in the order of merit Leolf, Athulf, and the Princess Ethilda, of whose grace and sweetness a delightful picture is left on the mind. Athulf is thus described by Wulfstan the Wise :—

" Much mirth he bath, and yet less mirth than fancy;

His is that nature of humanity Which both ways doth redound, rejoicing now With Bearings of the soul, anon brought low: For such the law that rules the larger spirits.

This soul of man this elemental crasis, Completed, should present the universe Abounding in all kinds ; and unto all One law is common,—that their act and reath Stretched to the farthest is resilient ever,

And in resilience hath its plenary force." (p. 108.) Earl Athulf is the lover of Ethilda, who is thus described :— " Schdar.—Methought she leaned upon bin and toward him With a most graceful, timid earnestness ; A leaning more of instinct than of purpose, And yet not nndesigned." (p. 65.) Here is a sketch of her at the feast :— " Ah! she is peerless ! Happy were the man

That should enthrall her, though she wore a peasant!

What in another might have seemed amiss In her was but a freshness and new charm Loosed from the graceful nakedness of nature. She ate but half a pigeon, and did you mark How with her tiny fingers and her teeth She gnawed and tore the bones, talking 'twixt whiles, With such a lively and a pretty action That appetite itself and all its ways Seemed mainly spiritual ?" (p. 70.)

Leolf is one of the noblest conceptions in this play, though it must be admitted that in that rough age such characters as his,

and indeed as Wulfstan's also, must have been rare. He is the counsellor and friend both of the King and of Athulf, whose sister, Elgiva, he has loved from her childhood. At first she returned that love, but her affections, not perhaps wholly unprompted by ambition, have transferred themselves to the youthful King. Leolfs consolation is the recollection that "broken hearts have service in them still." To her service, to that of Edwin, and that of his country he devotes himself, until in an attempt to save her from the effects of her own self-willed rashness he perishes by her side. The following soliloquy illus-

trates not his character alone, but to a large extent that of this drama also :—

"Ledf(alone).—Rocks that beheld my boyhood ! perilous

shelf That nursed my infant courage ! once again I stand before you—not as in other days In your grave faces smiling—but like you The worse for weather. Here again I stand, —Again, and on the solitary shore Old ocean plays as on an instrument, • Making that ancient music, when not known !

That ancient music, only not so old As He who parted ocean from dry land And saw that it was good. Upon mine ear, As in the season of susceptive youth, The mellow murmur falls, but finds the sense Dulled by distemper ; shall I say—by time ?

Enough in action has my life been spent Through the past decade, to rebate the edge Of early sensibility. The sun Rides high, and on the thoroughfares of life I find myself a man in middle-age, Busy, and hard to please. The sun shall soon Dip westerly,—but oh ! how little like Are life's two twilights ! Would the last were first, And the first last ! that so we might be soothed Upon the thoroughfares of busy life Beneath the noon-day sun, with hope of joy Fresh as the morn—with hope of breaking lights, Illuminated mists and spangled lawns And woodland orisons and unfolding flowers, As things in expectation. Weak of faith !

Is not the course of earthly outlook thus Reversed from Hope, an argument to Hope That she was licensed to the heart of man For other than for earthly contemplations, In that observatory domiciled For survey of the stars? The night descends, They sparkle out." (pp. 54,55.)

Sir Henry Taylor's songs possess, to a degree rare in the modern drama, that fragmentary passion, electric force, and wild, sweet vitality which characterise those of the Elizabethan time. We shall quote one which appears first in this edition, and which is marked at once by its originality and its appropriateness. It is sung at the marriage banquet of the King, while the fierce Thanes are carousing, and the thoughtful are musing on the civil conflict about to break out. The sons of Odin have become Christian ; yet the old spirit and the old legends live on :—

" In the hall of Leodwulf was made good cheer;

On the board was a bowl, by the wall was a spear ; The spear and the bowl looked each at each, And the thoughts that rose in them wrought to speech.

Bow/.—Thou in the corner BO grim and spare,

Who sent thee hither ? what dost thou there?

Spear.—I came of the ash-tree Ygdrasil,

And do her bidding for woe or weal.

Bowl.—For whom the weal, for whom the woe?

Spear.—Say who thou art, and thou shalt know.

Bowl—Broach the cask and 611 me full—

I am the bold Logbrogdad's skull.

Spear.—Thon Hest, or else then leak'st ; for once

I pierced the bold Logbrogdad's sconce.

neither lie nor leak. Behold!

The hole is here, and pieced with gold.

Spear.—I pray thee grace. 'Twits through that hole

Passed out the bold Logbrogdad's soul.

Bowl.—Then answer make that all may know,

For whom the weal, for whom the woe?

Spear.—The weal is theirs who do no wrong,

And crown with gifts the SODS of song.

The woe is theirs who fain would flood Their fathers' land with brethren's blood.

Their deeds the eagle and the kite Shall judge, and God shall guard the right." (pp. 73-4.)

The contrast between the ruthless, barbaric objectivity of this song and the buoyant grace of several others, as well as the refined and stately thoughtfulness of so much in this drama, well illustrates Sir Henry Taylor's genius, which might be de- scribed as the connecting link between the poetry of the sixteenth century and that of the nineteenth, combining, as it does, the strong onset of the former—" high actions and high passions best describing "—with the philosophic vein of a later day. His works are perhaps the best proof that a play, without any diminution of its dramatic force, may not only largely include poetic passages,

but be, when regarded as a whole, in an eminent sense a poem. That a drama must content itself with transacting its business, reaching its catastrophe, and illustrating its various characters, and must renounce the palpably poetic, is a heresy refuted in ancient times by alschylus, who surpassed Euripides at least as much in poetry as in tragic might ; and in the sixteenth century by Shake- speare, who towered up among his brethren, the supreme poet of the clan dramatic. In this respect, Sir Henry Taylor, whose dramas, while they never mimic the Shakespearian manner, bear yet a kith-and-kin resemblance to those of the unapproachable master, differ from almost all those which have appeared since his age. Many of our modern dramas have been intentionally made prosaic, in the vain hope of rendering them thus fit for the stage. Some, it is true, have received as much of ornament as a vulgar fancy could bestow on them, but such ornament has commonly proved as incongruous as it was tawdry. Beauty is a manifold thing, and that form of it which abounds in Sir Henry Taylor's plays, and chiefly in "Edwin the Fair," is never felt to be undramatic, because it is that serious beauty of emotion, ima- gination, and thought which gives pathos to the fields of human life, and without a share in which character would be but super- ficially human. In them the passages of beauty are never bright patches,—all is harmonised; to no character is attributed what could not naturally have come from it ; and where reflection might otherwise seem in excess, the balance is redressed by graphic cir- cumstances, movement, humorous incident, and ever-present observation. Among the chief elements of beauty in these dramas are two, both of which eminently contribute to dramatic effect,—a metre always harmonious and vigorous, yet ever vary- ing; and a diction the charm of which is, not that it colours everything, a merit to which many of our recent poets seem willing to sacrifice all others, but that, like clear air, it allows reality to shine plainly through it. The latter order of diction is the higher one just in proportion as it is the less ostentatious one ; but it can be fully appreciated only by readers who com- bine cultivated discernment with a natural poetic sensibility unsophisticated and unexhausted.