Chapter 15

EVE, _with a bough in her hand._

_Eve._ Methinks I tread more lightly on the ground; My nimble feet from unhurt flowers rebound: I walk in air, and scorn this earthly seat; Heaven is my palace; this my base retreat. Take me not, heaven, too soon; 'twill be unkind To leave the partner of my bed behind. I love the wretch; but stay, shall I afford Him part? already he's too much my lord. 'Tis in my power to be a sovereign now; And, knowing more, to make his manhood bow. Empire is sweet; but how if heaven has spied? If I should die, and He above provide Some other Eve, and place her in my stead? Shall she possess his love, when I am dead? No; he shall eat, and die with me, or live: Our equal crimes shall equal fortune give.

_Enter_ ADAM.

_Adam._ What joy, without your sight, has earth, in store! While you were absent, Eden was no more. Winds murmured through the leaves your long delay, And fountains, o'er the pebbles, chid your stay: But with your presence cheered, they cease to mourn, And walks wear fresher green at your return.

_Eve._ Henceforth you never shall have cause to chide; No future absence shall our joys divide: 'Twas a short death my love ne'er tried before, And therefore strange; but yet the cause was more.

_Adam._ My trembling heart forebodes some ill; I fear To ask that cause which I desire to hear. What means that lovely fruit? what means, alas! That blood, which flushes guilty in your face? Speak--do not--yet, at last, I must be told.

_Eve._ Have courage, then: 'tis manly to be bold. This fruit--why dost thou shake? no death is nigh: 'Tis what I tasted first; yet do not die.

_Adam._ Is it--(I dare not ask it all at first; Doubt is some ease to those who fear the worst:) Say, 'tis not--

_Eve._ 'Tis not what thou needst to fear: What danger does in this fair fruit appear? We have been cozened; and had still been so, Had I not ventured boldly first to know. Yet, not I first; I almost blush to say, The serpent eating taught me first the way. The serpent tasted, and the godlike fruit Gave the dumb voice; gave reason to the brute.

_Adam._ O fairest of all creatures, last and best Of what heaven made, how art them dispossest Of all thy native glories! fallen! decayed! (Pity so rare a frame so frail was made) Now cause of thy own ruin; and with thine, (Ah, who can live without thee!) cause of mine.

_Eve._ Reserve thy pity till I want it more: I know myself much happier than before; More wise, more perfect, all I wish to be, Were I but sure, alas! of pleasing thee.

_Adam._ You've shown, how much you my content design: Yet, ah! would heaven's displeasure pass like mine! Must I without you, then, in wild woods dwell? Think, and but think, of what I loved so well? Condemned to live with subjects ever mute; A savage prince, unpleased, though absolute?

_Eve._ Please then yourself with me, and freely taste, Lest I, without you, should to godhead haste: Lest, differing in degree, you claim too late Unequal love, when 'tis denied by fate.

_Adam._ Cheat not yourself with dreams of deity; Too well, but yet too late, your crime I see: Nor think the fruit your knowledge does improve; But you have beauty still, and I have love. Not cozened, I with choice my life resign: Imprudence was your fault, but love was mine. [_Takes the fruit and eats it._

_Eve._ O wondrous power of matchless love exprest! [_Embracing him._ Why was this trial thine, of loving best? I envy thee that lot; and could it be, Would venture something more than death for thee. Not that I fear, that death the event can prove; Ware both immortal, while so well we love.

_Adam._ Whate'er shall be the event, the lot is cast; Where appetites are given, what sin to taste? Or if a sin, 'tis but by precept such; The offence so small, the punishment's too much. To seek so soon his new-made world's decay: Nor we, nor that, were fashioned for a day.

_Eve._ Give to the winds thy fear of death, or ill; And think us made but for each other's will.

_Adam._ I will, at least, defer that anxious thought, And death, by fear, shall not be nigher brought: If he will come, let us to joys make haste; Then let him seize us when our pleasure's past. We'll take up all before; and death shall find We have drained life, and left a void behind. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ LUCIFER.

_Lucif._ 'Tis done: Sick Nature, at that instant, trembled round; And mother Earth sighed, as she felt the wound. Of how short durance was this new-made state! How far more mighty than heaven's love, hell's hate! His project ruined, and his king of clay: He formed an empire for his foe to sway. Heaven let him rule, which by his arms he got; I'm pleased to have obtained the second lot. This earth is mine; whose lord I made my thrall: Annexing to my crown his conquered ball. Loosed from the lakes my regions I will lead, And o'er the darkened air black banners spread: Contagious damps, from hence, shall mount above, And force him to his inmost heaven's remove. [_A clap of thunder is heard._ He hears already, and I boast too soon; I dread that engine which secured his throne. I'll dive below his wrath, into the deep, And waste that empire, which I cannot keep. [_Sinks down._

RAPHAEL _and_ GABRIEL _descend._

_Raph._ As much of grief as happiness admits In heaven, on each celestial forehead sits: Kindness for man, and pity for his fate, May mix with bliss, and yet not violate. Their heavenly harps a lower strain began; And, in soft music, mourned the fall of man.

_Gab._ I saw the angelic guards from earth ascend, (Grieved they must now no longer man attend:) The beams about their temples dimly shone; One would have thought the crime had been their own. The etherial people flocked for news in haste, Whom they, with down-cast looks, and scarce saluting past: While each did, in his pensive breast, prepare A sad account of their successless care.

_Raph._ The Eternal yet, in majesty severe, And strictest justice, did mild pity bear: Their deaths deferred; and banishment, (their doom,) In penitence foreseen, leaves mercy room.

_Gab._ That message is thy charge: Mine leads me hence; Placed at the garden's gate, for its defence, Lest man, returning, the blest place pollute, And 'scape from death, by life's immortal fruit. [_Another clap of thunder. Exeunt severally._

_Enter_ ADAM _and_ EVE, _affrighted._

_Adam._ In what dark cavern shall I hide my head? Where seek retreat, now innocence is fled? Safe in that guard, I durst even hell defy; Without it, tremble now, when heaven is nigh.

_Eve._ What shall we do? or where direct our flight? Eastward, as far as I could cast my sight, From opening heavens, I saw descending light. Its glittering through the trees I still behold; The cedar tops seem all to burn with gold.

_Adam._ Some shape divine, whose beams I cannot bear! Would I were hid, where light could not appear. Deep into some thick covert would I run, Impenetrable to the stars or sun, And fenced from day, by night's eternal skreen; Unknown to heaven, and to myself unseen.

_Eve._ In vain: What hope to shun his piercing sight, Who from dark chaos struck the sparks of light?

_Adam._ These should have been your thoughts, when, parting hence, You trusted to your guideless innocence. See now the effects of your own wilful mind: Guilt walks before us; death pursues behind. So fatal 'twas to seek temptations out: Most confidence has still most cause to doubt.

_Eve._ Such might have been thy hap, alone assailed; And so, together, might we both have failed. Cursed vassalage of all my future kind! First idolized, till love's hot fire be o'er, Then slaves to those who courted us before.

_Adam._ I counselled you to stay; your pride refused: By your own lawless will you stand accused.

_Eve._ Have you that privilege of only wise, And would you yield to her you so despise? You should have shown the authority you boast, And, sovereign-like, my headlong will have crost: Counsel was not enough to sway my heart; An absolute restraint had been your part.

_Adam._ Even such returns do they deserve to find, When force is lawful, who are fondly kind. Unlike my love; for when thy guilt I knew, I shared the curse which did that crime pursue. Hard fate of love! which rigour did forbear, And now 'tis taxed, because 'twas not severe.

_Eve._ You have yourself your kindness overpaid; He ceases to oblige, who can upbraid.

_Adam._ On women's virtue, who too much rely, To boundless will give boundless liberty. Restraint you will not brook; but think it hard Your prudence is not trusted as your guard: And, to yourselves so left, if ill ensues, You first our weak indulgence will accuse. Curst be that hour, When, sated with my single happiness, I chose a partner, to controul my bliss! Who wants that reason which her will should sway, And knows but just enough to disobey.

_Eve._ Better with brutes my humble lot had gone; Of reason void, accountable for none: The unhappiest of creation is a wife, Made lowest, in the highest rank of life: Her fellow's slave; to know, and not to chuse: Curst with that reason she must never use.

_Adam._ Add, that she's proud, fantastic, apt to change, Restless at home, and ever prone to range: With shows delighted, and so vain is she, She'll meet the devil, rather than not see. Our wise Creator, for his choirs divine, Peopled his heaven with souls all masculine.-- Ah! why must man from woman take his birth? Why was this sin of nature made on earth? This fair defect, this helpless aid, called wife; The bending crutch of a decrepid life? Posterity no pairs from you shall find, But such as by mistake of love are joined: The worthiest men their wishes ne'er shall gain; But see the slaves they scorn their loves obtain. Blind appetite shall your wild fancies rule; False to desert, and faithful to a fool. [_Turns in anger from her, and is going off._

_Eve._ Unkind! wilt thou forsake me, in distress, [_Kneeling._ For that which now is past me to redress? I have misdone, and I endure the smart, Loth to acknowledge, but more loth to part. The blame be mine; you warned, and I refused: What would you more? I have myself accused. Was plighted faith so weakly sealed above, That, for one error, I must lose your love? Had you so erred, I should have been more kind, Than to add pain to an afflicted mind.

_Adam._ You're grown much humbler than you were before; I pardon you; but see my face no more.

_Eve._ Vain pardon, which includes a greater ill; Be still displeased, but let me see you still. Without your much-loved sight I cannot live; You more than kill me, if you so forgive. The beasts, since we are fallen, their lords despise; And, passing, look at me with glaring eyes: Must I then wander helpless, and alone? You'll pity me, too late, when I am gone.

_Adam._ Your penitence does my compassion move; As you deserve it, I may give my love.

_Eve._ On me, alone, let heaven's displeasure fall; You merit none, and I deserve it all.

_Adam._ You all heaven's wrath! how could you bear a part, Who bore not mine, but with a bleeding heart? I was too stubborn, thus to make you sue; Forgive me--I am more in fault than you. Return to me, and to my love return; And, both offending, for each other mourn.

_Enter_ RAPHAEL.

_Raph._ Of sin to warn thee I before was sent; For sin, I now pronounce thy punishment: Yet that much lighter than thy crimes require; Th' All-good does not his creatures' death desire: Justice must punish the rebellious deed; Yet punish so, as pity shall exceed.

_Adam._ I neither can dispute his will, nor dare: Death will dismiss me from my future care, And lay me softly in my native dust, To pay the forfeit of ill-managed trust.

_Eve._ Why seek you death? consider, ere you speak, The laws were hard, the power to keep them, weak. Did we solicit heaven to mould our clay? From darkness to produce us to the day? Did we concur to life, or chuse to be? Was it our will which formed, or was it He? Since 'twas his choice, not ours, which placed us here, The laws we did not chuse why should we bear?

_Adam._ Seek not, in vain, our Maker to accuse; Terms were proposed; power left us to refuse. The good we have enjoyed from heaven's free will, And shall we murmur to endure the ill? Should we a rebel son's excuse receive, Because he was begot without his leave? Heaven's right in us is more: first, formed to serve; The good, we merit not; the ill, deserve.

_Raph._ Death is deferred, and penitence has room To mitigate, if not reverse the doom: But, for your crime, the Eternal does ordain In Eden you no longer shall remain. Hence, to the lower world, you are exiled; This place with crimes shall be no more defiled.

_Eve._ Must we this blissful paradise forego?

_Raph._ Your lot must be where thorns and thistles grow, Unhid, as balm and spices did at first; For man, the earth, of which he was, is cursed. By thy own toil procured, thou food shalt eat; [_To_ ADAM. And know no plenty, but from painful sweat. She, by a curse, of future wives abhorred, Shall pay obedience to her lawful lord; And he shall rule, and she in thraldom live, Desiring more of love than man can give.

_Adam._ Heaven is all mercy; labour I would chuse; And could sustain this paradise to lose: The bliss, but not the place: Here, could I say, Heaven's winged messenger did pass the day; Under this pine the glorious angel staid: Then, show my wondering progeny the shade. In woods and lawns, where-e'er thou didst appear, Each place some monument of thee should bear. I, with green turfs, would grateful altars raise, And heaven, with gums, and offered incense, praise.

_Raph._ Where-e'er thou art, He is; the Eternal Mind Acts through all places; is to none confined: Fills ocean, earth, and air, and all above, And through the universal mass does move. Thou canst be no where distant: Yet this place Had been thy kingly seat, and here thy race, From all the ends of peopled earth had come To reverence thee, and see their native home. Immortal, then; now sickness, care, and age, And war, and luxury's more direful rage, Thy crimes have brought, to shorten mortal breath, With all the numerous family of death.

_Eve._ My spirits faint, while I these ills foreknow, And find myself the sad occasion too. But what is death?

_Raph._ In vision thou shalt see his griesly face, The king of terrors, raging in thy face. That, while in future fate thou shar'st thy part, A kind remorse, for sin, may seize thy heart.

_The_ SCENE _shifts, and discovers deaths of several sorts. A Battle at Land, and a Naval Fight._

_Adam._ O wretched offspring! O unhappy state Of all mankind, by me betrayed to fate! Born, through my crime, to be offenders first; And, for those sins they could not shun, accurst.

_Eve._ Why is life forced on man, who, might he chuse, Would not accept what he with pain must lose? Unknowing, he receives it; and when, known, He thinks it his, and values it, 'tis gone.

_Raph._ Behold of every age; ripe manhood see, Decrepid years, and helpless infancy: Those who, by lingering sickness, lose their breath; And those who, by despair, suborn their death: See yon mad fools, who for some trivial right, For love, or for mistaken honour, fight: See those, more mad, who throw their lives away In needless wars; the stakes which monarchs lay, When for each other's provinces they play. Then, as if earth too narrow were for fate, On open seas their quarrels they debate: In hollow wood they floating armies bear; And force imprisoned winds to bring them near.

_Eve._ Who would the miseries of man foreknow? Not knowing, we but share our part of woe: Now, we the fate of future ages bear, And, ere their birth, behold our dead appear.

_Adam._ The deaths, thou show'st, are forced and full of strife, Cast headlong from the precipice of life. Is there no smooth descent? no painless way Of kindly mixing with our native clay?

_Raph._ There is; but rarely shall that path be trod, Which, without horror, leads to death's abode. Some few, by temperance taught, approaching slow, To distant fate by easy journies go: Gently they lay them down, as evening sheep On their own woolly fleeces softly sleep.

_Adam._ So noiseless would I live, such death to find; Like timely fruit, not shaken by the wind, But ripely dropping from the sapless bough, And, dying, nothing to myself would owe.

_Eve._ Thus, daily changing, with a duller taste Of lessening joys, I, by degrees, would waste: Still quitting ground, by unperceived decay, And steal myself from life, and melt away.

_Raph._ Death you have seen: Now see your race revive, How happy they in deathless pleasures live; Far more than I can show, or you can see, Shall crown the blest with immortality.

_Here a Heaven descends, full of Angels, and blessed Spirits, with soft Music, a Song and Chorus._

_Adam._ O goodness infinite! whose heavenly will Can so much good produce from so much ill! Happy their state! Pure, and unchanged, and needing no defence From sins, as did my frailer innocence. Their joy sincere, and with no sorrow mixt: Eternity stands permanent and fixt, And wheels no longer on the poles of time; Secure from fate, and more secure from crime.

_Eve._ Ravished with joy, I can but half repent The sin, which heaven makes happy in the event.

_Raph._ Thus armed, meet firmly your approaching ill; For see, the guards, from yon' far eastern hill, Already move, nor longer stay afford; High in the air they wave the flaming sword, Your signal to depart; now down amain They drive, and glide, like meteors, through the plain.

_Adam._ Then farewell all; I will indulgent be To my own ease, and not look back to see. When what we love we ne'er must meet again, To lose the thought is to remove the pain.

_Eve._ Farewell, you happy shades! Where angels first should practise hymns, and string Their tuneful harps, when they to heaven would sing. Farewell, you flowers, whose buds, with early care, I watched, and to the chearful sun did rear: Who now shall bind your stems? or, when you fall, With fountain streams your fainting souls recal? A long farewell to thee, my nuptial bower, Adorned with every fair and fragrant flower! And last, farewell, farewell my place of birth! I go to wander in the lower earth, As distant as I can; for, dispossest, Farthest from what I once enjoyed, is best.

_Raph._ The rising winds urge the tempestuous air; And on their wings deformed winter bear: The beasts already feel the change; and hence They fly to deeper coverts, for defence: The feebler herd before the stronger run; For now the war of nature is begun: But, part you hence in peace, and, having mourned your sin, For outward Eden lost, find Paradise within. [_Exeunt._

* * * * *

AURENG-ZEBE.

A

TRAGEDY.

--_Sed, cum fregit subsellia versu, Esurit, intactam Paridi nisi vendat Agaven._ JUV.

AURENG-ZEBE.

"Aureng-Zebe," or the Ornament of the Throne, for such is the interpretation of his name, was the last descendant of Timur, who enjoyed the plenitude of authority originally vested in the Emperor of India. His father, Sha-Jehan, had four sons, to each of whom he delegated the command of a province. Dara-Sha, the eldest, superintended the district of Delhi, and remained near his father's person; Sultan-Sujah was governor of Bengal, Aureng-Zebe of the Decan, and Morat Bakshi of Guzerat. It happened, that Sha-Jehan being exhausted by the excesses of the Haram, a report of his death became current in the provinces, and proved the signal for insurrection and discord among his children. Morat Bakshi possessed himself of Surat, after a long siege, and Sultan-Sujah, having declared himself independent in Bengal, advanced as far as Lahor, with a large army. Dara-Sha, the legitimate successor of the crown, was the only son of Sha-Jehan, who preferred filial duty to the prospect of aggrandisement. He dispatched an army against Sultan-Sujah, checked his progress, and compelled him to retreat. But Aureng-Zebe, the third and most wily of the brethren, had united his forces to those of Morat Bakshi, and advancing against Dara-Sha, totally defeated him, and dissipated his army. Aureng-Zebe availed himself of the military reputation and treasures, acquired by his success, to seduce the forces of Morat Bakshi, whom he had pretended to assist, and, seizing upon his person at a banquet, imprisoned him in a strong fortress. Meanwhile, he advanced towards Agra, where his father had sought refuge, still affecting to believe that the old emperor was dead. The more pains Sha-Jehan took to contradict this report, the more obstinate was Aureng-Zebe in refusing to believe that he was still alive. And, although the emperor dispatched his most confidential servants to assure his dutiful son that he was yet in being, the incredulity of Aureng-Zebe could only be removed by a personal interview, the issue of which was Sha-Jehan's imprisonment and speedy death. During these transactions Dara-Sha, who, after his defeat, had fled with his treasures to Lahor, again assembled an army, and advanced against the conqueror; but, being deserted by his allies, defeated by Aureng-Zebe, and betrayed by an Omrah, whom he trusted in his flight, he was delivered up to his brother, and by his command assassinated. Aureng-Zebe now assumed the throne, and advanced against Sultan-Sujah, his sole remaining brother; he seduced his chief commanders, routed the forces who remained faithful, and drove him out of Bengal into the Pagan countries adjacent, where, after several adventures, he perished miserably in the mountains. Aureng-Zebe also murdered one or two nephews, and a few other near relations; but, in expiation of his complicated crimes, renounced the use of flesh, fish, and wine, living only upon barley-bread vegetables, and confections, although scrupling no excesses by which he could extend and strengthen his usurped power[1].

Dr Johnson has supposed, that, in assuming for his subject a living prince, Dryden incurred some risque; as, should Aureng-Zebe have learned and resented the freedom, our Indian trade was exposed to the consequences of his displeasure. It may, however, be safely doubted, whether a monarch, who had actually performed the achievements above narrated, would have been scandalized by those imputed to him in the text. In other respects, the distance and obscurity of the events gave a poet the same authority over them, as if they had occurred in the annals of past ages; a circumstance in which Dryden's age widely differed from ours, when so much has our intimacy increased with the Oriental world, that the transactions of Delhi are almost as familiar to us as those of Paris.

The tragedy of "Aureng-Zebe" is introduced by the poet's declaration in the prologue, that his taste for heroic plays was now upon the wane:

But he has now another taste of wit; And, to confess a truth, though out of time, Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme. Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound, And nature flies him, like enchanted ground, What verse can do, he has performed in this, Which he presumes the most correct of his.

Agreeably to what might be expected from this declaration, the verse used in "Aureng-Zebe" is of that kind which may be most easily applied to the purposes of ordinary dialogue. There is much less of ornate structure and emphatic swell, than occurs in the speeches of Almanzor and Maximin; and Dryden, though late, seems to have at length discovered, that the language of true passion is inconsistent with that regular modulation, to maintain which, the actor must mouth each couplet in a sort of recitative. The ease of the verse in "Aureng-Zebe," although managed with infinite address, did not escape censure. In the "just remonstrance of affronted _That_," transmitted to the Spectator, the offended conjunction is made to plead, "What great advantage was _I_ of to Mr Dryden, in his "Indian Emperor?"

You force me still to answer you in _that,_ To furnish out a rhime to Morat.

And what a poor figure would Mr Bayes have made, without his _Egad, and all that_?" But, by means of this easy flow of versification in which the rhime is sometimes almost lost by the pause being transferred to the middle of the line, Dryden, in some measure indemnified himself for his confinement, and, at least, muffled the clank of his fetters. Still, however, neither the kind of verse, nor perhaps the poet, himself, were formed for expressing rapid and ardent dialogue; and the beauties of "Aureng-Zebe" will be found chiefly to consist in strains of didactic morality, or solemn meditation. The passage, descriptive of life, has been distinguished by all the critics, down to Dr Johnson:

_Aur._ When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat; 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 possest. 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 with waiting for this chemic gold, Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.

Nor is the answer of Nourmahal inferior in beauty:

_Nour._ '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.

It might be difficult to point out a passage in English poetry, in which so common and melancholy a truth is expressed in such beautiful verse, varied with such just illustration. The declamation on virtue, also, has great merit, though, perhaps, not equal to that on the vanity of life:

_Aur._ How vain is virtue, which directs our ways Through certain danger to uncertain praise! Barren, and airy name! thee fortune flies, With thy lean train, the pious and the wise. Heaven takes thee at thy word, without regard; And let's thee poorly be thy own reward. The world is made for the bold impious man, Who stops at nothing, seizes all he can. Justice to merit does weak aid afford; She trusts her balance, and neglects her sword. Virtue is nice to take what's not her own; And, while she long consults, the prize is gone.

To this account may be added the following passage from Davies' "Dramatic Miscellanies."

"Dryden's last and most perfect rhiming tragedy was 'Aureng-Zebe.' In this play, the passions are strongly depicted, the characters well discriminated, and the diction more familiar and dramatic than in any of his preceding pieces. Hart and Mohun greatly distinguished themselves in the characters of Aureng-Zebe, and the Old Emperor. Mrs Marshall was admired in Nourmahal, and Kynaston has been much extolled by Cibber, for his happy expression of the arrogant and savage fierceness in Morat. Booth, in some part of this character, says the same critical historian, was too tame, from an apprehension of raising the mirth of the audience improperly.

"Though I pay great deference to Cibber's judgment, yet I am not sure whether Booth was not in the right. And I cannot help approving the answer which this actor gave to one, who told him, he was surprised, that he neglected to give a spirited turn to the passage in question:

_Nour._ 'Twill not be safe to let him live an hour. _Mor._ I'll do it to shew my arbitrary power.

"'Sir,' said Booth, 'it was not through negligence, but by design, that I gave no spirit to that ludicrous bounce of Morat. I know very well, that a laugh of approbation may be obtained from the understanding few, but there is nothing more dangerous than exciting the laugh of simpletons, who know not where to stop. The majority is not the wisest part of the audience, and therefore I will run no hazard.'

"The court greatly encouraged the play of 'Aureng-Zebe.' The author tells us, in his dedication, that Charles II. altered an incident in the plot, and pronounced it to be the best of all Dryden's tragedies. It was revived at Drury-Lane about the year 1726, with the public approbation: The Old Emperor, Mills; Wilkes, Aureng-Zebe; Booth, Morat; Indamora, Mrs Oldfield; Melesinda, the first wife of Theophilus Cibber, a very pleasing actress, in person agreeable, and in private life unblemished. She died in 1733."--Vol. I. p. 157.

The introduction states all that can be said in favour of the management of the piece; and it is somewhat amusing to see the anxiety which Dryden uses to justify the hazardous experiment, of ascribing to emperors and princesses the language of nature and of passion. He appears with difficulty to have satisfied himself, that the decorum of the scene was not as peremptory as the etiquette of a court. "Aureng-Zebe" was received with the applause to which it is certainly entitled. It was acted and printed in 1676.

Footnote: 1. Voyages de Tavernier, seconde partie; livre seconde.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

JOHN,

EARL OF MULGRAVE,

GENTLEMAN OF HIS MAJESTY'S BED-CHAMBER,

AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER

OF THE GARTER[1].

MY LORD,

It is a severe reflection which Montaigne has made on princes, that we ought not, in reason, to have any expectations of favour from them; and that it is kindness enough, if they leave us in possession of our own. The boldness of the censure shows the free spirit of the author: And the subjects of England may justly congratulate to themselves, that both the nature of our government, and the clemency of our king, secure us from any such complaint. I, in particular, who subsist wholly by his bounty, am obliged to give posterity a far other account of my royal master, than what Montaigne has left of his. Those accusations had been more reasonable, if they had been placed on inferior persons: For in all courts, there are too many, who make it their business to ruin wit; and Montaigne, in other places, tells us, what effects he found of their good natures. He describes them such, whose ambition, lust, or private interest, seem to be the only end of their creation. If good accrue to any from them, it is only in order to their own designs: conferred most commonly on the base and infamous; and never given, but only happening sometimes on well-deservers. Dulness has brought them to what they are; and malice secures them in their fortunes. But somewhat of specious they must have, to recommend themselves to princes, (for folly will not easily go down in its own natural form with discerning judges,) and diligence in waiting is their gilding of the pill; for that looks like love, though it is only interest. It is that which gains them their advantage over witty men; whose love of liberty and ease makes them willing too often to discharge their burden of attendance on these officious gentlemen. It is true, that the nauseousness of such company is enough to disgust a reasonable man; when he sees, he can hardly approach greatness, but as a moated castle; he must first pass through the mud and filth with which it is encompassed. These are they, who, wanting wit, affect gravity, and go by the name of solid men; and a solid man is, in plain English, a solid, solemn fool. Another disguise they have, (for fools, as well as knaves, take other names, and pass by an _alias_) and that is, the title of honest fellows. But this honesty of theirs ought to have many grains for its allowance; for certainly they are no farther honest, than they are silly: They are naturally mischievous to their power; and if they speak not maliciously, or sharply, of witty men, it is only because God has not bestowed on them the gift of utterance. They fawn and crouch to men of parts, whom they cannot ruin; quote their wit when they are present, and, when they are absent steal their jests; but to those who are under them, and whom they can crush with ease, they shew themselves in their natural antipathy; there they treat wit like the common enemy, and giving no more quarter, than a Dutchman would to an English vessel in the Indies; they strike sail where they know they shall be mastered, and murder where they can with safety.

This, my lord, is the character of a courtier without wit; and therefore that which is a satire to other men, must be a panegyric to your lordship, who are a master of it. If the least of these reflections could have reached your person, no necessity of mine could have made me to have sought so earnestly, and so long, to have cultivated your kindness. As a poet, I cannot but have made some observations on mankind; the lowness of my fortune has not yet brought me to flatter vice; and it is my duty to give testimony to virtue. It is true, your lordship is not of that nature, which either seeks a commendation, or wants it. Your mind has always been above the wretched affectation of popularity. A popular man is, in truth, no better than a prostitute to common fame, and to the people. He lies down to every one he meets for the hire of praise; and his humility is only a disguised ambition. Even Cicero himself, whose eloquence deserved the admiration of mankind, yet, by his insatiable thirst of fame, he has lessened his character with succeeding ages; his action against Catiline may be said to have ruined the consul, when it saved the city; for it so swelled his soul, which was not truly great, that ever afterwards it was apt to be over-set with vanity. And this made his virtue so suspected by his friends, that Brutus, whom of all men he adored, refused him a place in his conspiracy. A modern wit has made this observation on him; that, coveting to recommend himself to posterity, he begged it as an alms of all his friends, the historians, to remember his consulship: And observe, if you please, the oddness of the event; all their histories are lost, and the vanity of his request stands yet recorded in his own writings. How much more great and manly in your lordship, is your contempt of popular applause, and your retired virtue, which shines only to a few; with whom you live so easily and freely, that you make it evident, you have a soul which is capable of all the tenderness of friendship, and that you only retire yourself from those, who are not capable of returning it. Your kindness, where you have once placed it, is inviolable; and it is to that only I attribute my happiness in your love. This makes me more easily forsake an argument, on which I could otherwise delight to dwell; I mean, your judgment in your choice of friends; because I have the honour to be one. After which I am sure you will more easily permit me to be silent, in the care you have taken of my fortune; which you have rescued, not only from the power of others, but from my worst of enemies, my own modesty and laziness; which favour, had it been employed on a more deserving subject, had been an effect of justice in your nature; but, as placed on me, is only charity. Yet, withal, it is conferred on such a man, as prefers your kindness itself, before any of its consequences; and who values, as the greatest of your favours, those of your love, and of your conversation. From this constancy to your friends, I might reasonably assume, that your resentments would be as strong and lasting, if they were not restrained by a nobler principle of good nature and generosity; for certainly, it is the same composition of mind, the same resolution and courage, which makes the greatest friendships, and the greatest enmities. And he, who is too lightly reconciled, after high provocations, may recommend himself to the world for a Christian, but I should hardly trust him for a friend. The Italians have a proverb to that purpose, "To forgive the first time, shows me a good Catholic; the second time, a fool." To this firmness in all your actions, though you are wanting in no other ornaments of mind and body, yet to this I principally ascribe the interest your merits have acquired you in the royal family. A prince, who is constant to himself, and steady in all his undertakings; one with whom that character of Horace will agree,

_Si fractus illabatur orbis, Impavidum ferient ruinæ_[2];--

such an one cannot but place an esteem, and repose a confidence on him, whom no adversity, no change of courts, no bribery of interests, or cabals of factions, or advantages of fortune, can remove from the solid foundations of honour and fidelity:

_Ille meos, primus qui me sibi junxit, amores Abstulit; ille habeat secum, servetque sepulcro._

How well your lordship will deserve that praise, I need no inspiration to foretell. You have already left no room for prophecy: Your early undertakings have been such, in the service of your king and country, when you offered yourself to the most dangerous employment, that of the sea; when you chose to abandon those delights, to which your youth and fortune did invite you, to undergo the hazards, and, which was worse, the company of common seamen, that you have made it evident, you will refuse no opportunity of rendering yourself useful to the nation, when either your courage or conduct shall be required[3]. The same zeal and faithfulness continue in your blood, which animated one of your noble ancestors to sacrifice his life in the quarrels of his sovereign[4]; though, I hope, both for your sake, and for the public tranquillity, the same occasion will never be offered to your lordship, and that a better destiny will attend you. But I make haste to consider you as abstracted from a court, which (if you will give me leave to use a term of logic) is only an adjunct, not a propriety of happiness. The academics, I confess, were willing to admit the goods of fortune into their notion of felicity; but I do not remember, that any of the sects of old philosophers did ever leave a room for greatness. Neither am I formed to praise a court, who admire and covet nothing, but the easiness and quiet of retirement. I naturally withdraw my sight from a precipice; and, admit the prospect be never so large and goodly, can take no pleasure even in looking on the downfal, though I am secure from the danger. Methinks, there is something of a malignant joy in that excellent description of Lucretius;

_Suave, mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis, E terrâ magnum alterius spectare laborem; Non quia vexari quenquam est jucunda voluptas, Sed, quibus ipse malis careas, quia cernere suave est._

I am sure his master Epicurus, and my better master Cowley, preferred the solitude of a garden, and the conversation of a friend, to any consideration, so much as a regard, of those unhappy people, whom, in our own wrong, we call the great. True greatness, if it be any where on earth, is in a private virtue; removed from the notion of pomp and vanity, confined to a contemplation of itself, and centering on itself:

_Omnis enim per se Divûm natura necesse est Immortali ævo summâ cum pace fruatur; --curâ semota, metuque, Ipsa suis pollens opibus_[5].

If this be not the life of a deity, because it cannot consist with Providence, it is, at least, a god-like life. I can be contented, (and I am sure I have your lordship of my opinion) with an humbler station in the temple of virtue, than to be set on the pinnacle of it:

_Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre Errare, atque viam palantes quærere vitæ._

The truth is, the consideration of so vain a creature as man, is not worth our pains. I have fool enough at home, without looking for it abroad; and am a sufficient theatre to myself of ridiculous actions, without expecting company, either in a court, a town, or a play-house. It is on this account that I am weary with drawing the deformities of life, and lazars of the people, where every figure of imperfection more resembles me than it can do others. If I must be condemned to rhyme, I should find some ease in my change of punishment. I desire to be no longer the Sisyphus of the stage; to roll up a stone with endless labour, (which, to follow the proverb, gathers no moss) and which is perpetually falling down again. I never thought myself very fit for an employment, where many of my predecessors have excelled me in all kinds; and some of my contemporaries, even in my own partial judgement have outdone me in Comedy. Some little hopes I have yet remaining, and those too, considering my abilities, may be vain, that I may make the world some part of amends, for many ill plays, by an heroic poem. Your lordship has been long acquainted with my design; the subject of which you know is great, the story English, and neither too far distant from the present age, nor too near approaching it. Such it is in my opinion, that I could not have wished a nobler occasion to do honour by it to my king, my country, and my friends; most of our ancient nobility being concerned in the action[6]. And your lordship has one particular reason to promote this undertaking, because you were the first who gave me the opportunity of discoursing it to his majesty, and his royal highness: They were then pleased, both to commend the design, and to encourage it by their commands. But the unsettledness of my condition has hitherto put a stop to my thoughts concerning it. As I am no successor to Homer in his wit, so neither do I desire to be in his poverty. I can make no rhapsodies nor go a begging at the Grecian doors, while I sing the praises of their ancestors. The times of Virgil please me better, because he had an Augustus for his patron; and, to draw the allegory nearer you, I am sure I shall not want a Mecænas with him. It is for your lordship to stir up that remembrance in his majesty, which his many avocations of business have caused him, I fear, to lay aside; and, as himself and his royal brother are the heroes of the poem, to represent to them the images of their warlike predecessors; as Achilles is said to be roused to glory, with the sight of the combat before the ships. For my own part, I am satisfied to have offered the design, and it may be to the advantage of my reputation to have it refused me.

In the mean time, my lord, I take the confidence to present you with a tragedy, the characters of which are the nearest to those of an heroic poem. It was dedicated to you in my heart, before it was presented on the stage. Some things in it have passed your approbation, and many your amendment. You were likewise pleased to recommend it to the king's perusal, before the last hand was added to it, when I received the favour from him, to have the most considerable event of it modelled by his royal pleasure. It may be some vanity in me to add his testimony then, and which he graciously confirmed afterwards, that it was the best of all my tragedies; in which he has made authentic my private opinion of it; at least, he has given it a value by his commendation, which it had not by my writing.

That which was not pleasing to some of the fair ladies in the last act of it, as I dare not vindicate, so neither can I wholly condemn, till I find more reason for their censures. The procedure of Indamora and Melesinda seems yet, in my judgment, natural, and not unbecoming of their characters. If they, who arraign them, fail not more, the world will never blame their conduct; and I shall be glad, for the honour of my country, to find better images of virtue drawn to the life in their behaviour, than any I could feign to adorn the theatre. I confess, I have only represented a practical virtue, mixed with the frailties and imperfections of human life. I have made my heroine fearful of death, which neither Cassandra nor Cleopatra would have been; and they themselves, I doubt it not, would have outdone romance in that particular. Yet their Mandana (and the Cyrus was written by a lady,) was not altogether so hard-hearted: For she sat down on the cold ground by the king of Assyria, and not only pitied him, who died in her defence; but allowed him some favours, such, perhaps, as they would think, should only be permitted to her Cyrus[7]. I have made my Melesinda, in opposition to Nourmahal, a woman passionately loving of her husband, patient of injuries and contempt, and constant in her kindness, to the last; and in that, perhaps, I may have erred, because it is not a virtue much in use. Those Indian wives are loving fools, and may do well to keep themselves in their own country, or, at least, to keep company with the Arrias and Portias of old Rome: Some of our ladies know better things. But, it may be, I am partial to my own writings; yet I have laboured as much as any man, to divest myself of the self-opinion of an author; and am too well satisfied of my own weakness, to be pleased with any thing I have written. But, on the other side, my reason tells me, that, in probability, what I have seriously and long considered may be as likely to be just and natural, as what an ordinary judge (if there be any such among those ladies) will think fit, in a transient presentation, to be placed in the room of that which they condemn. The most judicious writer is sometimes mistaken, after all his care; but the hasty critic, who judges on a view, is full as liable to be deceived. Let him first consider all the arguments, which the author had, to write this, or to design the other, before he arraigns him of a fault; and then, perhaps, on second thoughts, he will find his reason oblige him to revoke his censure. Yet, after all, I will not be too positive. _Homo sum, humani à me nihil alienum puto._ As I am a man, I must be changeable; and sometimes the gravest of us all are so, even upon ridiculous accidents. Our minds are perpetually wrought on by the temperament of our bodies; which makes me suspect, they are nearer allied, than either our philosophers or school-divines will allow them to be. I have observed, says Montaigne, that when the body is out of order, its companion is seldom at his ease. An ill dream, or a cloudy day, has power to change this wretched creature, who is so proud of a reasonable soul, and make him think what he thought not yesterday. And Homer was of this opinion, as Cicero is pleased to translate him for us:

_Tales sunt hominum mentes, quali pater ipse Jupiter auctiferâ lustravit lampade terras._

Or, as the same author, in his "Tusculan Questions," speaks, with more modesty than usual, of himself: _Nos in diem vivimus; quodcunque animos nostros probabilitate percussit, id dicimus._ It is not therefore impossible but that I may alter the conclusion of my play, to restore myself into the good graces of my fair critics; and your lordship, who is so well with them, may do me the office of a friend and patron, to intercede with them on my promise of amendment. The impotent lover in Petronius, though his was a very unpardonable crime, yet was received to mercy on the terms I offer. _Summa excusationis meæ hæc est: Placebo tibi, si culpam emendare permiseris._

But I am conscious to myself of offering at a greater boldness, in presenting to your view what my meanness can produce, than in any other error of my play; and therefore make haste to break off this tedious address, which has, I know not how, already run itself into so much of pedantry, with an excuse of Tully's, which he sent with his books "De Finibus," to his friend Brutus: _De ipsis rebus autem, sæpenumerò, Brute, vereor ne reprehendar, cum hæc ad te scribam, qui tum in poesi,_ (I change it from _philosophiâ_) _tum in optimo genere poeseos tantum processeris. Quod si facerem quasi te erudiens, jure reprehenderer. Sed ab eo plurimùm absum: Nec, ut ea cognoscas quæ tibi notissima sunt, ad te mitto; sed quià facillimè in nomine tuo acquiesco, et quia te habeo æquissimum eorum studiorum, quæ mihi communia tecum sunt, æstimatorem et judicem._ Which you may please, my lord, to apply to yourself, from him, who is,

Your Lordship's Most obedient, Humble servant, DRYDEN.

Footnotes: 1. John Sheffield, earl of Mulgrave, afterwards created marquis of Normanby, and at length duke of Buckingham, made a great figure during the reigns of Charles II. of his unfortunate successor, of William the Third, and of Queen Anne. His bravery as a soldier, and abilities as a statesman, seem to have been unquestioned; but for his poetical reputation, he was probably much indebted to the assistance of those wits whom he relieved and patronized. As, however, it has been allowed a sufficient proof of wisdom in a monarch, that he could chuse able ministers, so it is no slight commendation to the taste of this rhyming peer, that in youth he selected Dryden to supply his own poetical deficiencies, and in age became the friend and the eulogist of Pope. We may observe, however, a melancholy difference betwixt the manner in which an independent man of letters is treated by the great, and that in which they think themselves entitled to use one to whom their countenance is of consequence. In addressing Pope, Sheffield contents himself with launching out into boundless panegyric, while his praise of Dryden, in his "Essay on Poetry," is qualified by a gentle sneer at the "Hind and Panther," our bard's most laboured production. His lordship is treating of satire:

The laureat here may justly claim our praise, Crowned by Mack Flecnoe with immortal bays; Yet once his Pegasus has borne dead weight, Rid by some lumpish minister of state.

Lord Mulgrave, to distinguish him by his earliest title, certainly received considerable assistance from Dryden in "The Essay on Satire," which occasioned Rochester's base revenge; and was distinguished by the name of the _Rose-Alley Satire_, from the place in which Dryden was way-laid and beaten by the hired bravoes of that worthless profligate. It is probable, that the patronage which Dryden received from Mulgrave, was not entirely of an empty and fruitless nature. It is at least certain, that their friendship continued uninterrupted till the death of our poet. The "Discourse upon Epic Poetry" is dedicated to Lord Mulgrave, then duke of Buckingham, and in high favour with Queen Anne, for whom he is supposed to have long cherished a youthful passion. After the grave of Dryden had remained twenty years without a memorial, this nobleman had the honour to raise the present monument at his own expence; being the latest, and certainly one of the most honourable acts of his life.

Mr Malone, from Macky's "Secret Services," gives the following character of Sheffield, duke of Buckingham:--"He is a nobleman of learning and good natural parts, but of no principles. Violent for the high church, yet seldom goes to it. Very proud, insolent, and covetous, and takes all advantages. In paying his debts unwilling, and is neither esteemed nor beloved; for notwithstanding his great interest at court, it is certain he has none in either house of parliament, or in the country. He is of a middle stature, of a brown complexion, with a sour lofty look." Swift sanctioned this severe character, by writing on the margin of his copy of Macky's book, "_This character is the truest of any._" To so bitter a censure, let us contrast the panegyric of Pope:

Muse, 'tis enough; at length thy labour ends, And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends; Let crowds of critics now my verse assail, Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail, This more than pays whole years of thankless pain-- Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain. Sheffield approves; consenting Phoebus bends, And I and Malice from this hour are friends.

It may be worth the attention of the great to consider the value of that genius, which can hand them down to posterity in an interesting and amiable point of view, in spite of their own imbecilities, errors, and vices. While the personal character of Mulgrave has nothing to recommend it, and his poetical effusions are sunk into oblivion, we still venerate the friend of Pope, and the protector of Dryden.

Sheffield, duke of Buckingham, marquis of Normanby, and earl of Mulgrave, was born in 1649, and died in 1720. He was therefore twenty-seven years old when he received this dedication.

2. On perusing such ill applied flattery, I know not whether we ought to feel most for Charles II. or for Dryden.

3. The earl of Mulgrave, in the Dutch war of 1672, served as a volunteer on board the Victory, commanded by the earl of Ossory. He behaved with distinguished courage himself, and has borne witness to that of his unfortunate admiral, James Duke of York. His intrepid coolness appears from a passage in his Memoirs, containing the observations he made during the action, on the motion of cannon bullets in the recoil, and their effect when passing near the human body. His bravery was rewarded by his promotion to command the Katharine, the second best ship in the fleet. This vessel had been captured by the Dutch during the action, but was retaken by the English crew before she could be carried into harbour. Lord Mulgrave had a picture of the Katherine at his house in St James's Park.--See CARLETON'S _Memoirs_, p. 5.

4. In 1548-9, there were insurrections in several counties of England, having for their object the restoration of the Catholic religion, and the redress of grievances. The insurgents in Northamptonshire were 20,000 strong, headed by one Ket, a tanner, who possessed himself of Norwich. The earl of Northampton, marching rashly and hastily against him, at the head of a very inferior force, was defeated with loss. In the rout lord Sheffield, ancestor of the earl of Mulgrave, and the person alluded to in the text, fell with his horse into a ditch, and was slain by a butcher with a club. The rebels were afterwards defeated by the earl of Warwick.--DUGDALE'S _Baron_, vol. ii. p. 386. HOLLINSHED, p. 1035.]

5. The entire passage of Lucretius is somewhat different from this quotation:

_Quæ bene, et eximie quamvis disposta ferantur, Longe sunt tamen a verâ ratione repulsa. Omnia enim per se Divum natura necesse est Immortali ævo summâ cum pace fruatur, Semota a nostris rebus, sejunctaque longè. Nam privata dolore omni, privata periclis, Ipsa suis pollens opibus, nihil indiga nostri, Nec bene promeritis capitur, nec tangitur ira._ LIB. II.

Dryden ingeniously applies, to the calm of philosophical retirement, the Epicurean tranquillity of the Deities of Lucretius.

6. The subject of this intended poem, was probably the exploits of the Black Prince. See Life.

7. An incident in "Artèmenes, ou Le Grand Cyrus," a huge romance, written by Madame Scuderi.

PROLOGUE.

Our author, by experience, finds it true, 'Tis much more hard to please himself than you; And out of no feigned modesty, this day Damns his laborious trifle of a play: Not that its worse than what before he writ, But he has now another taste of wit; And, to confess a truth, though out of time, Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme. Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound, And nature flies him like enchanted ground: What verse can do, he has performed in this, Which he presumes the most correct of his; But spite of all his pride, a secret shame Invades his breast at Shakespeare's sacred name: Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage, He, in a just despair, would quit the stage; And to an age less polished, more unskilled, Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield. As with the greater dead he dares not strive, He would not match his verse with those who live: Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast, The first of this, and hindmost of the last. A losing gamester, let him sneak away; He bears no ready money from the play. The fate, which governs poets, thought it fit He should not raise his fortunes by his wit. The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar; Dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war: All southern vices, heaven be praised, are here: But wit's a luxury you think too dear. When you to cultivate the plant are loth, 'Tis a shrewd sign 'twas never of your growth; And wit in northern climates will not blow, Except, like orange-trees, 'tis housed from snow. There needs no care to put a playhouse down, 'Tis the most desart place of all the town: We and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are, Like monarchs, ruined with expensive war; While, like wise English, unconcerned you sit, And see us play the tragedy of wit.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

_The Old Emperor._ AURENG-ZEBE, _his Son._ MORAT, _his younger Son._ ARIMANT, _Governor of Agra._ DIANET, } SOLYMAN, } MIR BABA, } _Indian Lords, or Omrahs, of several ABAS, } Factions._ ASAPH CHAN, } FAZEL CHAN, }

NOURMAHAL, _the Empress._ INDAMORA, _a Captive Queen._ MELESINDA, _Wife to Morat._ ZAYDA, _favourite Slave to the Empress._

SCENE--_Agra,_ in the year 1660.

AURENG-ZEBE.