The Surrender of Calais.

by George Colman.

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 unbia.s.sed judgment of the vanquished, they profess a just, a n.o.ble, 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 p.r.o.nunciation 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 p.r.o.nounced 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.

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 pa.s.sed 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 sh.o.r.e.

_Ribau._ Vague b.o.o.by! 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 appet.i.te.

_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 compa.s.sion.

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 pa.s.sed 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 sc.r.a.pe, 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._