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Title: The Surrender of Calais - A Play, in Three Acts
Author: Colman, George, 1732-1794
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Surrender of Calais - A Play, in Three Acts" ***
[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 PERSONÆ.
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 François.
_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 santé, 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.
SCENE II.
_The Town Hall of Calais._
_CITIZENS, SOLDIERS, and CRIER, discovered._
_Crier._ Silence!--An ye all talk thus, there's an end to conversation.
Your silence, my masters, will breed a disturbance. Mass, 'tis hard
that I, who am Crier, should be laughed at, and held at nought among
you.
_All._ Hear! hear!
_Crier._ Listen.--The good John de Vienne, our governor--a blessing on
his old merry heart!--grieving for your distress, has, e'en now, called
a parley on the walls, with the English; and has chosen me, in his
wisdom, to ring you all into the town hall, here; where, an you abide
his coming, you will hear, what he shall seem to signify unto you. And,
by our lady, here the governor comes!--[_Rings._]--Silence!
_All._ Silence!
_Crier._ Nay, 'tis ever so. An I were to bid a dumb man hold his
tongue, by my troth, I think a' would cry "Silence," till the drum of
my ear were bursten. Silence!
_Enter JOHN de VIENNE, EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE following. JOHN de
VIENNE seats himself at the Head of the Council Table; EUSTACHE sits
in the Front, among the CITIZENS._
_De Vienne._ You partly know why I have here convened you.
I pr'ythee, now,--I pr'ythee, honest friends!
Summon up all the fortitude within you,
Which you are masters of. Now, Heaven forgive me!
I almost wish I had not been a soldier;--
For I have, here, a matter to deliver
Requires a schoolman's preface. 'Tis a task,
Which bears so heavy on my poor old heart,
That 'twill go nigh to crack beneath the burden.
You know I love you, fellow citizens:
You know I love you well.
_All._ Ay, ay; we know it.
_De Vienne._ I could be well content, in peace, or peril,
To 'bide with you for ever.
_Eust._ No one doubts it.
I never, yet, did hear of governor,
Spite of the rubs, and watchful toil of office,
Would willingly forego his place.
_De Vienne._ Why, how now!
Why, how now, friend! dost thou come o'er me thus?
But I shall find a time--it fits not now--
When I will teach thee----'Sdeath! old John de Vienne,
A veteran, bluff soldier, bearded thus!
And sneer'd at by a saucy--Mark you me!--
[_Rises._
Well, let it pass:--the general calamity
Will sour the best of us.--[_Sits._]--My honest citizens,
I once more pray you, think that ye are men:
I pray you, too, my friends----
_Eust._ I pray you, sir,
Be somewhat brief; you'll tire else. These same citizens
These honest citizens, would fain e'en know
The worst at once. When members are impatient
For a plain tale, the orator, (you'll pardon me,)
Should not be too long winded.
_De Vienne._ Fellow, peace!
Ere now I've mark'd thee.--Thou art he, I take it,--
'Tis Eustache de St. Pierre, I think, they call thee--
Whom all the town, our very children, point at,
As the most growling knave in christendom;--
Yea, thou art he.
_Eust._ The same. The mongrels, here,
Cannot abide rough honesty:--I'm hated.
Smooth talking likes them better:--You, good sir,
Are popular among them.
_All._ Silence!
_Eust._ Buz!
_De Vienne._ Thus, then, in brief. Finding we are reduced,
By famine, and fatigue, unto extremity,
I sounded for a parley from the walls;--
E'en now 't has ended:--Edward order'd forth
Sir Walter Manny; and I needs must own,
A courteous knight, although an enemy.--
I told him our distress. Sir Knight, said I--
And here it makes me almost blush to think
An Englishman should see me drop a tear;
But, 'spite of me, it stole upon my cheek;--
To speak the honest truth, Sir Knight, said I,
My gallant men are perishing with hunger:--
Therefore I will surrender.
_Eust._ Surrender!
[_The rest look amazed._
_De Vienne._ But, conceive me,
On this condition;--that I do secure
The lives, and liberties, of those brave fellows,
Who, in this galling and disastrous siege,
Have shared with me in each fatigue and peril.
_All._ Huzza! Long live our governor! Huzza!
_De Vienne._ I thank you, friends.--It grieves me to repay
Your honest love, with tidings, sure, as heavy
As ever messenger was charged withal.
The King of England steels his heart against us.
He does let loose his vengeance; and he wills,--
If we would save our city from the sword,
From wild destruction,--that I straight do send him
Six of my first and best reputed citizens,
Bare headed, tendering the city keys;
And,--'sdeath, I choke!--with vile and loathsome ropes,
Circling their necks, in guise of malefactors,
To suffer instant execution.
[_The CITIZENS appear confounded. A Pause._
Friends,
I do perceive you're troubled:--'tis enough
To pose the stoutest of you. Who among you
Can smother nature's workings, which do prompt
Each, to the last, to struggle for himself?
Yet, were I not objected to, as governor,
There might be found--no matter.--Who so bold,
That, for the welfare of a wretched multitude,
Involved with him, in one great common cause,
Would volunteer it on the scaffold?
_Eust._ [_Rises._] I:----
E'en I;--the growling knave, whom children point at.
To save those children, and their hapless mothers,
To snatch the virgin from the ravisher,
To shield the bent and hoary citizen,
To push the sword back from his aged throat,
(Fresh reeking, haply, in his house's blood,)
I render up myself for sacrifice.----
Will no one budge? Then let the English in;
Let in the enemy, to find us wasted,
And winking in the socket. Rouse, for shame!
Rouse, citizens! Think on your wives, your infants!
And let us not be so far shamed in story,
That we should lack six men within our walls,
To save them thus from slaughter.
_De Vienne._ Noble soul!
I could, for this, fall down and worship thee.
Thou warm'st my heart. Does no one else appear,
To back this gallant veteran?
_D'Aire._ Eustache,--
Myself, and these two brothers, my companions,
All of your house, and near of kin to you,
Have ponder'd on your words:--we sure must die,
If we or go, or stay:--but, what weighs most--
We would not see our helpless little ones
Butcher'd before our eyes. We'll go with thee.
_Eust._ Now, by our good St. Dennis,
I do feel proud! My lowly house's glory
Shall live on record. What are birth and titles?
Feathers for children. The plain honest mind,
That branches forth in charity and virtue,
Shrinks lordly pomp to nought; and makes vain pedigree
Blush at his frothy boasting.--We are four;--
Fellows in death and honour.--Two remain
To fill our number.
_De Vienne._ Pause a while, my friends;
We yet have breathing time;--though troth but little.--
I must go forth, a hostage to the English,
Till you appear. Break up our sad assembly;--
And, for the rest, agree among yourselves.
Were the time apt, I could well waste a year
In praising this your valour.
[_To EUSTACHE._
_Eust._ Break we up. If any
Can wind his sluggish courage to the pitch,
Meet me anon i'th' market-place: and, thence,
Will we march forth. Ye have but this, remember;
Either plunge bravely into death, or wait
Till the full tide of blood flows in upon you,
And shame and slaughter overwhelm us. Come;
My noble partners, come!
[_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_An apartment in the GOVERNOR's House._
_Enter JULIA and RIBAUMONT._
_Ribau._ Yet, hear me, Julia----
_Julia._ Pr'ythee, good my lord,
Press me not thus: my father's strict command--
I must not say 'tis harsh--forbids me listen.
_Ribau._ Is then the path of duty so precise,
That 'twill not for a little deviate?
Sweet, let it wind, and bend to recollection.
Think on our oaths; yes, lady, they are mutual:--
You said you loved; I treasured the confession,
As misers hoard their gold: nay, 'twas my all.--
Think not I chatter in the idle school
Of whining coxcombs, where despair and death
Are words of course; I swell not fancied ills
With windy eloquence: no, trust me, Julia,
I speak in honest, simple suffering:
And disappointment, in my life's best hope,
So feeds upon my life, and wears me inward,
That I am nearly spirit-broken.
_Julia._ Why, why this, my lord?
You urge me past a maiden's modesty.
What should I say?--In nature's course, my lord,
The parent sits at helm, in grey authority,
And pilots the child's action: for my father,
You know what humour sways him.
_Ribau._ Yes, court policy;
Time-serving zeal: tame, passive, blind, obedience
To the stern will of power; which doth differ
As wide from true, impulsive loyalty,
As puppet work from nature. O, I would
The time were come!--our enemy, the English,
Bid fairest first to show a bright example;
When, 'twixt the ruler and the ruled, affection
Shall be reciprocal: when majesty
Shall gather strength from mildness; and the subject
Shall look with duteous love upon his sovereign,
As the child eyes its father. Now, by Heaven!
Old John de Vienne is turn'd a temporiser;
Making his daughter the poor topmost round
Of his vile ladder to preferment. 'Sdeath!
And you to suffer this! O, fie, fie, Julia!
'Twould show more noble in you to lay bare
Your mind's inconstancy, than thus to keep
The semblance of a passion; meanly veiling
Your broken faith with the excuse of duty.
Out on't! 'tis shallow--you ne'er loved.
_Julia._ My lord, my cup of sorrow was brimfull; and you,
I look'd not for it, have thrown in a drop,
Which makes it overflow. No more of that:
You have reviled my father: me, too, Ribaumont;
Heaven knows, I little merit it!--My lord,
Upon this theme we must not meet again.--
Farewell! and do not, do not think unkindly
On her, you, once, did call your Julia.
If it will sooth your anguish, Ribaumont,
To find a fellowship in grief, why think
That there is one, while struggling for her duty,
Sheds many a tear in private.--Heaven be with you!
[_Exit._
_Ribau._ Stay, stay, and listen to me. Gone! and thus too!
And have I lost thee--and for ever, Julia?
Now do I look on life as the worn mariner,
Stretching his eyes o'er seas immeasurable,
And all is drear and comfortless. Henceforward,
My years will be one void; day roll on day,
In sameness infinite, without a hope
To chequer the sad prospect. O! if death
Came yoked with honour to me, I could, now,
Embrace it with as warm and willing rapture,
As mothers clasp their infants.
_Enter LA GLOIRE._
Now, La Gloire! what is the news?
_La Gloire._ Good faith, my lord, the saddest that ever tongue told!
_Ribau._ What is't?
_La Gloire._ The town has surrendered.
_Ribau._ I guessed as much.
_La Gloire._ Upon conditions.
_Ribau._ What are they?
_La Gloire._ Very scurvy ones, my lord.--To save the city from sacking,
six citizens must swing for it, in Edward's camp. But four have yet
been found; and they are----
_Ribau._ Who?
_La Gloire._ Oh lord!--all of my own family.--There's John d'Aire,
Jacque, and Pierre Wissant; my three good cousins german, my lord: and
the fourth, who was the first that offered, is--is----
_Ribau._ Who, La Gloire?
_La Gloire._ [_Wiping his Eyes._] I crave your pardon, my lord, for
being thus unsoldier-like; but 'tis--'tis my own father.
_Ribau._ Eustache!
_La Gloire._ He, my lord! He! old Eustache de St. Pierre:--the
honestest, kindliest soul!--I cannot talk upon't.--Grief plays the
hangman with me, and has almost choked me already.
_Ribau._ Why, I am courted to't.--The time, example,
Do woo me to my very wish.--Come hither.
Two, it should seem, are wanting, to complete
The little band of those brave men, who die
To save their fellows.
_La Gloire._ Ay, my lord. There is a meeting upon't, half an hour
hence, in the market-place.
_Ribau._ Mark me, La Gloire: and see, that you obey me,
Ev'n to the very letter of my orders.
They are the last, perhaps, my honest fellow,
I e'er shall give thee. Seek thy father out,
And tell him this from me: his gallant bearing
Doth school his betters; I have studied o'er
His noble lesson, and have learnt my duty.
Say, he will find me in the market-place,
Disguised in humble seeming; and I fain
Would pass for one allied to him: and thence--
Dost mark me well?--I will along with him,
Ev'n hand in hand, to death.
_La Gloire._ My lord,--I--I--[_Bursts into tears, falls on his Knees,
takes hold of RIBAUMONT's Hand, and kisses it._]--I shall lose my
father; when he was gone, I looked you would have been my father.
The thought of still serving you was a comfort to me.--You are my
commander; and I hope I have, hitherto, never disobeyed orders; but,
if I now deliver your message, drum me out for ingratitude, as the
greatest rascal that ever came into a regiment.
_Ribau._ Pr'ythee, no more, La Gloire? I am resolved;--
My purpose fix'd. It would be bitter to thee,
To see me die in anger with thee: therefore,
Do thou my bidding; close thy service up,
In duty to my will. Go, find thy father;
I will prepare within the while.--Obey me,--
Or the last look from thy expiring master,
Darting reproach, shall burst thy heart in twain.
Mark, and be punctual!
[_Exit._
_La Gloire._ O, the Virgin! Why was I ever attached to man, woman, or
child?
_Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE._
_Eust._ Where's thy commander, boy--Count Ribaumont?
_La Gloire._ O father!----
_Eust._ Peace!--I must a word with him.
I have a few short thanks I would deliver,
Touching his care of thee: it is the last
Of all my worldly packages; that done,
I may set forward on my journey.
_La Gloire._ Oh, father! I shall never go to bed again in peace as long
as I live. Sorrow will keep my eyes open half the night; and when I drop
into a doze at day-break, I shall be hanged with you, father, a score of
times every morning.
_Eust._ I could have spared this meeting.--Boy, I will not--
Nor would I, had I time for't, ring a chime
Of drowsy document, at this, our parting.
Nor will I stuff the simple plan of life,
That I would have thee follow, with trim angles,
And petty intersections of nice conduct;
Which dotards, rotten in their wisdom, oft
Will mark, in mathematical precision,
Upon a stripling's mind, until they blur
The modest hand of nature. Thou'rt a soldier;
'Tis said a good one;--and I ne'er yet knew
A rough, true soldier, lack humanity:--
If, then, thou canst, with one hand, push aside
The buffets of the world, and, with the other,
Stretch'd forth, in warm and manly charity,
Assist the weak,----be thankful for the ground-work,
And e'en let impulse build upon't;--thou needst
No line, nor level, formal age can give thee,
To raise a noble superstructure. Come;
Embrace me;--when thy father sleeps in honour,
Think that--[_Embracing him, he bursts into Tears._]--my son,
my boy!--Psha! pish! this nature--
Conduct me to----
_La Gloire._ [_Catching hold of him._] Hold! hold!--We shall leap here,
from bad to worse. I--I am bidden, father, to deliver a message to you.
_Eust._ Be quick, then; the time wears.
_La Gloire._ No, truly, 'twill not come quick. I must force it out
in driblets. My captain bids me say, that--that brave men are scarce.
Find six in the town, and you find all;--so he will join you at the
market-cross, and--go with you--to----
_Eust._ The scaffold!
_La Gloire._ Yes, the sca--that word sticks so in my throat, I can't
squeeze it out, for the life of me.
_Eust._ Why, this shows nobly now! our honest cause
Is graced in the addition. Lead me--[_Observing LA GLOIRE,
weeping_]--how now?
Out on thee, knave! thoul't bring disgrace upon me.
By Heaven! I feel as proud in this, my death;----
And thou, the nearest to my blood, to sully
My house's name with womanhood--Shame! shame!
Where is the noble Ribaumont?
[_Going._
_La Gloire._ Stay, father, stay! I can hold it no longer. I love
Madelon too well to keep her waking o'nights, with blubbering over her
for the loss of my father, and my captain:--another neck is wanting to
make up the half dozen; so I'll e'en along, father, as the sixth.
_Eust._ [_After a Pause._] I know not what to answer.--Thou hast shaken
My manhood to the centre.--Follow, boy!
Thy aim is honour; but the dreary road to't,
Which thou must tread, does stir the father in me.
'Tis such a nice and tickle point, between
The patriot and the parent, that, Heaven knows,
I need a counsellor.--I'll to thy captain.
With him, anon, you'll find me.
[_Exit._
_La Gloire._ So! how many a lad, with a fair beginning of life, comes
to an untimely conclusion!--My poor Madelon, too! she little thinks
that----
_MADELON peeping in._
_Madelon._ Hist! hist! La Gloire!
_La Gloire._ Eh?
_Madelon._ Why, where hast thou been, La Gloire? I have been seeking
you all over the town. I feared you would get into danger. Finding the
Governor's gate thrown open, and all the city in confusion, I e'en
ventured in to look for you. Where hast thou been, La Gloire?
_La Gloire._ Been? no where--but I am going----
_Madelon._ Where, La Gloire?
_La Gloire._ A--a little way with my father. Hast heard the news,
Madelon?
_Madelon._ Only in part. I hear the town has surrendered: and that six
poor men are to be executed; and march from the town gates. But we
shall then be in safety, La Gloire. Poor fellows! I would not see them
go forth for the world!
_La Gloire._ Poor fellows!--a hem!--Ay, poor fellows! True, Madelon;
I would not have thee shocked with the sight, I confess.
_Madelon._ But, pr'ythee, La Gloire, keep at home now with me. You are
ever gadding. You soldiers are so wild and turbulent--How can you, La
Gloire? You must be present, now, at this horrid ceremony?
_La Gloire._ Why, truly, I----I must be present;--but it will be for
the last time, Madelon. I take little pleasure, in it, believe me.
_Madelon._ I would thou wouldst home with me! I have provided, out of
thy bounty, a repast for us this evening. My father, who has ne'er
stirred out these three weeks, is filled with joy for thy return;--he
will sit at our table, La Gloire; he will give us his blessing, and
wish us happy in marriage. Come, you shall not away, this evening,
in sooth, now!
_La Gloire._ I must, Madelon; I must. The throng will press, and--and
I may lose somewhat of value. 'Tis seldom a soldier's pocket is heavy;
but I carry all my worldly goods about me. I would fain not lose it;
so e'en be mistress on't till my return. Here is a casket;--with five
years' wages from my captain; three quarters' pay from my regiment; and
eleven marks, plucked from the boot of a dead English corporal: 'tis
my whole fortune; keep it, Madelon, for fear of accidents: and if any
cross accident ever should befall me, remember, you are heir apparent
to the bulk of my property.
_Madelon._ But why thus particular? I would you would stay quiet with me!
_La Gloire._ But for this once, Madelon; and I shall be quiet ever
after.--Kiss me. So;--Adieu!
_Madelon._ Adieu, La Gloire! Remember, now, at night----
_La Gloire._ Adieu!--At night!--Mercy on me!--should I stay three
minutes longer, my heart would rescue my neck; for the breaking of one,
would save the stretching of the other.
[_Aside._--_Exit._
_Madelon._ How rich my La Gloire has got in the wars! My father, too,
has something to throw in at our wedding: and, when we meet, we shall
be the happiest couple in Picardy.
SONG.--MADELON.
_I tremble to think, that my soldier's so bold;_
_To see with what danger he gets all his gold;_
_Yet danger all over, 'twill keep out the cold,_
_And we shall be warm when we're married,_
_For riches, 'tis true that I covet them not,_
_Unless 'tis to better my dear soldier's lot;_
_And he shall be master of all I have got,_
_The very first moment we're married._
_My heart how it beats, but to look to the day,_
_In church, when my father will give me away!_
_But that I shall laugh at, I've heard many say,_
_A day or two after we're married._
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
_Calais._
_A Gate, leading out of the Town._
_Enter CITIZENS._
_1 Cit._ Stand back; they are coming.
_3 Cit._ Nay, my masters, they will not forth, this quarter of an hour.
Men seldom move lightly on such a heavy occasion.
_4 Cit._ Who are the two others that have filled up the number?
_3 Cit._ Marry, two more of old Eustache's family. His own son; and the
other, as 'tis rumoured, a relation, in the town, that few of us are
acquainted withal.
_4 Cit._ That's strange.
_3 Cit._ Why, ay; but when a man chuses a rope for his preferment, few
are found envious enough to dispute the title with him.--By the rood!
here they come!
_Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE, RIBAUMONT, LA GLOIRE, JOHN D'AIRE,
J. WISSANT, P. WISSANT, going to execution: a Procession of SOLDIERS,
FRIARS, NUNS, &c. accompanying them.--A solemn March; then, a Halt._
_Ribau._ I pr'ythee, peace, Eustache! I fain would 'scape
Observance from the rabble. Hurry o'er
This irksome march; and straightway to the camp.
_Eust._ Enough--Set forth! We are engaged, my friends,
Upon a business here, which most, I wot,
Do think of moment; and we would not waste
The time in idle ceremony. On!--
Ere we are usher'd to the English camp,
And most of you, I trust, will follow thither,--
We will bestow the little time allow'd us
In manly leave-taking. Strike, and set onward!
_Citizens._ Bless our countrymen! Bless our deliverers!
GLEE.--_By the Persons of the Procession._
_Peace to the heroes! peace! who yield their blood,_
_And perish, nobly, for their country's good!_
_Peace to their noble souls! their bodies die;_
_Their fame shall flourish long in memory;_
_Recorded still, in future years,_
_Green in a nation's gratitude, and tears._
CHORUS.
_Sound! sound in solemn strains, and slow!_
_Dully beat the muffled drum!_
_Bid the hollow trumpet blow,_
_In deaden'd tones, clear, firm, and low;--_
_For, see! the patriot heros come!_
[_Towards the End of the Chorus, the Characters proceed on their March
out of the Town; and when the last Persons of the Procession are going
through the Gates, the Curtain drops._
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.
_An Apartment in the House of JOHN de VIENNE._
_Enter JULIA, in Man's Apparel, and O'CARROL._
_Julia._ Come on; bestir thee, good fellow! Thou must be my guide, and
conduct me.
_O'Carrol._ 'Faith, and I'll conduct you, with all my heart and soul;
and some good creature, I warrant, will be kind enough to show me the
way.
_Julia._ But art thou well assured, O'Carrol, of what thou hast
informed me?
_O'Carrol._ To be sure I am well assured; for I informed myself, and
I never yet catched myself out in telling a lie. There was six of
them, as tall fellows as any in France, with ugly ropes about their
good-looking necks, going to the town-gates; and Count Ribaumont
marched second in the handsome half dozen. The whole town followed them
with their eyes, till they were as full of water as if they had been
peeping into so many mustard pots. And so, madam, knowing he loves you
better than dear life,(which, to be sure, he seems to hold cheap enough
at present), and thinking you would be glad to hear the terrible news,
why, I made all the haste I could to come and tell it to you.
_Julia._ And thus, in haste, have I equipped myself. Come, good
O'Carrol;--dost think I shall 'scape discovery in these accoutrements?
_O'Carrol._ Escape!--By my soul, lady, one would think you had been a
young man, from the very first day you were born. Och! what a piece of
work a little trimming and drapery makes in a good fellow's fancy! A
foot is a foot, all the world over;--but take the foot of the sweetest
little creature that ever tripped over green sward, and if it doesn't
play at bo-peep under a petticoat--'faith, I don't know the reason of
it; but it gives a clean contrary turn to a man's imagination. But what
is it you would be after now, Lady Julia?
_Julia._ Something I will do; and it must be speedy: at all hazards, we
will to the English camp, O'Carrol:--opportunity must shape the rest.
_O'Carrol._ The camp?--O, 'faith, that's my element; and Heaven send us
success in it! If an Irishman's prayers, lady, could make you happy,
your little heart should soon be as light as a feather-bed.
_Julia._ I thank thee, my honest fellow: thy care for me shall not long
go unrewarded.
_O'Carrol._ Now the devil fetch rewarding, say I! If a man does his
best friends a piece of service, he must be an unconscionable sort of
an honest fellow, to look for more reward than the pleasure he gets in
assisting them.
_Julia._ Well, well! each moment now is precious! Haste thee, O'Carrol;
Time has wings.
_O'Carrol._ Och! be asey, madam; we'll take the ould fellow by the
forelock, I warrant him. When honest gentlemen's business calls them on
a small walk to the gallows, a man may set out a quarter of an hour
behind them, and be certain of meeting them upon the road:--and, now I
bethink me, madam, if we go out at the draw-bridge, from the citadel,
hard by the house here, we may be at the camp, ere the poor souls have
marched their body round the battlements.
_Julia._ Thou say'st well; and we will forth that way:
'Twill be most private too. Thou'lt follow me, O'Carrol?
_O'Carrol._ Ay, that I would, to the end of the wide world, and a
thousand miles beyond it.
_Julia._ Yet, tarry here a while, till I prepare the means of our going
forth. Join me a few minutes hence in the hall, O'Carrol.
And, Fortune, frown not on a poor weak woman!
Who, if she fail in this, her last, sad struggle,
Is so surrounded by a sea of grief
That she must sink for ever!
[_Exit._
_O'Carrol._ And, sink or swim, I'll to the bottom along with you.--Och!
what a sad thing it is to see sorrow wet the sweet cheeks of a woman!
Faith, now, I can't make out that same crying, for the life of me. My
sorrow is always of a dry sort; that gives me a sore throat, without
ever-troubling my eyes about the business. The camp! Well, with all my
heart: it won't be the first time I have been present at a bit of a
bustle.
SONG.--O'CARROL.
_When I was at home, I was merry and frisky;_
_My dad kept a pig, and my mother sold whisky:_
_My uncle was rich, but would never be asy,_
_Till I was enlisted by Corporal Casey._
_Oh! rub a dub, row de dow, Corporal Casey!_
_My dear little Sheelah I thought would run crazy,_
_When I trudged away with tough Corporal Casey._
_I march'd from Kilkenny, and as I was thinking_
_On Sheelah, my heart in my bosom was sinking;_
_But soon I was forced to look fresh as a daisy,_
_For fear of a drubbing from Corporal Casey._
_Och! rub a dub, row de dow, Corporal Casey!_
_The devil go with him, I ne'er could be lazy,_
_He stuck in my skirts so, ould Corporal Casey._
_We went into battle; I took the blows fairly,_
_That fell on my pate, but they bother'd me rarely:_
_And who should the first be that dropp'd? why, an plase ye,_
_It was my good friend, honest Corporal Casey._
_Och! rub a dub, row de dow, Corporal Casey!_
_Thinks I, you are quiet, and I shall be asy;_
_So eight years I fought, without Corporal Casey._
[Exit.
SCENE II.
_The English Camp._
_A Scaffold in the Back of the Scene: TWO WORKMEN descend from it._
_1 Work._ There 'tis;--and finished: as pleasing a piece of work, as
man could wish to turn out of hand. If King Edward, (Heaven bless him!)
give me not a pension for this, let'n make the next scaffold himself.
Mass! I would (with reverence be it spoken), build a scaffold, and fix
a gallows, with any king in Christendom.
_2 Work._ Yea, marry, if he had not served his time to the trade.
_1 Work._ Yea, or if he had. I have been prime gallows maker, and
principal hangman, now, nine-and-twenty years.--Thank Heaven!
neighbour, I have long been notorious.
_2 Work._ Thou say'st true, indeed. Thy enemies cannot deny thee that.
_1 Work._ And why, I pray you? why have I been so?
_2 Work._ Mass, I know not! I think 'tis thy good luck.
_1 Work._ Tut, I will tell thee. My parents, I thank them, bred me to
the gallows: marry, then, how was it?--why, look you, I took delight
in my business.--An you would be a good workman, ever, while you live,
take a delight in your business. I have been an honest, pains-taking
man, neighbour. No one is notorious, without taking pains for it.
_2 Work._ Truly, then, I fear my character is naught. I never can bring
myself to take pains for it.
_1 Work._ Thou art the more to be pitied. I never made but one small
mistake, since I entered on business.
_2 Work._ I pr'ythee, now, tell me that.
_1 Work._ 'Twas on execution day; we were much thronged, and the signal
was given full soon; when, a pize on it! I whips me, in haste, the
halter over the neck of an honest stander-by:--and I jerks me him up to
the top of a twenty foot gibbet. Marry, the true rogue escaped by't;
for 'twas a full hour ere the error was noted. But, hast heard who the
six be, that will be here anon?
_2 Work._ Only that they be citizens. They are e'en now coming hitherward.
Some of our men have seen them: they march, as 'tis reported, wondrous
doleful.
_1 Work._ No matter; tarry till they see my work;--that's all. An that
do not content them, mark them for sour knaves. An a man be not
satisfied when a sets foot on my scaffold, say he is hard to please.
Rot them, your condemned men, now-a-days, have no discernment. I would
I had the hanging of all my fellow craft! I should then have some
judges of my skill; and merit would not go praiseless.--[_A
Flourish._]--So!--the king is coming--stand clear, now, neighbour:--an
the king like not my scaffold, I am no true man.
[_They go on the Scaffold._
_Enter KING EDWARD, QUEEN, HARCOURT, SIR WALTER MANNY, ARUNDEL, WARWICK,
TRAIN-BEARERS, Standards, &c._
_King._ Yes, good Philippa, 'tis our firm decree,
And a full wise one too;--'tis but just recompense,
For near twelve weary months, their stubbornness
Has caused us linger out before their city.
Should we not now resent, in future story
Our English would be chronicled as dullards;--
These French would mock us for the snails of war,
Who bring our houses on our sluggish backs,
To winter it before their mould'ring walls;
Nay, every village, circled by a ditch,
Would think itself a town impregnable;
Check the full vigour of our march, and worry
Our armies with resistance.
_Queen._ And yet, my liege, I cannot chuse but pity
The wretched men, who now must suffer for it.
_King._ Justice, madam,
Minute in her stern exercise of office,
Is comprehensive in effect; and when
She points her sword to the particular,
She aims at general good.--
[_Solemn Music, at a Distance._
But, hark! they come.
Are they within our lines?
_Sir W._ They are, my liege.
_King._ Deliver up Sir John de Vienne.
[_KING EDWARD and QUEEN seat themselves on a Throne, erected
in the Camp, on the occasion of the Execution._
_Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE, with the Keys; RIBAUMONT, LA GLOIRE,
JOHN D'AIRE, J. WISSANT, and P. WISSANT, with Halters round their Necks;
a Multitude of French following._
_King._ Are these the six must suffer?
_Eust._ Suffer!--no:----
We do embrace our fate: we glory in't.
They who stand forward, sir, to yield their lives,
A willing forfeit, for their country's safety,
When they meet death, meet honour, and rejoice
In the encounter. Suffer, is a term
The upright, and undaunted spirit, blots
From death's vocabulary.
_King._ Now, beshrew thee, knave!
Thou dost speak bluntly.
_Eust._ Ay, and cheerily.
But to our purpose.--I am bidden, sir,
I and my noble comrades, here, of Calais,
Thus lowly, at your feet, to tender to you
Our city's keys;--[_Kneels and lays the Keys at the Foot of the
Throne._]--and they do guard a treasure
Well worth a king's acceptance; for they yield
A golden opportunity to mightiness
Of comforting the wretched. Take but these,
And turn our ponderous portals on the hinge,
And you will find, in every street, a document,
A lesson, at each step, for iron power
To feel for fellow men:--Our wasted soldiers
Dropping upon their watch; the dying mother
Wailing her famish'd child; the meagre son
Grasping his father's hand in agony,
Till their sunk eyes exchange a feeble gleam
Of love and blessing, and they both expire.
_King._ Your citizens may thank themselves for't; wilfulness
Does ever thus recoil upon itself.
_Eust._ Sworn liegemen to their master, and their monarch,
They have perform'd their duty, sir. I trust
You, who yourself are king, can scarcely blame
Poor fellows for their loyalty. 'Tis plain
You do not, sir; for now, your royal nature
O'erflows in clemency; and setting by
All thought of crushing those beneath your feet,
Which, in the heat and giddiness of conquest,
The victor sometimes is seen guilty of;
Our town finds grace and pity at your hands.
Your noble bounty, sir, is pleas'd consider
Some certain trifles we have suffer'd; such
As a bare twelvemonth's siege--a lack of food;
Some foolish grey-beards dead by't; some few heaps
Of perish'd soldiers; and, humanely weighing
These nothings as misfortunes, spare our people:
Simply exacting, that six useless citizens,
Mere logs in the community, and prized
For nothing but their honesty, come forth,
Like malefactors, and be gibbetted!
_King._ Villain and slave! for this thy daring taunt,
(Howe'er before we might incline to listen),
We henceforth shut the ear to supplication.
_Eust._ Mighty sir!
We march'd not forth to supplicate, but die.
Trust me, king,
We could not covet aught, in your disposal,
Would swell our future name with half the glory
As this same sentence, which, we thank you for't,
You have bestow'd, unask'd.
_King._ Conduct them straight to execution!
_La Gloire._ [_Advancing to the left of EUSTACHE._] Father!
_Eust._ How now? thou shakest!
_La Gloire._ 'Tisn't for myself, then.--For my own part, I am a man:
but I cannot look on our relations, and my captain, and on you, father,
without feeling a something, that makes a woman of me.--But I----
_Eust._ Briefly, boy; what is't?
_La Gloire._ Give me thy hand, father! So--[_Kisses it._]--And now, if
I part with it, while a puff of breath remains in my body, I shall lose
one of the most sorrowful comforts, that ever poor fellow in jeopardy
fixed his heart upon. Were I but well assured poor Madelon would
recover the news, I could go off as tough as the stoutest.
_Rib._ [_Advances to the right of EUSTACHE._]
Farewell, old heart! thy body doth incase
The noblest spirit soldier e'er could boast,
To face grim death withal. Inform our fellows,
At the last moment given, on the scaffold,
We will embrace, and----
[_A Muffled Drum beats._
----Hark! the signal beats.
_Eust._ Lead on.
[_They march up to the Scaffold._
_Soldier._ [_Without._] You cannot pass.
_Julia._ [_Without._] Nay, give me way!
_Enter JULIA and O'CARROL._
_Julia._ Stay, stay your hands! desist, or----
_King._ How now!
Wherefore this boldness?
_Julia._ Great and mighty King!
Behold a youth much wrong'd. Men do esteem
The Monarch's throne as the pure fount and spring
Whence justice flows: and here I cry for it.
_King._ What is the suit thus urges?
_Julia._ Please you, sir,
Suspend a while this fatal ceremony,--
For therein lies my grief,--and I will on.
_King._ Pause ye a while.--Young man, proceed.
_Julia._ Now, Heaven!
Make firm my woman's heart! [_Aside._]--Most royal sir!
Although the cause of this my suit doth wound
My private bosom, yet it doth involve,
And couple with me, a right noble sharer.--
'Tis you, great sir, you are yourself abused;
My countrymen do palter with thee, King:----
You did require
Six of our citizens, first in repute,
And best consider'd of our town, as victims
Of your high-throned anger. Here is one
[_Pointing to RIBAUMONT._
I single out, and challenge to the proof;--
Let him stand forth;--and here I do avouch
He is no member of our city:
He does usurp another's right; defeats
Your mighty purpose: and your rage, which thirsted
For a rich draught of vengeance, must be served
With the mere dregs of our community.
_Ribau._ [_Advances._] Shame! I shall burst!--the dregs!----
_King._ Thou self-will'd fool,
Who would run headlong into death, what art thou?
_Ribau._ A man:--let that content you, sir!--'Tis blood
You crave,--and with an appetite so keen,
'Tis strange to find you nice about its quality.
But for this slave,
Who thus has dared belie me, did not circumstance
Rein in my wish--(O grant me patience, Heaven!
The dregs!)--now, by my soul! I'd crush the reptile
Beneath my feet; now, while his poisonous tongue
Is darting forth its venom'd slander on me.
_King._ I will be satisfied in this. Speak, fellow?
Say, what is thy condition?
_Ribau._ Truly, sir,
'Tis waste of royal breath to make this stir,
For one, whom some few minutes hence your sentence
Must sink to nothing. Henceforth I am dumb
To all interrogation.
_King._ Now, by our diadem!--but answer you.
What is his state?--Say, of whose wreched place
Is he the bold usurper?
_Julia._ Sir, of mine.
He does despoil me of my title; comes
Bedeck'd in my just dues; which, as a citizen,
(A young one though I be,) I here lay claim to.
I am your victim, sir; dismiss this man,
Who, haply, comes, in pity to my youth,
And plucks the glory from me, which this ceremony
Would grace my name withal, and let me die.
_O'Carrol._ Die!--Och, the devil! did I come to the camp for
this?--Madam, dear, dear madam!--
[_Aside._
_King._ The glory!--Why, by Heaven! these headstrong French
Toy with our punishments!
For thee, rash stripling! who dost brave our vengeance,
Prepare to meet it. Yoke thee with this knave,
Whose insolence hath roused our spleen, and, straight,
You both shall suffer for't together.
_Julia._ [_Kneeling._] Sir!
Ere I do meet my fate, upon my knees
I make one poor request. This man, great sir!
(Tho' now, there's reason why he knows me not,)
I own doth touch me nearly.--I do owe him
A debt of gratitude;--'twould shock me sore
To see him in his agony;--so please you,
Command, that, in the order of our deaths,
I may precede him.
_King._ Well;--so be it, then.--
Guards! lead them forth.
_Julia._ And might he--oh, dread sir!
Might he but live, I then should be at peace.
_King._ Conduct them to their fate.
_Julia._ [_Rises._] Then, ere we go, a word at parting;--
For here your spleen o'erleaps the bound of prudence.
The blood you now would spill, is pure and noble;
Nor will the shedding of it lack avengers.
Shame on disguise! off with't, my lord! [_To RIBAUMONT._]--Behold
Our France's foremost champion: and remember,
In many a hardy fight, the gallant deeds
(For fame has blown them loudly King!) of Ribaumont.
Oft has he put you to't:--nay, late, at Cressy,
Ask of your Black Prince Edward, there, how long
Count Ribaumont and he were point to point.
He has attack'd our foe; reliev'd our people;
Succour'd our town, till cruel disappointment,
Where he had fix'd his gallant heart, did turn him
Wild with despairing love. Old John de Vienne
Denied his daughter to him;--drove him hither,
To meet your cruelty;--and now, that daughter,
Grown desperate as he, doth brave it, King!
And we will die together.
[_Runs and embraces RIBAUMONT._
_Ribau._ Heaven!--my Julia!
Art thou then true?--O give me utterance!
Now, fortune, do thy worst!--
[_Throws off his Disguise._
You cannot, King!
You dare not, for your life, lay savage hands
On female innocence!--and, for myself,
E'en use your will.
[_KING descends from the Throne; HARCOURT kneels and
offers his Arm; and the QUEEN descends, and goes
opposite to the KING._
_King._ Lady, you are free:----
Our British Knights are famed for courtesy;
And it will ne'er, I trust, be said an Englishman
Denied protection to a woman. You
Must, under guard, my lord! abide our pleasure:--
For the remainder, they have heard our will,
And they must suffer: 'tis but fit we prove,
Spite of their obstinate and close defence,
Our English excellence.
_Queen._ [_Kneels._] Oh! then, my liege,
Prove it in mercy.
War, noble sir! when too far push'd, is butchery:
When manly victory o'erleaps its limits,
The tyrant blasts the laurels of the conqueror.
Let it not dwell within your thoughts, my liege,
Thus to oppress these men. And, royal sir!
Since you were free to promise
Whatever boon I begg'd,--now, on my knee,
I beg it, sir. Release these wretched men:
Make me the means of cheering the unhappy:
And, though my claim were tenfold what it is
Upon your bounty, 'twould reward me nobly.
_King._ Rise, madam. Tho' it was our fix'd intent
To awe these French, by terrible example,
Our promise still is sacred, good Philippa.
Your suit is won; and we relax our rigour.----
Let them pass free; while we do here pronounce
A general pardon.
_La Gloire._ A pardon! no!--Oh diable!--My father! and my commander
too!--Huzza!--[_Takes the Rope from his Father's Neck, then from his
own, and runs down with the Three Kinsmen._]---Oh! that I should live
to unrope my poor old father, and master!
[_Runs to RIBAUMONT, and takes the Rope off his Neck._
_Enter MADELON._
[_She and LA GLOIRE rush into each other's Arms._
_Madelon._ Oh! my poor La Gloire!--My tears--
_La Gloire._ That's right! Cry, Madelon!--cry for joy, wench!--Old
Eustache is safe!--my Captain and relations free!--Here's a whole
bundle of honest necks recovered: mine's tossed in, in the lump; and
we'll be married, Madelon, to-morrow.
_King._ Now, my lord! for you:--
We have, I trust, some influence here;
Nor will we quit your town, until we see
Your marriage solemnized--
[_To RIBAUMONT._
_O'Carrol._ Well, if I didn't know what crying was before, I have found
it out at last.--'Faith it has a mighty pleasant relieving sort of a
feel with it.
_King._ Prepare we, then, to enter Calais; straight
Give order for our march--
Breathe forth, our instruments of war; and, as
We do approach the rugged walls, sound high
The strains of victory.
GRAND CHORUS.
_Rear, rear our English banner high_
_In token proud of victory!_
_Where'er our god of battle strides,_
_Loud sound the trump of fame!_
_Where'er the English warrior rides,_
_May laurel'd conquest grace his name._
[_Exeunt omnes._
THE END.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Surrender of Calais - A Play, in Three Acts" ***
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