Chambers's Cyclopædia of English Literature: A History, Critical and ...

the theatres, they would have conferred a benefit on the nation; but, by shutting them up entirely, and denouncing all public recreations, they provoked a counteraction in the taste and manners of the people. The over-austerity of one period led naturally to the shameless degeneracy of the succeeding period; and deeply is it to be deplored that the great talents of Dryden were the most instrumental in extending and prolonging this depravation of the national taste.

The operas and comedies of Sir William Davenant were the first pieces brought out on the stage after the Restoration. He wrote twenty-five in all; but, notwithstanding the partial revival of the old dramatists, none of Davenant's productions continue to be read. His last work,' says Southey, 'was his worst; it was an alteration of the Tempest, executed in conjunction with Dryden; and marvellous indeed it is that two men of such great and indubitable genius should have combined to debase, and vulgarise, and pollute such a poem as the Tempest? The marvel is enhanced when we consider that Dryden writes of their joint labour with evident complacency, at the same time that his prologue to the adapted play contains the following just and beautiful character of his great predecessor:

As when a tree's cut down, the secret root

for the purpose of suppressing plays and seizing ballad-singers. Parties of strolling actors occasionally performed in the country; but there were no regular theatrical performances in London, till Davenant brought out his opera, the Siege of Rhodes, in the year 1656. Two years afterwards, he removed to the Cockpit Theatre, Drury Lane, where he performed until the eve of the Restoration. A strong partiality for the drama existed in the nation, which all the storms of the civil war, and the zeal of the Puritans, had not been able to crush or subdue. At the restoration of the monarchy, the drama was also restored, | and with new lustre, though less decency. Two theatres were licensed in the metropolis, one under the direction of Sir William Davenant, whose performers were, in compliment to the Duke of York, named the Duke's Company. The other establishment was managed by Thomas Killigrew, a wellknown wit and courtier, whose company took the name of the King's Servants. Davenant effected two great improvements in theatrical representation-the regular introduction of actresses, or female players, and the use of movable scenery and appropriate decorations. Females had performed on the stage previous to the Restoration, and considerable splendour and variety of scenery had been exhibited in the court masks and revels. Neither, however, had been familiar to the public, and they now formed a great attraction to the two patent theatres. Unfortunately, these powerful auxiliaries were not brought in aid of the good old dramas of the age of Elizabeth and James. Instead of adding grace and splendour to the creations of Shakspeare and Jonson, they were lavished to support a new and degenerate dramatic taste, which Charles II. had brought with him from the continent. Rhyming or heroic plays had long been fashionable in France, and were dignified by the genius of Corneille and Racine. They had little truth of colouring or natural passion, but dealt exclusively with personages in high life and of transcendent virtue or ambition; with fierce combats and splendid processions; with superhuman love and beauty; and with long dialogues alternately formed of metaphysical subtlety and the most extravagant and bombastic expression. 'Blank verse,' says Dryden, 'is acknowledged to Dryden was in the full tide of his theatrical popube too low for a poem, nay, more, for a paper larity when Davenant died, in 1668. The great of verses; but if too low for an ordinary sonnet, poet commenced writing for the stage in 1662-3, how much more for tragedy!' Accordingly, the when he produced his Wild Gallant, which was heroic plays were all in rhyme, set off not only followed next year by the Rival Ladies, the serious with superb dresses and decorations, but with 'the parts of which are in rhyme. He then joined Sir richest and most ornate kind of verse, and the Robert Howard in composing the Indian Queen, furthest removed from ordinary colloquial diction.' a rhyming heroic play, brought out in 1663-4 with The comedies were degenerate in a different way. a splendour never before seen in England upon a They were framed after the model of the Spanish public stage. A continuation of this piece was stage, and adapted to the taste of the king, as shortly afterwards written by Dryden, entitled the exhibiting a variety of complicated intrigues, suc- Indian Emperor, and both were received with great cessful disguises, and constantly shifting scenes applause. All the defects of his style, and many of and adventures. The old native English virtues the choicest specimens of his smooth and easy of sincerity, conjugal fidelity, and prudence were versification, are to be found in these inflated traheld up to constant ridicule, as if amusement could gedies. In 1666-7 was represented his Maiden only be obtained by obliterating the moral feelings. Queen, a tragi-comedy; and shortly afterwards the Dryden ascribes the licentiousness of the stage to Tempest. These were followed by two comedies the example of the king. Part, however, must be copied from the French of Molière and Corneille ; assigned to the earlier comedies of Beaumont and by the Royal Martyr, another furious tragedy, and Fletcher, and part to the ascetic puritanism and by his Conquest of Granada, in two parts (1672), in denial of all public amusements during the time which he concentrated the wild magnificence, of the Commonwealth. If the Puritans had con- incongruous splendour, and absurd fable that tented themselves with regulating and purifying | run through all his heroic plays, mixed up with

Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot;
So, from old Shakspeare's honoured dust, this day
Springs up and buds a new reviving play.
Shakspeare, who, taught by none, did first impart
To Fletcher, wit; to labouring Jonson, art;
He, monarch-like, gave these his subjects law,
And is that nature which they paint and draw.
Fletcher reached that which on his heights did grow,
Whilst Jonson crept and gathered all below.
This did his love, and this his mirth digest;
One imitates him most, the other best.
If they have since out writ all other men,
'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakspeare's pen.
The storm which vanished on the neighbouring shore,
Was taught by Shakspeare's Tempest first to roar.
That innocence and beauty which did smile
In Fletcher, grew on this Enchanted Isle.
But Shakspeare's magic could not copied be;
Within that circle none durst walk but he.

occasional gleams of true genius. The extravagance and unbounded popularity of the heroic drama, now at its height, prompted the Duke of Buckingham to compose a lively and amusing farce, in ridicule of Dryden and the prevailing taste of the public, which was produced in 1671, under the title of the Rehearsal. The success of the Rehearsal was unbounded; 'the very popularity of the plays ridiculed, aiding,' as Sir Walter Scott has remarked, 'the effect of the satire, since everybody had in their recollection the originals of the passages parodied.' The Rehearsal is a clever travesty, and it was well timed. A fatal blow was struck at the rhyming plays, and at the rant and fustian to which they gave birth. Dryden now resorted to comedy, and produced Marriage àla-Mode and the Assignation. In 1673, he constructed a dramatic poem, the State of Innocence, or the Fall of Man, out of the great epic of Milton, destroying, of course, nearly all that is sublime, simple, and pure in the original. His next play, Aurengzebe (1675), was also 'heroic,' stilted, and unnatural; but this was the last great literary sin of Dryden. He was now engaged in his immortal satires and fables, and he abandoned henceforward the false and glittering taste which had so long deluded him. His All for Love and Troilus and Cressida are able adaptations from Shakspeare in blank verse. The Spanish Friar is a good comedy, remarkable for its happy union of two plots, and its delineation of comic character. His principal remaining plays are Don Sebastian (1690), Amphitryon (1690), Cleomenes (1692), and Love Triumphant (1694). Don Sebastian is his highest effort in dramatic composition, and though deformed, like all his other plays, by scenes of spurious and licentious comedy, it contains passages that approach closely to Shakspeare. The quarrel and reconciliation of Sebastian and Dorax is a masterly copy from the similar scene between Brutus and Cassius. In the altercation between Ventidius and Antony in All for Love, he has also challenged comparison with the great poet, and seems to have been inspired to new vigour by the competition. This latter triumph in the genius of Dryden was completed by his Ode to St Cecilia, and the Fables, published together in the spring of 1700, a few weeks before his death—thus realising a saying of his own Sebastian:

A setting sun

Should leave a track of glory in the skies.

Dryden's plays have fallen completely into oblivion. He could reason powerfully in verse, and had the command of rich stores of language, information, and imagery. Strong energetic characters and passions he could portray with considerable success, but he had not art or judgment to construct an interesting or consistent drama, or to preserve himself from extravagance and absurdity. The female character and softer passions seem to have been entirely beyond his reach. His love is always licentiousness -his tenderness a mere trick of the stage. Like Voltaire, he probably never drew a tear from reader or spectator. His merit consists in a sort of Eastern magnificence of style, and in the richness of his versification. The bowl and dagger— glory, ambition, lust, and crime-are the staple materials of his tragedy, and lead occasionally to poetical grandeur and brilliancy of fancy. His

comedy is, with scarce an exception, false to nature, improbable and ill-arranged, and offensive equally to taste and morality.

Before presenting a scene from Dryden, we shall string together a few of those similes or detached sentiments which relieve the great mass of his turgid dramatic verse:

Love is that madness which all lovers have;
But yet 'tis sweet and pleasing so to rave.
'Tis an enchantment, where the reason's bound;
But Paradise is in th' enchanted ground.
A palace void of envy, cares, and strife;
Where gentle hours delude so much of life.
To take those charms away, and set me free,
Is but to send me into misery.

And prudence, of whose care so much you boast,
Restores those pains which that sweet folly lost.
Conquest of Granada, Part II.

No man has more contempt than I of breath;
But whence hast thou the right to give me death?
I am as free as Nature first made man,
Ere the base laws of servitude began,
When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
Conquest of Granada, Part I.
Love and Beauty.

A change so swift what heart did ever feel!
It rushed upon me like a mighty stream,
And bore me in a moment far from shore.
I've loved away myself; in one short hour
Already am I gone an age of passion.
Was it his youth, his valour, or success?
These might, perhaps, be found in other men.
'Twas that respect, that awful homage paid me;
That fearful love which trembled in his eyes,
And with a silent earthquake shook his soul.
But when he spoke, what tender words he said!
So softly, that, like flakes of feathered snow,
They melted as they fell.

Spanish Friar.

Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit,
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.
To-morrow's falser than the former day;

Lies worse; and while it says, 'We shall be blest
With some new joys,' cuts off what we possessed.
Strange cozenage! None would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
I'm tired of waiting for this chemic gold,
Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.
'Tis not for nothing that we life pursue;
It pays our hopes with something still that's new:
Each day's a mistress unenjoyed before;
Like travellers, we 're pleased with seeing more.
Did you but know what joys your way attend,
You would not hurry to your journey's end.

Fear of Death.

BERENICE. ST CATHERINE.

Aurengzebe.

Berenice. Now death draws near, a strange perplexity

Creeps coldly on me, like a fear to die :

Courage uncertain dangers may abate,

But who can bear the approach of certain fate?

St Catherine. The wisest and the best some fear may show,

And wish to stay, though they resolve to go.

Ber. As some faint pilgrim, standing on the shore,
First views the torrent he would venture o'er,
And then his inn upon the farther ground,
Loath to wade through, and loather to go round:
Then dipping in his staff, does trial make
How deep it is, and, sighing, pulls it back :
Sometimes resolved to fetch his leap; and then
Runs to the bank, but there stops short again.
So I at once

Both heavenly faith and human fear obey;
And feel before me in an unknown way.
For this blest voyage I with joy prepare,
Yet am ashamed to be a stranger there.

Tyrannic Love.

Scene between Mark Antony and Ventidius, his general.

Dryden says he preferred this scene to anything which he had written of that kind. It occurs in the first act of All for Love, a tragedy founded on the story of Antony and Cleopatra, and avowedly written in imitation of Shakspeare. All for Love was the only play Dryden ever wrote for himself; the rest, he says, were given to the people. It will be observed that this scene, as also that between Dorax and Sebastian, is copied from the quarrel between Brutus and Cassius in Julius Cæsar.

Antony. They tell me 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it

With double pomp of sadness.

'Tis what the day deserves which gave me breath. Why was I raised the meteor of the world,

Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled,

Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downward To be trod out by Cæsar?

Ventidius. [Aside.] On my soul

'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!

Ant. Count thy gains,

Now, Antony: wouldst thou be born for this?
Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth

Has starved thy wanting age.

Vent. [Aside.] How sorrow shakes him!

So now the tempest tears him by the roots,
And on the ground extends the noble ruin.

Ant. [Having thrown himself down.] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor;

The place thou pressest on thy mother-earth
Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee;
Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,
When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn,

Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia

For Cleopatra will not live to see it-
Octavia then will have thee all her own,
And bear thee in her widowed hand to Cæsar.
Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep,

To see his rival of the universe

Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't,

Give me some music; look that it be sad;
I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell,
And burst myself with sighing.

'Tis somewhat to my humour. Stay, I fancy
I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature;

Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;

Live in a shady forest's silvan scene;

Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak,

I lean my head upon the mossy bark,

And look just of a piece, as I grew from it;
My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe,
Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook
Runs at my foot-

Vent. Methinks I fancy

Myself there too.

Ant. The herd come jumping by me,

And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on And take me for their fellow-citizen.

More of this image; more; it lulls my thoughts.

Where have you learned that answer? Who am I!
Vent. My emperor; the man I love next heaven.
If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin:
You're all that's good and godlike.

Ant. All that's wretched.

You will not leave me, then?

Vent. 'Twas too presuming

To say I would not: but I dare not leave you;
And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence

So soon, when I so far have come to see you.

Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied?
For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough,
And, if a foe, too much.

Vent. Look, emperor; this is no common dew;
I have not wept this forty years; but now
My mother comes afresh unto my eyes;

I cannot help her softness.

Ant. By heaven, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps!

The big round drops course one another down
The furrows of his cheeks. Stop 'em, Ventidius,
Or I shall blush to death; they set my shame,
That caused 'em, full before me.

Ant. I'll help thee-I have been a man, Ventidius.

Vent. Yes, and a brave one; but

Ant. I know thy meaning.

But I have lost my reason, have disgraced
The name of soldier with inglorious ease;
In the full vintage of my flowing honours
Sat still, and saw it pressed by other hands.
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it.
And purple greatness met my ripened years.
When first I came to empire, I was borne
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs.
The wish of nations, and the willing world,

Vent. I say you are not. Try your fortune.

Ant. I have to the utmost. Dost thou think me desperate

Without just cause? No; when I found all lost
Beyond repair, I hid me from the world,

And learned to scorn it here; which now I do
So heartily, I think it is not worth
The cost of keeping.

Vent. Cæsar thinks not so:

He'll thank you for the gift he could not take.
You would be killed like Tully, would you? Do
Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely.
Ant. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve.
Vent. I can die with you, too, when time shall

They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates
Than yon trim bands can buy.

Ant. Where left you them?
Vent. I said in Lower Syria.
Ant. Bring 'em hither;

There may be life in these.
Vent. They will not come.

Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids,

To double my despair? They're mutinous.
Vent. Most firm and loyal.

Ant. Yet they will not march

To succour me. Oh, trifler!

Vent. They petition

You would make haste to head 'em.
Ant. I'm besieged.

Vent. There's but one way shut up. How came I

hither?

My soldiers to demand a reason of
My actions. Why did they refuse to march?
Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.
Ant. What was't they said?

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.
Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conquer,
And make you more a slave? To gain you kingdoms
Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast
You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels,
And calls this diamond such or such a tax.
Each pendant in her ear shall be a province.

Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence
On all my other faults; but, on your life,
No word of Cleopatra ; she deserves
More worlds than I can lose.

Vent. Behold, you powers,

To whom you have intrusted humankind;
See Europe, Afric, Asia put in balance,

And all weighed down by one light worthless woman!
I think the gods are Antonies, and give,
Like prodigals, this nether world away
To none but wasteful hands.

Ant. You grow presumptuous.

Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. Ant. Plain love! plain arrogance! plain insolence! Thy men are cowards, thou an envious traitor; Who, under seeming honesty, hath vented The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall. Oh, that thou wert my equal; great in arms As the first Cæsar was, that I might kill thee Without stain to my honour!

Vent. You may kill me.

You have done more already-called me traitorAnt. Art thou not one?

But had I been

Vent. For shewing you yourself,
Which none else durst have done.
That name which I disdain to speak again,
I needed not have sought your abject fortunes,
Come to partake your fate, to die with you.
What hindered me to've led my conquering eagles
To fill Octavius' bands? I could have been

A traitor then, a glorious happy traitor,
And not have been so called.

Ant. Forgive me, soldier ;

I've been too passionate.

Vent. You thought me false;

Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir; Pray, kill me; yet you need not; your unkindness Has left your sword no work.

Ant. I did not think so;

I said it in my rage; pr'ythee, forgive me.

Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery

Of what I would not hear?

Vent. No prince but you

Could merit that sincerity I used;

Nor durst another man have ventured it;

But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes, Were sure the chief and best of human race, Framed in the very pride and boast of nature. Ant. But Cleopatra

Go on; for I can bear it now.

Vent. No more.

Ant. Thou dar'st not trust my passion; but thou mayst ;

Thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me.

Vent. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word.

May I believe you love me? Speak again.

Ant. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this. Thy praises were unjust; but I'll deserve 'em, And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt; Lead me to victory; thou know'st the way. Vent. And will you leave this

Ant. Pr'ythee, do not curse her,

And I will leave her; though, Heaven knows, I love
Beyond life, conquest, empire, all but honour:
But I will leave her.

Vent. That's my royal master. And shall we fight?

Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier; Thou shalt behold me once again in iron, And, at the head of our old troops, that beat The Parthians, cry aloud, 'Come, follow me.' Vent. Oh, now I hear my emperor! In that word Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day, And, if I have ten years behind, take all; I'll thank you for the exchange.

Ant. Oh, Cleopatra!

Vent. Again!

Ant. I've done. In that last sigh she went; Cæsar shall know what 'tis to force a lover From all he holds most dear.

Vent. Methinks you breathe

Another soul; your looks are more divine;
You speak a hero, and you move a god.

Ant. Oh, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms,
And mans each part about me. Once again
That noble eagerness of fight has seized me;
That eagerness with which I darted upward
To Cassius' camp. In vain the steepy hill
Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears
Sung round my head, and planted all my shield;
I won the trenches, while my foremost men
Lagged on the plain below.

Vent. Ye gods, ye gods, For such another honour!

Ant. Come on, my soldier!

Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long
Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I,
Like Time and Death, marching before our troops,
May taste fate to 'em, mow 'em out a passage,
And, entering where the utmost squadrons yield,
Begin the noble harvest of the field.

Scene between Dorax and Sebastian.

Don Sebastian, king of Portugal, is defeated in battle, and taken prisoner by the Moors. He is saved from death by Dorax, a noble Portuguese, then a renegade in the court of the Emperor of Barbary, but formerly Don Alonzo of Alcazar. The train being dismissed, Dorax takes off his turban, and assumes his Portuguese dress and manner. (Act IV. last scene.)

Dorax. Now, do you know me?
Sebastian, Thou shouldst be Alonzo.
Dor. So you should be Sebastian;
But when Sebastian ceased to be himself,
I ceased to be Alonzo.

Seb. As in a dream

I see thee here, and scarce believe mine eyes.

Dor. Is it so strange to find me where my wrongs
And your inhuman tyranny have sent me?
Think not you dream: or, if you did, my injuries
Shall call so loud, that lethargy should wake,
And death should give you back to answer me.

A thousand nights have brushed their balmy wings
Over these eyes; but ever when they closed,
Your tyrant image forced them ope again,
And dried the dews they brought.

The long-expected hour is come at length,
By manly vengeance to redeem my fame:
And that once cleared, eternal sleep is welcome.
Seb. I have not yet forgot I am a king,
Whose royal office is redress of wrongs:
If I have wronged thee, charge me face to face;
I have not yet forgot I am a soldier.

Dor. 'Tis the first justice thou hast ever done me;
Then, though I loathe this woman's war of tongues,
Yet shall my cause of vengeance first be clear;
And, honour, be thou judge.

Seb. Honour befriend us both.
Beware, I warn thee yet, to tell thy griefs

In terms becoming majesty to hear:

I warn thee thus, because I know thy temper

Is insolent and haughty to superiors:

How often hast thou braved my peaceful court,

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Chambers's Cyclopædia of English Literature: A History, Critical ..., Volume 1