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partly, and perhaps still more, by the superior fitness of any one phase of the character for the purpose he has in view, or the development of his own peculiar powers. In this case, three interpretations present themselves. The first, which has little historical or moral probability, and offers little attraction to the artist, is, that Dunstan was a hypocrite, seeking by show of piety to compass some ambitious end, or win the applause of the vulgar. Undoubted hypocrites history assuredly presents us with – as where the ecclesiastical magnate degenerates into the merely secular prince. There have been luxurious and criminal popes and cardinals, intriguing bishops and lordly abbots, whom the most charitable of men, and the most pious of Catholics, must pronounce to have been utterly insincere in their professions of piety. But a hypocrite who starves and scourges himself – who digs a damp hole in the earth, and lives in it – seems to us a mere creature of the imagination. Such men, at all events, either begin or end with fanaticism. The second and more usual interpretation is, that Dunstan was a veritable enthusiast, and a genuine churchman after the order of Hildebrand, capable, perhaps, of practising deceit or cruelty for his great purpose, but entirely devoted to that purpose – one of those men who sincerely believe that the salvation of the world and the predominance of their order are inseparably combined. There would be no error in supposing a certain mixture of pride and ambition. Nor, in following this interpretation, would there be any great violation of probability in attributing to Dunstan, though he lived in so rude an age, all those arguments by which the philosopher-priest is accustomed to uphold the domination of his order. The thinking men of every age more nearly resemble each other in these great lines of thought and argument, than is generally supposed. The third interpretation is that which the historical student would probably favour. It is that Dunstan was, in truth, partially insane– a man of fervent zeal, and of great natural powers, but of diseased mind. The very ability and knowledge which he possessed, combined with the strange forms which his asceticism took, lead to this supposition. Such men, we know, exist, and sometimes pass through a long career before they are accurately understood. Exhibiting itself in the form of fanaticism, and in a most ignorant and superstitious age, a partial insanity might easily escape detection, or even add to the reputation of the saint.

      This last is the rendering of the character which Mr Taylor has selected. It is evidently the most difficult to treat. Perhaps the difficulty and novelty of the task it presented, as well as its greater fidelity to history, induced him to accept this interpretation. That second and more popular one which we have mentioned would appear, to a mind like Mr Taylor's, too facile and too trite. Any high-churchman of almost any age – any bishop, if you inflate the lawn sleeves, or even any young curate, whose mind dwells too intensely on the power of the keys– would present the rudiments of the character. However that may be, Mr Taylor undertook the bold and difficult task of depicting the strong, shrewd, fervent mind, saint and politician both, but acting with the wild and irregular force of insanity. How, we may ask ourselves, would such a mind display itself? Not, we way be sure, in a tissue of weakness or of wildness. We should often see the ingenious reasoner, more cunning than wise, the subtle politician, or even the deep moraliser upon human life; but whenever the fatal chords were touched – the priestly power, the priestly mission, the intercourse with the world of spirits – there we should see symptoms of insanity and delusion. Such is the character which Mr Taylor has portrayed.

      Earl Leolf, calm and intelligent, and the perfect gentleman (those who remember the play will feel the truth of this last expression,) gives us at the very commencement the necessary explanation —

      "Leolf. How found you the mid-counties?

      Athulf. Oh! monk-ridden;

      Raving of Dunstan.

      Leolf. 'Tis a raving time:

      Mad monks, mad peasants; Dunstan is not sane,

      And madness that doth least declare itself

      Endangers most, and ever most infects

      The unsound many. See where stands the man,

      And where this people: thus compute the peril

      To one and all. When force and cunning meet

      Upon the confines of one cloudy mind,

      When ignorance and knowledge halve the mass,

      When night and day stand at an equinox,

      Then storms are rife."

      No justice, it is plain, can be done to Mr Taylor's drama, unless the intimation here given us be kept in view. Yet we suspect, from the remarks sometimes made upon this play, that it has been overlooked, or not sufficiently attended to. Passages have been censured as crude or extravagant which, in themselves, could be no otherwise, since they were intended to portray this half-latent and half-revealed insanity. The arrogance of Dunstan, and his communings with the spiritual world, not often have the air of sublimity, for they arise from the disorder and hallucination of his mind. When he tells the Queen Mother not to sit in his presence, as well as when he boasts of his intercourse with angels and demons, we see the workings of a perturbed spirit: —

      "Queen Mother. Father, I am faint,

      For a strange terror seized me by the way.

      I pray you let me sit.

      Dunstan. I say, forbear!

      Thou art in a Presence that thou wot'st not of,

      Wherein no mortal may presume to sit.

      If stand thou canst not, kneel.

      (She falls on her knees.)

      Queen Mother. Oh, merciful Heaven'

      Oh, sinner that I am!

      Dunstan. Dismiss thy fears;

      Thine errand is acceptable to Him

      Who rules the hour, and thou art safer here

      Than in thy palace. Quake not, but be calm,

      And tell me of the wretched king, thy son.

      This black, incestuous, unnatural love

      Of his blood-relative – yea, worse, a seed

      That ever was at enmity with God —

      His cousin of the house of Antichrist!

      It is as I surmised?

      Queen Mother. Alas! lost boy!

      Dunstan. Yes, lost for time and for eternity,

      If he should wed her. But that shall not be.

      Something more lofty than a boy's wild love

      Governs the course of kingdoms. From beneath

      This arching umbrage step aside; look up;

      The alphabet of Heaven is o'er thy head,

      The starry literal multitude. To few,

      And not in mercy, is it given to read

      The mixed celestial cipher."

      How skilfully the last passage awakes in the reader a feeling of sympathy with Dunstan! When he has given his instructions to the Queen Mother, the scene closes thus: —

      "Queen Mother. Oh, man of God!

      Command me always.

      Dunstan. Hist! I hear a spirit!

      Another – and a third. They're trooping up.

      Queen Mother. St Magnus shield us!

      Dunstan. Thou art safe; but go;

      The wood will soon be populous with spirits.

      The path thou cam'st retread. Who laughs in the air?"

      Dunstan believes all along that he is marked out from the ordinary roll of men – that he has a peculiar intercourse with, and a peculiar mission from, Heaven; but he nevertheless practises on the credulity of others. This mixture of superstition and cunning does not need insanity to explain, but it is seen here in very appropriate company. He says to Grumo —

      "Go,

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