And though they leave us not the men we were,
Yet they do leave us.

With the admirable passages that follow.

The delicate touches, with which Elena is made to depict her own character, move us more than Artevelde's most beautiful description of Adriana.

I have been much unfortunate, my lord,

I would not love again.

Shakspeare could not mend the collocation of those words.

When he is absent I am full of thought,
And fruitful in expression inwardly,

And fresh, and free, and cordial, is the flow

Of my ideal and unheard discourse,
Calling him in my heart endearing names,
Familiarly fearless. But alas!

No sooner is he present than my thoughts

Are breathless and bewitched, and stunted so
In force and freedom, that I ask myself
Whether I think at all, or feel, or live,
So senseless am I.

Would that I were merry!

Mirth have I valued not before; but now
What would I give to be the laughing front
Of gay imaginations ever bright,

As commonly they have, susceptible
Of all impressions, lavish most their love
Upon the blithe and sportive, and on such

As yield their want, and chase their sad excess,
With jocund salutations, nimble talk,

And buoyant bearing.

All herself is in the line,

Which is not nothing, though I prize it not.

And in her song,

Down lay in a nook my lady's brach.

This song I have heard quoted, and applied in such a way as to show that the profound meaning, so simply expressed, has some

times been understood.

See with what a strain of reflection Van Artevelde greets the news that makes sure his overthrow.

It is strange, yet true,

That doubtful knowledge travels with a speed
Miraculous, which certain cannot match;

I know not why, when this or that has chanced,

The smoke should come before the flash; yet 't is so.

The creative power of a soul of genius, is shown by bringing out the poetic sweetness of Van Artevelde, more and more, as the scene assumes a gloomier hue. The melancholy music of his speech penetrates the heart more and more up to the close.

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 dawned;
And the white tents, topping a low-ground fog,
Showed like a fleet becalmed.

At the close of the vision:

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 passed,

Elena, think not that I stand in need

Of false encouragement; I have my strength,
Which, though it lie not in the sanguine mood,
Will answer my occasions. To yourself,
Though to none other, I at times present

The gloomiest thoughts that gloomy truths inspire,
Because I love you. But I need no prop!
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.

Lo, now! you are angry

Because I try to cheer you.

VAN ARTEVELDE.

No, my love,

Not angry; that I never was with you;
But as I deal not falsely with my own,

So would I wish the heart of her I love,
To be both true and brave; 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.

In the last scenes:

CECILE.

She will be better soon, my lord.

VAN ARTEVELDE.

Say worse;

"T is better for her to be thus bereft.

One other kiss on that bewitching brow,

Pale hemisphere of charms. Unhappy girl!
The curse of beauty was upon thy birth,

Nor love bestowed a blessing. Fare thee well!

How clear his voice sounds at the very last.

The rumor ran that I was hurt to death,
And then they staggered. Lo! we're flying all!
Mount, mount, old man; at least let one be saved!
Roosdyk! Vauclaire! the gallant and the kind!
Who shall inscribe your merits on your tombs!
May mine tell nothing to the world but this:
That never did that prince or leader live,
Who had more loyal or more loving friends!
Let it be written that fidelity

Could go no farther. Mount, old friend, and fly!

With

VAN RYK.

you, my lord, not else. A fear-struck throng, Comes rushing from Mount Dorre. Sir, cross the bridge.

ARTEVELDE.

The bridge! my soul abhors--but cross it thou;

And take this token to my love, Van Ryk;

Fly, for my sake in hers, and take her hence!

It is my last command. See her conveyed

To Ghent by Olsen, or what safer road

Thy prudence shall descry. This do, Van Ryk.

Lo! now they pour upon us like a flood!

Thou that didst never disobey me yet

This last good office render me. Begone!
Fly whilst the way is free.

What commanding sweetness in the utterance of the name, Van Ryk, and what a weight of tragedy in the broken sentence which speaks of the fatal bridge. These are the things that actors rarely give us, the very passages to which it would be their voca ion to do justice; saying out those tones we divine from the order of the words.

Yet Talma's Pas encore set itself to music in the mind of the

hearer; and Zara, you weep, was so spoken as to melt the whole French nation into that one moment.

Elena's sob of anguish :

Arouse yourself, sweet lady: fly with me,

I pray you hear; it was his last command
That I should take you hence to Ghent by Olsen.

In this place Miss Kemble alone would have had force of passion to represent her, who

Flung that long funereal note

Into the upper sky?

Though her acting was not refined enough by intellect and culture for the more delicate lineaments of the character. She also would have given its expression to the unintelligent, broken-hearted,

I cannot go on foot.

The body-yes, that temple could be so deserted by its god, that men could call it so! That form so instinct with rich gifts, that baseness and sloth seemed mere names in its atmosphere, could lie on the earth as unable to vindicate its rights, as any other clod. The exclamation of Elena, better bespoke the trag. edy of this fact, than any eulogium of a common observer, though that of Burgundy is fitly worded.