SCENE II--_The Camp.

_Alarm within. Enter_ AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, MENELAUS, _Soldiers._

_Agam._ Thus far the promise of the day is fair. Æneas rather loses ground than gains. I saw him over-laboured, taking breath, And leaning on his spear, behold our trenches, Like a fierce lion looking up to toils, Which yet he durst not leap.

_Ulys._ And therefore distant death does all the work; The flights of whistling darts make brown the sky, Whose clashing points strike fire, and gild the dusk; Those, that reach home, from neither host are vain, So thick the prease; so lusty are their arms, That death seemed never sent with better will. Nor was with less concernment entertained.

_Enter_ NESTOR.

_Agam._ Now, Nestor, what's the news?

_Nest._ I have descried A cloud of dust, that mounts in pillars upwards, Expanding as it travels to our camp; And from the midst I heard a bursting shout, That rent the heaven; as if all Troy were swarmed. And on the wing this way.

_Menel._ Let them come, let them come.

_Agam._ Where's great Achilles?

_Ulys._ Think not on Achilles, Till Hector drag him from his tent to fight; Which sure he will, for I have laid the train.

_Nest._ But young Patroclus leads his Myrmidons, And in their front, even in the face of Hector, Resolves to dare the Trojans.

_Agam._ Haste, Ulysses, bid Ajax issue forth and second him.

_Ulys._ Oh noble general, let it not be so. Oppose not rage, while rage is in its force, But give it way awhile, and let it waste. The rising deluge is not stopt with dams; Those it o'erbears, and drowns the hopes of harvest; But, wisely managed, its divided strength Is sluiced in channels, and securely drained. First, let small parties dally with their fury; But when their force is spent and unsupplied, The residue with mounds may be restrained, And dry-shod we may pass the naked ford.

_Enter_ THERSITES.

_Thers._ Ho, ho, ho!

_Menel._ Why dost thou laugh, unseasonable fool?

_Thers._ Why, thou fool in season, cannot a man laugh, but thou thinkest he makes horns at thee? Thou prince of the herd, what hast thou to do with laughing? 'Tis the prerogative of a man, to laugh. Thou risibility without reason, thou subject of laughter, thou fool royal!

_Ulys._ But tell us the occasion of thy mirth?

_Thers._ Now a man asks me, I care not if I answer to my own kind.--Why, the enemies are broken into our trenches; fools like Menelaus fall by thousands yet not a human soul departs on either side. Troilus and Ajax have almost beaten one another's heads off, but are both immortal for want of brains. Patroclus has killed Sarpedon, and Hector Patroclus, so there is a towardly springing fop gone off; he might have made a prince one day, but now he's nipt in the very bud and promise of a most prodigious coxcomb.

_Agam._ Bear off Patroclus' body to Achilles; Revenge will arm him now, and bring us aid. The alarm sounds near, and shouts are driven upon us, As of a crowd confused in their retreat.

_Ulys._ Open your ranks, and make these madmen way, Then close again to charge upon their backs, And quite consume the relics of the war. [_Exeunt all but_ THERSITES.

_Thers._ What shoals of fools one battle sweeps away! How it purges families of younger brothers, highways of robbers, and cities of cuckold-makers! There is nothing like a pitched battle for these brisk addle-heads! Your physician is a pretty fellow, but his fees make him tedious, he rides not fast enough; the fools grow upon him, and their horse bodies are poison proof. Your pestilence is a quicker remedy, but it has not the grace to make distinction; it huddles up honest men and rogues together. But your battle has discretion; it picks out all the forward fools, and sowses them together into immortality. [_Shouts and alarms within_] Plague upon these drums and trumpets! these sharp sauces of the war, to get fools an appetite to fighting! What do I among them? I shall be mistaken for some valiant ass, and die a martyr in a wrong religion. [_Here Grecians fly over the stage pursued by Trojans; one Trojan turns back upon_ THERSITES _who is flying too._

_Troj._ Turn, slave, and fight.

_Thers._ [_turning._] What art thou?

_Troj._ A bastard son of Priam's.

_Thers._ I am a bastard too, I love bastards, I am bastard in body, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. A bear will not fasten upon a bear; why should one bastard offend another! Let us part fair, like true sons of whores, and have the fear of our mothers before our eyes.

_Troj._ The devil take thee, coward. [_Exit Troj._

_Thers._ Now, would I were either invisible or invulnerable! These gods have a fine time on it; they can see and make mischief, and never feel it. [_Clattering of swords at both doors; he runs each way, and meets the noise._ A pox clatter you! I am compassed in. Now would I were that blockhead Ajax for a minute. Some sturdy Trojan will poach me up with a long pole! and then the rogues may kill one another at free cost, and have nobody left to laugh at them. Now destruction! now destruction!

_Enter_ HECTOR _and_ TROILUS _driving in the Greeks._

_Hect._ to _Thers._ Speak what part thou fightest on!

_Thers._ I fight not at all; I am for neither side.

_Hect._ Thou art a Greek; art thou a match for Hector? Art thou of blood and honour?

_Thers._ No, I am a rascal, a scurvy railing knave, a very filthy rogue.

_Hect._ I do believe thee; live.

_Thers._ God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but the devil break thy neck for frighting me. [_Aside._

_Troil._ (_returning._) What prisoner have you there?

_Hect._ A gleaning of the war; a rogue, he says.

_Troil._ Dispatch him, and away. [_Going to kill him._

_Thers._ Hold, hold!--what, is it no more but dispatch a man and away! I am in no such haste: I will not die for Greece; I hate Greece, and by my good will would never have been born there; I was mistaken into that country, and betrayed by my parents to be born there. And besides, I have a mortal enemy among the Grecians, one Diomede, a damned villain, and cannot die with a safe conscience till I have first murdered him.

_Troil._ Shew me that Diomede, and thou shalt live.

_Thers._ Come along with me, and I will conduct thee to Calchas's tent, where I believe he is now, making war with the priest's daughter.

_Hect._ Here we must part, our destinies divide us; Brother and friend, farewell.

_Troil._ When shall we meet?

_Hect._ When the gods please; if not, we once must part. Look; on yon hill their squandered troops unite.

_Troil._ If I mistake not, 'tis their last reserve: The storm's blown o'er, and those but after-drops.

_Hect._ I wish our men be not too far engaged; For few we are and spent, as having born The burthen of the day: But, hap what can, They shall be charged; Achilles must be there, And him I seek, or death. Divide our troops, and take the fresher half.

_Troil._ O brother!

_Hect._ No dispute of ceremony: These are enow for me, in faith enow. Their bodies shall not flag while I can lead; Nor wearied limbs confess mortality, Before those ants, that blacken all yon hill, Are crept into the earth. Farewell. [_Exit_ HECT.

_Troil._ Farewell.--Come, Greek.

_Thers._ Now these rival rogues will clapperclaw one another, and I shall have the sport of it. [_Exit_ TROIL. _with_ THERS.

_Enter_ ACHILLES _and Myrmidons._

_Achill._ Which way went Hector?

_Myrmid._ Up yon sandy hill; You may discern them by their smoking track: A wavering body working with bent hams Against the rising, spent with painful march, And by loose footing cast on heaps together.

_Achil._ O thou art gone, thou sweetest, best of friends! Why did I let thee tempt the shock of war, Ere yet the tender nerves had strung thy limbs, And knotted into strength! Yet, though too late, I will, I will revenge thee, my Patroclus! Nor shall thy ghost thy murderers long attend, But thou shalt hear him calling Charon back, Ere thou art wafted to the farther shore.-- Make haste, my soldiers; give me this day's pains For my dead friend: strike every hand with mine, Till Hector breathless on the ground we lay! Revenge is honour, the securest way. [_Exit with Myrm._

_Enter_ THERSITES, TROILUS, _Trojans._

_Thers._ That's Calchas's tent.

_Troil._ Then, that one spot of earth contains more falsehood, Than all the sun sees in his race beside. That I should trust the daughter of a priest! Priesthood, that makes a merchandise of heaven! Priesthood, that sells even to their prayers and blessings And forces us to pay for our own cozenage!

_Thers._ Nay, cheats heaven too with entrails and with offals; Gives it the garbage of a sacrifice, And keeps the best for private luxury.

_Troil._ Thou hast deserved thy life for cursing priests. Let me embrace thee; thou art beautiful: That back, that nose, those eyes are beautiful: Live; thou art honest, for thou hat'st a priest.

_Thers._ [_Aside._] Farewell, Trojan; if I escape with life, as I hope, and thou art knocked on the head, as I hope too, I shall be the first that ever escaped the revenge of a priest after cursing him; and thou wilt not be the last, I prophesy, that a priest will bring to ruin. [_Exit_ THER.

_Troil._ Methinks, my soul is roused to her last work; Has much to do, and little time to spare. She starts within me, like a traveller, Who sluggishly outslept his morning hour, And mends his pace to reach his inn betimes. [_Noise within,_ Follow, follow! A noise of arms! the traitor may be there; Or else, perhaps, that conscious scene of love, The tent, may hold him; yet I dare not search, For oh, I fear to find him in that place. [_Exit_ TROILUS.

_Enter_ CALCHAS _and_ CRESSIDA.

_Cres._ Where is he? I'll be justified, or die.

_Calch._ So quickly vanished! he was here but now. He must be gone to search for Diomede; For Diomede told me, here they were to fight.

_Cres._ Alas!

_Calch._ You must prevent, and not complain.

_Cres._ If Troilus die, I have no share in life.

_Calch._ If Diomede sink beneath the sword of Troilus We lose not only a protector here, But are debarred all future means of flight.

_Cres._ What then remains?

_Calch._ To interpose betimes Betwixt their swords; or, if that cannot be, To intercede for him, who shall be vanquished. Fate leaves no middle course. [_Exit_ CALCHAS.

_Clashing within._

_Cres._ Ah me! I hear them, And fear 'tis past prevention.

_Enter_ DIOMEDE, _retiring before_ TROILUS, _and falling as he enters._

_Troil._ Now beg thy life, or die.

_Diom._ No; use thy fortune: I loath the life, which thou canst give, or take.

_Troil._ Scorn'st thou my mercy, villain!--Take thy wish.--

_Cres._ Hold, hold your hand, my lord, and hear me speak. [TROILUS _turns back; in which time_ DIOMEDE _rises, Trojans and Greeks enter, and rank themselves on both sides of their Captains._

_Troil._ Did I not hear the voice of perjured Cressida? Com'st thou to give the last stab to my heart? As if the proofs of all thy former falsehood Were not enough convincing, com'st thou now To beg my rival's life? Whom, oh, if any spark of truth remained, Thou couldst not thus, even to my face, prefer.

_Cres._ What shall I say!--that you suspect me false, Has struck me dumb! but let him live, my Troilus; By all our loves, by all our past endearments, I do adjure thee, spare him.

_Troil._ Hell and death!

_Cres._ If ever I had power to bend your mind, Believe me still your faithful Cressida; And though my innocence appear like guilt, Because I make his forfeit life my suit, 'Tis but for this, that my return to you Would be cut off for ever by his death; My father, treated like a slave, and scorned; Myself in hated bonds a captive held.

_Troil._ Could I believe thee, could I think thee true, In triumph would I bear thee back to Troy, Though Greece could rally all her shattered troops, And stand embattled to oppose my way. But, oh, thou syren, I will stop my ears To thy enchanting notes; the winds shall bear Upon their wings thy words, more light than they.

_Cres._ Alas! I but dissembled love to him. If ever he had any proof, beyond What modesty might give--

_Diom._ No! witness this.-- [_The Ring shewn._ There, take her, Trojan, thou deserv'st her best; You good, kind-natured, well-believing fools, Are treasures to a woman. I was a jealous, hard, vexatious lover, And doubted even this pledge,--till full possession; But she was honourable to her word, And I have no just reason to complain.

_Cres._ O unexampled, frontless impudence!

_Troil._ Hell, show me such another tortured wretch as Troilus!

_Diom._ Nay, grieve not; I resign her freely up; I'm satisfied; and dare engage for Cressida, That, if you have a promise of her person, She shall be willing to come out of debt.

_Cres._ [_Kneeling._] My only lord, by all those holy vows, Which, if there be a Power above, are binding, Or, if there be a hell below, are fearful, May every imprecation, which your rage Can wish on me, take place, if I am false!

_Diom._ Nay, since you're so concerned to be believed, I'm sorry I have pressed my charge so far: Be what you would be thought; I can be grateful.

_Troil._ Grateful! Oh torment! now hell's bluest flames Receive her quick, with all her crimes upon her! Let her sink spotted down! let the dark host Make room, and point, and hiss her as she goes! Let the most branded ghosts of all her sex Rejoice, and cry,--"Here comes a blacker fiend!" Let her--

_Cres._ Enough, my lord; you've said enough. This faithless, perjured, hated Cressida, Shall be no more the subject of your curses: Some few hours hence, and grief had done your work; But then your eyes had missed the satisfaction, Which thus I give you,--thus-- [_She stabs herself; they both run to her._

_Diom._ Help! save her, help!

_Cres._ Stand off, and touch me not, thou traitor Diomede;-- But you, my only Troilus, come near: Trust me, the wound, which I have given this breast, Is far less painful than the wound you gave it. Oh, can you yet believe, that I am true?

_Troil._ This were too much, even if thou hadst been false! But oh, thou purest, whitest innocence,-- For such I know thee now, too late I know it!-- May all my curses, and ten thousand more, Heavier than they, fall back upon my head; Pelion and Ossa, from the giants' graves Be torn by some avenging deity, And hurled at me, a bolder wretch than they, Who durst invade the skies!

_Cres._ Hear him not, heavens; But hear me bless him with my latest breath! And, since I question not your hard decree, That doomed my days unfortunate and few, Add all to him you take away from me; And I die happy, that he thinks me true. [_Dies._

_Troil._ She's gone for ever, and she blest me dying! Could she have cursed me worse! she died for me, And, like a woman, I lament for her. Distraction pulls me several ways at once: Here pity calls me to weep out my eyes, Despair then turns me back upon myself, And bids me seek no more, but finish here. [_Points his Sword to his Breast._ Ha, smilest thou, traitor! thou instruct'st me best, And turn'st my just revenge to punish thee.

_Diom._ Thy worst, for mine has been beforehand with thee; I triumph in thy vain credulity, Which levels thy despairing state to mine; But yet thy folly, to believe a foe, Makes thine the sharper and more shameful loss.

_Troil._ By my few moments of remaining life, I did not hope for any future joy; But thou hast given me pleasure ere I die, To punish such a villain.--Fight apart; [_To his Soldiers._ For heaven and hell have marked him out for me, And I should grudge even his least drop of blood To any other hand. [TROILUS _and_ DIOMEDE _fight, and both Parties engage at the same time. The Trojans make the Greeks retire, and_ TROILUS _makes_ DIOMEDE _give ground, and hurts him. Trumpets sound._ ACHILLES _enters with his Myrmidons, on the backs of the Trojans, who fight in a ring, encompassed round._ TROILUS, _singling_ DIOMEDE, _gets him down, and kills him; and_ ACHILLES _kills_ TROILUS _upon him. All the Trojans die upon the place,_ TROILUS _last._

_Enter_ AGAMEMNON, MENELAUS, ULYSSES, NESTOR, AJAX, _and Attendants._

_Achil._ Our toils are done, and those aspiring walls, The work of gods, and almost mating heaven, Must crumble into rubbish on the plain.

_Agam._ When mighty Hector fell beneath thy sword, Their old foundations shook; their nodding towers Threatened from high the amazed inhabitants; And guardian-gods, for fear, forsook their fanes.

_Achil._ Patroclus, now be quiet; Hector's dead; And, as a second offering to thy ghost, Lies Troilus high upon a heap of slain; And noble Diomede beneath, whose death This hand of mine revenged.

_Ajax._ Revenged it basely: For Troilus fell by multitudes opprest, And so fell Hector; but 'tis vain to talk.

_Ulys._ Hail, Agamemnon! truly victor now! While secret envy, and while open pride, Among thy factious nobles discord threw; While public good was urged for private ends, And those thought patriots, who disturbed it most; Then, like the headstrong horses of the sun, That light, which should have cheered the world, consumed it: Now peaceful order has resumed the reins, Old Time looks young, and Nature seems renewed. Then, since from home-bred factions ruin springs, Let subjects learn obedience to their kings. [_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY THERSITES.

These cruel critics put me into passion; For, in their lowering looks I read damnation: You expect a satire, and I seldom fail; When I'm first beaten, 'tis my part to rail. You British fools, of the old Trojan stock, That stand so thick, one cannot miss the flock, Poets have cause to dread a keeping pit, When women's cullies come to judge of wit. As we strew rat's-bane when we vermin fear, 'Twere worth our cost to scatter fool-bane here; And, after all our judging fops were served, Dull poets, too, should have a dose reserved; Such reprobates, as, past all sense of shaming, Write on, and ne'er are satisfied with damning: Next, those, to whom the stage does not belong, Such whose vocation only is--to song; At most to prologue, when, for want of time, Poets take in for journey-work in rhime. But I want curses for those mighty shoals Of scribbling Chloris's, and Phyllis' fools: Those oafs should be restrained, during their lives, From pen and ink, as madmen are from knives. I could rail on, but 'twere a task as vain, As preaching truth at Rome, or wit in Spain: Yet, to huff out our play was worth my trying; John Lilburn 'scaped his judges by defying:[1] If guilty, yet I'm sure o' the church's blessing, By suffering for the plot, without confessing.

Footnote: 1. Lilburn, the most turbulent, but the boldest and most upright of men, had the merit of defying and resisting the tyranny of the king, of the parliament, and of the protector. He was convicted in the star-chamber, but liberated by the parliament; he was tried on the parliamentary statute for treasons in 1651, and before Cromwell's high court of justice in 1654; and notwithstanding an audacious defence,--which to some has been more perilous than a feeble cause,--he was, in both cases, triumphantly acquitted.

* * * * *

THE

SPANISH FRIAR;

OR,

THE DOUBLE DISCOVERY.

_Ut melius possis fallere, sume togam._ --MART.

_--Alterna revisens Lasit, et in solido rursus fortuna locavit._ --VIRG.

THE SPANISH FRIAR.

The Spanish Friar, or the Double Discovery, is one of the best and most popular of our poet's dramatic efforts. The plot is, as Johnson remarks, particularly happy, for the coincidence and coalition of the tragic and comic plots. The grounds for this eminent critic's encomium will be found to lie more deep than appears at first sight. It was, indeed, a sufficiently obvious connection, to make the gay Lorenzo an officer of the conquering army, and attached to the person of Torrismond. This expedient could hardly have escaped the invention of the most vulgar playwright, that ever dovetailed tragedy and comedy together. The felicity of Dryden's plot, therefore, does not consist in the ingenuity of his original conception, but in the minutely artificial strokes, by which the reader is perpetually reminded of the dependence of the one part of the play on the other. These are so frequent, and appear so very natural, that the comic plot, instead of diverting our attention from the tragic business, recals it to our mind by constant and unaffected allusion. No great event happens in the higher region of the camp or court, that has not some indirect influence upon the intrigues of Lorenzo and Elvira; and the part which the gallant is called upon to act in the revolution that winds up the tragic interest, while it is highly in character, serves to bring the catastrophe of both parts of the play under the eye of the spectator, at one and the same time. Thus much seemed necessary to explain the felicity of combination, upon which Dryden justly valued himself, and which Johnson sanctioned by his high commendation. But, although artfully conjoined, the different departments of this tragi-comedy are separate subjects of critical remark.

The comic part of the Spanish Friar, as it gives the first title to the play, seems to claim our first attention. Indeed, some precedence is due to it in another point of view; for, though the tragic scenes may be matched in All for Love, Don Sebastian, and else where, the Spanish Friar contains by far the most happy of Dryden's comic effusions. It has, comparatively speaking, this high claim to commendation, that, although the intrigue is licentious, according to the invariable licence of the age, the language is, in general, free from the extreme and disgusting coarseness, which our author too frequently mistook for wit, or was contented to substitute in its stead. The liveliness and even brilliancy of the dialogue, shows that Dryden, from the stores of his imagination, could, when he pleased, command that essential requisite of comedy; and that, if he has seldom succeeded, it was only because he mistook the road, or felt difficulty in travelling it. The character of Dominic is of that broadly ludicrous nature, which was proper to the old comedy. It would be difficult to show an ordinary conception more fully brought out. He is, like Falstaff, a compound of sensuality and talent, finely varied by the professional traits with which it suited the author's purpose to adorn his character. Such an addition was, it is true, more comic than liberal; but Dryden, whose constant dislike to the clerical order glances out in many of his performances, was not likely to be scrupulous, when called upon to pourtray one of their members in his very worst colours. To counterbalance the Friar's scandalous propensities of every sort, and to render him an object of laughter, rather than abhorrence, the author has gifted this reprobate churchman with a large portion of wit; by means of which, and by a ready presence of mind, always indicative of energy, he preserves an ascendence over the other characters, and escapes detection and disgrace, until poetical justice, and the conclusion of the play, called for his punishment. We have a natural indulgence for an amusing libertine; and, I believe, that, as most readers commiserate the disgrace of Falstaff, a few may be found to wish that Dominic's penance had been of a nature more decent and more theatrical than the poet has assigned him[1]. From the dedication, as well as the prologue, it appears that Dryden, however contrary to his sentiments at a future period, was, at present, among those who held up to contempt and execration the character of the Roman catholic priesthood. By one anonymous lampoon, this is ascribed to a temporary desertion of the court party, in resentment for the loss, or discontinuance of his pension. This allowance, during the pressure upon the Exchequer, was, at least, irregularly paid, of which Dryden repeatedly complains, and particularly in a letter to the Earl of Rochester. But the hardship was owing entirely to the poverty of the public purse; and, when the anonymous libeller affirms, that Dryden's pension was withdrawn, on account of his share in the Essay on Satire, he only shows that his veracity is on a level with his poverty[2]. The truth seems to be, that Dryden partook in some degree of the general ferment which the discovery of the Popish Plot had excited; and we may easily suppose him to have done so without any impeachment to his monarchial tenets, since North himself admits, that at the first opening of the plot, the chiefs of the loyal party joined in the cry. Indeed, that mysterious transaction had been investigated by none more warmly than by Danby, the king's favourite minister, and a high favourer of the prerogative. Even when writing Absalom and Achitophel, our author by no means avows an absolute disbelief of the whole plot, while condemning the extraordinary exaggerations, by which it had been rendered the means of much bloodshed and persecution[3]. It seems, therefore, fair to believe, that, without either betraying or disguising his own principles, he chose, as a popular subject for the drama, an attack upon an obnoxious priesthood, whom he, in common with all the nation, believed to have been engaged in the darkest intrigues against the king and government. I am afraid that this task was the more pleasing, from that prejudice against the clergy, of all countries and religions, which, as already noticed, our author displays, in common with other wits of that licentious age[4]. The character of the Spanish Friar was not, however, forgotten, when Dryden became a convert to the Roman Catholic persuasion; and, in many instances, as well as in that just quoted, it was assumed as the means of fixing upon him a charge of inconsistency in politics, and versatility in religion[5].

The tragic part of the "Spanish Friar" has uncommon merit. The opening of the Drama, and the picture of a besieged town in the last extremity, is deeply impressive, while the description of the noise of the night attack, and the gradual manner in which the intelligence of its success is communicated, arrests the attention, and prepares expectation for the appearance of the hero, with all the splendour which ought to attend the principal character in tragedy. The subsequent progress of the plot is liable to a capital objection, from the facility with which the queen, amiable and virtuous, as we are bound to suppose her, consents to the murder of the old dethroned monarch. We question if the operation of any motive, however powerful, could have been pleaded with propriety, in apology for a breach of theatrical decorum, so gross, and so unnatural. But, in fact, the queen is only actuated by a sort of reflected ambition, a desire to secure to her lover a crown, which she thought in danger; but which, according to her own statement, she only valued on his account. This is surely too remote and indirect a motive, to urge a female to so horrid a crime. There is also something vilely cold-hearted, in her attempt to turn the guilt and consequences of her own crime upon Bertran, who, whatever faults he might have to others, was to the queen no otherwise obnoxious, than because the victim of her own inconstancy. The gallant, virtuous, and enthusiastic character of Torrismond, must be allowed, in some measure, to counterbalance that of his mistress, however unhappily he has placed his affections. But the real excellence of these scenes consists less in peculiarity of character, than in the vivacity and power of the language, which, seldom sinking into vulgarity, or rising into bombast, maintains the mixture of force and dignity, best adapted to the expression of tragic passion. Upon the whole, as the comic part of this play is our author's master-piece in comedy, the tragic plot may be ranked with his very best efforts of that kind, whether in "Don Sebastian," or "All for Love."

The "Spanish Friar" appears to have been brought out shortly after Mr Thynne's murder, which is alluded to in the Prologue, probably early in 1681-2. The whimsical caricature, which it presented to the public, in Father Dominic, was received with rapture by the prejudiced spectators, who thought nothing could be exaggerated in the character of a Roman Catholic priest. Yet, the satire was still more severe in the first edition, and afterwards considerably softened[6]. It was, as Dryden himself calls it, a Protestant play; and certainly, as Jeremy Collier somewhere says, was rare Protestant diversion, and much for the credit of the Reformation. Accordingly, the "Spanish Friar" was the only play prohibited by James II. after his accession; an interdict, which may be easily believed no way disagreeable to the author, now a convert to the Roman church. It is very remarkable, that, after the Revolution, it was the first play represented by order of queen Mary, and honoured with her presence; a choice, of which she had abundant reason to repent, as the serious part of the piece gave as much scope for malicious application against herself, as the comic against the religion of her father[7].

Footnotes: 1. Collier remarks the injustice of punishing the agent of Lorenzo's vice, while he was himself brought off with flying colours. He observes, "'Tis not the fault which is corrected, but the priest. The author's discipline is seldom without a bias. He commonly gives the laity the pleasure of an ill action, and the clergy the punishment." _View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the Stage_, p. 100.

2. To satire next thy talent was addressed, Fell foul on all thy friends among the rest; Nay, even thy royal patron was not spared, But an obscene, a sauntering wretch declared. Thy loyal libel we can still produce, Beyond example, and beyond excuse. O strange return, to a forgiving king, (But the warmed viper wears the greatest sting,) For pension lost, and justly without doubt; When servants snarl we ought to kick them out. They that disdain their benefactor's bread. No longer ought by bounty to be fed. That lost, the visor changed, you turn about, And straight a true-blue protestant crept out. The Friar now was writ, and some will say, They smell a malcontent through all the play. The papist too was damned, unfit for trust, Called treacherous, shameless, profligate, unjust, And kingly power thought arbitrary lust. This lasted till thou didst thy pension gain, And that changed both thy morals and thy strain. _The Laureat, 24th October, 1678._

3. From hence began that plot, the nation's curse, Bad in itself, but represented worse. Raised in extremes, and in extremes decryed, With oaths affirmed, with dying vows denied; Nor weighed nor winnowed by the multitude, But swallowed in the mass unchewed and crude. Some truth there was, but dashed and bruised with lies, To please the fools, and puzzle all the wise. Succeeding times did equal folly call. Believing nothing, or believing all.

4. "Thus we see," says Collier, "how hearty these people are in their ill-will; how they attack religion under every form, and pursue the priesthood through all the subdivisions of opinion. Neither Jews nor Heathens, Turk nor Christians, Rome nor Geneva, church nor conventicle, can escape them. They are afraid lest virtue should have any quarters, undisturbed conscience any corner to retire to, or God worshipped in any place." _Short View, &c._ p. 110.

5. "I have read somewhere in Mons. Rapin's _Reflections sur la Poetique_, that a certain Venetian nobleman, Andrea Naugeria by name, was wont every year to sacrifice a Martial to the manes of Catullus: In imitation of this, a celebrated poet, in the preface before the Spanish Friar, is pleased to acquaint the world, that he has indignation enough to burn a Bussy D'Amboys, annually, to the memory of Ben Jonson. Since the modern ceremony, of offering up one author at the altar of another, is likely to advance into a fashion; and having already the authority of two such great men to recommend it, the courteous reader may be pleased to take notice, that the author of the following dialogue is resolved, (God willing) on the festival of the Seven Sleepers, as long as he lives, to sacrifice the Hind and Panther to the memory of Mr Quarels and John Bunyan: Or, if a writer that has notoriously contradicted himself, and espoused the quarrel of two different parties, may be considered under two distinct characters, he designs to deliver up the author of the Hind and Panther, to be lashed severely by, and to beg pardon of, the worthy gentleman that wrote the Spanish Friar, and the Religion Laici." _The reason of Mr Bayes' changing his religion._ Preface.

6. "The Revolter," a tragi-comedy, 1687, p. 29.

7. It is impossible to avoid transcribing the whole account of this representation, with some other curious particulars, contained in a letter from the earl of Nottingham, published by Sir John Dalrymple, from a copy given him by the bishop of Dromore; and also inserted by Mr Malone in his third volume of Dryden's prose works.

"I am loth to send blank paper by a carrier, but am rather willing to send some of the tattle of the town, than nothing at all; which will at least serve for an hour's chat,--and then convert the scrawl to its proper use.

"The only day her Majesty gave herself the diversion of a play, and that on which she designed to see another, has furnished the town with discourse for near a month. The choice of the play was THE SPANISH FRIAR, the only play forbid by the late K[ing], Some unhappy expressions, among which those that follow, put her in some disorder, and forced her to hold up her fan, and often look behind her, and call for her palatine and hood, and any thing she could next think of; while those who were in the pit before her, turned their heads over their shoulders, and all in general directed their looks towards her, whenever their fancy led them to make any application of what was said. In one place, where the queen of Arragon is going to church in procession, 'tis said by a spectator, 'Very good; she usurps the throne, keeps the old king in prison, and, at the same time, is praying for a blessing on her army;'--And when said, 'That 'tis observed at Court, who weeps, and who wears black for good king Sancho's death,' 'tis said, 'Who is that, that can flatter a Court like this? Can I sooth tyranny? seem pleas'd to see my Royal Master murthered; his crown usurped; a distaff in the throne?'--And 'What title has this queen, but lawless force; and force must pull her down'--Twenty more things are said, which may be wrested to what they were never designed: but however, the observations then made furnished the town with talk, till something else happened, which gave it much occasion for discourse; for another play being ordered to be acted, the queen came not, being taken up with other diversion. She dined with Mrs Gradens, the famous woman in the hall, that sells fine laces and head-dresses; from thence she went to the Jew's, that sells Indian things; to Mrs Ferguson's, De Vett's, Mrs Harrison's, and other Indian houses; but not to Mrs Potter's, though in her way; which caused Mrs Potter to say, that she might as well have hoped for that honour as others, considering that the whole design of bringing the queen and king was managed at her house, and the consultations held there; so that she might as well have thrown away a little money in raffling there, as well as at the other houses: but it seems that my lord Devonshire has got Mrs Potter to be laundress: she has not much countenance of the queen, her daughter still keeping the Indian house her mother had. The same day the queen went to one Mrs Wise's, a famous woman for telling fortunes, but could not prevail with her to tell anything; though to others she has been very true, and has foretold that king James shall came in again, and the duke of Norfolk shall lose his head: the last, I suppose, will naturally be the consequence of the first. These things, however innocent, have passed the censure of the town: and, besides a private reprimand given, the king gave one in _public_; saying to the queen, that he heard she dined at a bawdy-house, and desired the next time she went, he might go. She said, she had done nothing but what the late queen had done. He asked her, if she meant to make her, her example. More was said on this occasion than ever was known before; but it was borne with all the submission of a good wife, who leaves all to the direction of the k----, and diverts herself with walking six or seven miles a-day, and looking after her buildings, making of fringes, and such like innocent things; and does not meddle in government, though she has better title to do it than the late queen had."

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

JOHN,

LORD HAUGHTON[1].

MY LORD,

When I first designed this play, I found, or thought I found, somewhat so moving in the serious part of it, and so pleasant in the comic, as might deserve a more than ordinary care in both; accordingly, I used the best of my endeavour, in the management of two plots, so very different from each other, that it was not perhaps the talent of every writer to have made them of a piece. Neither have I attempted other plays of the same nature, in my opinion, with the same judgment, though with like success. And though many poets may suspect themselves for the fondness and partiality of parents to their youngest children, yet I hope I may stand exempted from this rule, because I know myself too well to be ever satisfied with my own conceptions, which have seldom reached to those ideas that I had within me; and consequently, I may presume to have liberty to judge when I write more or less pardonably, as an ordinary marksman may know certainly when he shoots less wide at what he aims. Besides, the care and pains I have bestowed on this, beyond my other tragi-comedies, may reasonably make the world conclude, that either I can do nothing tolerably, or that this poem is not much amiss. Few good pictures have been finished at one sitting; neither can a true just play, which is to bear the test of ages, be produced at a heat, or by the force of fancy, without the maturity of judgment. For my own part, I have both so just a diffidence of myself, and so great a reverence for my audience, that I dare venture nothing without a strict examination; and am as much ashamed to put a loose indigested play upon the public, as I should be to offer brass money in a payment; for though it should be taken, (as it is too often on the stage) yet it would be found in the second telling; and a judicious reader will discover, in his closet, that trashy stuff, whose glittering deceived him in the action. I have often heard the stationer sighing in his shop, and wishing for those hands to take off his melancholy bargain, which clapped its performance on the stage. In a playhouse, every thing contributes to impose upon the judgment; the lights, the scenes, the habits, and, above all, the grace of action, which is commonly the best where there is the most need of it, surprise the audience, and cast a mist upon their understandings; not unlike the cunning of a juggler, who is always staring us in the face, and over-whelming us with gibberish, only that he may gain the opportunity of making the cleaner conveyance of his trick. But these false beauties of the stage are no more lasting than a rainbow; when the actor ceases to shine upon them, when he gilds them no longer with his reflection, they vanish in a twinkling. I have sometimes wondered, in the reading, what was become of those glaring colours which amazed me in "Bussy D'Amboys" upon the theatre; but when I had taken up what I supposed a fallen star, I found I had been cozened with a jelly[2]; nothing but a cold, dull mass, which glittered no longer than it was shooting; a dwarfish thought, dressed up in gigantic words, repetition in abundance, looseness of expression, and gross hyperboles; the sense of one line expanded prodigiously into ten; and, to sum up all, uncorrect English, and a hideous mingle of false poetry, and true nonsense; or, at best, a scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life, and groaning beneath a heap of rubbish. A famous modern poet used to sacrifice every year a Statius to Virgil's manes[3]; and I have indignation enough to burn a D'AMBOIS annually, to the memory of Jonson[4]. But now, my lord, I am sensible, perhaps too late, that I have gone too far: for, I remember some verses of my own Maximin and Almanzor, which cry vengeance upon me for their extravagance, and which I wish heartily in the same fire with Statius and Chapman. All I can say for those passages, which are, I hope, not many, is, that I knew they were bad enough to please, even when I wrote them; but I repent of them amongst my sins; and, if any of their fellows intrude by chance into my present writings, I draw a stroke over all those Dalilah's of the theatre; and am resolved I will settle myself no reputation by the applause of fools. It is not that I am mortified to all ambition, but I scorn as much to take it from half-witted judges, as I should to raise an estate by cheating of bubbles. Neither do I discommend the lofty style in tragedy, which is naturally pompous and magnificent; but nothing is truly sublime, that is not just and proper. If the antients had judged by the same measure, which a common reader takes, they had concluded Statius to have written higher than Virgil, for,

_Quæ super-imposito moles geminata Colosso_

carries a more thundering kind of sound, than

_Tityre, tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi:_

yet Virgil had all the majesty of a lawful prince, and Statius only the blustering of a tyrant. But when men affect a virtue which they cannot easily reach, they fall into a vice, which bears the nearest resemblance to it. Thus, an injudicious poet, who aims at loftiness, runs easily into the swelling puffy style, because it looks like greatness. I remember, when I was a boy, I thought inimitable Spencer a mean poet, in comparison of Sylvester's "Dubartas," and was wrapt into an ecstasy when I read these lines:

Now, when the winter's keener breath began To crystalize the Baltic ocean; To glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods, And periwig with snow the bald-pate woods:--[5]

I am much deceived if this be not abominable fustian, that is, thoughts and words ill-sorted, and without the least relation to each other; yet I dare not answer for an audience, that they would not clap it on the stage: so little value there is to be given to the common cry, that nothing but madness can please madmen, and the poet must be of a piece with the spectators, to gain a reputation with them. But, as in a room, contrived for state, the height of the roof should bear a proportion to the area; so, in the heightenings of poetry, the strength and vehemence of figures should be suited to the occasion, the subject, and the persons. All beyond this is monstrous: it is out of nature, it is an excrescence, and not a living part of poetry. I had not said thus much, if some young gallants, who pretend to criticism, had not told me, that this tragi-comedy wanted the dignity of style; but, as a man, who is charged with a crime of which he thinks himself innocent, is apt to be too eager in his own defence; so, perhaps, I have vindicated my play with more partiality than I ought, or than such a trifle can deserve. Yet, whatever beauties it may want, it is free at least from the grossness of those faults I mentioned: what credit it has gained upon the stage, I value no farther than in reference to my profit, and the satisfaction I had, in seeing it represented with all the justness and gracefulness of action. But, as it is my interest to please my audience, so it is my ambition to be read: that I am sure is the more lasting and the nobler design: for the propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action: all things are there beheld, as in a hasty motion, where the objects only glide before the eye, and disappear. The most discerning critic can judge no more of these silent graces in the action, than he who rides post through an unknown country can distinguish the situation of places, and the nature of the soil. The purity of phrase, the clearness of conception and expression, the boldness maintained to majesty, the significancy and sound of words, not strained into bombast, but justly elevated; in short, those very words and thoughts, which cannot be changed, but for the worse, must of necessity escape our transient view upon the theatre; and yet, without all these, a play may take. For, if either the story move us, or the actor help the lameness of it with his performance, or now and then a glittering beam of wit or passion strike through the obscurity of the poem, any of these are sufficient to effect a present liking, but not to fix a lasting admiration; for nothing but truth can long continue; and time is the surest judge of truth. I am not vain enough to think that I have left no faults in this, which that touchstone will not discover; neither, indeed, is it possible to avoid them in a play of this nature. There are evidently two actions in it; but it will be clear to any judicious man, that with half the pains I could have raised a play from either of them; for this time I satisfied my humour, which was to tack two plays together; and to break a rule for the pleasure of variety. The truth is, the audience are grown weary of continued melancholy scenes; and I dare venture to prophecy, that few tragedies, except those in verse, shall succeed in this age, if they are not lightened with a course of mirth; for the feast is too dull and solemn without the fiddles. But how difficult a task this is, will soon be tried; for a several genius is required to either way; and, without both of them, a man, in my opinion, is but half a poet for the stage. Neither is it so trivial an undertaking, to make a tragedy end happily; for it is more difficult to save, than it is to kill. The dagger and the cup of poison are always in a readiness; but to bring the action to the last extremity, and then by probable means to recover all, will require the art and judgement of a writer; and cost him many a pang in the performance.

And now, my lord, I must confess, that what I have written, looks more like a Preface, than a Dedication; and, truly, it was thus far my design, that I might entertain you with somewhat in my own art, which might be more worthy of a noble mind, than the stale exploded trick of fulsome panegyrics. It is difficult to write justly on any thing, but almost impossible in praise. I shall therefore wave so nice a subject; and only tell you, that, in recommending a protestant play to a protestant patron, as I do myself an honour, so I do your noble family a right, who have been always eminent in the support and favour of our religion and liberties. And if the promises of your youth, your education at home, and your experience abroad, deceive me not, the principles you have embraced are such, as will no way degenerate from your ancestors, but refresh their memory in the minds of all true Englishmen, and renew their lustre in your person; which, my lord, is not more the wish, than it is the constant expectation, of

Your lordship's Most obedient, faithful servant, JOHN DRYDEN.

Footnotes: 1. John, Lord Haughton, eldest son of the Earl of Clare. succeeded to his father, was created Marquis of Clare, and died 1711, leaving an only daughter, who married the eldest son of the famous Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford.

2. See note on OEdipus, p. 151.

3. Dryden appears to have alluded to the following passage in Strada, though without a very accurate recollection of its contents: _"Sane Andreas Naugerius Valerio Martiali acriter infensus, solemne jam habebat in illum aliquanto petulantius jocari. Etenim natali suo, accitis ad geniale epulum amicis, postquam prolixe de poeticæ laudibus super mensam disputaverat; ostensurum se aiebat a cæna, quo tandem modo laudari poesim deceret: Mox aferri jubebat Martialis volumen, (hæc erat mensæ appendix) atque igni proprior factus, illustri conflagratione absumendum flammis imponebat: addebatque eo incendio litare se Musis, Manibusque Virgilij, cujus imitatorem cultoremque prestare se melius haud posset, quam si vilia poetarum capita per undas insecutus ac flammas perpetuo perdidisset. Nec se eo loco tenuit, sed cum Silvas aliquot ab se conscriptas legisset, audissetque Statianu characteri similes videri, iratus sibi, quod a Martiale fugiens alio declinasset a Virgilio, cum primum se recessit domum, in Silvas conjecit ignem."_ _Stradæ Prolusiones_, Lib. II. Pro. 5. From this passage, it is obvious, that it was Martial, not Statius, whom Andreas Navagero sacrificed to Virgil, although he burned his own verses when they were accused of a resemblance to the style of the author of the Thebaid. In the same prolusion, Strada quotes the "blustering" line, afterwards censured by Dryden; but erroneously reads,

Super imposito moles _gemmata_ colosso.

4. "Bussy D'Ambois," a tragedy, once much applauded, was the favourite production of George Chapman. If Dryden could have exhausted every copy of this bombast performance in one holocaust, the public would have been no great losers, as may be apparent from the following quotations:

_Bussy._ I'll sooth his plots, and strew my hate with smiles, Till, all at once, the close mines of my heart Rise at full state, and rush into his blood. I'll bind his arm in silk, and rub his flesh, To make the veine swell, that his soule may gush Into some kennel, where it loves to lie; And policy be flanked with policy. Yet shall the feeling centre, where we meet. Groan with the weight of my approaching feet. I'll make the inspired threshold of his court Sweat with the weather of my horrid steps, Before I enter; yet, I will appear Like calm securitie, befor a ruin. A politician must, like lightning, melt The very marrow, and not taint the skin; His wayes must not be seen through, the superficies Of the green centre must not taste his feet, When hell is plowed up with the wounding tracts, And all his harvest reap't by hellish facts.

Montsurry, when he discovers that the Friar had acted as confident in the intrigue betwixt his lady and d'Ambois, thus elegantly expresses the common idea of the world being turned _upside down._

Now, is it true, earth moves, and heaven stands still; Even heaven itself must see and suffer ill. The too huge bias of the world hath swayed Her back-part upwards, and with _that_ she braves This hemisphere, that long her month hath mocked. The gravity of her religious face, Now grown too weighty with her sacrilege, And here discerned sophisticate enough, Turns to the antipodes, and all the forms That here allusions have impressed in her, Have eaten through her back, and now all see How she is riveted with hypocrisie.

Yet, I observe, from the prologue to the edition of 1641, that the part of D'Ambois was considered as a high test of a players' talents:

--Field is gone, Whose action first did give it name; and one Who came the neatest to him, is denied, By his grey beard, to shew the height and pride Of d'Ambois' youth and braverie. Yet to hold Our title still a-foot, and not grow cold, By giving't o'er, a third man with his best Of care and paines defends our interest. As Richard he was liked, nor do we fear, In personating d'Ambois, heile appear To faint, or goe lesse, so your free consent, As heretofore, give him encouragement.

I believe the successor of Field, in this once favourite character, was Hart. The piece was revived after the Restoration with great success.

5. Dryden has elsewhere ridiculed this absurd passage. The original has "periwig with _wool_."

PROLOGUE.

Now, luck for us, and a kind hearty pit; For he, who pleases, never fails of wit: Honour is yours; And you, like kings at city-treats, bestow it; The writer kneels, and is bid rise a poet; But you are fickle sovereigns, to our sorrow; You dub to-day, and hang a man to-morrow: You cry the same sense up, and down again, Just like brass-money once a year in Spain: Take you in the mood, whate'er base metal come, You coin as fast as groats at Birmingham: Though 'tis no more like sense, in antient plays, Than Rome's religion like St Peter's days. In short, so swift your judgments turn and wind, You cast our fleetest wits a mile behind. 'Twere well your judgments but in plays did range, But e'en your follies and debauches change With such a whirl, the poets of our age Are tired, and cannot score them on the stage; Unless each vice in short-hand they indict, Even as notch'd prentices whole sermons write[1]. The heavy Hollanders no vices know, But what they used a hundred years ago; Like honest plants, where they were stuck, they grow. They cheat, but still from cheating sires they come; They drink, but they were christened first in mum. Their patrimonial sloth the Spaniards keep, And Philip first taught Philip how to sleep. The French and we still change; but here's the curse, They change for better, and we change for worse; They take up our old trade of conquering, And we are taking theirs, to dance and sing: Our fathers did, for change, to France repair, And they, for change, will try our English air; As children, when they throw one toy away, Strait a more foolish gewgaw comes in play: So we, grown penitent, on serious thinking, Leave whoring, and devoutly fall to drinking. Scowering the watch grows out-of-fashion wit: Now we set up for tilting in the pit, Where 'tis agreed by bullies chicken-hearted, To fright the ladies first, and then be parted. A fair attempt has twice or thrice been made, To hire night murderers, and make death a trade[2]. When murder's out, what vice can we advance? Unless the new-found poisoning trick of France: And, when their art of rats-bane we have got, By way of thanks, we'll send them o'er our plot.

Footnotes 1. It was anciently a part of the apprentice's duty, not only to carry the family bible to church, but to take notes of the sermon for the edification of his master or mistress.

2. Alluding apparently to the assassination of Thomas Thynne, esq. in Pall-Mall, by the hired bravoes of count Coningsmark.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

TORRISMOND, _Son of_ SANCHO, _the deposed King, believing himself Son of_ RAYMOND. BERTRAN, _a Prince of the blood._ ALPHONSO, _a general Officer, Brother to_ RAYMOND. LORENZO, _his Son._ RAYMOND, _a Nobleman, supposed Father of_ TORRISMOND. PEDRO, _an Officer._ GOMEZ, _an old Usurer._ DOMINICK, _the Spanish Friar._

LEONORA, _Queen of Arragon._ TERESA, _Woman to_ LEONORA. ELVIRA, _Wife to_ GOMEZ.

THE

SPANISH FRIAR:

OR THE

DOUBLE DISCOVERY.