SCENE II.

_The Place, in the Town of Calais._

_Enter an OFFICER, SERGEANT, and SOLDIERS.--CITIZENS enter severally during the Scene._

_Officer._ Bravely, good fellows! Courage! Why, still there's life in't. Sergeant!

_Serg._ Your honour!

_Officer._ How do the men bear up? Have they stout hearts still?

_Serg._ I know not, sir, for their hearts; but I'll warrant them stout stomachs. Hunger is so powerful in them, that I fear me they'll munch their way through the stone walls of the city.

_Officer._ This famine pinches. Poor rogues! Cheer them with hopes, good Sergeant.

_Serg._ Hope, your honour, is but a meagre mess for a regiment. Hope has almost shrunk them out of their doublets. Hope has made their legs so weary of the lease they had taken of their hose, that all their calves have slunk away from the premises. There isn't a stocking in the whole company that can boast of a tolerable tenant. The privates join in the public complaining; the drummers grow noisy; our poor corporal has no body left; and the trumpeter is blown up with wind.

_Officer._ Do they grow mutinous? Look to them--check their muttering.

_Serg._ Troth, sir, I do my best:--when they grumble for meat, I make them eat their own words; and give them some solid counsel, well seasoned with the pepper of correction.

_Officer._ Well, well! look to them; keep a strict watch; and march the guards to their several posts.

[_Exit OFFICER._

_Serg._ Now must I administer consolation, and give the rogues their daily meal of encouragement.--Hem! Countrymen, fellow soldiers, and Frenchmen!--be of good cheer, for famine is come upon you, and you are all in danger of starving. Is there any thing dearer to a Frenchman than his honour? Isn't honour the greater, the greater the danger? and has any body ever had the honour of being in greater danger than you?--Rejoice, then, for your peril is extreme! Be merry, for you have a glorious dismal prospect before you; and as pleasing a state of desperation as the noble heart of a soldier could wish! Come! one cheer for the glory of France.--St. Dennis, and our Grand Monarque, King Philip the Sixth!

[_SOLDIERS huzza very feebly._

Oons! it sounds as hollow as a churchyard. The voice comes through their wizen mouths like wind from the crack of an old wainscot. Away, rogues, to your posts! Bristle up your courage, and wait the event of time! Remember ye are Frenchmen, and bid defiance to famine! Our mistresses are locked up with us in the town; we have frogs in the wells, and snuff at the merchants'. An Englishman, now, would hang himself upon this, which is enough to make a gay Frenchman happy. Allons, camarades!

SONG.--SERGEANT.

_My comrades so famish'd and queer,_ _Hear the drums, how they jollily beat!_ _They fill our French hearts with good cheer,_ _Although we have nothing to eat._ _Rub a dub._ All. _Nothing to eat: rub a dub,_ _Rub a dub--we have nothing to eat._

_Then, hark to the merry toned fife!_ _To hear it 'twill make a man younger:_ _I tell you, my lads, this is life_ _For any one dying with hunger._ _Toot a too._ All. _Dying with hunger: toot a too,_ _Toot a too--we are dying with hunger._

_The foe to inspire you to beat,_ _Only list to the trumpet so shrill!_ _Till the enemy's kill'd we can't eat:_ _Do the job--you may eat all you kill._ _Ran ta tan._ All. _We'll eat all we kill; ran ta tan,_ _Ran ta tan--we may eat all we kill._

[_Exeunt SOLDIERS.--CITIZENS come forward._

_1 Cit._ Bon jour, Monsieur Grenouille?

_2 Cit._ Aha! mon voisin! Here's a goodly morning. The sun shines till our blood dances to it like a frisky wench to a tabor.

_1 Cit._ Yes, truly; but 'tis a dance without refreshments. We, are in a miserable plight, neighbour.

_2 Cit._ Ma foi! miserable indeed! mais le soleil--

_1 Cit._ How fare your wife and family, neighbour Grenouille?

_2 Cit._ Ah! my pauvre wife and famille; litel to eat now, mon voisin--nothing bye and bye: lucky for me 'tis fine weather. Great many mouths in my house; very litel to put into 'em. But I am French; the sun shines; I am gay.--There is myself, my poor dear wife, half a loaf, seven children, three sprats, a tom cat, and a pipkin of milk. I am hungry; mais il fait beau temps; I dance--my famille starves--I sing--toujours gai--the sun shines--tal lal la! tal lal la!

_3 Cit._ Tut, we wo'not bear it. 'Tis our Governor is in fault: this way we are certain to perish.

_4 Cit._ Peste! we'll not endure it. Shut up, near eleven months, within the walls.

_2 Cit._ In fine weather--no promenade!

_3 Cit._ No provisions.--We'll to the Governor, force the keys, and surrender the town. Allons! come along, neighbours, to the Governor!

_All._ Ay, ay--to the Governor. Away! [_Going in a Posse._

_Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE, carrying a small Wallet._

_Eust._ Why, how now, ho!--nothing but noise and babble! Whither away so fast? Stand, rogues, and speak!

_3 Cit._ Whither away? Marry! we would away from famine: we are for the Governor's, to force the keys of the town.

_Eust._ There roar'd the wrathful mouse! You squeaking braggart, Whom hunger has made vent'rous, who would thrust Your starveling nose out to the cat's fell gripe, That watches round the cranny you lie snug in, Nibble your scraps; be thankful, and keep quiet. Thou rail on hunger! why, 'twas hunger bore thee; 'Twas hunger rear'd thee; fixing, in thy cradle, Her meagre stamp upon thy weazel visage; And, from a child, that half starved face of thine Has given full meals the lie. When thou dost eat, Thou dost digest consumption: thou'rt of those kine Thou wouldst e'en swallow up thy brethren, here, And still look lean. What! fellow citizens, Trust you this thing? Can skin and bones mislead you? If we must suffer, suffer patiently. Did I e'er grumble, mongrels? What am I?

_3 Cit._ You! why, Eustache de St. Pierre you are; one of the sourest old crabs of all the citizens of Calais; and, if reviling your neighbours be a sign of ill will to one's country, and ill will to one's country a sign of good will to strangers, why a man might go near to think you are a friend to the English.

_Eust._ I honour them. They are our enemy--a gallant enemy; A biting, but a blunt, straight-forward foe: Who, when we weave our subtle webs of state, And spin fine stratagems to entangle them, Come to our doors, and pull the work to pieces; Dispute it fist to fist, and score their arguments Upon our politic pates. Remember Cressy!-- We've reason to remember it--they thump'd us, And soundly, there:--'tis but some few months, back;-- There, in the bowels of our land--at Cressy-- They so bechopp'd us with their English logic. That our French heads ached sorely for it:--thence, Marching through Picardy, to Calais here, They have engirded us; fix'd the dull tourniquet Of war upon our town; constraining, thus, The life blood of our commerce, with fair France, Of whom we are a limb; and all this openly:-- And, therefore, as an open foe, who think And strike in the same breath, I do esteem Their valour, and their plainness. I view them with a most respectful hatred. Much may be learnt from these same Englishmen.

_4 Cit._ Ay, pr'ythee, what? Hunger and hard blows seem all we are like to get from them.

_Eust._ Courage; which you may have--'twas never tried tho'; Patience, to bear the buffets of the times. Ye cannot wait till Fortune turns her wheel: You'll to the Governor's, and get the keys! And what would your wise worships do with them? Eat them, mayhap, for ye have ostrich stomachs; Ye dare not use them otherwise.--Home! home! And pray for better luck.

[_The CITIZENS exeunt severally. An OLD MAN, alone, remains in the Back of the Scene._

Fie, I am faint With railing on the cormorants. Three days, And not break bread--'tis somewhat. There's not one Among these trencher-scraping knaves, that yet Has kept a twenty hours' lent;--I know it; Yet how they crave! I've here, by strong entreaty, And a round sum, (entreaty's weak without it,) E'en just enough to make dame Nature wrestle Another round with famine. Out, provision! [_Takes off his Wallet._

_Old Man._ [_Coming forward._] O, Heaven!

_Eust._ Who bid thee bless the meat?--How now old grey beard! What cause hast thou----

_Old Man._ I have a daughter--

_Eust._ Hungry, I warrant.

_Old Man._ Dying! The blessing of my age:--I could bear all;-- But for my child;--my dear, dear child!--to lose her To lose her thus!--to see disease so wear her!-- And when a little nourishment----She's starving!

_Eust._ Go on;--no tears;--I hate them.

_Old Man._ She has had no nourishment these four days.

_Eust._ [_Affected._] Death! and--well?

_Old Man._ I care not for myself;--I should soon go, In nature's course;--but my poor darling child! Who fifteen years has been my prop--to see her Thus wrested from me! then, to hear her bless me; And see her wasting!----

_Eust._ Peace! peace! I have not ate, old man, since--Pshaw! the wind Affects my eyes--but yet I--'Sdeath! what ails me? I have no appetite.--Here, take this trash, and--

[_The OLD MAN takes the Wallet, falls upon his Knees, and attempts to speak._

Pr'ythee away, old soul;--nay, nay, no thanks;-- Get home, and do not talk--I cannot.-- [_Exit OLD MAN._ Out on't! I do belie my manhood; and if misery, With gentle hand, touches my bosom's key, I bellow straight, as if my tough old lungs Were made of organ-pipes. [_Huzza without._ Hey! how sits the wind now?

_Enter CITIZENS, crying_ Huzza! _and_ Succour! _LA GLOIRE, in the midst of them, loaded with Casks of Provision, &c._

_La Gloire._ Here, neighbours! here, here I am dropt in among you, like a lump of manna. Here have I, following my master, the noble Count Ribaumont, brought wherewithal to check the grumbling in your gizzards. Here's meat, neighbours, meat!--fine, raw, red meat!--to turn the tide of tears from your eyes, and make your mouths water.

_All._ Huzza!

_2 Cit._ Ah! mon Dieu! que je suis gai!--meat and sun too!--tal lal lall la!

_La Gloire._ Silence! or I'll stop your windpipe with a mutton cutlet.

_All._ Huzza!

_Eust._ Peace, ho! I say; can ye be men, and roar thus? Blush at this clamour! it proclaims you cowards, And tells what your despair has been. Peace, hen hearts! Slink home, and eat.

_La Gloire._ Ods my life! cry you mercy, father; I saw you not;--my honest, hungry neighbours, here, so pressed about me. Marry, I think they are ready to eat me. Stand aside, friends, and patience, till my father has said grace over me. Father, your blessing. [_Kneels._

_Eust._ Boy, thou hast acted bravely, and thou follow'st A noble gentleman. What succour brings he?

_La Gloire._ A snack! a bare snack, father; no more. We scudded round the point of land, under the coast, unperceived by the enemy's fleet, and freighted with a good three days' provender: but the sea, that seems ruled by the English--marry, I think they'll always be masters of it, for my part--stuck the point of a rock through the bottom of our vessel, almost filled it with water, and, after tugging hard for our lives, we found the provision so spoiled, and pickled, that our larder is reduced to a luncheon. Every man may have a meal, and there's an end;--to-morrow comes famine again.

_2 Cit._ N'importe; we are happy to-day; c'est assez pour un Francois.

_La Gloire._ [_Aside, to EUSTACHE._] But, father, cheer up! Mum! If, after the distribution, an odd sly barrel of mine--you take me--rammed down with good powdered beef, that will stand the working of half a dozen pair of jaws for a month, should be found in an odd corner of my father's house, why--hum!

_Eust._ Base cur! insult me!--But I pardon thee; Thou dost mean kindly. Know thy father better. Though these be sorry knaves, I scorn to wrong them I love my country, boy. Ungraced by fortune, I dare aspire to the proud name of patriot. If any bear that title to misuse it,-- Decking their devilships in angel seeming, To glut their own particular appetites;-- If any, 'midst a people's misery, Feed fat, by filching from the public good, Which they profess is nearest to their hearts; The curses of their country; or, what's sharper, The curse of guilty conscience follow them! The suffering's general; general be the benefit. We'll share alike. You'll find me, boy, at home.

[_Exit._

_La Gloire._ There he goes! full of sour goodness, like a fine lemon. He's as trusty a crusty citizen, and as goodnatured an ill tempered old fellow, as any in France: and, though I say it, that shouldn't say it--I am his son.----But, now, neighbours, for provision.

_3 Cit._ Ay, marry! we would fain fall to.

_La Gloire._ I doubt it not, good hungry neighbours: you'll all remember me for this succour, I warrant.

_All._ Toujours; always.

_La Gloire._ See now what it is to bind one's country to one, by doing it a service. Good souls, they are running over with gratitude--[_Walks about, CITIZENS following._]--I could cluck them all round the town after my tail, like an old hen with a brood of chickens. Now will I be carried in triumph to my father's: and ye may e'en set about it now--[_Two stout CITIZENS take LA GLOIRE on their Shoulders._]--now, while the provisions are sharing at the Governor's house.

[_CITIZENS let him fall._

_All._ Sharing provisions! Allons! vite!--away! away!

[_Exeunt CITIZENS hastily._

_La Gloire._ Oh diable! this is popularity. Adieu, my grateful neighbours! Thus does many a fool-hardy booby, like me, run his head into danger; and a few empty huzzas, which leave him at the next turning of a corner, are all he gets for his pains. Now, while all the town is gone to dinner, will I go to woo. My poor Madelon must be woefully fallen away, since I quitted Calais, Heigho! I've lost, I warrant me, a good half of my mistress since we parted. I have secured for her the daintiest bits of our whole cargo, as marks of my affection. A butcher couldn't show her more tenderness than I shall. If love were now weighed out by the pound, bating my master, the Count Ribaumont, who is in love with Lady Julia, not all the men in the city could balance the scales with me. [_Exit._