Auf.

Thou speak'st the truth: it had not.

Oh, for that time again! propitious gods,

If you will bless me, grant it! Know for that,
For that dear purpose, I have now proposed

Thou should'st return. I pray thee, Marcius, do it:
And we shall meet again on nobler terms.

Cor. Till I have cleared my honour in your council,
And proved before them all, to thy confusion,
The falsehood of thy charge; as soon in battle
I would before thee fly, and howl for mercy,
As quit the station they 've assigned me here.

Auf. Thou canst not hope acquittal from the Volscians.
Cor. I do-nay, more, expect their approbation,

Their thanks. I will obtain them such a peace

As thou durst never ask; a perfect union

Of their whole nation with Imperial Rome,

In all her privileges, all her rights;

By the just gods, I will-What would'st thou more?

Auf. What would I more, proud Roman! This I wouldFire the cursed forest, where these Roman wolves

Haunt and infest their nobler neighbours round them;
Extirpate from the bosom of this land

A false, perfidious people, who, beneath
The mask of freedom, are a combination

Against the liberty of human kind,

The genuine seed of outlaws and of robbers.

Cor. The seed of gods!-'Tis not for thee, vain boaster'Tis not for such as thou-so often spared

By her victorious sword, to speak of Rome,

But with respect, and awful veneration.

Whate'er her blots, whate'er her giddy factions,

There is more virtue in one single year

Of Roman story, than your Volscian annals

Can boast through all their creeping dark duration.
Auf. I thank thy rage. This full displays the traitor.
Cor. Traitor!-How now!

Auf.

Cor.

Ah, traitor, Marcius.

Marcius!

Auf. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius: dost thou think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stolen name,

BUBBLES OF THE DAY.

Coriolanus, in Corioli ?

You lords and heads o' the state, perfidiously
He has betrayed your business, and given up,
For certain drops of salt, your city Rome,—
I say, your city.—to his wife and mother;
Breaking his oath and resolution, like
A twist of rotten silk; never admitting
Counsel o' the war; but at his nurse's tears
He whined and roared away your victory,
That pages blushed at him, and men of heart
Looked wondering at each other.

Cor.

Hear'st thou, Mars?

Auf. Name not the god, thou boy of tears.
Cor. Measureless liar! thou hast made my heart

Too great for what contains it.-Boy!

Cut me to pieces, Volscians; men and lads,

Stain all your edges on me.-Boy ;

If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there
That like an eagle in a dovecot, I
Fluttered your Volscians in Corioli !
Alone I did it :-Boy!-But let us part,
Lest my rash hand should do a hasty deed
My cooler thought forbids.

Auf.

I court

The worst thy sword can do; while thou from me
Hast nothing to expect but sore destruction.

Quit then this hostile camp: once more I tell thee,
Thou art not here one single hour in safety.

Cor. Oh, that I had thee in the field,

With six Aufidiuses or more, thy tribe,
To use the lawful sword.

247.

BUBBLES OF THE DAY.

Sir Phenix Clearcake. I come with a petition to you-a petition, not parliamentary, but charitable. We propose, my lord, a fancy fair in Guildhall; its object so benevolent, and more than that, so respectable.

Lord Skindeep. Benevolence and respectability! Of course, I'm with you. Well, the precise object?

Sir P. It is to remove a stain-a very great stain—from the city; to give an air of maiden beauty to a most venerable institution; to exercise a renovating taste at a most inconsiderable outlay; to call up, as it were, the snowy beauty of Greece in the coal-smoke atmosphere of London; in a word, my lord-but as yet 'tis a profound

secret-it is to paint St. Paul's! To give it a virgin outside-to make it so truly respectable.

Lord S. A gigantic effort!

Sir P. The fancy fair will be on a most comprehensive and philanthropic scale. Every alderman takes a stall; and to give you an idea of the enthusiasm of the city-but this also is a secret—the Lady Mayoress has been up three nights making pincushions.

Lord S. But you don't want me to take a stall-to sell pincushions ?

Sir P. Certainly not, my lord. And yet your philanthropic speeches in the house, my lord, convince me that, to obtain a certain good, you would sell anything.

Lord S. Well, well; command me in any way; benevolence is my foible. (Enter CAPT. SMOKE.)

Captain Smoke. We are about to start a company to take on lease Mount Vesuvius for the manufacture of lucifer matches.

Sir P. A stupendous speculation! I should say that, when its countless advantages are duly numbered, it will be found a certain wheel of fortune to the enlightened capitalist.

Smoke. Now, sir, if you would but take the chair at the first meeting (Aside to Chatham: We shall make it all right about the shares)-if you would but speak for two or three hours on the social improvement conferred by the lucifer-match, with the monopoly of sulphur secured to the company-a monopoly which will suffer no man, woman, or child to strike a light without our permission.

Chatham. Truly, sir, in such a cause, to such an auditory-I fear my eloquence.

Smoke. Sir, if you would speak well anywhere, there's nothing like first grinding your eloquence on a mixed meeting. Depend upon it, if you can only manage a little humbug with a mob, it gives you great confidence for another place.

Lord Skin. Smoke, never say humbug; it's coarse.

Sir P. And not respectable.

Smoke. Pardon me, my lord, it was coarse. But the fact is, humbug has received such high patronage, that now it's quite classic.

Chat. But why not embark his lordship in the lucifer question? Smoke. I can't; I have his lordship in three companies already. Three. First, there's a company-half a million capital-for extracting civet from assafoetida. The second is a company for a trip all round the world. We propose to hire a three-decker of the lords of the Admiralty, and fit her up with every accommodation for families. We've already advertised for wet-nurses and maids of all work.

Sir P. A magnificent project! And then the fittings up will be so respectable. A delightful billiard-table in the wardroom; with, for the humbler classes, skittles on the orlop-deck. Swings and

1

PHILIP VAN ARTEVElde.

249

archery for the ladies, trap-ball and cricket for the children, whilst the marine sportsman will find the stock of gulls unlimited. Weippert's quadrille band is engaged, and

Smoke. For the convenience of lovers, the ship will carry a par

son.

Chat. And the object?

Smoke. Pleasure and education. At every new country we shall drop anchor for at least a week, that the children may go to school and learn the language. The trip must answer: 'twill occupy only three years, and we've forgotten nothing to make it delightful-nothing from hot rolls to cork jackets.

Brown. And now, sir, the third venture?

Smoke. That, sir, is a company to buy the Serpentine River for a Grand Junction Temperance Cemetery.

Brown. What! so many watery graves?

Smoke. Yes, sir, with floating tombstones. Here's the prospectus. Look here; surmounted by a hyacinth-the very emblem of temperance-a hyacinth flowering in the limpid flood. Now, if you don't feel equal to the lucifers-I know his lordship's goodness-he'll give you up the cemetery. (Aside to Chatham: A family vault as a bonus to the chairman.)

Sir P. What a beautiful subject for a speech! Water lilies and aquatic plants gemming the translucent crystal, shells of rainbow brightness, a constant supply of gold and silver fish, with the right of angling secured to shareholders. The extent of the river being necessarily limited, will render lying there so select, so very respectable.. JERROLD.

PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE.

Philip Van Artevelde was the son of Jacob or Jacques Artevelde, a brewer of Ghent, and a popular leader of his fellow-citizens in the fourteenth century. His son was burgomaster of the town; and when civil war broke out between Ghent and Bruges, he led the army of the citizens. The following extract is from the play of Philip Van Artevelde, by SIR HENRY TAYLOR; and it describes an interview between Philip and one of his colleagues. Philip was afterwards killed in the battle of Rosbeke, in 1382.

[The platform at the top of the steeple of St. Nicholas's Church, Ghent. Time, daybreak.]

Artevelde (alone). I have not slept. I am to blame for that.

Long vigils, joined with scant and meagre food,

Must needs impair that promptitude of mind

And cheerfulness of spirit which in him

Who leads a multitude is past all price.

I think I could redeem an hour's repose
Out of the night that I have squandered yet.
The breezes, launched upon their early voyage,
Play with a pleasing freshness on my face.
I will enfold my cloak about my limbs

And lie where I shall front them;-here, I think.

If this were over-blessèd be the calm
That comes to me at last! A friend in need
Is nature to us, that, when all is spent,
Brings slumber-bountifully-whereupon
We e give her sleepy welcome-if all this
Were honourably over-Adriana-

[He lies down.

[Falls asleep, but starts up almost instantly.

I heard a hoof, a horse's hoof, I'll swear,

Upon the road from Bruges,- -or did I dream?
No; 'tis the gallop of a horse at speed.

Van den Bosch (without). What ho! Van Artevelde
Artevelde.

Who calls?

A

Van den Bosch.

Nay, what can they be?

page from pestilence and famine's day-book; So many to the pest-house carried in,

So many to the dead-house carried out.

The same dull, dismal, doleful, old, old story.

Artevelde. Be quiet: listen to the westerly wind,

And tell me if it bring thee nothing new.

Van den Bosch. Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog, That hears the house is stirring-nothing else.

Artevelde. No,-now-I hear it not myself-no-nothing. The city's hum is up-but ere you came

'Twas audible enough.

Van den Bosch.

In God's name, what?

Artevelde. A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bruges. Van den Bosch. Why, then, be certain, 'tis a flag of truce! If once he reach the city, we are lost;

Nay, if he be but seen, our danger's great.

What terms so bad they would not swallow now?

Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once

To cross his way.

Artevelde.

And send him back to Bruges?

Van den Bosch. Send him to Hades-that's a better place. Artevelde. Nay, softly, Van den Bosch; let war be war, But let us keep its ordinances.