 | Love's Sacrifice ; Or, The Rival Merchants |  |
REMARKS
The plot of this play is simple, well-conducted, and affecting; the characters are drawn with truth and spirit, and the language is appropriate, impassioned, and eloquent.
There is a pleasant admixture of sparkling comedy; and in Jean Rusé, the merchant's clerk, we have that rare merit—originality.
Poetical justice is duly awarded. The repentant and sorrowful man is released from his thraldom, and comforted; true love finds a fond return; and the cunning, heartless knave is stripped of his ill-gotten possessions, and dismissed with contempt.
Would that in this working-day world rewards and punishments were as righteously distributed!
Two merchants, Matthew Elmore and Paul Lafont, are rivals in the way of trade. Elmore, just, generous, and humane, has acquired his riches by industry and fair dealing; Lafont, rapacious, unfeeling, and hypocritical, has left no crooked path untrod, no base deed undone, to obtain his treasure. Both would stand well with the world. The acts of Elmore speak for themselves—his uprightness and munificence have won the good opinion of all men; and in his domestic circle he is beloved with enthusiasm. But the curses of his improvident dupes ring in the ears of Lafont; at every turn he encounters the scowling face of some spendthrift whom he has ruined; he has no peaceful home to fly to—no friend in whose bosom he can repose his discontents —the commercial success and unblemished reputation of Elmore are his tormentors day and night—and not the least of his annoyances are the continued mask he is obliged to wear; the ghastly smiles he is compelled to assume in the height of his mental agony; and the thousand artifices that he plays off to maintain his false station in society; and, as he vainly hopes! to deceive mankind. He has the effrontery to aspire to the daughter of his rival! The beauty of Margaret Elmore fires his plebeian blood; but her gold is the omnipotent charm. Then what advantages will this alliance bring! What snug monopolies! No longer opposed to each other, but acting in friendly concert, the commercial world will be at the command of these two merchant kings! But by hard and dishonest dealings in trade Lafont had not been wholly enriched. The orphan's portion had swelled his hoard, and he is strongly suspected of having applied to his own use the property of Eugene de Lorme, and his sister Herminie de Vermont, to whom he had been left guardian. How admirably the wise father reasons on the importance of letting his daughter have some voice in the selection of a husband.
“If I would buy my child a house, a horse,A trinket, bauble—should I not consult
Her taste on what would please her?
Or if I would bring home some youthful friend,
As her companion for a vacant hour.
Should she not have a voice in what should be
The character of that selected friend?
Then, when the question is of one to be
The sharer of her heart's most sacred thoughts,
The altar of her home—her other self—
------ in such a gift as this,
Shall my girl have no voice?”
True to his professions, when he sees her choice has fallen on his poor dependant Eugene, he cordially approves it; and the union of the lovers seems not far distant.
Yet in the prospect of this approaching happiness the heart of Elmore is sad. A mysterious melancholy weighs him down; and, but for his many virtues, we might ask could he give so startling a description of hidden guilt if he had not felt it tearing his own bosom?
“Dost know—canst dream what 'tis to take a life?To meet the blood-glazed eye in every object—
To hear the dying groan in every sound?
For years—years—years—
Go where thou wilt, to bear about with thee
A hidden wolf gnawing thy shrinking entralls.
Eugene and his sister had been made orphans by the Count du Barré, who, though a large reward was offered for his apprehension, had hitherto eluded the keen eye of justice. It was bruited abroad that he was dead—but one Friar Dominic having gained access to Eugene, informs him that the assassin lives, and appealing to his manhood and filial piety, spurs him on to revenge.
Lafont, stung to the quick by his contemptuous dismissal, is tortured by the triumphant raillery of his ward Herminie, and the dry humor of his facetious dupe St. Lo, who, in order to comply with the whim of that beautiful young widow in whose bright eyes he would willingly find favour, actually becomes clerk to the harpy that had ruined him! and, to please her extravagant fancy, undertakes to study
“Tallow, stock-fish, blubber, salt, train oil,And all your filthy messes.”
This scene is constructed with considerable dramatic art, and is exceedingly spirited and entertaining. Equally so is that which immediately follows, where Jean Rusê, a weary official, nailed to his everlasting desk, pale, painstaking, pensive—his back bent, and his nose and chin pointed like his pen—moralizes on the wickedness of the world—adds up, multiplies, subtracts—turns the threes into fives, and the sixes into nines—puts a one before the naughts, or attaches to them a tail; and emulating his worthy master in a small way, plays all sorts of minor rogueries, and robs by retail! The mad-cap Herminie despatches Manou, the pretty housekeeper of Lafont, to try her blandishments upon this automaton quill-driver; to fire his cold blood with sparkling nectar; so, that when thrown off his guard, he may (in vino veritas!) blab out some villainous secret by which the wronged might be righted. The plot succeeds admirably. The adust Jean Rusê, unused to be caressed by a winning young damsel, unbends by degrees; another glass—another—and another—animate this professional Skewer into life and motion; till waxing unwontedly amorous, he seizes the pretty, soft hand of Manou, points to the private closet of Lafont, (to which he had prudently provided a second key!) and broadly hints that there are deposited secrets worth knowing. At this moment St. Lo, who, much to his amusement, has been listening, breaks in upon their tête-a-tête; and whispers the Abigail, to obtain that same key. He slaps Jean Rusé familiarly on the shoulder; reminds him that they are fellow-clerks, and
It's a sad—no! no!—it's a funny world!”
The mysterious Friar quitted not the presence of Eugene unobserved by Elmore, who, with that quick instinct
“Which wakes antipathies within our blood,”felt “he was a man to shun.” He had since traced him to the house of Lafont, and while speculating upon what could be his business there, Lafont himself is announced!
“Lafont!—Did I not say so! I'll not see him—I say I will not have my privacy
Intruded on”—
But Lafont is grown bold. He enters unceremoniously—and little heeding the indignant remonstrances of Margaret and Eugene, demands and obtains a private interview.
With refined cruelty—pausing at every step as he proceeds with his narrative, to mark its effect upon his agonised victim, Lafont details with torturing minuteness every particular of the murder of the Count de Lorme. And, that the trying scene may have an appropriate close, he proclaims that
“This outlaw, with a price set on his head—This Count du Barré—is called—Matthew Elmore!”
The miserable man utters a loud shriek, and falls senseless to the ground.
Reason returns, and the daughter hears from the trembling lips of her father the true story. De Lorme and Du Barré wooed a fair lady—De Lorme won her. Instigated by causeless jealousy, the mistaken husband treated with harshness his innocent bride, who, pining with mental anguish, drooped—and, in giving birth to the infant Eugene, died. On the evening of her burial, when the deep toll of the funeral bell rang in his ear, and the heavy tread of the corpse-bearers startled night's stillness—Du Barré, scarcely knowing whither he wandered, halted at the river's bank. Encountering his rival, fierce words ensued—De Lorme drew his sword—was disarmed, and felled to the ground. He pursued his antagonist, and in the deadly struggle, received the weapon (again wrenched from his firm grasp) in his bosom. Du Barré fled; and in after years wedded a gentle being. But the curse of Cain hung over him, and she died. Strong affection for those whose only parent he had slain; and still stronger compunction for his crime, impelled him to rescue the helpless orphans from the oppression of Lafont. He assumed the name of Elmore; became a thriving merchant, and one of the most respected and beloved among men. Who now shall restore him to his high estate? Who, in his desolation, shall protect and comfort him?
His devoted daughter! She will forego the fondest wish of her heart, and make Love's Sacrifice. Already her hand is stretched forth to sign the marriage contract that gives her to Lafont, when Elmore forbids the unholy deed, and hurls proud defiance at his crafty accuser. Frantic with rage, the disappointed villain orders the door to be guarded, and calls in the exempts to secure their prisoner.
By a pleasant stratagem of Manou and St. Lo, Morluc and Du
Resolved upon the sacrifice, Margaret, in a strain of great pathos and power, bids an eternal farewell to Eugene; who, bewildered, and unable to solve the mystery, determines that he who first
“Encouraged his young love to soar, shall beHis counsel now in his despair.”
But a few words of passionate remonstrance change his purpose; and Margaret, pressing his hand to her lips, hurries from the distracting ordeal to the presence of the Friar.
Her character now rises to a solemnity that inspires with deep awe. With the self-abandonment of a broken heart, with the terrible calmness of despair, she comes to make Love's Sacrifice. “Have you no kin?—no brother?—father?” demands the monk. This touches a tender chord—
“To you I owe this lonely desolation.'Twas you who raised the storm where we are wrecked,”
she replies. And when the Friar speaks of her “Father's guilt,” she bursts into an agony of fearful denunciation that makes the stoutest heart tremble.
But the dreadful secret—That must be kept inviolate—She snatches a pen—'Tis done!
Frenzied, and past all hope—Elmore himself proclaims his own delinquency to the wondering hearers that surround him. Eugene and Herminie start with incredulity; and Lafont, caught in his own snare, consigns the culprit to the sham officials, Morluc and Du Viray. What now says the meddling Friar? Addressing Lafont, he hints that some proof is yet wanting of the death of the Count de Lorme, and proceeds to narrate, how
“Upon the night when it was thought he died,Two monks of a small solitary convent
That stood upon the river's farther bank,
Hearing a cry, ferried across the stream,
And found a bleeding man.”
They staunched his wound—he recovered—joined the holy brotherhood —and, “unloving and unloved,” lingered on, a miserable man. His penitence, and the freshening dews that heaven, in after years, shed upon his broken spirit, are thus beautifully described—
—“First he weptFor that pure angel he had wrong'd so foully;
And then his children's images rose up
Like a soft dream;—and still the longing grew,
Until he pin'd to see them.”
Returning affection brought him to Paris. He found his ancient foe the protector of his orphans. The rest is soon told—'Tis De Lorme himself that speaks!
As an appropriate conclusion to our quotations from this fine play, we subjoin the reply of Margaret to the Friar's question (“Maiden, thou lovest this boy?”) ere he places her hand in that of Eugene.
“When first he asked me—when my sunny heartHad never known a cloud—I told him so;
And when that trial came, which seem'd to part us,
I may not, now our sky is bright again,
Deny what storm and sunshine both have vouched!”
Who shall say that Genius—aye, and of a high order!—is not abroad? Depraved must be the taste, and cold the heart, that can contemplate these stirring scenes without emotion. Their author has drank deep at the ancient fountains of inspiration; and this masterly effort walks him over the heads of every living dramatist—Miss Mitford (perhaps) excepted—and Sheridan Knowles—by whose side he is worthy to stand in meet companionship.
Despising the meritricious glare of false sentiment—the high-sounding words and timorous meanings—the wire-drawn, impossible plots—the vapid bluster of thundering, blundering Heroes—the lackadaisical loose twaddle of love-sick, lady-like non-entities, all grimacierie and gimp, Cranbourn-alley white muslin and myrtle, by which certain vain pretenders to the dramatic art have risen to notoriety —the author of Love's Sacrifice has taken the right course; achieved his triumph by legitimate means, and done honour to the literature of his country.
Love's Sacrifice was performed for the first time at Covent Garden, Sept. 12, 1842. It met with brilliant success. For many years the stage has not produced so perfect a representation as the Matthew Elmore of Mr. Vandenhoff. The terror of his looks; the agitation of his frame; his broken voice, and choked utterance when his long-hidden guilt is revealed, and its fearful consequences start to his view, exhibited a thrilling picture of anguish, remorse, and despair. The character was finely conceived and nobly sustained; and the audience felt so, by their breathless attention, their emotions and their tears. Since the days of O'Neil, we have witnessed nothing so beautifully chaste; so exquisitely pathetic; and, when occasion required, of such high power, as the acting of Miss Vandenhoff in Margaret. It was feminine gentleness wrought upon by stern necessity, and sublimed by duty and affection. Mr. and Mrs. Walter Lacy (the gallant St. Lo and the wild young widow Herminie) were every way excellent; and Mrs. Orger and Mrs. Humby, (Manou and Jenny), as usual, were picquant and entertaining. Meadows was the incarnation of a withered rascally old clerk, ever robbing and railing; muddling and moralising. The villain Lafont found a fit representative in Mr. Cooper; and the new candidate for histrionic fame, Mr. Charles Pitt, (Eugene), played with judgment and spirit.
| Love's Sacrifice ; Or, The Rival Merchants | |