Chapter 9

_Enter_ HARMAN, FISCAL, VAN HERRING, _and two Dutchmen: They sit. Boy, and Waiters, Guards._

_Har._ My sorrow cannot be so soon digested for losing of a son I loved so well; but I consider great advantages must with some loss be bought; as this rich trade which I this day have purchased with his death: yet let me lie revenged, and I shall still live on, and eat and drink down all my griefs. Now to the matter, Fiscal.

_Fisc._ Since we may freely speak among ourselves, all I have said of Towerson was most false. You were consenting, sir, as well as I, that Perez should be hired to murder him, which he refusing when he was engaged, 'tis dangerous to let him longer live.

_Van. Her._ Dispatch him; he will be a shrewd witness against us, if he returns to Europe.

_Fisc._ I have thought better, if you please,--to kill him by form of law, as accessary to the English plot, which I have long been forging.

_Har._ Send one to seize him strait. [_Exit a Messenger._] But what you said, that Towerson was guiltless of my son's death, I easily believe, and never thought otherwise, though I dissembled.

_Van Her._ Nor I; but it was well done to feign that story.

_1 Dutch._ The true one was too foul.

_2 Dutch._ And afterwards to draw the English off from his concernment, to their own, I think 'twas rarely managed that.

_Har._ So far, 'twas well; now to proceed, for I would gladly know, whether the grounds are plausible enough of this pretended plot.

_Fisc._ With favour of this honourable court, give me but leave to smooth the way before you. Some two or three nights since, (it matters not,) a Japan soldier, under captain Perez, came to a centinel upon the guard, and in familiar talk did question him about this castle, of its strength, and how he thought it might be taken; this discourse the other told me early the next morning: I thereupon did issue private orders, to rack the Japanese, myself being present.

_Har._ But what's this to the English?

_Fisc._ You shall hear: I asked him, when his pains were strongest on him, if Towerson, or the English factory, had never hired him to betray the fort? he answered, (as it was true) they never had; nor was his meaning more in that discourse, than as a soldier to inform himself, and so to pass the time.

_Van Her._ Did he confess no more?

_Fisc._ You interrupt me. I told him, I was certainly informed the English had designs upon the castle, and if he frankly would confess their plot, he should not only be released from torment, but bounteously rewarded: Present pain and future hope, in fine, so wrought upon him, he yielded to subscribe whatever I pleased; and so he stands committed.

_Har._ Well contrived; a fair way made, upon this accusation, to put them all to torture.

_2 Dutch._ By his confession, all of them shall die, even to their general, Towerson.

_Har._ He stands convicted of another crime, for which he is to suffer.

_Fisc._ This does well to help it though: For Towerson is here a person publicly employed from England, and if he should appeal, as sure he will, you have no power to judge him in Amboyna.

_Van Her._ But in regard of the late league and union betwixt the nations, how can this be answered?

_1 Dutch._ To torture subjects to so great a king, a pain never heard of in their happy land, will sound but ill in Europe.

_Fisc._ Their English laws in England have their force; and we have ours, different from theirs at home. It is enough, they either shall confess, or we will falsify their hands to make them. Then, for the apology, let me alone; I have it writ already to a title, of what they shall subscribe; this I will publish, and make our most unheard of cruelties to seem most just and legal.

_Har._ Then, in the name of him, who put it first into thy head to form this damned false plot, proceed we to the execution of it. And to begin; first seize we their effects, rifle their chests, their boxes, writings, books, and take of them a seeming inventory; but all to our own use.--I shall grow young with thought of this, and lose my son's remembrance!

_Fisc._ Will you not please to call the prisoners in? At least inquire what torments have extorted.

_Har._ Go thou and bring us word. [_Exit_ FISCAL.] Boy, give me some tobacco, and a stoup of wine, boy.

_Boy._ I shall, sir.

_Har._ And a tub to leak in, boy; when was this table without a leaking vessel?

_Van Her._ That's an omission.

_1 Dutch._ A great omission. 'Tis a member of the table, I take it so.

_Har._ Never any thing of moment was done at our council-table without a leaking tub, at least in my time; great affairs require great consultations, great consultations require great drinking, and great drinking a great leaking vessel.

_Van Her._ I am even drunk with joy already, to see our godly business in this forwardness.

_Enter_ FISCAL.

_Har._ Where are the prisoners?

_Fisc._ At the door.

_Har._ Bring them in; I'll try if we can face them down by impudence, and make them to confess.

_Enter_ BEAMONT _and_ COLLINS, _guarded._

You are not ignorant of our business with you: the cries of your accomplices have already reached your ears; and your own consciences, above a thousand summons, a thousand tortures, instruct you what to do. No farther juggling, nothing but plain sincerity and truth to be delivered now; a free confession will first atone for all your sins above, and may do much below to gain your pardons. Let me exhort you, therefore, be you merciful, first to yourselves and make acknowledgment of your conspiracy.

_Beam._ What conspiracy?

_Fisc._ Why la you, that the devil should go masked with such a seeming honest face! I warrant you know of no such thing.

_Har._ Were not you, Mr Beamont, and you, Collins both accessary to the horrid plot, for the surprisal of this fort and island?

_Beam._ As I shall reconcile my sins to heaven, in my last article of life, I am innocent.

_Col._ And so am I.

_Har._ So, you are first upon the negative.

_Beam._ And will be so till death.

_Col._ What plot is this you speak of?

_Fisc._ Here are impudent rogues! now after confession of two Japanese, these English starts dare ask what plot it is!

_Har._ Not to inform your knowledge, but that law may have its course in every circumstance, Fiscal, sum up their accusation to them.

_Fisc._ You stand accused, that new-year's day last past, there met at captain Towerson's house, you present, and many others of your factory: There, against law and justice, and all ties of friendship, and of partnership betwixt us, you did conspire to seize upon the fort, to murder this our worthy governor; and, by the help of your plantations near, of Jacatra, Banda, and Loho, to keep it for yourselves.

_Beam._ What proofs have you of this?

_Fisc._ The confession of two Japanese, hired by you to attempt it.

_Beam._ I hear they have been forced by torture to it.

_Har._ It matters not which way the truth comes out; take heed, for their example is before you.

_Beam._ Ye have no right, ye dare not torture us; we owe you no subjection.

_Fisc._ That, sir, must be disputed at the Hague; in the mean time we are in possession here.

_2 Dutch._ And we can make ourselves to be obeyed.

_Van Her._ In few words, gentlemen, confess. There is a beverage ready for you else, which you will not like to swallow.

_Col._ How is this?

_Har._ You shall be muffled up like ladies, with an oiled cloth put underneath your chins, then water poured above; which either you must drink, or must not breathe.

_1 Dutch._ That is one way, we have others.

_Har._ Yes, we have two elements at your service, fire, as well as water; certain things called matches to be tied to your finger-ends, which are as sovereign as nutmegs to quicken your short memories.

_Beam._ You are inhuman, to make your cruelty your pastime: nature made me a man, and not a whale, to swallow down a flood.

_Har._ You will grow a corpulent gentleman like me; I shall love you the better for it; now you are but a spare rib.

_Fisc._ These things are only offered to your choice; you may avoid your tortures, and confess.

_Col._ Kill us first; for that we know is your design at last, and 'tis more mercy now.

_Beam._ Be kind, and execute us while we bear the shapes of men, ere fire and water have destroyed our figures; let me go whole out of the world, I care not, and find my body when I rise again, so as I need not be ashamed of it.

_Har._ 'Tis well you are merry; will you yet confess?

_Beam._ Never.

_Har._ Bear them away to torture.

_Van. Her._ We will try your constancy.

_Beam._ We will shame your cruelty; if we deserve our tortures, 'tis first for freeing such an infamous nation, that ought to have been slaves, and then for trusting them as partners, who had cast off the yoke of their lawful sovereign.

_Har._ Away, I'll hear no more.--Now who comes the next? [_Exeunt the English with a Guard._

_Fisc._ Towerson's page, a ship-boy, and a woman.

_Har._ Call them in. [_Exit a Messenger._

_Van Her._ We shall have easy work with them.

_Fisc._ Not so easy as you imagine, they have endured the beverage already; all masters of their pain, no one confessing.

_Har._ The devil's in these English! those brave boys would prove stout topers if they lived.

_Enter Page, a Boy, and a Woman, led as from torture._

Come hither, ye perverse imps; they say you have endured the water torment, we will try what fire will do with you: You, sirrah, confess; were not you knowing of Towerson's plot, against this fort and island?

_Page._ I have told your hangman no, twelve times within this hour, when I was at the last gasp; and that is a time, I think, when a man should not dissemble.

_Har._ A man! mark you that now; you English boys have learnt a trick of late, of growing men betimes; and doing men's work, too, before you come to twenty.

_Van Her._ Sirrah, I will try if you are a salamander and can live in the fire.

_Page._ Sure you think my father got me of some Dutchwoman, and that I am but of a half-strain courage; but you shall find that I am all over English as well in fire as water.

_Boy._ Well, of all religions, I do not like your Dutch.

_Fisc._ No? and why, young stripling?

_Boy._ Because your penance comes before confession.

_Har._ Do you mock us, sirrah? To the fire with him.

_Boy._ Do so; all you shall get by it is this; before I answered no; now I'll be sullen and will talk no more.

_Har._ Best cutting off these little rogues betime; if they grow men, they will have the spirit of revenge in them.

_Page._ Yes, as your children have that of rebellion. Oh that I could but live to be governor here, to make your fat guts pledge me in that beverage I drunk, you Sir John Falstaff of Amsterdam!

_Boy._ I have a little brother in England, that I intend to appear to when you have killed me; and if he does not promise me the death of ten Dutchmen in the next war, I'll haunt him instead of you.

_Har._ What say you, woman? Have compassion of yourself, and confess; you are of a softer sex.

_Wom._ But of a courage full as manly; there is no sex in souls; would you have English wives shew less of bravery than their children do? To lie by an Englishman's side, is enough to give a woman resolution.

_Fisc._ Here is a hen of the game too, but we shall tame you in the fire.

_Wom._ My innocence shall there be tried like gold, till it come out the purer. When you have burnt me all into one wound, cram gunpowder into it, and blow me up, I'll not confess one word to shame my country.

_Har._ I think we have got here the mother of the Maccabees; away with them all three. [_Exeunt the English guarded._] I'll take the pains myself to see these tortured. [_Exeunt_ HARMAN, VAN HERRING, _and the two Dutchmen with the English: Manet_ FISCAL.

_Enter_ JULIA _to the_ FISCAL.

_Jul._ Oh you have ruined me! you have undone me, in the person of my husband!

_Fisc._ If he will needs forfeit his life to the laws, by joining with the English in a plot, it is not in me to save him; but, dearest Julia, be satisfied, you shall not want a husband.

_Jul._ Do you think I'll ever come into a bed with him, who robbed me of my dear sweet man?

_Fisc._ Dry up your tears; I am in earnest; I will marry you; i'faith I will; it is your destiny.

_Jul._ Nay if it be my destiny--but I vow I'll never be yours but upon one condition.

_Fisc._ Name your desire, and take it.

_Jul._ Then save poor Beamont's life.

_Fisc._ This is the most unkind request you could have made; it shews you love him better: therefore, in prudence, I should haste his death.

_Jul._ Come, I'll not be denied; you shall give me his life, or I'll not love you; by this kiss you shall, child.

_Fisc._ Pray ask some other thing.

_Jul._ I have your word for this, and if you break it, how shall I trust you for your marrying me?

_Fisc._ Well, I will do it to oblige you. But to prevent her new designs with him, I'll see him shipped away for England strait. [_Aside._

_Jul._ I may build upon your promise, then?

_Fisc._ Most firmly: I hear company.

_Enter_ HARMAN, VAN HERRING, _and the two Dutchmen, with_ TOWERSON _prisoner._

_Har._ Now, captain Towerson, you have had the privilege to be examined last; this on the score of my old friendship with you, though you have ill deserved it. But here you stand accused of no less crimes than robbery first, then murder, and last, treason: What can you say to clear yourself?

_Tow._ You're interested in all, and therefore partial: I have considered on it, and will not plead, Because I know you have no right to judge me; For the last treaty betwixt our king and you Expressly said, that causes criminal Were first to be examined, and then judged, Not here, but by the Council of Defence; To whom I make appeal.

_Fisc._ This court conceives that it has power to judge you, derived from the most high and mighty states, who in this island are supreme, and that as well in criminal as civil causes.

_1 Dutch._ You are not to question the authority of the court, which is to judge you.

_Tow._ Sir, by your favour, I both must, and will: I'll not so far betray my nation's right; We are not here your subjects, but your partners: And that supremacy of power, you claim, Extends but to the natives, not to us: Dare you, who in the British seas strike sail, Nay more, whose lives and freedom are our alms, Presume to sit and judge your benefactors? Your base new upstart commonwealth should blush, To doom the subjects of an English king, The meanest of whose merchants would disdain The narrow life, and the domestic baseness, Of one of those you call your Mighty States.

_Fisc._ You spend your breath in railing; speak to the purpose.

_Har._ Hold yet: Because you shall not call us cruel, Or plead I would be judge in my own cause, I shall accept of that appeal you make, Concerning my son's death; provided first, You clear yourself from what concerns the public; For that relating to our general safety, The judgment of it cannot be deferred, But with our common danger.

_Tow._ Let me first Be bold to question you: What circumstance Can make this, your pretended plot, seem likely? The natives, first, you tortured; their confession, Extorted so, can prove no crime in us. Consider, next, the strength of this your castle; Its garrison above two hundred men, Besides as many of your city burghers, All ready on the least alarm, or summons, To reinforce the others; for ten English, And merchants they, not soldiers, with the aid Of ten Japanners, all of them unarmed, Except five swords, and not so many muskets,-- The attempt had only been for fools or madmen.

_Fisc._ We cannot help your want of wit; proceed.

_Tow._ Grant then we had been desperate enough To hazard this; we must at least forecast, How to secure possession when we had it. We had no ship nor pinnace in the harbour, Nor could have aid from any factory: The nearest to us forty leagues from hence, And they but few in number: You, besides This fort, have yet three castles in this isle, Amply provided for, and eight tall ships Riding at anchor near; consider this, And think what all the world will judge of it.

_Har._ Nothing but falsehood is to be expected From such a tongue, whose heart is fouled with treason. Give him the beverage.

_Fisc._ 'Tis ready, sir.

_Har._ Hold; I have some reluctance to proceed To that extremity: He was my friend, And I would have him frankly to confess: Push open that prison door, and set before him The image of his pains in other men.

_The_ SCENE _opens, and discovers the English tortured, and the Dutch tormenting them._

_Fisc._ Now, sir, how does the object like you?

_Tow._ Are you men or devils! D'Alva, whom you Condemn for cruelty, did ne'er the like; He knew original villany was in your blood. Your fathers all are damned for their rebellion; When they rebelled, they were well used to this. These tortures ne'er were hatched in human breasts; But as your country lies confined on hell, Just on its marches, your black neighbours taught ye; And just such pains as you invent on earth, Hell has reserved for you.

_Har._ Are you yet moved?

_Tow._ But not as you would have me. I could weep tears of blood to view this usage; But you, as if not made of the same mould, See, with dry eyes, the miseries of men, As they were creatures of another kind, Not Christians, nor allies, nor partners with you, But as if beasts, transfixed on theatres, To make you cruel sport.

_Har._ These are but vulgar objects; bring his friend, Let him behold his tortures; shut that door. [_The Scene closed._

_Enter_ BEAMONT, _led with matches tied to his hands._

_Tow._ [_Embracing him._] Oh my dear friend, now I am truly wretched! Even in that part which is most sensible, My friendship: How have we lived to see the English name The scorn of these, the vilest of mankind!

_Beam._ Courage, my friend, and rather praise we heaven, That it has chose two, such as you and me, Who will not shame our country with our pains, But stand, like marble statues, in their fires, Scorched and defaced, perhaps, not melted down. So let them burn this tenement of earth; They can but burn me naked to my soul; That's of a nobler frame, and will stand firm, Upright, and unconsumed.

_Fisc._ Confess; if you have kindness, save your friend.

_Tow._ Yes, by my death I would, not my confession: He is so brave, he would not so be saved; But would renounce a friendship built on shame.

_Har._ Bring more candles, and burn him from the wrists up to the elbows.

_Beam._ Do; I'll enjoy the flames like Scævola; And, when one's roasted, give the other hand.

_Tow._ Let me embrace you while you are a man. Now you must lose that form; be parched and rivelled, Like a dried mummy, or dead malefactor, Exposed in chains, and blown about by winds.

_Beam._ Yet this I can endure. Go on, and weary out two elements; Vex fire and water with the experiments Of pains far worse than death.

_Tow._ Oh, let me take my turn! You will have double pleasure; I'm ashamed To be the only Englishman untortured.

_Van. Her._ You soon should have your wish, but that we know In him you suffer more.

_Har._ Fill me a brim-full glass: Now, captain, here's to all your countrymen; I wish your whole East India company Were in this room, that we might use them thus.

_Fisc._ They should have fires of cloves and cinnamon; We would cut down whole groves to honour them, And be at cost to burn them nobly.

_Beam._ Barbarous villains! now you show yourselves

_Har._ Boy, take that candle thence, and bring it hither; I am exalted, and would light my pipe Just where the wick is fed with English fat.

_Van Her._ So would I; oh, the tobacco tastes divinely after it.

_Tow._ We have friends in England, who would weep to see This acted on a theatre, which here You make your pastime.

_Beam._ Oh, that this flesh were turned a cake of ice, That I might in an instant melt away, And become nothing, to escape this torment! There is not cold enough in all the north To quench my burning blood. [FISCAL _whispers_ HARMAN.

_Har._ Do with Beamont as you please, so Towerson die.

_Fisc._ You'll not confess yet, captain?

_Tow._ Hangman, no; I would have don't before, if e'er I would: To do it when my friend has suffered this, Were to be less than he.

_Fisc._ Free him. [_They free_ BEAMONT. Beamont, I have not sworn you should not suffer. But that you should not die; thank Julia for it. But on your life do not delay this hour To post from hence! so to your next plantation; I cannot suffer a loved rival near me.

_Beam._ I almost question if I will receive My life from thee: 'Tis like a cure from witches; 'Twill leave a sin behind it.

_Fisc._ Nay, I'm not lavish of my courtesy; I can on easy terms resume my gift.

_Har._ Captain, you're a dead man; I'll spare your torture for your quality; prepare for execution instantly.

_Tow._ I am prepared.

_Fisc._ You die in charity, I hope?

_Tow._ I can forgive even thee: My innocence I need not name, you know it. One farewell kiss of my dear Isabinda, And all my business here on earth is done.

_Har._ Call her; she's at the door. [_Exit_ FISC.

_Tow._ [_To_ BEAM. _embracing._] A long and last farewell! I take my death With the more cheerfulness, because thou liv'st Behind me: Tell my friends, I died so as Became a Christian and a man; give to my brave Employers of the East India company, The last remembrance of my faithful service; Tell them, I seal that service with my blood; And, dying, wish to all their factories, And all the famous merchants of our isle, That wealth their generous industry deserves; But dare not hope it with Dutch partnership. Last, there's my heart, I give it in this kiss: [_Kisses him._ Do not answer me; friendship's a tender thing, And it would ill become me now to weep.

_Beam._ Adieu! if I would speak, I cannot-- [_Exit._

_Enter_ ISABINDA.

_Isab._ Is it permitted me to see your eyes Once more, before eternal night shall close them?

_Tow._ I summoned all I had of man to see you; 'Twas well the time allowed for it was short; I could not bear it long: 'Tis dangerous, And would divide my love 'twixt heaven and you. I therefore part in haste; think I am going A sudden journey, and have not the leisure To take a ceremonious long farewell.

_Isab._ Do you still love me?

_Tow._ Do not suppose I do; 'Tis for your ease, since you must stay behind me, To think I was unkind; you'll grieve the less.

_Har._ Though I suspect you joined in my son's murder, Yet, since it is not proved, you have your life.

_Isab._ I thank you for't, I'll make the noblest use Of your sad gift; that is, to die unforced: I'll make a present of my life to Towerson, To let you see, though worthless of his love, I would not live without him.

_Tow._ I charge you, love my memory, but live.

_Har._ She shall be strictly guarded from that violence She means against herself.

_Isab._ Vain men! there are so many paths to death, You cannot stop them all: o'er the green turf, Where my love's laid, there will I mourning sit, And draw no air but from the damps that rise Out of that hallowed earth; and for my diet, I mean my eyes alone shall feed my mouth. Thus will I live, till he in pity rise, And the pale shade take me in his cold arms, And lay me kindly by him in his grave.

_Enter_ COLLINS, _and then_ PEREZ, JULIA _following him._

_Har._ No more; your time's now come, you must away.

_Col._ Now, devils, you have done your worst with tortures; death's a privation of pain, but they were a continual dying.

_Jul._ Farewell, my dearest! I may have many husbands, But never one like thee.

_Per._ As you love my soul, take hence that woman.-- My English friends, I'm not ashamed of death, While I have you for partners; I know you innocent, And so am I, of this pretended plot; But I am guilty of a greater crime; For, being married in another country, The governor's persuasions, and my love To that ill woman, made me leave the first, And make this fatal choice. I'm justly punished; for her sake I die: The Fiscal, to enjoy her, has accused me. There is another cause; By his procurement I should have killed--

_Fisc._ Away with him, and stop his mouth. [_He is led off._

_Tow._ I leave thee, life, with no regret at parting; Full of whatever thou could'st give, I rise From thy neglected feast, and go to sleep: Yet, on this brink of death, my eyes are opened, And heaven has bid me prophecy to you, The unjust contrivers of this tragic scene:-- _An age is coming, when an English monarch With blood shall pay that blood which you have shed: To save your cities from victorious arms, You shall invite the waves to hide your earth[1], And, trembling, to the, tops of houses fly, While deluges invade your lower rooms: Then, as with waters you have swelled our bodies, With damps of waters shall your heads be swoln: Till, at the last, your sapped foundations fall, And universal ruin swallows all._ [_He is led out with the English; the Dutch remain._

_Van. Her._ Ay, ay, we'll venture both ourselves and children for such another pull.

_1 Dutch._ Let him prophecy when his head's off.

_2 Dutch._ There's ne'er a Nostradamus of them all shall fright us from our gain.

_Fisc._ Now for a smooth apology, and then a fawning letter to the king of England; and our work's done.

_Har._ 'Tis done as I would wish it: Now, brethren, at my proper cost and charges, Three days you are my guests; in which good time We will divide their greatest wealth by lots, While wantonly we raffle for the rest: Then, in full rummers, and with joyful hearts, We'll drink confusion to all English starts. [_Exeunt._

Footnote: 1. During the French invasion of 1672, the Dutch were obliged to adopt the desperate defence of cutting their dykes, and inundating the country.

EPILOGUE

A poet once the Spartans led to fight, And made them conquer in the muse's right; So would our poet lead you on this day, Showing your tortured fathers in his play. To one well-born the affront is worse, and more, When he's abused, and baffled by a boor: With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do, They've both ill-nature and ill-manners too. Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation, For they were bred ere manners were in fashion; And their new commonwealth has set them free, Only from honour and civility. Venetians do not more uncouthly ride[1], Than did their lubber state mankind bestride; Their sway became them with as ill a mien, As their own paunches swell above their chin: Yet is their empire no true growth, but humour, And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour[2]. As Cato did his Afric fruits display, So we before your eyes their Indies lay: All loyal English will, like him, conclude, Let Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdued[3]!

Footnotes: 1. The situation of Venice renders it impossible to bring horses into the town; accordingly, the Venetians are proverbially bad riders.

2. The poet alludes to the king's evil, and to the joint war of France and England against Holland.

3. Allusions to Cato,--who presented to the Roman Senate the rich figs of Africa, and reminded them it was but three days sail to the country which produced such excellent fruit,--were fashionable during the Dutch war. The Lord Chancellor Shaftesbury had set the example, by applying to Holland the favourite maxim of the Roman philosopher, _Delenda est Carthago._ When that versatile statesman afterwards fled to Holland, he petitioned to be created a burgess of Amsterdam, to ensure him against being delivered up to England. The magistrates conferred on him the freedom desired, with the memorable words, "_Ab nostra Carthagine nondum deleta, salutem accipe._"

* * * * *

THE

STATE OF INNOCENCE,

AND

FALL OF MAN.

AN

OPERA.

--_Utinam modò dicere possem Carmina digna deâ: Certe est dea carmine digna._ OVID. MET.

THE STATE OF INNOCENCE, &c.

The "Paradise Lost" of Milton is a work so extraordinary in conception and execution, that it required a lapse of many years to reconcile the herd of readers, and of critics, to what was almost too sublime for ordinary understandings. The poets, in particular, seemed to have gazed on its excellencies, like the inferior animals on Dryden's immortal Hind; and, incapable of fully estimating a merit, which, in some degree, they could not help feeling, many were their absurd experiments to lower it to the standard of their own comprehension. One author, deeming the "Paradise Lost" deficient in harmony, was pleased painfully to turn it into rhyme; and more than one, conceiving the subject too serious to be treated in verse of any kind, employed their leisure in humbling it into prose. The names of these well-judging and considerate persons are preserved by Mr Todd in his edition of Milton's Poetical Works.

But we must not confound with these effusions of gratuitous folly an alteration, or imitation, planned and executed by John Dryden; although we may be at a loss to guess the motives by which he was guided in hazarding such an attempt. His reverence for Milton and his high estimation of his poetry, had already called forth the well-known verses, in which he attributes to him the joint excellencies of the two most celebrated poets of antiquity; and if other proofs of his veneration were wanting, they may be found in the preface to this very production. Had the subject been of a nature which admitted its being actually represented, we might conceive, that Dryden, who was under engagements to the theatre, with which it was not always easy to comply, might have been desirous to shorten his own labour, by adopting the story sentiments, and language of a poem, which he so highly esteemed and which might probably have been new to the generality of his audience. But the _costume_ of our first parents, had there been no other objection, must have excluded the "State of Innocence" from the stage, and accordingly it was certainly never intended for representation. The probable motive, therefore, of this alteration, was the wish, so common to genius, to exert itself upon a subject in which another had already attained brilliant success, or, as Dryden has termed a similar attempt, the desire to shoot in the bow of Ulysses. Some circumstances in the history of Milton's immortal poem may have suggested to Dryden the precise form of the present attempt. It is reported by Voltaire, and seems at length to be admitted, that the original idea of the "Paradise Lost" was supplied by an Italian Mystery, or religious play, which Milton witnessed when abroad[1]; and it is certain, that he intended at first to mould his poem into a dramatic form[2]. It seems, therefore, likely, that Dryden, conscious of his own powers, and enthusiastically admiring those of Milton, was induced to make an experiment upon the forsaken plan of the blind bard, which, with his usual rapidity of conception and execution, he completed in the short space of one month. The spurious copies which got abroad, and perhaps the desire of testifying his respect for his beautiful patroness, the Duchess of York, form his own apology for the publication. It is reported by Mr Aubrey that the step was not taken without Dryden's reverence to Milton being testified by a personal application for his permission. The aged poet, conscious that the might of his versification could receive no addition even from the flowing numbers of Dryden, is stated to have answered with indifference--"Ay, you may _tag_ my verses, if you will."

The structure and diction of this opera, as it is somewhat improperly termed, being rather a dramatic poem, strongly indicate the taste of Charles the Second's reign, for what was ingenious, acute, and polished, in preference to the simplicity of the true sublime. The judgment of that age, as has been already noticed, is always to be referred rather to the head than to the heart; and a poem, written to please mere critics, requires an introduction and display of art, to the exclusion of natural beauty.--This explains the extravagant panegyric of Lee on Dryden's play:

--Milton did the wealthy mine disclose, And rudely cast what you could well dispose; He roughly drew, on an old-fashioned ground, A chaos; for no perfect world was found, Till through the heap your mighty genius shined: He was the golden ore, which you refined. He first beheld the beauteous rustic maid, And to a place of strength the prize conveyed: You took her thence; to Court this virgin brought, Dressed her with gems, new-weaved her hard-spun thought, And softest language sweetest manners taught; Till from a comet she a star did rise, Not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes.

Doubtless there were several critics of that period, who held the heretical opinion above expressed by Lee. And the imitation was such as to warrant that conclusion, considering the school in which it was formed. The scene of the consultation in Pandemonium, and of the soliloquy of Satan on his arrival in the newly-created universe, would possess great merit, did they not unfortunately remind us of the majestic simplicity of Milton. But there is often a sort of Ovidian point in the diction which seems misplaced. Thus, Asmodeus tells us, that the devils, ascending from the lake of fire,

Shake off their slumber _first_, and _next_ their fear.

And, with Dryden's usual hate to the poor Dutchmen, the council of Pandemonium are termed,

_Most High and Mighty_ Lords, who better fell From heaven, to rise _States General_ of hell.

There is one inconvenience, which, as this poem was intended for perusal only, the author, one would have thought, might have easily avoided. This arises from the stage directions, which supply the place of the terrific and beautiful descriptions of Milton. What idea, except burlesque, can we form of the expulsion of the fallen angels from heaven, literally represented by their tumbling down upon the stage? or what feelings of terror can be excited by the idea of an opera hell, composed of pasteboard and flaming rosin? If these follies were not actually to be produced before our eyes, it could serve no good purpose to excite the image of them in our imaginations. They are circumstances by which we feel, that scenic deception must be rendered ridiculous; and ought to be avoided, even in a drama intended for perusal only, since they cannot be mentioned without exciting ludicrous combinations.--Even in describing the primitive state of our first parents, Dryden has displayed some of the false and corrupted taste of the court of Charles. Eve does not consent to her union with Adam without coquettish apprehensions of his infidelity, which circumstances rendered rather improbable; and even in the state of innocence, she avows the love of sway and of self, which, in a loose age, is thought the principal attribute of her daughters. It may be remembered that the Adam of Milton, when first experiencing the powers of slumber, thought,

I then was passing to my former state Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve.

The Eve of Dryden expresses the same apprehensions of annihilation upon a very different occasion. These passages form a contrast highly favourable to the simplicity and chastity of Milton's taste. The school logic, employed by Adam and the angels in the first scene of the fourth act, however misplaced, may be paralleled if not justified, by similar instances in the "Paradise Lost."

On the other hand, the "State of Innocence" contains many passages of varied and happy expression peculiar to our great poet; and the speech of Lucfier in Paradise (Act third, scene first), approaches in sublimity to his prototype in Milton, Indeed, altered as this poem was from the original, in order to accommodate it to the taste of a frivolous age, it still retained too much fancy to escape the raillery of the men of wit and fashion, more disposed to "laugh at extravagance, than to sympathise with feelings of grandeur." The "Companion to the Theatre" mentions an objection started by the more nice and delicate critics, against the anachronism and absurdity of Lucifer conversing about the world, its form and vicissitudes, at a time previous to its creation, or, at least, to the possibility of his knowing any thing of it. But to this objection, which applies to the "Paradise Lost" also, it is sufficient to reply, that the measure of intelligence, competent to supernatural beings, being altogether unknown to us, leaves the poet at liberty to accommodate its extent to the purposes in which he employs them, without which poetic license, it would be in vain to introduce them. Dryden, moved by this, and similar objections, has prefixed to the drama, "An Apology for Heroic Poetry," and the use of what is technically called "the machinery" employed in it.

Upon the whole, it may be justly questioned, whether Dryden shewed his judgment in the choice of a subject which compelled an immediate parallel betwixt Milton and himself, upon a subject so exclusively favourable to the powers of the former. Indeed, according to Dennis, notwithstanding Dryden's admiration of Milton, he evinced sufficiently by this undertaking, what he himself confessed twenty years afterwards, that he was not sensible of half the extent of his excellence. In the "Town and Country Mouse," Mr Bayes is made to term Milton "a rough unhewen fellow;" and Dryden himself, even in the dedication to the Translation from Juvenal, a work of his advanced life, alleges, that, though he found in that poet a true sublimity, and lofty thoughts, clothed with admirable Grecisms, he did not find the elegant turn of words and expression proper to the Italian poets and to Spenser. In the same treatise, he undertakes to excuse, but not to justify Milton, for his choice of blank verse, affirming that he possessed neither grace nor facility in rhyming. A consciousness of the harmony of his own numbers, and a predilection for that kind of verse, in which he excelled, seemed to have encouraged him to think he could improve the "Paradise Lost." Baker observes but too truly, that the "State of Innocence" recals the idea reprobated by Marvell in his address to Milton:

Or if a work so infinite be spanned, Jealous I was, lest some less skilful hand, Such as disquiet always what is well, And by ill-imitating would excel, Might hence presume the whole creation's day To change in scenes, and shew it in a play.

The "State of Innocence" seems to have been undertaken by Dryden during a cessation of his theatrical labours, and was first published in 1674, shortly after the death of Milton, which took place on the 8th of November in the same year.

Footnotes: 1. The Adamo of Andreini; for an account of which, see Todd's Milton, Vol. I. the elegant Hayley's Conjectures on the Origin of Paradise Lost, and Walker's Memoir on Italian Tragedy. The Drama of Andreini opens with a grand chorus of angels, who sing to this purpose:

Let the rainbow be the fiddle-stick to the fiddle of heaven, Let the spheres be the strings, and the stars the musical notes; Let the new-born breezes make the pauses and sharps, And let time be careful to beat the measure.

2. See a sketch of his plan in Johnson's Life of Milton, and in the authorities above quoted.

TO

HER ROYAL HIGHNESS,

THE

DUCHESS[1].

MADAM,

Ambition is so far from being a vice in poets, that it is almost impossible for them to succeed without it. Imagination must be raised, by a desire of fame, to a desire of pleasing; and they whom, in all ages, poets have endeavoured most to please, have been the beautiful and the great. Beauty is their deity, to which they sacrifice, and greatness is their guardian angel, which protects them. Both these, are so eminently joined in the person of your royal highness, that it were not easy for any but a poet to determine which of them outshines the other. But I confess, madam, I am already biassed in my choice. I can easily resign to others the praise of your illustrious family, and that glory which you derive from a long-continued race of princes, famous for their actions both in peace and war: I can give up, to the historians of your country, the names of so many generals and heroes which crowd their annals, and to our own the hopes of those which you are to produce for the British chronicle. I can yield, without envy, to the nation of poets, the family of Este, to which Ariosto and Tasso have owed their patronage, and to which the world has owed their poems. But I could not, without extreme reluctance, resign the theme of your beauty to another hand. Give me leave, madam, to acquaint the world, that I am jealous of this subject; and let it be no dishonour to you, that, after having raised the admiration of mankind, you have inspired one man to give it voice. But, with whatsoever vanity this new honour of being your poet has filled my mind, I confess myself too weak for the inspiration: the priest was always unequal to the oracle: the god within him was too mighty for his breast: he laboured with the sacred revelation, and there was more of the mystery left behind, than the divinity itself could enable him to express. I can but discover a part of your excellencies to the world; and that, too, according to the measure of my own weakness. Like those who have surveyed the moon by glasses, I can only tell of a new and shining world above us, but not relate the riches and glories of the place. 'Tis therefore that I have already waved the subject of your greatness, to resign myself to the contemplation of what is more peculiarly yours. Greatness is indeed communicated to some few of both sexes; but beauty is confined to a more narrow compass: 'tis only in your sex, 'tis not shared by many, and its supreme perfection is in you alone. And here, madam, I am proud that I cannot flatter; you have reconciled the differing judgments of mankind; for all men are equal in their judgment of what is eminently best. The prize of beauty was disputed only till you were seen; but now all pretenders have withdrawn their claims: there is no competition but for the second place; even the fairest of our island, which is famed for beauties, not daring to commit their cause against you to the suffrage of those, who most partially adore them. Fortune has, indeed, but rendered justice to so much excellence, in setting it so high to public view; or, rather, Providence has done justice to itself, in placing the most perfect workmanship of heaven, where it may be admired by all beholders. Had the sun and stars been seated lower, their glory had not been communicated to all at once, and the Creator had wanted so much of his praise, as he had made your condition more obscure: but he has placed you so near a crown, that you add a lustre to it by your beauty. You are joined to a prince, who only could deserve you; whose conduct, courage, and success in war; whose fidelity to his royal brother, whose love for his country, whose constancy to his friends, whose bounty to his servants, whose justice to merit, whose inviolable truth, and whose magnanimity in all his actions, seem to have been rewarded by heaven by the gift of you. You are never seen but you are blest; and I am sure you bless all those who see you. We think not the day is long enough when we behold you; and you are so much the business of our souls, that while you are in sight, we can neither look nor think on any else. There are no eyes for other beauties; you only are present, and the rest of your sex are but the unregarded parts that fill your triumph. Our sight is so intent on the object of its admiration, that our tongues have not leisure even to praise you: for language seems too low a thing to express your excellence; and our souls are speaking so much within, that they despise all foreign conversation. Every man, even the dullest, is thinking more than the most eloquent can teach him how to utter. Thus, madam, in the midst of crowds, you reign in solitude; and are adored with the deepest veneration, that of silence. 'Tis true, you are above all mortal wishes; no man desires impossibilities, because they are beyond the reach of nature. To hope to be a god, is folly exalted into madness; but, by the laws of our creation, we are obliged to adore him, and are permitted to love him too at human distance. 'Tis the nature of perfection to be attractive, but the excellency of the object refines the nature of the love. It strikes an impression of awful reverence; 'tis indeed that love which is more properly a zeal than passion. 'Tis the rapture which anchorites find in prayer, when a beam of the divinity shines upon them; that which makes them despise all worldly objects; and yet 'tis all but contemplation. They are seldom visited from above, but a single vision so transports them, that it makes up the happiness of their lives. Mortality cannot bear it often: it finds them in the eagerness and height of their devotion; they are speechless for the time that it continues, and prostrate and dead when it departs. That ecstacy had need be strong, which, without any end, but that of admiration has power enough to destroy all other passions. You render mankind insensible to other beauties, and have destroyed the empire of love in a court which was the seat of his dominion. You have subverted (may I dare to accuse you of it?) even our fundamental laws; and reign absolute over the hearts of a stubborn and free-born people, tenacious almost to madness of their liberty. The brightest and most victorious of our ladies make daily complaints of revolted subjects, if they may be said to be revolted, whose servitude is not accepted; for your royal highness is too great, and too just a monarch, either to want or to receive the homage of rebellious fugitives. Yet, if some few among the multitude continue stedfast to their first pretensions, 'tis an obedience so lukewarm and languishing, that it merits not the name of passion; their addresses are so faint, and their vows so hollow to their sovereigns, that they seem only to maintain their faith out of a sense of honour: they are ashamed to desist, and yet grow careless to obtain. Like despairing combatants, they strive against you as if they had beheld unveiled the magical shield of your Ariosto, which dazzled the beholders with too much brightness. They can no longer hold up their arms; they have read their destiny in your eyes:

_Splende lo scudo, a guisa di piropo; E luce altra non é tanto lucente: Cader in terra a lo splendor fu d'vopo, Con gli occhi abbacinati, e senza mente._

And yet, madam, if I could find in myself the power to leave this argument of your incomparable beauty, I might turn to one which would equally oppress me with its greatness; for your conjugal virtues have deserved to be set as an example, to a less degenerate, less tainted age. They approach so near to singularity in ours, that I can scarcely make a panegyric to your royal highness, without a satire on many others. But your person is a paradise, and your soul a cherubim within, to guard it. If the excellence of the outside invite the beholders, the majesty of your mind deters them from too bold approaches, and turns their admiration into religion. Moral perfections are raised higher by you in the softer sex; as if men were of too coarse a mould for heaven to work on, and that the image of divinity could not be cast to likeness in so harsh a metal. Your person is so admirable, that it can scarce receive addition, when it shall be glorified: and your soul, which shines through it, finds it of a substance so near her own, that she will be pleased to pass an age within it, and to be confined to such a palace.

I know not how I am hurried back to my former theme; I ought and purposed to have celebrated those endowments and qualities of your mind, which were sufficient, even without the graces of your person, to render you, as you are, the ornament of the court, and the object of wonder to three kingdoms. But all my praises are but as a bull-rush cast upon a stream; if they sink not, 'tis because they are borne up by the strength of the current, which supports their lightness; but they are carried round again, and return on the eddy where they first began. I can proceed no farther than your beauty; and even on that too I have said so little, considering the greatness of the subject, that, like him who would lodge a bowl upon a precipice, either my praise falls back, by the weakness of the delivery, or stays not on the top, but rolls over, and is lost on the other side. I intended this a dedication; but how can I consider what belongs to myself, when I have been so long contemplating on you! Be pleased then, madam, to receive this poem, without entitling so much excellency as yours, to the faults and imperfections of so mean a writer; and instead of being favourable to the piece, which merits nothing, forgive the presumption of the author; who is, with all possible veneration,

Your Royal Highness's Most obedient, most humble, Most devoted servant, JOHN DRYDEN.

Footnote: 1. Mary of Este, daughter of the Duke of Modena, and second wife to James Duke of York, afterwards James II. She was married to him by proxy in 1673, and came over in the year following. Notwithstanding her husband's unpopularity, and her own attachment to the Roman Catholic religion, her youth, beauty, and innocence secured her from insult and slander during all the stormy period which preceded her accession to the crown. Even Burnet, reluctantly, admits the force of her charms, and the inoffensiveness of her conduct. But her beauty produced a more lasting effect on the young and gallant, than on that austere and stubborn partizan; and its force must be allowed, since it was extolled even when Mary was dethroned and exiled. Granville, Lord Lansdowne, has praised her in "The Progress of Beauty;" and I cannot forbear transcribing some of the verses, on account of the gallant spirit of the author, who scorned to change with fortune, and continued to admire and celebrate, in adversity, the charms which he had worshipped in the meridian of prosperity.

And now, my muse, a nobler flight prepare, And sing so loud, that heaven and earth may hear. Behold from Italy an awful ray Of heavenly light illuminates the day; Northward she bends, majestically bright, And here she fixes her imperial light. Be bold, be bold, my muse, nor fear to raise Thy voice to her who was thy earliest praise[a]. What though the sullen fates refuse to shine, Or frown severe on thy audacious line; Keep thy bright theme within thy steady sight, The clouds shall fly before thy dazzling light, And everlasting day direct thy lofty flight. Thou, who hast never yet put on disguise, To flatter faction, or descend to vice, Let no vain fear thy generous ardour tame, But stand erect, and sound as loud as fame. As when our eye some prospect would pursue, Descending from a hill looks round to view, Passes o'er lawns and meadows, till it gains Some favourite spot, and fixing there remains; With equal ardour my transported muse Flies other objects, this bright theme to chuse. Queen of our hearts, and charmer of our sight! A monarch's pride, his glory and delight! Princess adored and loved! if verse can give A deathless name, thine shall for ever live; Invoked where'er the British lion roars, Extended as the seas that guard the British shores. The wise immortals, in their seats above, To crown their labours still appointed love; Phoebus enjoyed the goddess of the sea, Alcides had Omphale, James has thee. O happy James! content thy mighty mind, Grudge not the world, for still thy queen is kind; To be but at whose feet more glory brings, Than 'tis to tread on sceptres and on kings. Secure of empire in that beauteous breast, Who would not give their crowns to be so blest? Was Helen half so fair, so formed for joy, Well chose the Trojan, and well burned was Troy. But ah! what strange vicissitudes of fate, What chance attends on every worldly state! As when the skies were sacked, the conquered gods, Compelled from heaven, forsook their blessed abodes; Wandering in woods, they hid from den to den, And sought their safety in the shapes of men; As when the winds with kindling flames conspire, The blaze increases as they fan the fire; From roof to roof the burning torrent pours, Nor spares the palace nor the loftiest towers; Or as the stately pine, erecting high Her lofty branches shooting to the sky, If riven by the thunderbolt of Jove, Down falls at once the pride of all the grove; Level with lowest shrubs lies the tall head, That, reared aloft, as to the clouds was spread, So-- But cease, my muse, thy colours are too faint; Shade with a veil those griefs thou can'st not paint. That sun is set!--

_Progress of Beauty._

The beauty, which inspired the romantic and unchanging admiration of Granville, may be allowed to justify some of the flights of Dryden's panegyric. I fear enough will still remain to justify the stricture of Johnson, who observes, that Dryden's dedication is an "attempt to mingle earth and heaven, by praising human excellence in the language of religion."

At the date of this address, the Duchess of York was only in her sixteenth year.

Footnote: a. He had written verses to the Earl of Peterborough, on the Duke of York's marriage with the Princess of Modena, before he was twelve years old.

TO

MR DRYDEN,

ON HIS

POEM OF PARADISE.

Forgive me, awful poet, if a muse, Whom artless nature did for plainness chuse, In loose attire presents her humble thought, Of this best poem that you ever wrought. This fairest labour of your teeming brain I would embrace, but not with flatt'ry stain. Something I would to your vast virtue raise, But scorn to daub it with a fulsome praise; That would but blot the work I would commend, And shew a court-admirer, not a friend. To the dead bard your fame a little owes, For Milton did the wealthy mine disclose, And rudely cast what you could well dispose: He roughly drew, on an old fashioned ground, A chaos; for no perfect world was found, Till through the heap your mighty genius shined: He was the golden ore, which you refined. He first beheld the beauteous rustic maid, And to a place of strength the prize conveyed: You took her thence; to court this virgin brought, Drest her with gems, new weaved her hard-spun thought, And softest language sweetest manners taught; Till from a comet she a star doth rise, Not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes. Betwixt you both is trained a nobler piece, Than e'er was drawn in Italy or Greece. Thou from his source of thoughts even souls dost bring, As smiling gods from sullen Saturn spring. When night's dull mask the face of heaven does wear, 'Tis doubtful light, but here and there a star, Which serves the dreadful shadows to display, That vanish at the rising of the day; But then bright robes the meadows all adorn, And the world looks as it were newly born. So, when your sense his mystic reason cleared, The melancholy scene all gay appeared; Now light leapt up, and a new glory smiled, And all throughout was mighty, all was mild. Before this palace, which thy wit did build, Which various fancy did so gaudy gild, And judgment has with solid riches filled, My humbler muse begs she may sentry stand, Amongst the rest that guard this Eden land. But there's no need, for ev'n thy foes conspire Thy praise, and, hating thee, thy work admire. On then, O mightiest of the inspired men! Monarch of verse! new themes employ thy pen. The troubles of majestic Charles set down; Not David vanquished more to reach a crown. Praise him as Cowley did that Hebrew king: Thy theme's as great; do thou as greatly sing. Then thou may'st boldly to his favour rise, Look down, and the base serpent's hiss despise; From thund'ring envy safe in laurel sit, While clam'rous critics their vile heads submit, Condemned for treason at the bar of wit.

NAT. LEE.

THE

AUTHOR'S APOLOGY

FOR

HEROIC POETRY, AND POETIC LICENCE.

To satisfy the curiosity of those, who will give themselves the trouble of reading the ensuing poem, I think myself obliged to render them a reason why I publish an opera which was never acted. In the first place, I shall not be ashamed to own, that my chiefest motive was, the ambition which I acknowledged in the Epistle. I was desirous to lay at the feet of so beautiful and excellent a princess, a work, which, I confess, was unworthy her, but which, I hope, she will have the goodness to forgive. I was also induced to it in my own defence; many hundred copies of it being dispersed abroad without my knowledge, or consent: so that every one gathering new faults, it became at length a libel against me; and I saw, with some disdain, more nonsense than either I, or as bad a poet, could have crammed into it, at a month's warning; in which time it was wholly written, and not since revised. After this, I cannot, without injury to the deceased author of "Paradise Lost," but acknowledge, that this poem has received its entire foundation, part of the design, and many of the ornaments, from him. What I have borrowed will be so easily discerned from my mean productions, that I shall not need to point the reader to the places: And truly I should be sorry, for my own sake, that any one should take the pains to compare them together; the original being undoubtedly one of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems, which either this age or nation has produced. And though I could not refuse the partiality of my friend, who is pleased to commend me in his verses, I hope they will rather be esteemed the effect of his love to me, than of his deliberate and sober judgment. His genius is able to make beautiful what he pleases: Yet, as he has been too favourable to me, I doubt not but he will hear of his kindness from many of our contemporaries for we are fallen into an age of illiterate, censorious, and detracting people, who, thus qualified, set up for critics.

In the first place, I must take leave to tell them, that they wholly mistake the nature of criticism, who think its business is principally to find fault. Criticism, as it was first instituted by Aristotle, was meant a standard of judging well; the chiefest part of which is, to observe those excellencies which should delight a reasonable reader. If the design, the conduct, the thoughts, and the expressions of a poem, be generally such as proceed from a true genius of poetry, the critic ought to pass his judgement in favour of the author. It is malicious and unmanly to snarl at the little lapses of a pen, from which Virgil himself stands not exempted. Horace acknowledges, that honest Homer nods sometimes: He is not equally awake in every line; but he leaves it also as a standing measure for our judgments,

--Non, _ubi plura nitent in carmine, paucis_ Offendi _maculis, quas aut incuria fudit, Aut humana parùm cavit natura._--

And Longinus, who was undoubtedly, after Aristotle the greatest critic amongst the Greeks, in his twenty-seventh chapter, [Greek: PERI HUPSOUS], has judiciously preferred the sublime genius that sometimes errs, to the middling or indifferent one, which makes few faults, but seldom or never rises to any excellence. He compares the first to a man of large possessions, who has not leisure to consider of every slight expence, will not debase himself to the management of every trifle: Particular sums are not laid out, or spared, to the greatest advantage in his economy; but are sometimes suffered to run to waste, while he is only careful of the main. On the other side, he likens the mediocrity of wit, to one of a mean fortune, who manages his store with extreme frugality, or rather parsimony; but who, with fear of running into profuseness, never arrives to the magnificence of living. This kind of genius writes indeed correctly. A wary man he is in grammar, very nice as to solecism or barbarism, judges to a hair of little decencies, knows better than any man what is not to be written, and never hazards himself so far as to fall, but plods on deliberately, and, as a grave man ought, is sure to put his staff before him. In short, he sets his heart upon it, and with wonderful care makes his business sure; that is, in plain English, neither to be blamed nor praised.--I could, says my author, find out some blemishes in Homer; and am perhaps as naturally inclined to be disgusted at a fault as another man; but, after all, to speak impartially, his failings are such, as are only marks of human frailty: they are little mistakes, or rather negligences, which have escaped his pen in the fervour of his writing; the sublimity of his spirit carries it with me against his carelessness; and though Apollonius his "Argonauts," and Theocritus his "Idyllia," are more free from errors, there is not any man of so false a judgment, who would chuse rather to have been Apollonius or Theocritus, than Homer.

It is worth our consideration a little, to examine how much these hypercritics in English poetry differ from the opinion of the Greek and Latin judges of antiquity; from the Italians and French, who have succeeded them; and, indeed, from the general taste and approbation of all ages. Heroic poetry, which they condemn, has ever been esteemed, and ever will be, the greatest work of human nature: In that rank has Aristotle placed it; and Longinus is so full of the like expressions, that he abundantly confirms the other's testimony. Horace as plainly delivers his opinion, and particularly praises Homer in these verses:

_Trojani Belli scriptorem, maxime Lolli, Dum tu declamas Romæ, Præneste relegi: Qui quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non, Plenius ac melius Chrysippo et Crantore dicit._

And in another place, modestly excluding himself from the number of poets, because he only writ odes and satires, he tells you a poet is such an one,

--_Cui mens divinior, atque os Magna soniturum._

Quotations are superfluous in an established truth; otherwise I could reckon up, amongst the moderns, all the Italian commentators on Aristotle's book of poetry; and, amongst the French, the greatest of this age, Boileau and Rapin; the latter of which is alone sufficient, were all other critics lost, to teach anew the rules of writing. Any man, who will seriously consider the nature of an epic poem, how it agrees with that of poetry in general, which is to instruct and to delight, what actions it describes, and what persons they are chiefly whom it informs, will find it a work which indeed is full of difficulty in the attempt, but admirable when it is well performed. I write not this with the least intention to undervalue the other parts of poetry: for Comedy is both excellently instructive, and extremely pleasant; satire lashes vice into reformation, and humour represents folly so as to render it ridiculous. Many of our present writers are eminent in both these kinds; and, particularly, the author of the "Plain Dealer," whom I am proud to call my friend, has obliged all honest and virtuous men, by one of the most bold, most general, and most useful satires, which has ever been presented on the English theatre. I do not dispute the preference of Tragedy; let every man enjoy his taste: but it is unjust, that they, who have not the least notion of heroic writing, should therefore condemn the pleasure which others receive from it, because they cannot comprehend it. Let them please their appetites in eating what they like; but let them not force their dish on all the table. They, who would combat general authority with particular opinion, must first establish themselves a reputation of understanding better than other men. Are all the flights of heroic poetry to be concluded bombast, unnatural, and mere madness, because they are not affected with their excellencies? It is just as reasonable as to conclude there is no day, because a blind man cannot distinguish of light and colours. Ought they not rather, in modesty, to doubt of their own judgments, when they think this or that expression in Homer, Virgil, Tasso, or Milton's "Paradise," to be too far strained, than positively to conclude, that it is all fustian, and mere nonsense? It is true, there are limits to be set betwixt the boldness and rashness of a poet; but he must understand those limits, who pretends to judge as well as he who undertakes to write: and he who has no liking to the whole, ought, in reason, to be excluded from censuring of the parts. He must be a lawyer before he mounts the tribunal; and the judicature of one court, too, does not qualify a man to preside in another. He may be an excellent pleader in the Chancery, who is not fit to rule the Common Pleas. But I will presume for once to tell them, that the boldest strokes of poetry, when they are managed artfully, are those which most delight the reader.

Virgil and Horace, the severest writers of the severest age, have made frequent use of the hardest metaphors, and of the strongest hyperboles; and in this case the best authority is the best argument; for generally to have pleased, and through all ages, must bear the force of universal tradition. And if you would appeal from thence to right reason, you will gain no more by it in effect, than, first, to set up your reason against those authors; and, secondly, against all those who have admired them. You must prove, why that ought not to have pleased, which has pleased the most learned, and the most judicious; and, to be thought knowing, you must first put the fool upon all mankind. If you can enter more deeply, than they have done, into the causes and resorts of that which moves pleasure in a reader, the field is open, you may be heard: But those springs of human nature are not so easily discovered by every superficial judge: It requires philosophy, as well as poetry, to sound the depth of all the passions; what they are in themselves, and how they are to be provoked: And in this science the best poets have excelled. Aristotle raised the fabric of his poetry from observation of those things, in which Euripides, Sophocles, and Æschylus pleased: He considered how they raised the passions, and thence has drawn rules for our imitation. From hence have sprung the tropes and figures, for which they wanted a name, who first practised them, and succeeded in them. Thus I grant you, that the knowledge of nature was the original rule; and that all poets ought to study her, as well as Aristotle and Horace, her interpreters. But then this also undeniably follows, that those things, which delight all ages, must have been an imitation of nature; which is all I contend. Therefore is rhetoric made an art; therefore the names of so many tropes and figures were invented; because it was observed they had such and such effect upon the audience. Therefore catachreses and hyperboles have found their place amongst them; not that they were to be avoided, but to be used judiciously, and placed in poetry, as heightenings and shadows are in painting, to make the figure bolder, and cause it to stand off to sight.

_Nec retia cervis Ulla dolum meditantur;_

says Virgil in his Eclogues: and speaking of Leander, in his Georgics,

_Nocte natat cæca serus freta, quem super ingens Porta tonat cæli, et scopulis illisa reclamant Æquora:_

In both of these, you see, he fears not to give voice and thought to things inanimate.

Will you arraign your master, Horace, for his hardness of expression, when he describes the death of Cleopatra, and says she did--_asperos tractare serpentes, ut atrum corpore combiberet cenenum,_--because the body, in that action, performs what is proper to the mouth?

As for hyperboles, I will neither quote Lucan, nor Statius, men of an unbounded imagination, but who often wanted the poize of judgment. The divine Virgil was not liable to that exception; and yet he describes Polyphemus thus:

_--Graditurque per æquor Jam medium; necdum fluctus latera ardua tinxit._

In imitation of this place, our admirable Cowley thus paints Goliah:

The valley, now, this monster seemed to fill; And we, methought, looked up to him from our hill:

where the two words, _seemed_ and _methought_, have mollified the figure; and yet if they had not been there, the fright of the Israelites might have excused their belief of the giant's stature[1].

In the eighth of the Æneids, Virgil paints the swiftness of Camilla thus:

_Ilia vel intactæ segetis per summa volaret Gramina, nec teneras cursu læsisset aristas; Vel mare per medium, fluctu suspensa tumenti, Ferret iter, celeres nec tingeret æquore plantas._

You are not obliged, as in history, to a literal belief of what the poet says; but you are pleased with the image, without being cozened by the fiction.

Yet even in history, Longinus quotes Herodotus on this occasion of hyperboles. The Lacedemonians, says he, at the straits of Thermopylæ, defended themselves to the last extremity; and when their arms failed them, fought it out with their nails and teeth; till at length, (the Persians shooting continually upon them) they lay buried under the arrows of their enemies. It is not reasonable, (continues the critic) to believe, that men could defend themselves with their nails and teeth from an armed multitude; nor that they lay buried under a pile of darts and arrows; and yet there wants not probability for the figure: because the hyperbole seems not to have been made for the sake of the description; but rather to have been produced from the occasion.

It is true, the boldness of the figures is to be hidden sometimes by the address of the poet; that they may work their effect upon the mind, without discovering the art which caused it. And therefore they are principally to be used in passion; when we speak more warmly, and with more precipitation than at other times: For then, _Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi;_ the poet must put on the passion he endeavours to represent: A man in such an occasion is not cool enough, either to reason rightly, or to talk calmly. Aggravations are then in their proper places; interrogations, exclamations, hyperbata, or a disordered connection of discourse, are graceful there, because they are natural. The sum of all depends on what before I hinted, that this boldness of expression is not to be blamed, if it be managed by the coolness and discretion which is necessary to a poet.

Yet before I leave this subject, I cannot but take notice how disingenuous our adversaries appear: All that is dull, insipid, languishing, and without sinews, in a poem, they call an imitation of nature: They only offend our most equitable judges, who think beyond them; and lively images and elocution are never to be forgiven.

What fustian, as they call it, have I heard these gentlemen find out in Mr Cowley's Odes! I acknowledge myself unworthy to defend so excellent an author, neither have I room to do it here; only in general I will say, that nothing can appear more beautiful to me, than the strength of those images which they condemn.

Imaging is, in itself, the very height and life of poetry. It is, as Longinus describes it, a discourse, which, by a kind of enthusiasm, or extraordinary emotion of the soul, makes it seem to us, that we behold those things which the poet paints, so as to be pleased with them, and to admire them.

If poetry be imitation, that part of it must needs be best, which describes most lively our actions and passions; our virtues and our vices; our follies and our humours: For neither is comedy without its part of imaging; and they who do it best are certainly the most excellent in their kind. This is too plainly proved to be denied: But how are poetical fictions, how are hippocentaurs and chimeras, or how are angels and immaterial substances to be imaged; which, some of them, are things quite out of nature; others, such whereof we can have no notion? This is the last refuge of our adversaries; and more than any of them have yet had the wit to object against us. The answer is easy to the first part of it: The fiction of some beings which are not in nature, (second notions, as the logicians call them) has been founded on the conjunction of two natures, which have a real separate being. So hippocentaurs were imaged, by joining the natures of a man and horse together; as Lucretius tells us, who has used this word of _image_ oftener than any of the poets:

_Nam certè ex vivo centauri non fit imago, Nulla fuit quoniam talis natura animai: Verùm ubi equi atque hominis, casu, convenit imago, Hærescit facilè extemplò,_ &c.

The same reason may also be alleged for chimeras and the rest. And poets may be allowed the like liberty, for describing things which really exist not, if they are founded on popular belief. Of this nature are fairies, pigmies, and the extraordinary effects of magic; for it is still an imitation, though of other men's fancies: and thus are Shakespeare's "Tempest," his "Midsummer Night's Dream," and Ben Jonson's "Masque of Witches" to be defended. For immaterial substances, we are authorised by Scripture in their description: and herein the text accommodates itself to vulgar apprehension, in giving angels the likeness of beautiful young men. Thus, after the pagan divinity, has Homer drawn his gods with human faces: and thus we have notions of things above us, by describing them like other beings more within our knowledge.

I wish I could produce any one example of excellent imaging in all this poem. Perhaps I cannot; but that which comes nearest it, is in these four lines, which have been sufficiently canvassed by my well-natured censors:

Seraph and cherub, careless of their charge, And wanton, in full ease now live at large: Unguarded leave the passes of the sky, And all dissolved in hallelujahs lie.

I have heard (says one of them) of anchovies _dissolved_ in sauce; but never of an angel _in hallelujahs._ A mighty witticism! (if you will pardon a new word,) but there is some difference between a laugher and a critic. He might have burlesqued Virgil too, from whom I took the image. _Invadunt urbem, somno vinoque sepultam._ A city's being buried, is just as proper on occasion, as an angel's being dissolved in ease, and songs of triumph. Mr Cowley lies as open too in many places:

Where their vast courts the mother waters keep, &c.

For if the mass of waters be the mothers, then their daughters, the little streams, are bound, in all good manners, to make courtesy to them, and ask them blessing. How easy it is to turn into ridicule the best descriptions, when once a man is in the humour of laughing, till he wheezes at his own dull jest! but an image, which is strongly and beautifully set before the eyes of the reader, will still be poetry, when the merry fit is over, and last when the other is forgotten.

I promised to say somewhat of Poetic Licence, but have in part anticipated my discourse already. Poetic Licence, I take to be the liberty which poets have assumed to themselves, in all ages, of speaking things in verse, which are beyond the severity of prose. It is that particular character, which distinguishes and sets the bounds betwixt _oratio soluta_, and poetry. This, as to what regards the thought, or imagination of a poet, consists in fiction: but then those thoughts must be expressed; and here arise two other branches of it; for if this licence be included in a single word, it admits of tropes; if in a sentence or proposition, of figures; both which are of a much larger extent, and more forcibly to be used in verse than prose. This is that birth-right which is derived to us from our great forefathers, even from Homer down to Ben; and they, who would deny it to us, have, in plain terms, the fox's quarrel to the grapes--they cannot reach it.

How far these liberties are to be extended, I will not presume to determine here, since Horace does not. But it is certain that they are to be varied, according to the language and age in which an author writes. That which would be allowed to a Grecian poet, Martial tells you, would not be suffered in a Roman; and it is evident, that the English does more nearly follow the strictness of the latter, than the freedoms of the former. Connection of epithets, or the conjunction of two words in one, are frequent and elegant in the Greek, which yet Sir Philip Sidney, and the translator of Du Bartas, have unluckily attempted in the English; though this, I confess, is not so proper an instance of poetic licence, as it is of variety of idiom in languages.

Horace a little explains himself on this subject of _Licentia Poetica_, in these verses:

_--Pictoribus atque Poetis Quidlibet audendi semper fuit æqua potestas: ... Sed non, ut placidis coeant immitia, non ut Serpentes avibus geminentur, tigribus hædi._

He would have a poem of a piece; not to begin with one thing, and end with another: He restrains it so far, that thoughts of an unlike nature ought not to be joined together. That were indeed to make a chaos. He taxed not Homer, nor the divine Virgil, for interesting their gods in the wars of Troy and Italy; neither, had he now lived, would he have taxed Milton, as our false critics have presumed to do, for his choice of a supernatural argument; but he would have blamed my author, who was a Christian, had he introduced into his poem heathen deities, as Tasso is condemned by Rapin on the like occasion; and as Camoëns, the author of the "Lusiads," ought to be censured by all his readers, when he brings in Bacchus and Christ into the same adventure of his fable.

From that which has been said, it may be collected, that the definition of wit (which has been so often attempted, and ever unsuccessfully by many poets,) is only this: That it is a propriety of thoughts and words; or, in other terms, thoughts and words elegantly adapted to the subject. If our critics will join issue on this definition, that we may _convenire in aliquo tertio_; if they will take it as a granted principle, it will be easy to put an end to this dispute. No man will disagree from another's judgment concerning the dignity of style in heroic poetry; but all reasonable men will conclude it necessary, that sublime subjects ought to be adorned with the sublimest, and consequently often, with the most figurative expressions. In the mean time I will not run into their fault of imposing my opinions on other men, any more than I would my writings on their taste: I have only laid down, and that superficially enough, my present thoughts; and shall be glad to be taught better by those who pretend to reform our poetry.

Footnote: 1. With all this mitigation, the passage seems horrible bombast.

THE

STATE OF INNOCENCE,

AND

FALL OF MAN.