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Nieuverkerchen! – what, then, do we sleep?

      Are none of you awake? – and as for me,

      The world says Philip is a famous man —

      What is there woman will not love, so taught?

      Ho! Ellert! by your leave though, you must wake.

      (Enter an officer.)

      Have me a gallows built upon the mount,

      And let Van Kortz be hung at break of day."

      It is worth noticing, as a characteristic trait, that Philip Van Artevelde speaks more like the patriot, harangues more on the cause of freedom, now that he is Regent of Flanders, opposed to the feudal nobility, and to the monarchy of France, and soliciting aid from England, than when he headed the people of Ghent, strong only in their own love of independence. "Bear in mind," he says, answering the herald who brings a hostile message from France and Burgundy —

      "Bear in mind

      Against what rule my father and myself

      Have been insurgent: whom did we supplant?

      There was a time, so ancient records tell,

      There were communities, scarce known by name

      In these degenerate days, but once far famed,

      Where liberty and justice, hand in hand,

      Ordered the common weal; where great men grew

      Up to their natural eminence, and none,

      Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great.

      … But now, I ask,

      Where is there on God's earth that polity

      Which it is not, by consequence converse,

      A treason against nature to uphold?

      Whom may we now call free? whom great? whom wise?

      Whom innocent? – the free are only they

      Whom power makes free to execute all ills

      Their hearts imagine; they alone are great

      Whose passions nurse them from their cradles up

      In luxury and lewdness, – whom to see

      Is to despise, whose aspects put to scorn

      Their station's eminence…

      … What then remains

      But in the cause of nature to stand forth,

      And turn this frame of things the right side up?

      For this the hour is come, the sword is drawn,

      And tell your masters vainly they resist."

      We regret to be compelled to garble in our extract so fine a passage of writing. Meanwhile our patriot Regent sends Father John to England to solicit aid – most assuredly not to overthrow feudalism, but to support the Regent against France. His ambition is dragging, willingly or unwillingly, in the old rut of politics. When Father John returns from this embassy, he is scandalised at the union formed between Artevelde and Elena. Here, too, is another sad descent. Our hero has to hear rebuke, and, with a half-confession, submit to be told by the good friar of his "sins." He answers bravely, yet with a consciousness that he stands not where he did, and cannot challenge the same respect from the friar that he could formerly have done.

      "Artev. You, Father John,

      I blame not, nor myself will justify;

      But call my weakness what you will, the time

      Is past for reparation. Now to cast off

      The partner of my sin were further sin;

      'Twere with her first to sin, and then against her.

      And for the army, if their trust in me

      Be sliding, let it go: I know my course;

      And be it armies, cities, people, priests,

      That quarrel with my love – wise men or fools,

      Friends, foes, or factions – they may swear their oaths,

      And make their murmur – rave and fret and fear,

      Suspect, admonish – they but waste their rage,

      Their wits, their words, their counsel: here I stand,

      Upon the deep foundations of my faith

      To this fair outcast plighted; and the storm

      That princes from their palaces shake out,

      Though it should turn and head me, should not strain

      The seeming silken texture of this tie."

      And now disaster follows disaster; town after town manifests symptoms of treachery to his cause. His temper no longer retains its wonted calmness, and the quick glance and rapid government of affairs seems about to desert him. Note this little trait: —

      "Artev. Whither away, Vauclaire?

      Vauclaire. You'll wish, my lord, to have the scouts, and others

      That are informed, before you.

      Artev. 'Twere well."

      It is something new that another should anticipate the necessary orders to be given. The decisive battle approaches, and is fought. This time it is lost. Our hero does not even fall in the field; an assassin stabs him in the back. The career of Artevelde ends thus; and that public cause with which his life was connected has at the same time an inglorious termination: "the wheel has come full circle."

      The catastrophe is brought about by Sir Fleureant of Heurlée. This man's character undergoes, in the course of the drama, a complete transformation. We do not say that the change is unnatural, or that it is not accounted for; but the circumstances which bring it about are only vaguely and incidentally narrated, so that the reader is not prepared for this change. A gay, thoughtless, reckless young, knight, who rather gains upon us at his first introduction, is converted into a dark, revengeful assassin. It would, we think, have improved the effect of the plot, if we had been able to trace out more distinctly the workings of the mind of one who was destined to take so prominent a part in the drama.

      The character of Lestovet is admirably sustained, and is manifestly a favourite with the author. But we must now break away from Philip Van Artevelde, to notice the other dramas of Mr Taylor. Edwin the Fair next claims our attention. Here also we shall make no quotations merely for the sake of their beauty; and we shall limit ourselves to an analysis of the principal character, Dunstan, on which, perhaps, a word or two of explanation may not be superfluous.

      Let us suppose a dramatic writer sitting down before such a character as this of Dunstan, and contemplating the various aspects it assumes, with the view of selecting one for the subject of his portraiture. In the first place, he is aware that, although, as a historical student, he may, and perhaps must, continue to doubt as to the real character of this man – how much is to be given to pride, to folly, to fanaticism, to genuine piety, or to the love of power – yet that, the moment he assumes the office of dramatic poet, he must throw all doubt entirely aside. The student of history may hesitate to the last; the poet is presumed to have from the beginning the clearest insight into the recesses of the mind, and the most unquestionable authority for all that he asserts. A sort of mimic omniscience is ascribed to the poet. Has he not been gifted, from of old, with an inspiration, by means of which he sees the whole character and every thought of his hero, and depicts and reveals them to the world? To him doubt would be fatal. If he carries into his drama the spirit of historical criticism, he will raise the same spirit in his reader, and all faith in the imaginary creation he offers them is gone for ever. Manifest an error as this may be, we think we could mention some instances, both in the drama and the novel, in which it has been committed.

      But such a character as Dunstan's is left uncertain in the light of history, and our dramatist has to choose between uncertainties. He will be guided in his selection partly by what he esteems the preponderating

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