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[Illustration: SURRENDER OF CALAIS
EUSTACHE.--HERE TAKE THIS TRASH.
ACT I. SCENE II
PAINTED BY HOWARD PUBLISHD BY LONGMAN & CO ENGRAVD BY W POOLE]
THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS;
A PLAY, IN THREE ACTS;
By GEORGE COLMAN, THE YOUNGER.
AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, HAYMARKET.
PRINTED UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THE MANAGERS FROM THE PROMPT BOOK.
WITH REMARKS BY MRS. INCHBALD.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORNE, PATERNOSTER ROW.
WILLIAM SAVAGE, PRINTER,
LONDON
REMARKS.
In this drama are comprised tragedy, comedy, opera, and some degree
of farce--yet so happily is the variety blended, that one scene never
diminishes the interest of another, but they all combine to produce a
most valuable composition.
In the rank of excellence, the tragic parts are to be accounted
foremost; and, among these, the original and admirable character of
Eustache de St. Pierre stands first.
Other characters, of the author's invention, are likewise so prominent,
that Edward, our renowned conqueror of Calais, is made, perhaps, the
least interesting, as well as the least amiable, warrior in this whole
dramatic field of glory: and yet, such is the equitable, the unbiassed
judgment of the vanquished, they profess a just, a noble, an heroic
reverence, for the bravery, and other qualities, of their triumphant
enemies.
The exception to this general rule of patriotic courage in the French,
is most skilfully displayed in one short speech, by a feeble and
fearful citizen of the besieged town; in whom extreme terror of the
besiegers is so naturally converted into malignant abhorrence, that the
man who, in all Calais, is most ready to die for his king and country,
is, by the aid of certain political logic from this alarmist, openly
accused of disloyalty, because he will not slander, as well as fight,
his foe. This speech, with some others, no less founded on the true
disposition of lordly man, subdued by the humiliation of fear, would
falsely imply--that the play of "The Surrender of Calais" was of a
later date than fifteen or sixteen years past, before which period the
author must have had much less knowledge of the influence of apprehension
in the time of war, than experience, or rather observation, has since
had the means to bestow upon him.
It may be said, that Mr. Colman gave the virtues of justice and
benignity to the valiant part of the French, merely as instruments to
resound the praise of the English.--Whatever were the author's views,
the virtues remain the same, and honour the possessors of them, even
more than their eulogiums can do honour to the British.
In the first act, the weak, mournful huzza, wrung from the throats of
the half-famished soldiers, and that military subordination exhibited
between Ribaumont and La Gloire, upon the pronunciation of the word
_march_, are happy stage occurrences, in which the reader's fancy will
not perhaps delight, for want of the performer's tones and action.--But
there are other scenes so independent of the mimic art, that acting can
rarely improve them--Such is the scene in the Hall, the delivery of the
keys, the farewell between the father and the son, with others equally
impressive. But the highest panegyric that can be pronounced on this
play is--that "The Surrender of Calais" is considered, by every critic,
as the very best of all the author's numerous and successful productions.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
ENGLISH.
KING EDWARD THE THIRD _Mr. Williamson._
HARCOURT _Mr. Bland._
SIR WALTER MANNY _Mr. Usher._
ARUNDEL _Mr. Powell._
WARWICK _Mr. Nigh._
HERALDS, TRAIN BEARERS, SOLDIERS, _&c._
QUEEN _Mrs. Goodall._
ATTENDANTS--_Mrs. Taylor_, _Miss Fontenelle_, _Miss
De Camp_, _Mrs. Powell_, _&c._
FRENCH.
JOHN de VIENNE _Mr. Aickin._
RIBAUMONT _Mr. Palmer._
OFFICER _Mr. Palmer, jun._
EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE _Mr. Bensley._
JOHN D'AIRE _Mr. Evatt._
J. WISSANT _Mr. Knights._
P. WISSANT _Mr. Henderson._
OLD MAN _Mr. Johnson._
O'CARROL _Mr. Johnstone._
LA GLOIRE _Mr. Bannister, jun._
{_Mr. Parsons._
WORKMEN {_Mr. Burton._
CITIZENS, SOLDIERS, FRIARS, _&c._
JULIA _Mrs. Kemble._
MADELON _Mrs. Bland._
NUNS--_Mrs. Edwin_, _Mrs. Powell_, _Miss De Camp_,
_Miss Fontenelle_, _&c._
_SCENE--Calais, and its Outskirts._
THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS.
* * * * *
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.
_A View of Calais, the Sea, and the English Camp._
_Enter RIBAUMONT and LA GLOIRE._
_Ribau._ Thus far in safety. All is hush. Our subtle air of France
quickens not the temperament of the enemy. These phlegmatic English
snore out the night, in as gross heaviness as when their senses
stagnate in their own native fogs, where stupor lies like lead upon
them,--which the muddy rogues call sleep. We have nearly passed the
entrenchments;--the day breaks.--La Gloire!
_La Gloire._ My commander!
_Ribau._ Where did you direct our mariners to meet us, with the boat?
_La Gloire._ Marry, I told them to meet us with the boat at the sea
shore.
_Ribau._ Vague booby! at what point?
_La Gloire._ That's the point I was coming to, my lord! and, if a
certain jutting out of land, in the shape of a white cliff, with brown
furze on its top, like a bushy head of hair over a pale face, stand
where it did----
_Ribau._ East of the town:--I have mark'd it.
_La Gloire._ Look you there, now! what I have hunted after, a whole
day, to fix upon, hath he noted without labour. Oh, the capacious heads
of your great officers!--No wonder they are so careful of them in
battle; and thrust forward the pitiful pates of the privates, to be
mowed off like a parcel of daisies.--But there lies the spot--and there
will the mariners come. We are now within ear-shot; and, when they are
there, they will whistle.
_Ribau._ And, till they give the signal, here, if there be aught of
safety to be picked from danger, is the least dangerous spot to tarry
for them. We are here full early.
_La Gloire._ I would we were not here at all. This same scheme of
victualling a town, blockaded by the enemy, is a service for which I
have little appetite.
_Ribau._ Think, La Gloire, on the distress of our countrymen--the
inhabitants perishing with hunger.
_La Gloire._ Truly, my lord, it doth move the bowels of my compassion.
Yet, consider your risk--consider your rank! The gallant Count
Ribaumont, flower of chivalry, cream of the French army, and commander
of his regiment, turned cook to the corporation of Calais!--carving his
way to glory, through stubble-rumped capons, unskinned mutton, raw
veal, and vegetables!--and, perhaps, my lord, just before we are able
to serve up the meat to the town, in comes a raw-boned Englishman, and
runs his spit through your body!
_Ribau._ Pr'ythee, no more objections.
_La Gloire._ Nay, I object not,--I;--but I have served your honour, in
and out of the army, babe boy, and man, these five and twenty years,
come the next feast of the Virgin; and Heaven forfend I should be out
of service, by being out of my master!
_Ribau._ Well, well, I know thy zeal.
_La Gloire._ And yet your English rapier is a marvellous sudden
dissolver of attachments. 'Twill sever the closest connexions. 'Twill
even whip you, for ever, friend head from his intimate acquaintance,
neck and shoulders, before they have time to take leave:--Not that I
object;--yet men do not always sleep. The fat centinel, as we passed
the outpost, might have waked with his own snoring; and--
_Ribau._ Peace! Remember your duty to me; to your country.
Yet, out, alas! I mock myself to name it.
Did not these rugged battlements of Calais;
This tomb, yet safeguard of its citizens,
Which shuts the sword out, and locks hunger in;
(Where many a wretch, pale, gaunt, and famine-shrunk,
Smiles, ghastly, at the slaughter's threat, and dies:)
Did not these walls--like Vulcan's swarthy arms,
Clasping sweet beauty's queen--encircle now,
Within their cold and ponderous embrace,
The fair, yet, ah! I fear, the fickle Julia,
My sluggish zeal would lack the spur to rouse it.
_La Gloire._ And, of all the spurs in the race of mortality, love is
the only true tickler to quicken a man's motions. But to reconcile a
mistress by victualling a town!--Well; dark and puzzling is the road to
woman's affection; but this is the first time I ever heard of sliding
into her heart through her palate; or choking her anger, by stopping
her mouth with a meal. An' this pantry fashion of wooing should last,
woe to the ill-favoured! Beauty will raise the price of provisions, and
poor ugliness soon be starved out of the country.
_Ribau._ This enterprise may yet regain her.
Once she was kind; until her father's policy,
Nourish'd in courts, stepp'd in, and check'd her love.
Yet 'twas not love; for true love knows no check:
There is no skill in Cupid's archery,
When duty heals a love-wound.
_La Gloire._ But, dear my lord! think on the great danger, and little
reputation----
_Ribau._ No more! mark me, La Gloire! As your officer, I may command
you onward: but, in respect to your early attachment, your faithful
service, ere you followed me to the army, if your mind misgive you in
this undertaking, you have my leave to retreat.
_La Gloire._ [_Amazed._] My lord!
_Ribau._ I say, you are free to return.
_La Gloire._ Look ye, my lord! I am son to brave old Eustache de St.
Pierre; as tough a citizen as any in all Calais: I was carried into
your lordship's father's family (your lordship being then but just
born) at six days old; a mere whelp, as a body may say. According to
puppy reckoning, my lord, I was with you three days before I could
see. I have followed you through life, frisking and trotting after your
lordship ever since: and, if you think me, now, mongrel enough to turn
tail, and leave my master in a scrape, why, 'twere kinder e'en to hang
me up at the next tree, than cut me through the heart with your
suspicions.
_Ribau._ No, La Gloire,--I----
_La Gloire._ No, my lord! 'tis fear for you makes me bold to speak. To
see you running your head through stone walls for a woman--and a woman
who, though she be an angel, has (saving your presence) played you but
a scurvy sort of a jade's trick; and----
_Ribau._ 'Sdeath, villain! how dare your slanderous tongue to--but 'tis
plain--'tis for thy own wretched sake thou art thus anxious--drivelling
coward!
_La Gloire._ Coward!--Cow----_Diable!_--a French soldier, who has the
honour to carry arms under his christian majesty, Philip the Sixth,
King of France, called coward! _Sacre bleu!_ Have I already served in
three campaigns, and been thumped, and bobbed about, by the English, to
be called coward at last! Oh, that any but my commander had said it!
_Ribau._ Well, well, La Gloire, I may have been hasty: I----
_La Gloire._ Oh, my lord!--it--'tis no matter. But, haply, you'd like
to be convinced of the courage of your company; and if such a thing as
raising the enemy's camp can clear a man's character, I can do it as
soon as----
[_Raising his Voice._
_Ribau._ 'Sdeath, blockhead! we shall be discovered.
_La Gloire._ Coward! 'Sblood! I'll run into the English entrenchments!
I'll go back, and tweak the fat centinel by the nose!--I'll----
[_Still louder._
_Ribau._ Peace! I command you, La Gloire! I command you, as your
officer.
_La Gloire._ I know my duty to my officer, my lord!
[_Sulkily._
_Ribau._ Then move not:--here, sir, on this spot.
[_Pointing forward._
_La Gloire._ [_Going to the Spot._] Coward!
_Ribau._ Speak not, for your life!
_La Gloire._ Cow----Umph!
_Ribau._ Obey!
[_LA GLOIRE stands motionless and silent.--A low Whistle._
_Ribau._ Ha! the signal! the morning breaks:--they arrive in the
very nick. Now then, La Gloire, for the enterprize. Why does not the
blockhead stir?--Well, well, my good fellow! I have been harsh: but--not
yet?--Pshaw! this military enforcement has acted like a spell upon
him.--How to dissolve it?--[_A low Whistle._]--Again!----Come, come,
La Gloire! I--dull dolt!--I have it:----March!
[_LA GLOIRE faces to the Left, and marches out after RIBAUMONT._
SCENE II.
_The Place, in the Town of Calais._
_Enter an OFFICER, SERGEANT, and SOLDIERS.--CITIZENS enter severally
during the Scene._
_Officer._ Bravely, good fellows! Courage! Why, still there's life
in't. Sergeant!
_Serg._ Your honour!
_Officer._ How do the men bear up? Have they stout hearts still?
_Serg._ I know not, sir, for their hearts; but I'll warrant them stout
stomachs. Hunger is so powerful in them, that I fear me they'll munch
their way through the stone walls of the city.
_Officer._ This famine pinches. Poor rogues! Cheer them with hopes,
good Sergeant.
_Serg._ Hope, your honour, is but a meagre mess for a regiment. Hope
has almost shrunk them out of their doublets. Hope has made their legs
so weary of the lease they had taken of their hose, that all their
calves have slunk away from the premises. There isn't a stocking in the
whole company that can boast of a tolerable tenant. The privates join
in the public complaining; the drummers grow noisy; our poor corporal
has no body left; and the trumpeter is blown up with wind.
_Officer._ Do they grow mutinous? Look to them--check their muttering.
_Serg._ Troth, sir, I do my best:--when they grumble for meat, I make
them eat their own words; and give them some solid counsel, well
seasoned with the pepper of correction.
_Officer._ Well, well! look to them; keep a strict watch; and march the
guards to their several posts.
[_Exit OFFICER._
_Serg._ Now must I administer consolation, and give the rogues their
daily meal of encouragement.--Hem! Countrymen, fellow soldiers, and
Frenchmen!--be of good cheer, for famine is come upon you, and you are
all in danger of starving. Is there any thing dearer to a Frenchman
than his honour? Isn't honour the greater, the greater the danger?
and has any body ever had the honour of being in greater danger than
you?--Rejoice, then, for your peril is extreme! Be merry, for you have
a glorious dismal prospect before you; and as pleasing a state of
desperation as the noble heart of a soldier could wish! Come! one cheer
for the glory of France.--St. Dennis, and our Grand Monarque, King
Philip the Sixth!
[_SOLDIERS huzza very feebly._
Oons! it sounds as hollow as a churchyard. The voice comes through
their wizen mouths like wind from the crack of an old wainscot. Away,
rogues, to your posts! Bristle up your courage, and wait the event of
time! Remember ye are Frenchmen, and bid defiance to famine! Our
mistresses are locked up with us in the town; we have frogs in the
wells, and snuff at the merchants'. An Englishman, now, would hang
himself upon this, which is enough to make a gay Frenchman happy.
Allons, camarades!
SONG.--SERGEANT.
_My comrades so famish'd and queer,_
_Hear the drums, how they jollily beat!_
_They fill our French hearts with good cheer,_
_Although we have nothing to eat._
_Rub a dub._
All. _Nothing to eat: rub a dub,_
_Rub a dub--we have nothing to eat._
_Then, hark to the merry toned fife!_
_To hear it 'twill make a man younger:_
_I tell you, my lads, this is life_
_For any one dying with hunger._
_Toot a too._
All. _Dying with hunger: toot a too,_
_Toot a too--we are dying with hunger._
_The foe to inspire you to beat,_
_Only list to the trumpet so shrill!_
_Till the enemy's kill'd we can't eat:_
_Do the job--you may eat all you kill._
_Ran ta tan._
All. _We'll eat all we kill; ran ta tan,_
_Ran ta tan--we may eat all we kill._
[_Exeunt SOLDIERS.--CITIZENS come forward._
_1 Cit._ Bon jour, Monsieur Grenouille?
_2 Cit._ Aha! mon voisin! Here's a goodly morning. The sun shines till
our blood dances to it like a frisky wench to a tabor.
_1 Cit._ Yes, truly; but 'tis a dance without refreshments. We, are in
a miserable plight, neighbour.
_2 Cit._ Ma foi! miserable indeed! mais le soleil--
_1 Cit._ How fare your wife and family, neighbour Grenouille?
_2 Cit._ Ah! my pauvre wife and famille; litel to eat now, mon
voisin--nothing bye and bye: lucky for me 'tis fine weather. Great
many mouths in my house; very litel to put into 'em. But I am French;
the sun shines; I am gay.--There is myself, my poor dear wife, half a
loaf, seven children, three sprats, a tom cat, and a pipkin of milk.
I am hungry; mais il fait beau temps; I dance--my famille starves--I
sing--toujours gai--the sun shines--tal lal la! tal lal la!
_3 Cit._ Tut, we wo'not bear it. 'Tis our Governor is in fault: this
way we are certain to perish.
_4 Cit._ Peste! we'll not endure it. Shut up, near eleven months,
within the walls.
_2 Cit._ In fine weather--no promenade!
_3 Cit._ No provisions.--We'll to the Governor, force the keys, and
surrender the town. Allons! come along, neighbours, to the Governor!
_All._ Ay, ay--to the Governor. Away!
[_Going in a Posse._
_Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE, carrying a small Wallet._
_Eust._ Why, how now, ho!--nothing but noise and babble!
Whither away so fast? Stand, rogues, and speak!
_3 Cit._ Whither away? Marry! we would away from famine: we are for the
Governor's, to force the keys of the town.
_Eust._ There roar'd the wrathful mouse! You squeaking braggart,
Whom hunger has made vent'rous, who would thrust
Your starveling nose out to the cat's fell gripe,
That watches round the cranny you lie snug in,
Nibble your scraps; be thankful, and keep quiet.
Thou rail on hunger! why, 'twas hunger bore thee;
'Twas hunger rear'd thee; fixing, in thy cradle,
Her meagre stamp upon thy weazel visage;
And, from a child, that half starved face of thine
Has given full meals the lie. When thou dost eat,
Thou dost digest consumption: thou'rt of those kine
Thou wouldst e'en swallow up thy brethren, here,
And still look lean. What! fellow citizens,
Trust you this thing? Can skin and bones mislead you?
If we must suffer, suffer patiently.
Did I e'er grumble, mongrels? What am I?
_3 Cit._ You! why, Eustache de St. Pierre you are; one of the sourest
old crabs of all the citizens of Calais; and, if reviling your neighbours
be a sign of ill will to one's country, and ill will to one's country
a sign of good will to strangers, why a man might go near to think you
are a friend to the English.
_Eust._ I honour them.
They are our enemy--a gallant enemy;
A biting, but a blunt, straight-forward foe:
Who, when we weave our subtle webs of state,
And spin fine stratagems to entangle them,
Come to our doors, and pull the work to pieces;
Dispute it fist to fist, and score their arguments
Upon our politic pates. Remember Cressy!--
We've reason to remember it--they thump'd us,
And soundly, there:--'tis but some few months, back;--
There, in the bowels of our land--at Cressy--
They so bechopp'd us with their English logic.
That our French heads ached sorely for it:--thence,
Marching through Picardy, to Calais here,
They have engirded us; fix'd the dull tourniquet
Of war upon our town; constraining, thus,
The life blood of our commerce, with fair France,
Of whom we are a limb; and all this openly:--
And, therefore, as an open foe, who think
And strike in the same breath, I do esteem
Their valour, and their plainness.
I view them with a most respectful hatred.
Much may be learnt from these same Englishmen.
_4 Cit._ Ay, pr'ythee, what? Hunger and hard blows seem all we are like
to get from them.
_Eust._ Courage; which you may have--'twas never tried tho';
Patience, to bear the buffets of the times.
Ye cannot wait till Fortune turns her wheel:
You'll to the Governor's, and get the keys!
And what would your wise worships do with them?
Eat them, mayhap, for ye have ostrich stomachs;
Ye dare not use them otherwise.--Home! home!
And pray for better luck.
[_The CITIZENS exeunt severally. An OLD MAN,
alone, remains in the Back of the Scene._
Fie, I am faint
With railing on the cormorants. Three days,
And not break bread--'tis somewhat. There's not one
Among these trencher-scraping knaves, that yet
Has kept a twenty hours' lent;--I know it;
Yet how they crave! I've here, by strong entreaty,
And a round sum, (entreaty's weak without it,)
E'en just enough to make dame Nature wrestle
Another round with famine. Out, provision!
[_Takes off his Wallet._
_Old Man._ [_Coming forward._] O, Heaven!
_Eust._ Who bid thee bless the meat?--How now old grey beard!
What cause hast thou----
_Old Man._ I have a daughter--
_Eust._ Hungry, I warrant.
_Old Man._ Dying!
The blessing of my age:--I could bear all;--
But for my child;--my dear, dear child!--to lose her
To lose her thus!--to see disease so wear her!--
And when a little nourishment----She's starving!
_Eust._ Go on;--no tears;--I hate them.
_Old Man._ She has had no nourishment these four days.
_Eust._ [_Affected._] Death! and--well?
_Old Man._ I care not for myself;--I should soon go,
In nature's course;--but my poor darling child!
Who fifteen years has been my prop--to see her
Thus wrested from me! then, to hear her bless me;
And see her wasting!----
_Eust._ Peace! peace!
I have not ate, old man, since--Pshaw! the wind
Affects my eyes--but yet I--'Sdeath! what ails me?
I have no appetite.--Here, take this trash, and--
[_The OLD MAN takes the Wallet, falls upon
his Knees, and attempts to speak._
Pr'ythee away, old soul;--nay, nay, no thanks;--
Get home, and do not talk--I cannot.--
[_Exit OLD MAN._
Out on't!
I do belie my manhood; and if misery,
With gentle hand, touches my bosom's key,
I bellow straight, as if my tough old lungs
Were made of organ-pipes.
[_Huzza without._
Hey! how sits the wind now?
_Enter CITIZENS, crying_ Huzza! _and_ Succour! _LA GLOIRE, in the
midst of them, loaded with Casks of Provision, &c._
_La Gloire._ Here, neighbours! here, here I am dropt in among you,
like a lump of manna. Here have I, following my master, the noble Count
Ribaumont, brought wherewithal to check the grumbling in your gizzards.
Here's meat, neighbours, meat!--fine, raw, red meat!--to turn the tide
of tears from your eyes, and make your mouths water.
_All._ Huzza!
_2 Cit._ Ah! mon Dieu! que je suis gai!--meat and sun too!--tal lal
lall la!
_La Gloire._ Silence! or I'll stop your windpipe with a mutton cutlet.
_All._ Huzza!
_Eust._ Peace, ho! I say; can ye be men, and roar thus?
Blush at this clamour! it proclaims you cowards,
And tells what your despair has been. Peace, hen hearts!
Slink home, and eat.
_La Gloire._ Ods my life! cry you mercy, father; I saw you not;--my
honest, hungry neighbours, here, so pressed about me. Marry, I think
they are ready to eat me. Stand aside, friends, and patience, till my
father has said grace over me. Father, your blessing.
[_Kneels._
_Eust._ Boy, thou hast acted bravely, and thou follow'st
A noble gentleman. What succour brings he?
_La Gloire._ A snack! a bare snack, father; no more. We scudded round
the point of land, under the coast, unperceived by the enemy's fleet,
and freighted with a good three days' provender: but the sea, that
seems ruled by the English--marry, I think they'll always be masters of
it, for my part--stuck the point of a rock through the bottom of our
vessel, almost filled it with water, and, after tugging hard for our
lives, we found the provision so spoiled, and pickled, that our larder
is reduced to a luncheon. Every man may have a meal, and there's an
end;--to-morrow comes famine again.
_2 Cit._ N'importe; we are happy to-day; c'est assez pour un Francois.
_La Gloire._ [_Aside, to EUSTACHE._] But, father, cheer up! Mum! If,
after the distribution, an odd sly barrel of mine--you take me--rammed
down with good powdered beef, that will stand the working of half a
dozen pair of jaws for a month, should be found in an odd corner of my
father's house, why--hum!
_Eust._ Base cur! insult me!--But I pardon thee;
Thou dost mean kindly. Know thy father better.
Though these be sorry knaves, I scorn to wrong them
I love my country, boy. Ungraced by fortune,
I dare aspire to the proud name of patriot.
If any bear that title to misuse it,--
Decking their devilships in angel seeming,
To glut their own particular appetites;--
If any, 'midst a people's misery,
Feed fat, by filching from the public good,
Which they profess is nearest to their hearts;
The curses of their country; or, what's sharper,
The curse of guilty conscience follow them!
The suffering's general; general be the benefit.
We'll share alike. You'll find me, boy, at home.
[_Exit._
_La Gloire._ There he goes! full of sour goodness, like a fine lemon.
He's as trusty a crusty citizen, and as goodnatured an ill tempered old
fellow, as any in France: and, though I say it, that shouldn't say
it--I am his son.----But, now, neighbours, for provision.
_3 Cit._ Ay, marry! we would fain fall to.
_La Gloire._ I doubt it not, good hungry neighbours: you'll all
remember me for this succour, I warrant.
_All._ Toujours; always.
_La Gloire._ See now what it is to bind one's country to one, by doing
it a service. Good souls, they are running over with gratitude--[_Walks
about, CITIZENS following._]--I could cluck them all round the town after
my tail, like an old hen with a brood of chickens. Now will I be carried
in triumph to my father's: and ye may e'en set about it now--[_Two stout
CITIZENS take LA GLOIRE on their Shoulders._]--now, while the provisions
are sharing at the Governor's house.
[_CITIZENS let him fall._
_All._ Sharing provisions! Allons! vite!--away! away!
[_Exeunt CITIZENS hastily._
_La Gloire._ Oh diable! this is popularity. Adieu, my grateful
neighbours! Thus does many a fool-hardy booby, like me, run his head
into danger; and a few empty huzzas, which leave him at the next turning
of a corner, are all he gets for his pains. Now, while all the town
is gone to dinner, will I go to woo. My poor Madelon must be woefully
fallen away, since I quitted Calais, Heigho! I've lost, I warrant me,
a good half of my mistress since we parted. I have secured for her the
daintiest bits of our whole cargo, as marks of my affection. A butcher
couldn't show her more tenderness than I shall. If love were now
weighed out by the pound, bating my master, the Count Ribaumont, who is
in love with Lady Julia, not all the men in the city could balance the
scales with me.
[_Exit._
SCENE III.
_A Hall, in the House of JOHN de VIENNE._
_Enter JULIA and O'CARROL._
_Julia._ Now, O'Carrol; what is the time of day?
_O'Carrol._ Fait, Lady Julia, we might have called it a little past
breakfast time, formerly; but since the fashion of eating has been worn
out in Calais, a man may be content to say it bears hard upon ten. Och!
if clocks were jacks now, time would stand still; and the year would go
down, for the want of winding up every now and then.
_Julia._ Saw you my father this morning?
_O'Carrol._ You may say that.
_Julia._ How looked he, O'Carrol?
_O'Carrol._ By my soul! Lady Julia, that old father of yours, and
master of mine, is a gallant gentleman. And gallantly he bears himself.
For certain, and so he ought; being a Knight of Burgundy, and Governor
of Calais; but if I was Governor just now, to be sure I should not
like to take a small trip from Calais, one morning, just to see what
sort of a knight I was in Burgundy.
_Julia._ Who has he in his company?
_O'Carrol._ Why, madam, why--now dare not I tell who, for fear of
offending her.--Company? Why, to be sure I have been in his company:--for
want of finer acquaintance, madam, he was e'en forced to put up, half an
hour, with an humble friend.
_Julia._ Poor fool! thy words are shrewder than thy meaning.
How many crowd the narrow space of life
With those gay, gaudy flowers of society,
Those annuals, call'd acquaintance; which do fade
And die away, ere we can say they blosom;
Mocking the idle cultivator's care,
From year to year; while one poor slip of friendship,
Hardy, tho' modest, stands the winter's frost,
And cheers its owner's eye with evergreen!
_O'Carrol._ Troth, lady, one honest potatoe in a garden is worth an
hundred beds of your good-for-nothing tulips. Oh! 'tis meat and drink
to me to see a friend! and, truly 'tis lucky, in this time of famine,
to have one in the house to look at, to keep me from starving. Little
did I think, eight years ago, when I came over among fifty thousand
brave boys--English, Irish, and else,--to fight under King Edward,
who now lies before Calais here, that I should find such a warm soul
towards me in a Frenchman's body;--especially when the business, that
brought me, was to help to give his countrymen a beating.
_Julia._ Thy gratitude, O'Carrol, has well repaid the pains my father
took in preserving thee.
_O'Carrol._ Gratitude! fait, madam, begging your pardon, 'tis no such
thing; 'tis nothing but showing the sense I have of my obligation.
There was I, in the year 1339, in the English camp--on the fields of
Vianfosse, near Capelle--which never came to an action; excepting a
trifling bit of skirmish, in which my good cruel friends left me for
dead out of our lines; when a kind enemy--your father--(a blessing on
his friendly heart for it!) picked me up, and set the breath agoing
again, that was almost thumped out of my body. He saved my life; it is
but a poor commodity;--but, as long as it lasts, by my soul! he and his
family shall have the wear and tear of it.
_Julia._ Thou hast been a trusty follower, O'Carrol; nay, more a friend
than follower; thou art entwined in all the interests of our house, and
art as attached to me as to my father.
_O'Carrol._ Ay, troth, Lady Julia, and a good deal more; more shame to
me for it; because I am indebted for all to the Governor. I don't know
how it may be with wiser nations, but if regard is to go to a whole
family, there's a something about the female part of it that an
Irishman can't help giving the preference to, for the soul of him.
_Julia._ But, tell me, who is with my father?
_O'Carrol._ Indeed that I will not--for a reason.
_Julia._ And what may the reason be?
_O'Carrol._ Because, long before he arrived, you bid me never mention
his name. It may be, perhaps, the noble gentleman who has just succoured
the town.--Well, if I must not say who is with my master, I may say who
my master is with.--It is the Count Ribaumont.
_Julia._ Why should I tremble at that name? Why should my tongue be now
constrained to speak the language of my heart? O father! father!
_O'Carrol._ Och--ho!
_Julia._ Why dost thou sigh, O'Carrol?
_O'Carrol._ Truly, madam, I was thinking of a piece of a rich old uncle
I had in Ireland; who sent me to the French wars, to tear me away from
a dear little creature I loved better than my eyes.
_Julia._ And wast thou ever in love, O'Carrol?
_O'Carrol._ That I was, faith, up to my chin. I never think upon it but
it remembers me of the song that was wont to be played by honest Clamoran,
poor fellow, our minstrel, in the north.
_Julia._ I pr'ythee sing it to me, good O'Carrol;
For there is something in these artless ditties,
Expressive of a simple soul in love,
That fills the mind with pleasing melancholy.
SONG.--O'CARROL.
_Oh! the moment was sad when my love and I parted;_
_Savourna deligh shighan ogh!_
_As I kiss'd off her tears, I was nigh broken hearted;_
_Savourna deligh shighan ogh;_
_Wan was her cheek, which hung on my shoulder;_
_Damp was her hand, no marble was colder;_
_I felt that I never again should behold her._
_Savourna deligh shighan ogh!_
_Long I fought for my country, far, far from my true love;_
_Savourna deligh shighan ogh!_
_All my pay and my booty I hoarded for you, love;_
_Savourna deligh shighan ogh!_
_Peace was proclaim'd,--escaped from the slaughter,_
_Landed at home--my sweet girl I sought her;_
_But sorrow, alas! to the cold grave had brought her._
_Savourna deligh shighan ogh!_
_Enter JOHN de VIENNE and RIBAUMONT._
_De Vienne._ Nay, nay, my lord! you're welcome.
Yet, were I private here, some prudent qualms,
Which you well wot, I trow, my noble lord!
Might cause me flatly sound that full toned welcome,
Which breathes the mellow note of hospitality.
Yet, being Governor of Calais here----
But take me with you, Count,--I can discern
Your noble virtues; ay, and love them too;
Did not a father's care--but let that pass.--
Julia, my girl--the Count of Ribaumont:--
Thank the brave champion of our city.
_Julia._ Sir!
Tho' one poor simple drop of gratitude,
Amid the boisterous tide of general thanks,
Can little swell the glory of your enterprise,
Accept it freely.--You are welcome, sir.
_Rib._ Cold does it seem to me.--'Sdeath! this is ice!
Freezing indifference:--down, down, my heart!
[_Aside._
I pray you, lady, do not strain your courtesy.
If I have reap'd a single grain of favour,
From your fair self, and noble father here,
I have obtain'd the harvest of my hope.
_De Vienne._ Heyday! here's bow, and jut, and cringe, and scrape!--
Count! I have served in battle; witness for me
Some curious scars, the soldier's coxcombry,
In which he struts, fantastically carved
Upon the tough old doublet nature gave him.
Let us, then, speak like brothers of the field;
Roundly and blunt. Have I your leave, my lord?
_Rib._ As freely, sir, as you have ask'd it.
_De Vienne._ Thus, then:
I have a daughter, look you; here she stands;
Right fair and virtuous;--
[_COUNT attempts to speak._
Nay, Count, spare your speech;
I know I've your assent to the position:
I have a king too; and from whom 'tis signified
My daughter must be match'd with (speedily)
A certain lord about the royal person.--
Now, tho' there may be some, whose gallant bearing
(And glean from this, Count, what it is I aim at,)
I might be proud to be allied to, yet
Being a veteran French soldier, stuff'd
With right enthusiastic loyalty,
My house, myself, my child--Heaven knows I love her!--
Should perish, piece-meal, ere I could infringe
The faintest line or trace of the proceeding,
The king, our master, honours me in marking.
_Rib._ I do conceive you, sir.
_De Vienne._ Why, then, conceiving,
Once more, right welcome, Count. I lodge you here,
As my good friend--and Julia's friend--the friend
To all our city.--Tut, Count, love is boys' play;
A soldier has not time for't.--
Come, Count.----Within there, hoa! we need refreshment,
Which you have furnish'd.--Love? pish! love's a gew-gaw.
Nay, come, Count, come.
[_Exit._
_Julia._ Sir, will it please you follow?
_Rib._ I fain would speak one word, and--'sdeath! I cannot.--
Pardon me, madam; I attend.--Oh, Julia!
[_Exit, leading out JULIA._
_O'Carrol._ Och ho! poor dear creatures, my heart bleeds for them. To
be sure the ould gentleman means all for the best, and what he talks
must be right: but if love is a gew-gaw, as he says, by my soul! 'tis
the prettiest plaything for children, from sixteen to five-and-twenty,
that ever was invented!
[_Exit._
SCENE IV.
_The English Camp._
_Enter KING, SIR WALTER MANNY, HARCOURT, ARUNDEL, WARWICK, and
ATTENDANTS._
_King._ Fie, lords! it slurs our name;--the town is succour'd.
'Twas dull neglect to let them pass: a blot
Upon our English camp; where vigilance
Should be the watch-word. Which way got they in?
_Sir W._ By sea, as we do learn, my gracious liege?
_King._ Where was our fleet then? does it ride the ocean
In idle mockery? It should float to awe
These Frenchmen here. How are they stored, my lord?
_Harc._ Barely, as it should seem. Their crazy vessel,
Driven among the rocks, that skirt the shore,
Let in the waves so fast upon the cargo,
The better half is either sunk or spoilt.
They scarce can hold another day, my liege.
_King._ Thanks to the sea for't--not our Admiral.
They brave it, stubborn, to the very last:--
But they shall smart for't shortly; smart severely.
Meantime, prepare we for our Queen; who comes
From England, deck'd in conquest. Say, Lord Harcourt,
Are all prepared to welcome her arrival?
_Harc._ All, my dread liege. The beach is thickly lined
With English soldiery, in ardent watch,
Fixing their eyes upon the bark, which bears
Our royal mistress. It was hoped, ere this,
'T had reach'd the harbour.--
[_Grand Flourish._
Hark! the queen has landed.
_King._ Do you then, good my lord! escort her hither.
[_Exit HARCOURT._
Sir Walter Manny?
_Sir W._ Ay, my gracious sovereign.
_King._ Guard well this packet. When the Governor
Of this same peevish town shall call a parley,
Break you it up, and from it speak our pleasure.
Here are the terms--the only terms--on which
We do allow them to capitulate.
_Enter the QUEEN PHILIPPA, attended._
Oh, welcome! welcome! We shall give you here
Rude martial fare, and soldiers' entertainment.
_Queen._ Royal sir!
Well met, and happily. I learn your labours
Draw to a glorious end.--When you return,
Besides the loyal subjects who would greet you,
The Scottish king, my lord! waits your arrival;
Who, somewhat partial to his neighbour's land,
Did come an uninvited guest among us.
I doubt he'll think us over-hospitable;
For, dreading his too quick departure from us,
I have made bold to guard him in the Tower:
And hither have I sail'd, my noble liege!
To glad you with the tidings.
_King._ My sweet warrior!
We will dispatch our work here, then for England.
Calais will soon be ours;--of that hereafter.
Think we, to-day, on nought but revelry.
You, madam, shall diffuse your influence
Throughout our camp.--Strike, there, our martial music!
For want of better, good Philippa, take
A soldier's noisy concert. Strike! I say.
GRAND CHORUS.
_War has still its melody;----_
_When blows come thick, and arrows fly,_
_When the soldier marches o'er_
_The crimson field, knee-deep in gore,_
_By carnage, and grim death, surrounded,_
_And groans of dying men confounded;--_
_If the warlike drum he hear,_
_And the shrill trumpet strike his ear._
_Roused by the spirit-stirring tones,_
_Music's influence he owns;_
_His lusty heart beats quick, and high;_
_War has still its melody._
_But, when the hard fought day is done,_
_And the battle's fairly won;_
_Oh! then he trolls the jolly note,_
_In triumph, thro' his rusty throat;_
_And all the story of the strife_
_He carols to the merry fife._
_His comrades join, their feats to tell;_
_The chorus then begins to swell;_
_Loud martial music rends the sky:_
_This is the soldier's melody._
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.
_MADELON's Apartment._
_LA GLOIRE and MADELON discovered. MADELON seated at a Table covered
with Eatables, Wines, &c. LA GLOIRE standing near the Table._
_La Gloire._ Blessings on her heart, how cleverly she feeds! the meat
goes as naturally into her little mouth, as if it had been used to the
road all the time of the famine: though, Heaven knows, 'tis a path that
has, lately, been little frequented.
_Madelon._ A votre sante, mon ami;--your health, La Gloire.
[_Drinks._
_La Gloire._ Nay, I'll answer thee in that, though bumpers were
Englishmen, and went against my French stomach. [_Takes Wine._] Heaven
bless thee, my poor Madelon! May a woman never tumble into the mire of
distress; and, if she is in, ill befall him that won't help her clean
out again.
[_Drinks._
_Madelon._ There; enough.
[_Comes from Table._
_La Gloire._ So: one kiss for a bonne bouche.--[_Kisses her._]--Dost
love me the better for this feast, now, Madelon?
_Madelon._ No, truly, not a jot. I love you e'en as well before dinner
as after.
_La Gloire._ What a jewel is regular affection!--to love, equally,
through the week, maigre days, and all! I cannot but own a full meal
makes an improvement in the warmth of my feelings. I can eat and drink
myself into a glow of tenderness, that fasting can never come up to.
And what hast thou done in my absence, Madelon?
_Madelon._ Little, La Gloire, but grieve with the rest. I have thought
on you; gone to confession in the morning; seemed happy, in the day, to
cheer my poor old father:--but my heart was bursting, La Gloire:--and,
at night, by myself, I looked at this little cross you gave me, and
cried.
_La Gloire._ [_Smothering his Tears._] Madelon, I,--I--I want another
draught of burgundy.
[_Drinks._
_Madelon._ Once, indeed,--I thought it was hard,--Father Antony
enjoined me penance, for thinking so much about you.
_La Gloire._ An old----What, by putting peas in your shoes, as usual?
_Madelon._ Yes; but, as it happened, I escaped.
_La Gloire._ Ay, marry! how?
_Madelon._ Why, as the famine pressed, the holy fathers had boiled all
our punishments, in puddings for the convent; and there was not a
penitential pea left in the town.
_La Gloire._ O, gluttony! to deprive the innocent of their hard, dry
penances, and apply them, soft, to their own offending stomachs! I
never could abide these pampered friars. They are the pot-bellied
children of the Pope, nursed at the bosom of old mother church; and
plaguy chubby boys they are. One convent of them, in a town, breeds
a famine sooner than an English blockade. But, what says thy father
within, here, Madelon, to our marriage?
_Madelon._ Truly, he has no objection, but in respect to your being a
soldier.
_La Gloire._ Sacre bleu! object to my carrying arms! my glory! my pride!
_Madelon._ Pr'ythee, now, 'tis not for that.
_La Gloire._ Degrade my profession!--my--look ye, Madelon; I love thee
with all my heart--with an honest soldier's heart--else I could tell
your father, that a citizen could never get on in the world, without a
soldier to do his journey-work:--and your soldier, look ye--'sblood! it
makes me fret like a hot day's march!--your soldier, in all nations,
when he is rusted down to your quiet citizen, and so sets up at home
for himself, is in double respect, for having served such an honourable
apprenticeship.
_Madelon._ Nay, now, La Gloire, my father meant not----
_La Gloire._ Marry, I would tell your father this to his teeth; which,
were it not for my captain and me--two soldiers, mark you me--might
not, haply, have been so soon set a going.
_Madelon._ Ungenerous! I could not have spoken such cutting words
to you, La Gloire.--My poor father only meant, that the wars might
separate us. But I had a remedy for that, too, for all your unkindness.
_La Gloire._ Pish!--remedy?--well--psha!--what was the remedy, Madelon?
_Madelon._ Why, I could have followed you to the camp.
_La Gloire._ And wouldst thou follow me then?
_Madelon._ Ay, surely, La Gloire: I could follow him I love all over
the world.
_La Gloire._ And bear the fatigue of a campaign, Madelon?
_Madelon._ Any thing with you, La Gloire. I warrant us, we should
be happy enough. Ay, and I could be useful too. I could pack your
knapsack; sing canzonets with you, to make us merry on a day's march;
mix in the soldier's dance upon occasion; and, at sun-set, I would
dress up our little tent, as neat as any captain's in the field: then,
at supper, La Gloire, we should be as cheerful!----
_La Gloire._ Now could I cut my tongue out for what I have said!--Cuff
me; slap my face, Madelon; then kiss me, and forgive me: and, if ever
I bestride my great war-horse again, and let him run away with me, and
trample over the heart of my best friends, I wish he may kick me off,
and break my neck in a ditch for my pains.--But--what--ha! ha!--what
should we do with our children, Madelon?
_Madelon._ Ah! mon Dieu! I had forgot that:--but if your endeavours be
honest, La Gloire, Providence will take care of them, I warrant you.
DUETT. LA GLOIRE AND MADELON.
Madelon. _Could you to battle march away,_
_And leave me here complaining?_
_I'm sure 'twould break my heart to stay,_
_When you are gone campaigning._
_Ah! non, non, non!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Could never quit her rover:_
_Ah! non, non, non!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Would go with you all the world over._
La Gloire. _No, no, my love! ah! do not grieve;_
_A soldier true you'll find me:_
_I could not have the heart to leave_
_My little girl behind me._
_Ah! non, non, non!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Should never quit her rover:_
_Ah! non, non, non!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Should go with me all the world over._
Both. _Then let the world jog as it will,_
_Let hollow friends forsake us,_
_We both shall be as happy still_
_As war and love can make us._
_Ah! non, non, non!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Shall never quit her rover:_
_Ah! non, non, non,!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Shall go with {you/me} all the world over._
_La Gloire._ By the mass, Madelon, such a wife as thou wilt be, would
make a man, after another campaign,--for another I must have, to
satisfy the cravings of my appetite,--go nigh to forswear the wars.
_Madelon._ Ah, La Gloire! would it were so! but the sound of a trumpet
will ever lead thee after it.
_La Gloire._ Tut--a trumpet!--thy voice, Madelon, will drown it.
_Madelon._ Ah, La Gloire!
[_Shaking her Head._
_La Gloire._ Nay, then, I am the veriest poltroon, if I think the sound
of a trumpet would move me any more than--[_A Parley is sounded from
the Walls._]--Eh!--gad--oh!--ecod there's a bustle! a parley from the
walls; which may end in a skirmish, or a battle--or a--I'll be with you
again in the chopping off of a head.
_Madelon._ Nay, now, La Gloire, I thought the sound of a trumpet----
_La Gloire._ A trumpet--simpleton!--that was a--gad I--wasn't it a
drum?--Adieu, Madelon! I'll be back again ere--[_Parley._]----March!
--Charge!--Huzza!
[_Draws his Sword, and exit._
_Madelon._ Well-a-day! a soldier's wife must have a fearful time
on't. Yet do I love La Gloire; he is so kind, so tender!--and he has,
simply, the best leg in the army. Heigho!--It must feel very odd to
sleep in a tent:--a camp must be ever in alarms, and soldiers always
ready for surprise.--Dame Toinette, who married a corporal, ere I was
born, told me, that, for one whole campaign, her husband went to bed
in his boots.
SONG.--MADELON.
_Little thinks the townsman's wife,_
_While at home she tarries,_
_What must be the lass's life,_
_Who a soldier marries._
_Now with weary marching spent,_
_Dancing now before the tent,_
_Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,_
_With her jolly soldier._
_In the camp, at night, she lies,_
_Wind and weather scorning,_
_Only grieved her love must rise,_
_And quit her in the morning;_
_But the doubtful skirmish done,_
_Blithe she sings at set of sun;_
_Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,_
_With her jolly soldier._
_Should the captain of her dear_
_Use his vain endeavour,_
_Whisp'ring nonsense in her ear,_
_Two fond hearts to sever,_
_At his passion she will scoff;_
_Laughing, thus, she'll put him off,--_
_Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,_
_For her jolly soldier._
[Exit.