Scene II.
—
An open Tent erected for public entertainment
in the Market-place of Bruges.—Boisterous songs and
other sounds of riot and jollity are heard on all sides.
Within the tent a miscellaneous company are drinking,
and amongst them is
Ukenheim
in the dress of a
Mariner of Bruges.
Ukenheim.
I pray you pledge me in this, to our better
acquaintance.
Lunyz.
At your service, Sir. What say'st thou, Jan
Trickle? Is not this the right way? Is not this the narrow
road? Knew'st thou ever a Saint's day more seemly
celebrated? Dost see what a devotion there is to it?
Trickle.
I see very many righteous gentlemen very
drunk. But my wife says, were they at church it should
be more seemly.
Kroolkhuys.
Bah! didst ever know a man's wife that
liked him to be drinking without her to help?
Gulpus.
Mine is a rare helpmate.
Lunyz.
Let the Church speak. Father Swillen, is not
this as it should be?
Father Swillen.
My son, and worthy burgesses, and
beloved brethren! Of the present solemnity I will
deliver my opinion according to the canons. Wine is to
be used
cum abstinentiâ et temperantiâ, for the recovery of
the sick, the consolation of the dying, and the healing of
a wounded spirit. It is also to be used in honour of
our Lady of Bolayne on this the day of her festival. But
the presence of a priest is needful herein, for the
preventing of abuses and the showing of a proper example.
[Drinks.
Tackenham
(advancing from the farther end of the tent.)
Father Swillen—friend, if I knocked you down I ask
your pardon—Father Swillen—Sirs, give me place,
for I must see the Father—Father Swillen, I look upon
you to be one man of a thousand—I will go on my knees
to you—I look upon you to be the oracle of God—I look
upon you to be the invisible oracle of God—for there
you are and I see you not.—I can stand,—I say I can
stand—but here I kneel down, and I will not rise unless
you stretch forth your hand to me and raise me up—
and this is the view I take of our duties as Christian men
—all which is submitted to your better judgment, and I
would that all men paid their dues to the Church.
Father Swillen.
God requite you, my son! For their
salvation—for their salvation—nothing else.
Lunyz
(looking out into the Market-place).
Here is a
minstrel twiddles with the strings of his cithern. Now
we shall hear a song.
THE FOLLOWING SONG IS SUNG TO A VULGAR TUNE.
Who mounts the merry-go-round with me,
Who mounts the merry-go-round?
'Tis I, I, I,—and who be ye
That would mount the merry-go-round?
A blacksmith I,—spearheads as good
As e'er from Bordeaux came
I've made, and would in Ghentsmen's blood
Be bold to dip the same.
Who mounts the merry-go-round with me,
Who mounts the merry-go-round?
'Tis I, I, I,—and who may'st be
That would mount the merry-go-round?
A cutler I,—as true a blade
As ever Ebro steel'd
Is this I've made, nor will't be stayed
By any Ghentsman's shield.
Who mounts the merry-go-round with me,
Who mounts the merry-go-round?
'Tis I, I, I,—and now let us see
Who mounts the merry-go-round.
A barber I,—and well appear'd
My handicraft, for when
A Ghentsman's beard I shortly shear'd
It never grew again.
Who mounts the merry-go-round with me,
Who mounts the merry-go-round?
'Tis I, I, I,—and a priest was he
That would mount the merry-go-round.
A Ghentsman of his wounds lay sick,
And shall I be saved? he cried;
I gave him a kick, bade him ask Old Nick
And he should be satisfied.
Kroolkhuys.
I' faith he sings like a nightingale. No
more, thank you,—I cannot—cannot . . . well, if I
must . . .
[drinks.]
'Tis a charming lullaby, and the
sentiment very tender and soothing. Let us all do as
we would be done by, God bless us!
[Falls asleep.
[
Suddenly is heard from the Market-place a
loud cry of “To arms! To arms!”
Ukenheim
(starting up and drawing his sword.)
To
arms? What! the men of Ghent come to us? What!
the scarecrows from Ghent! To arms! to arms! Out
and down with them! To arms! to arms!
Kroolkhuys
(waking).
Why how is this? the men of
Ghent! What ho! give me my coat of proof!
Ukenheim.
Let cowards stay behind. To arms! to arms!
[
They rush out confusedly.
Tackenham
creeps
from under the table where he had remained
in a reclining posture.
Takenham.
To arms! I look upon Father Swillen to be
an oracle, and it were to be wished that all men paid the
Church her dues.