LITMIR.BIZ

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heeds the weltering of the plangent wave, —

      These have not lived more undisturbed than I:

      But build not upon this; the swollen stream

      May shake the cottage of the mountaineer,

      And drive him forth; the seaman, roused at length,

      Leaps from his slumber on the wave-washed deck:

      And now the time comes fast when here, in Ghent,

      He who would live exempt from injuries

      Of armed men, must be himself in arms.

      This time is near for all, – nearer for me:

      I will not wait upon necessity,

      And leave myself no choice of vantage-ground,

      But rather meet the times where best I may,

      And mould and fashion them as best I can.

      Reflect then that I soon may be embarked

      In all the hazards of these troublesome times,

      And in your own free choice take or resign me.

      Adri. Oh, Artevelde, my choice is free no more."

      And now he is open to hear Van Den Bosch. That veteran in war and insurrection brings him news that the people are ready to elect him for their captain or ruler.

      "Artev. Good! when they come I'll speak to them.

      Van Den B.'Twere well.

      Canst learn to bear thee high amongst the commons?

      Canst thou be cruel? To be esteemed of them,

      Thou must not set more store by lives of men

      Than lives of larks in season.

      Artev. Be it so.

      I can do what is needful."

      The time of action is at hand. We now see Van Artevelde in a suit of armour; he is reclining on a window-seat in his own house, looking out upon the street. There is treason in the town; of those who flock to the market-place, some have already deserted his cause.

      "Artev. Not to be feared – Give me my sword! Go forth,

      And see what folk be these that throng the street. [Exit the page.

      Not to be feared is to be nothing here.

      And wherefore have I taken up this office,

      If I be nothing in it? There they go.

      (Shouts are heard.)

      Of them that pass my house some shout my name,

      But the most part pass silently; and once

      I heard the cry of 'Flanders and the Lion!'

      That cry again!

      Sir knights, ye drive me close upon the rocks,

      And of my cargo you're the vilest bales,

      So overboard with you! What, men of blood!

      Can the son better auspicate his arms

      Than by the slaying of who slew the father?

      Some blood may flow because that it needs must,

      But yours by choice – I'll slay you, and thank God.

      (Enter Van Den Bosch.)

      Van Den B. The common bell has rung! the knights are there;

      Thou must come instantly.

      Artev. I come, I come.

      Van Den B. Now, Master Philip, if thou miss thy way

      Through this affair we're lost. For Jesus' sake

      Be counselled now by me; have thou in mind —

      Artev. Go to, I need not counsel; I'm resolved.

      Take thou thy stand beside Sir Simon Bette,

      As I by Grutt; take note of all I do,

      And do thyself accordingly. Come on."

      They join the assembly; they take their stand each by one of the traitor knights; the debate on the proposal of the Earl proceeds; three hundred citizens are to be given up to him, and on this, and other conditions, peace is to be granted. Artevelde addresses the assembly, and then turning to these knights, he continues: —

      "Your pardon, sirs, again!

      (To Grutt and Bette.)

      You are the pickers and the choosers here,

      And doubtless you're all safe, ye think – ha! ha!

      But we have picked and chosen, too, sir knights —

      What was the law for I made yesterday —

      What! is it you that would deliver up

      Three hundred citizens to certain death?

      Ho! Van Den Bosch! have at these traitors – ha! —

      (Stabs Grutt, who falls.)

      Van Den B. Die, treasonable dog! —

      (Stabs Bette.)"

      He can do "what is needful." It is admirable; everything that is said and done is admirable; but an involuntary suspicion at times creeps into the mind, that such a man as Philip Van Artevelde never lived, or could live. No man could move along such a line of enterprise with such a weight of reflection on all the springs of action. We see the calm statesman at the head of a tumultuary movement; and the meditative man, to whom revenge is the poorest of our passions, striking a blow from which an old warrior might shrink. Could a man be really impelled along a path of life like this by passions that are admitted, indeed, into the bosom, but watched like prisoners? The suspicion, we say, creeps involuntarily into the mind; but we will not entertain it – we will not yield to it. That the reflective and energetic characters are, in certain degrees, combined together, we all know; and who shall say within what degrees only this is possible? And why may not an ideal perfection of this kind be portrayed as well as an ideal patriot, or an ideal monk, or an ideal warrior? We throw the suspicion aside, and continue our analysis.

      There is a passage which is often quoted for its great beauty: we quote it also for its great appropriateness. Philip Van Artevelde is master of the city; he is contemplating it at night-time from the tower of St Nicholas. The reflection here put into the mouth of the anxious captain brings back to us, in the midst of war and the cares of government, the meditative man: —

      "There lies a sleeping city. God of dreams!

      What an unreal and fantastic world

      Is going on below!

      Within the sweep of yon encircling wall

      How many a large creation of the night,

      Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea,

      Peopled with busy transitory groups,

      Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd!"

      The famous scene, which has for its place the summit of this tower, between Artevelde and Van Den Bosch, is fresh in the recollection of every reader: we must pass it by, and the admirable and pathetic description of the famine that is raging in Ghent, and proceed to the last act of this part of the drama. Artevelde has stimulated the citizens to make one brave effort more – to sally from the walls, and meet the Earl in battle before Bruges. He has arranged in order of battle his lean and famine-stricken, but desperate little army. He knows the extreme peril in which they stand: no food in the camp; fearful odds to be encountered; yet the only hope lying in immediate battle. He does not delude himself for a moment; he sees the danger clear, and entertains it with a certain sarcastic levity. He does not hope, but he acts as if he did. He is not a man given to hope, but he has a tempered despondency, which sits with him at the council-board, and rides with him to the field, and which he compels to do the services of hope.

      "Artev.

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