Beowulf. Pray! Pray! Are you a wench to chatter so?
Does not your tongue grow rigid in your head,
A corpse to bear that silence company?
Have you no death in you? Oh, say your prayers;
I will keep mourning in my ruined ears
The passing of his voice.
Act II, Scene 1

Beowulf. Do you think the Earth’s a thing that makes your flesh
Soft for the worms?—;the harvests lie asleep
Upon her bosom; she has reared the spring;
The seasons are her change of countenance;
She lives, and now for many thousand years
Hath ruled the toiling and the rest of men.
... She’ll judge.

Old Man. Do thou make known this matter to the Lord;
He will avenge.

Beowulf. The Lord! Oh, He’s above!
There’s something lying at the roots of things
I burrow for.
Act IV, Scene 1

Beowulf [his last speech, after Rufus has been
killed]. Yea, bear him through the woods like a gashed boar,
Present him dripping to your angry God;
He may not be implacable. In haste
Cloak the foul thing beneath the minster tower;
Heap soil on him....
... There are worms
About his darkness; I am satisfied.
End of Act V

The people of this drama are vigorous creatures, as sharply drawn and clear-cut as types, but very far from the merely typical. The poet has created, and not constructed, them; and each one possesses his own soul. Rufus is a credible villain, a man and not a monster. He can melt at the sight of filial piety, unbend to a jest, warm to affection. Anselm may stand as a figure which shall represent the insulted Church, but he is a very holy and gentle old priest. Philosopher and saint, he was, of course, historically studied; but he is, despite verisimilitude, an almost complete embodiment of the two qualities of our poet’s mind which make so rare a combination—;her religious temper and her philosophic intellect. Two short quotations from him may help to illustrate this:

Anselm. God gives His bread to children who are sweet
With golden faith; to thinkers and to men
Of striving reason He presents a stone.
. . . . .
Faith is the child’s gift, and Philosophy
The man’s achievement. Blessèd toil, to walk
Where babes are carried past on angel-wings.
... It is Philosophy
That knocks at Heaven’s gate: Faith finds the door
Wide open.
Act II, Scene 2

But of all the characters, one supposes Leofric to have engaged the poets’ affection most. He is a ‘mason’: which is to say he is the architect, sculptor, and builder all in one who was the medieval artist. It is evident that the poets had particular joy in imagining him, absorbed and happy in his real world of art, with the actual world as mere stuff for his modelling. If Leofric ever allows himself to be disturbed by the King’s greedy inroads, it is from no ‘political’ reason, but simply that the noisy hunters make such havoc of the woodland peace:

Leofric. ... A horn!
Methinks the forest hath another use
These precious hours of morning, when the world
Is at some process of its perfecting
’Twere well to learn the trick of. Wilfrith toils,
Tearing yon fibre from the ground a-sweat
With effort; while for me!—;my eyes are full;
I have no want; the world is excellent;
There is no prickle in the holly wrong.
How bossily it clusters!
... Oh do not think
We travel so untreasured in resource
We needs must earn the bread of every joy
By sweat of soul. If life’s a desert—;Ah!
There’s manna in the waste; it lies about,
And the wise idle soul is satisfied.
Act I, Scene 4

The motive of Canute the Great (1887) presents a curious difficulty. For if we are to accept the poet’s own statement of what she meant by the play (and it does seem as if she ought to have known), then we are forced to conclude that she attempted the impossible, and therefore failed. But one has the suspicion that she did not quite know what she meant by it—;which is not so impertinent as it sounds, and only means that her artistic instinct was stronger and truer in this case than her philosophy. For in the preface she declares that she is here dealing with the theory of evolution; and she elaborates an idea which, had it really operated as a motive force, would surely have paralysed her Muse and struck it dumb. Canute, however, is no paralytic: on the contrary, he has his creator’s vehement life and passion, at least for the first half of the drama. But in those scenes he is far enough from any abstract theory. Yet when his vitality flags, as it does sometimes, and when the play becomes, as a consequence, to that extent unsuccessful, the cause lies in a certain resemblance which the theme does bear to the poet’s definition of it. For it is possible to regard the character of Canute in the abstract as a transition between two ages and a link between two orders of civilization. That is, of course, the meaning which the poet saw in it—;when she was writing her preface. But in the process of making the drama the wise æsthetic impulse seized and worked upon something simpler, more definite, and more moving—;the potential conflict that exists everywhere and always among human creatures between their instincts and their reason. That, surely, is a tragic motive of universal validity; and it may precipitate at any moment, and at any stage of civilization, the revolt of the half-tamed instincts which is true stuff of tragedy, whether it be enacted within the small orbit of an individual soul or in the insane immensity of a world-war. So long as Canute is at grips with the rebel powers—;dramatized in his struggle with Edmund—;he is a great dramatic figure; but when his creator raises the conflict—;with his penitence for Edmund’s death—;to the plane of pure thought, the life goes out of him and he becomes but a type, though a very noble one, of spiritual struggle. Even at those moments, however, one may find passages where the æsthetic sense has subdued theory to itself with fine effect. Thus the poet has touched Canute’s love for Emma with symbolism, seeing her as the gentler and riper civilization into which Canute is adopted; and again, the wild Northern land of his origin, the elements which went to the making of his race, the secret compulsive urge of heredity, are embodied in the figure of a weird prophetess who is to him his other self, the incarnate spirit of those ancient forces. The speech which follows is made by Canute when he is recalling his first meeting with Emma. There are passages with her, love-scenes between the young sea-king and the mature queen, which are adroitly and boldly handled, and are drama in essence and in fact. But here, in a reverie, is the poet’s opportunity for putting her theory into a symbol: