LITMIR.BIZ

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I would to God

      The sun might not go down upon us here

      Without a battle fought!

      Van Den B. If so it should,

      We pass a perilous night,

      And wake a wasted few the morrow morn.

      Van Muck. We have a supper left.

      Artev. My lady's page,

      If he got ne'er a better, would be wroth,

      And burn in effigy my lady's steward.

      Van Den B. We'll hope the best;

      But if there be a knave in power unhanged,

      And in his head a grain of sense undrowned,

      He'll be their caution not to —

      Artev. Van Den Bosch,

      Talk we of battle and survey the field,

      For I will fight."

      We like this last expression. What in another man would have been a mere petulance, is in Artevelde an assumed confidence – consciously assumed, as the only tone of mind in which to pass through the present crisis. Nor can we omit to notice the following passage, which, to our apprehension, is very characteristic of our contemplative politician and warrior; it shows the sardonic vein running through his grave and serious thoughts: —

      Art. (to Van Ryk.) I tell thee, eat,

      Eat and be fresh. I'll send a priest to shrive thee.

      Van Muck, thou tak'st small comfort in thy prayers,

      Put thou thy muzzle to yon tub of wine."

      The battle is fought and a victory won. Justice is executed with stern and considerate resolve on the villains of the piece, and we leave Van Artevelde triumphant in his great contest, and happy in the love of Adriana.

      The subordinate characters who are introduced into this first part of the drama, we have no space to examine minutely. The canvass is well filled, though the chief figure stands forward with due prominence. Adriana is all that an amiable and loving woman should be. The lighter-hearted Clara is intended as a sort of contrast and relief. Her levity and wit are not always graceful; they are not so in the early scene where she jests with the page: afterwards, when in presence of her lover, she has a fitter and more genial subject for her playful wit, and succeeds much better. In the course of the drama, when the famine is raging in Ghent, she appears as the true sister of Philip Van Artevelde. At her first introduction she is somewhat too hoydenish for the mistress of the noble D'Arlon. D'Arlon is all that a knight should be, and Gilbert Matthew is a consummate villain.

      Between the first and second parts is a poem in rhyme, called "The Lay of Elena." This introduces us to the lady who is to be the heroine of the second part of the drama. All the information it gives, might, we think, have been better conveyed in a few lines of blank verse, added to that vindication of herself which Elena pours forth in the first act, when Sir Fleureant of Heurlée comes to reclaim her on the part of the Duke of Bourbon. This poem is no favourite of ours; but the worst compliment we would pay it implies, in one point of view, a certain fitness and propriety – we were glad to return to the blank verse of our author, in which we find both more music and more pathos than in these rhymes.

      If we are tempted to suspect, whilst reading the first part of this drama, that the character of Philip Van Artevelde combines in a quite ideal perfection the man of thought with the man of action, we, at all events, cannot accuse the author, in this second part, of representing an ideal or superhuman happiness as the result of this perfect combination. It is a very truthful sad-coloured destiny that he portrays. The gloomy passionate sunset of life has been a favourite subject with poets; but what other author has chosen the clouded afternoon of life, the cheerless twilight, and the sun setting behind cold and dark clouds? It was a bold attempt. It has been successfully achieved. But no amount of talent legitimately expended on it could make this second part as attractive as the first. When the heroic man has accomplished his heroic action, life assumes to him, more than to any other, a most ordinary aspect: his later years bring dwarfish hopes and projects, or none at all; they bring desires no longer "gay," and welcomed only for such poor life as they may have in them. Philip Van Artevelde is now the Regent of Flanders, and, like other regents, has to hold his own: Adriana he has lost; her place is supplied by one still fair but faded, and who, though she deserved a better fate, must still be described as lately the mistress of the Duke of Bourbon. It is the hero still, but he has descended into the commonplace of courts and politics.

      That it is the same Philip Van Artevelde we are in company with, the manner in which he enters into this new love will abundantly testify. He has been describing to Elena his former wife, Adriana. The description is very beautiful and touching. He then proceeds with his wooing thus: —

      "Artev. … Well, well – she's gone,

      And I have tamed my sorrow. Pain and grief

      Are transitory things no less than joy,

      And though they leave us not the men we were,

      Yet they do leave us. You behold me here

      A man bereaved, with something of a blight

      Upon the early blossoms of his life

      And its first verdure, having not the less

      A living root, drawing from the earth

      Its vital juices, from the air its powers:

      And surely as man's health and strength are whole,

      His appetites regerminate, his heart

      Reopens, and his objects and desires

      Shoot up renewed. What blank I found before me,

      From what is said you partly may surmise;

      How I have hoped to fill it, may I tell?

      Elena. I fear, my lord, that cannot be.

      Artev. Indeed!

      Then am I doubly hopeless…

      Elena. I said I feared another could not fill

      The place of her you lost, being so fair

      And perfect as you give her out."

      In fine, Elena is conquered, or rather led to confess a conquest already achieved.

      "Elena. I cannot – no —

      I cannot give you what you've had so long;

      Nor need I tell you what you know so well.

      I must be gone.

      Artev. Nay, sweetest, why these tears?

      Elena. No, let me go – I cannot tell – no – no —

      I want to be alone —

      Oh! Artevelde, for God's love let me go! [Exit.

      Artev. (after a pause.) The night is far advanced upon the morrow,

      – Yes, I have wasted half a summer's night.

      Was it well spent? Successfully it was.

      How little flattering is a woman's love!

      Worth to the heart, come how it may, a world;

      Worth to men's measures of their own deserts,

      If weighed in wisdom's balance, merely nothing.

      The few hours left are precious – who is there?

      Ho! Nieuverkerchen! – when we think upon it,

      How little flattering is a woman's love!

      Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest

      And propped with most advantage; outward grace

      Nor inward light is needful; day by day

      Men wanting both are mated with the best

      And loftiest

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