Depth and truthfulness of dramatic feeling can only be found where the work is in reality, as well as in arbitrary construction, dramatic; that is, where character and action are alike evolved out of the depths of humanity by the true dramatic genius, and embodied in practical exhibition by that peculiar and instinctive tact which constitutes the dramatic talent. Where, instead of this process of evolution and embodying, we find merely a process of philosophical or poetical Description, the dramatic form of composition fails to impart pathos, because it fails to convey an impression of reality: a close affinity to life is professed, and the pledge is not redeemed.

From this time nothing succeeds in the Flemish • camp. Everything appears to fulfil the threat of Father John

After strange women them that went astray
God never prosper'd in the olden time,

Nor will He bless them now.

Many of

Van den Bosch, the ablest of Artevelde's lieutenants, is defeated, and receives a mortal wound. the Flemish towns transfer their allegiance to their former lord; and even the name of Artevelde no longer carries its old magic,-a rumour having gone abroad that sorcery has subjected him to the spells of a French spy. The English king sends no aid: no hope remains but in a successful battle. Gathering together all his forces, Artevelde marches to the eastern bank of the lower Lis, to meet the French army and prevent them from passing the river.

VOL. I

U

At

a very early hour in the morning he leaves his

tent

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 dawn'd;
And the white tents topping a low ground-fog
Show'd like a fleet becalm'd. I wander'd 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.

There he has had a vision of his dead wife.

describes it to Elena

He thus

She appear'd

In white, as when I saw her last, laid out

After her death; suspended in the air

She seem'd, and o'er her breast her arms were cross'd;
Her feet were drawn together, pointing downwards,

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 remain'd, 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

Peel'd off upon the water, which, as she vanish'd,
Appear'd all blood, and swell'd and welter'd 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 pass'd,
And I perceived the river and the bridge,

The mottled sky and horizontal moon,

The distant camp, and all things as they were.

Before the battle begins Artevelde is informed that a foreign knight, with his visor closed, demands to see him. It is Sir Fleureant of Heurlée. On his former visit to the camp, when detected in a treasonable correspondence, he had been condemned to death; but his life had been spared at Elena's fatal intercession. He had broken his parole, escaped to the French camp, and there-half in despair and half in ambition -engaged himself to assassinate the Regent. While Artevelde is passing the bridge of the vision he is stabbed by the false knight. For a time he conceals his wound, and the battle rages with various fortune. His hosts are at last driven back in confusion; and Artevelde, making a desperate effort to rally them, is swept back towards the fatal bridge, and suffocated in the crowd, the bridge giving way.

In the last scene Elena kneels on the bloody battlefield beside the body of Artevelde; while Van Ryk, an old Flemish captain, stands at the other side. He urges her to flight; but she refuses to depart without the body. The Duke of Burgundy then appears, and Sir Fleureant approaches the group as the young king and his royal uncles gather around the body, and clumsily endeavours to vindicate the fair fame of Elena. She leaps to her feet, and snatching Artevelde's dagger, strikes it through the heart of his murderer. The guards rush in; and in the attempt to take her and Van Ryk prisoners, both are slain. The Duke of Bourbon gives orders that Elena shall receive Christian burial, but that the body of Artevelde shall be

hung upon a tree, in the sight of the army.

Duke of Burgundy refuses to war with the dead

It were not for our honour, nor the king's,
To use it so. Dire rebel though he was,
Yet with a noble nature and great gifts
Was he endow'd,-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 stirr'd and lifted him to high attempts.
So prompt and capable, and yet so calm,
He nothing lack'd in sovereignty but the right,
Nothing in soldiership except good fortune.
Wherefore, with honour lay him in his grave,
And thereby shall increase of honour come
Unto their arms who vanquish'd one so wise,
So valiant, so renown'd. Sirs, pass we on,

And let the bodies follow us on biers.
Wolf of the weald and yellow-footed kite,
Enough is spread for you of meaner prey;
Other interment than your maws afford
Is due to these. At Courtray we shall sleep,
And there I'll see them buried side by side.

The

VI

PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE

PART II

WERE a critic to describe Philip van Artevelde in one word, he might say it was a solid work. In its extreme thoughtfulness it preserves the better characteristics of our age; but those who have only been in the habit of reading poetry as a trivial amusement, or a relaxation from study, and who are only familiar with works produced to gratify the taste of the moment, to stimulate the jaded appetite, to flatter an abject love of the mere ornaments of poetry, or an effeminate dependence on its sensual part,-all those persons must have at first felt surprised at finding themselves confronted with a work so substantial in its materials, so manly in its structure, so severe in its style, and so gravely impressive in spirit and general tendency, as this remarkable work. It is full of the philosophy of practical life; and in this respect it is analogous to many productions of an age which has occupied. itself with the philosophy of all subjects. It is,