The Works Of John Dryden Now First Collected In Eighteen Volume
Chapter 20
_The Scene is a View of Dover, taken from the Sea. A row of Cliffs fill up each Side of the Stage, and the Sea the middle of it, which runs into the Pier; Beyond the Pier, is the town of Dover; On each side of the Town, is seen a very high hill; on one of which is the Castle of Dover; on the other, the great stone which they call the Devil's-Drop. Behind the Town several Hills are seen at a great distance, which finish the View._
_Enter_ ALBION _bare-headed;_ ACACIA _or_ INNOCENCE _with him._
_Alb._ Behold, ye powers! from whom I own A birth immortal, and a throne; See a sacred king uncrowned, See your offspring, Albion, bound; The gifts, you gave with lavish hand, Are all bestowed in vain; Extended empire on the land, Unbounded o'er the main.
_Aca._ Empire o'er the land and main, Heaven, that gave, can take again; But a mind, that's truly brave, Stands despising Storms arising, And can ne'er be made a slave.
_Alb._ Unhelped I am, who pitied the distressed, And, none oppressing, am by all oppressed; Betrayed, forsaken, and of hope bereft.
_Aca._ Yet still the gods, and Innocence are left.
_Alb._ Ah! what canst thou avail, Against rebellion armed with zeal, And faced with public good? O monarchs, see Your fate in me! To rule by love, To shed no blood, May be extolled above; But here below, Let princes know, 'Tis fatal to be good.
_Chorus of both._ To rule by love, _&c._
_Aca._ Your father Neptune, from the seas, Has Nereids and blue Tritons sent, To charm your discontent.
_Nereids rise out of the Sea, and sing; Tritons dance._
From the low palace of old father Ocean, Come we in pity your cares to deplore; Sea-racing dolphins are trained for our motion, Moony tides swelling to roll us ashore.
II.
Every nymph of the flood, her tresses rending, Throws off her armlet of pearl in the main; Neptune in anguish his charge unattending, Vessels are foundering, and vows are in vain.
_Enter_ TYRANNY, DEMOCRACY, _represented by Men, attended by_ ASEBIA _and_ ZELOTA, Women._
_Tyr._ Ha, ha! 'tis what so long I wished and vowed: Our plots and delusions Have wrought such confusions, That the monarch's a slave to the crowd.
_Dem._ A design we fomented,--
_Tyr._ By hell it was new!
_Dem._ A false plot invented,--
_Tyr._ To cover a true.
_Dem._ First with promised faith we flattered.
_Tyr._ Then jealousies and fears we scattered.
_Aseb._ We never valued right and wrong, But as they served our cause.
_Zel._ Our business was to please the throng, And court their wild applause;
_Aseb._ For this we bribed the lawyer's tongue. And then destroyed the laws.
_Cho._ For this, &c.
_Tyr._ To make him safe, we made his friends our prey;
_Dem._ To make him great, we scorned his royal sway,--
_Tyr._ And to confirm his crown, we took his heir away.
_Dem._ To encrease his store, We kept him poor;
_Tyr._ And when to wants we had betrayed him, To keep him low, Pronounced a foe, Whoe'er presumed to aid him.
_Aseb._ But you forget the noblest part, And master piece of all your art,-- You told him he was sick at heart.
_Zel._ And when you could not work belief In Albion of the imagined grief; Your perjured vouchers, in a breath, Made oath, that he was sick to death; And then five hundred quacks of skill Resolved, 'twas fit he should be ill.
_Aseb._ Now hey for a common-wealth, We merrily drink and sing! 'Tis to the nation's health, For every man's a king.
_Zel._ Then let the mask begin, The Saints advance, To fill the dance, And the Property Boys come in.
_The Boys in white begin a Fantastic Dance[4]._
_Cho._ Let the saints ascend the throne.
_Dem._ Saints have wives, and wives have preachers, Gifted men, and able teachers; These to get, and those to own.
_Cho._ Let the saints ascend the throne.
_Aseb._ Freedom is a bait alluring; Them betraying, us securing, While to sovereign power we soar.
_Zel._ Old delusions, new repeated, Shews them born but to be cheated, As their fathers were before.
_Six Sectaries begin a formal affected Dance; the two gravest whisper the other four, and draw them into the Plot; they pull out and deliver Libels to them, which they receive._
_Dem._ See friendless Albion there alone, Without defence But innocence; Albanius now is gone.
_Tyr._ Say then, what must be done?
_Dem._ The gods have put him in our hand[5].
_Zel._ He must be slain.
_Tyr._ But who shall then command?
_Dem._ The people; for the right returns to those. Who did the trust impose.
_Tyr._ 'Tis fit another sun should rise, To cheer the world, and light the skies.
_Dem._ But when the sun His race has run, And neither cheers the world, nor lights the skies, 'Tis fit a common-wealth of stars should rise.
_Aseb._ Each noble vice Shall bear a price, And virtue shall a drug become; An empty name Was all her fame, But now she shall be dumb.
_Zel._ If open vice be what you drive at, A name so broad we'll ne'er connive at. Saints love vice, but, more refinedly, Keep her close, and use her kindly.
_Tyr._ Fall on.
_Dem._ Fall on; e'er Albion's death, we'll try, If one or many shall his room supply.
_The White Boys dance about the Saints; the Saints draw out the Association, and offer it to them; they refuse it, and quarrel about it; then the White Boys and Saints fall into a confused dance, imitating fighting. The White Boys, at the end of the dance, being driven out by the Sectaries, with Protestant Flails.[6]_
_Alb._ See the gods my cause defending, When all human help was past!
_Acac._ Factions mutually contending, By each other fall at last.
_Alb._ But is not yonder Proteus' cave, Below that steep, Which rising billows brave?
_Acac._ It is; and in it lies the god asleep; And snorting by, We may descry The monsters of the deep.
_Alb._ He knows the past, And can resolve the future too.
_Acac._ 'Tis true! But hold him fast, For he can change his hue.[7]
_The Cave of_ PROTEUS _rises out of the Sea; it consists of several arches of Rock-work adorned with mother-of-pearl, coral, and abundance of shells of various kinds. Through the arches is seen the Sea, and parts of Dover-pier; in the middle of the Cave is_ PROTEUS _asleep on a rock adorned with shells, &c. like the Cave._ ALBION _and_ ACACIA _seize on him; and while a symphony is playing, he sinks as they are bringing him forward, and changes himself into a Lion, a Crocodile, a Dragon, and then to his own shape again; he comes forward to the front of the stage, and sings._
SYMPHONY.
_Pro._ Albion, loved of gods and men, Prince of peace, too mildly reigning, Cease thy sorrow and complaining; Thou shall be restored again: Albion, loved of gods and men.
II.
Still thou art the care of heaven, In thy youth to exile driven; Heaven thy ruin then prevented, 'Till the guilty land repented. In thy age, when none could aid thee, Foes conspired, and friends betrayed thee; To the brink of danger driven, Still thou art the care of heaven.
_Alb._ To whom shall I my preservation owe?
_Pro._ Ask me no more; for 'tis by Neptune's foe.[8]
PROTEUS _descends._
DEMOCRACY _and_ ZELOTA _return with their faction._
_Dem._ Our seeming friends, who joined alone, To pull down one, and build another throne, Are all dispersed and gone; We brave republic souls remain.
_Zel._ And 'tis by us that Albion must be slain; Say, whom shall we employ The tyrant to destroy?
_Dem._ That Archer is by fate designed, With one eye clear, and t'other blind.
_Zel._ He comes inspired to do't.
_Omnes._ Shoot, holy Cyclop, shoot.
_The one-eyed Archer advances, the rest follow. A fire arises betwixt them and_ ALBION.[9] [_Ritornel._
_Dem._ Lo! heaven and earth combine To blast our bold design. What miracles are shewn! Nature's alarmed, And fires are armed, To guard the sacred throne.
_Zel._ What help, when jarring elements conspire, To punish our audacious crimes? Retreat betimes, To shun the avenging fire.
_Chor._ To shun the avenging fire. [_Ritor._
_As they are going back, a fire arises from behind; they all sink together._[10]
_Alb._ Let our tuneful accents upwards move, Till they reach the vaulted arch of those above; Let us adore them; Let us fall before them.
_Acac._ Kings they made, and kings they love. When they protect a rightful monarch's reign, The gods in heaven, the gods on earth maintain.
_Both._ When they protect, &c.
_Alb._ But see, what glories gild the main!
_Acac._ Bright Venus brings Albanius back again, With all the Loves and Graces in her train.
_A machine rises out of the sea; it opens, and discovers_ VENUS _and_ ALBANIUS _sitting in a great scallop-shell, richly adorned._ VENUS _is attended by the Loves and Graces,_ ALBANIUS _by Heroes; the shell is drawn by dolphins; it moves forward, while a symphony of flutes-doux, &c. is playing, till it lands them on the stage, and then it closes and sinks._
VENUS _sings._
Albion, hail! the gods present thee All the richest of their treasures, Peace and pleasures, To content thee, Dancing their eternal measures. [_Graces and Loves dance an entry._
_Venus._ But, above all human blessing, Take a warlike loyal brother, Never prince had such another; Conduct, courage, truth expressing, All heroic worth possessing. [_Here the Heroes' dance is performed._
_Chor. of all._ But above all, &c. [_Ritor._
_Whilst a Symphony is playing, a very large, and a very glorious Machine descends; the figure of it oval, all the clouds shining with gold, abundance of Angels and Cherubins flying about them, and playing in them; in the midst of it sits_ APOLLO _on a throne of gold; he comes from the machine to_ ALBION.
_Phoeb._ From Jove's imperial court, Where all the gods resort, In awful counsel met, Surprising news I bear; Albion the great Must change his seat, For he is adopted there.
_Venus._ What stars above shall we displace? Where shall he fill a room divine?
_Nept._ Descended from the sea-gods' race, Let him by my Orion shine.
_Phoeb._ No, not by that tempestuous sign; Betwixt the Balance and the Maid, The just, August, And peaceful shade, Shall shine in heaven with beams displayed, While great Albanius is on earth obeyed.
_Venus._ Albanius, lord of land and main, Shall with fraternal virtues reign; And add his own, To fill the throne; Adored and feared, and loved no less; In war victorious, mild in peace, The joy of man, and Jove's increase.
_Acac._ O thou! who mountest the æthereal throne, Be kind and happy to thy own; Now Albion is come, The people of the sky Run gazing, and cry,--Make room, Make room, make room, Make room for our new deity!
_Here_ ALBION _mounts the machine, which moves upward slowly._
_A full chorus of all that_ ACACIA _sung._
_Ven._ Behold what triumphs are prepared to grace Thy glorious race, Where love and honour claim an equal place; Already they are fixed by fate, And only ripening ages wait.
_The Scene changes to a Walk of very high trees; at the end of the Walk is a view of that part of Windsor, which faces Eton; in the midst of it is a row of small trees, which lead to the Castle-Hill. In the first scene, part of the Town and part of the Hill. In the next, the Terrace Walk, the King's lodgings, and the upper part of St George's chapel, then the keep; and, lastly, that part of the Castle beyond the keep._
_In the air is a vision of the Honours of the Garter; the Knights in procession, and the King under a canopy; beyond this, the upper end of St George's hall._
FAME _rises out of the middle of the Stage, standing on a Globe, on which is the Arms of England: the Globe rests on a Pedestal; on the front of the Pedestal in drawn a Man with a long, lean, pale face, with fiends' wings, and snakes twisted round his body; he is encompassed by several fanatical rebellious heads, who suck poison from him, which runs out of a tap in his side._[11]
_Fame._ Renown, assume thy trumpet! From pole to pole resounding Great Albion's name; Great Albion's name shall be The theme of Fame, shall be great Albion's name, Great Albion's name, great Albion's name. Record the garter's glory; A badge for heroes, and for kings to bear; For kings to bear! And swell the immortal story, With songs of Gods, and fit for Gods to hear; And swell the immortal story, With songs of Gods, and fit for Gods to hear; For Gods to hear.
_A full Chorus of all the Voices and Instruments; trumpets and hautboys make Ritornello's of all_ FAME _sings; and twenty-four Dancers, all the time in a chorus, and dance to the end of the Opera._
Footnotes: 1. The reader must recollect the orders of the Rump parliament to general Monk, to destroy the gates and portcullises of the city of London; which commission, by the bye, he actually executed, with all the forms of contempt, although, in a day or two after, he took up his quarters in the city, apologized for what had passed, and declared against the parliament.
2. Dr. Titus Oates, the principal witness to the Popish Plot, was accused of unnatural and infamous crimes. He was certainly a most ineffably impudent, perjured villain.
3. The Chacon is supposed by Sir John Hawkins to be of Moorish or Saracenic origin. "The characteristic of the Chacone is a bass, or ground, consisting of four measures, wherein three crotchets make the bar, and the repetition thereof with variations in the several parts, from the beginning to the end of the air, which in respect of its length, has no limit but the discretion of the composer. The whole of the twelfth sonata of the second opera of Corelli is a Chacone." _Hist. of Music_, vol. iv. p. 388. There is also, I am informed, a very celebrated Chacon composed by Jomelli.
4. By the _White Boys_ or _Property Boys_, are meant the adherents of the Duke of Monmouth, who affected great zeal for liberty and property, and assumed white badges, as marks of the innocence of their intentions. When the Duke came to the famous Parliament held at Oxford, "he was met by about 100 Batchellors all in white, except black velvet caps, with white wands in their hands, who divided themselves, and marched as a guard to his person." _Account of the Life of the Duke of Monmouth_, p. 107. In the Duke's tour through the west of England, he was met at Exeter, by "a brave company of brisk stout young men, all cloathed in linen waistcoats and drawers, _white and harmless,_ having not so much as a stick in their hands; they were in number about 900 or 1000." _ibid._ p. 103. See the notes on Absalom and Achitophel. The saints, on the other hand, mean the ancient republican zealots and fanatics, who, though they would willingly have joined in the destruction of Charles, did not wish that Monmouth should succeed him, but aimed at the restoration of the commonwealth. Hence the following dispute betwixt Tyranny and Democracy.
5. The atrocious and blasphemous sentiment in the text was actually used by the fanatics who murdered Sharpe, the archbishop of St Andrews. When they unexpectedly met him during their search for another person, they exclaimed, that "the Lord had delivered him into their hands."
6. It is easy to believe, that, whatever was the, nature of the schemes nourished by Monmouth, Russel, and Essex, they could have no concern with the low and sanguinary cabal of Ramsay, Walcot, and Rumbold, who were all of them old republican officers and commonwealth's men. The flight of Shaftesbury, whose bustling and politic brain had rendered him the sole channel of communication betwixt these parties, as well as the means of uniting them in one common design, threw loose all connection between them; so that each, after his retreat, seems to have acted independantly of, and often in contradiction to the other.
7. The reader may judge, whether some distant and obscure allusion to the trimming politics of Halifax, to whom the Duke of York, our author's patron, was hostile, may not be here insinuated. During the stormy session of his two last parliaments, Charles was much guided by his temporising and camelion-like policy.
8. That is by fire. See next note.
9. The allegory of the one-eyed Archer, and the fire arising betwixt him and Albion, will be made evident by the following extracts from Sprat's history of the Conspiracy. In enumerating the persons engaged in the Rye-house plot, he mentions "Richard Rumbold, maltster, an old army officer, a desperate and bloody Ravaillac." After agitating several schemes for assassinating Charles, the Rye-house was fixed upon as a spot which the king must necessarily pass in his journey trom Newmarket, and which, being a solitary moated house, in the actual occupation of Rumbold, afforded the conspirators facility of previous concealment and subsequent defence. "All other propositions, as subject to far more casualties and hazards, soon gave place to that of the Rye, in Herefordshire, a house then inhabited by the foresaid Richard Rumbold, who proposed that to be the seat of the action, offering himself to command the party, that was to do the work. Him, therefore, as the most daring captain, and by reason of a blemish in one of his eyes, they were afterwards wont, in common discourse, to call Hannibal; often drinking healths to _Hannibal and his boys_, meaning Rumbold and his _hellish crew_.
"Immediately upon the coaches coming within the gates and hedges about the house, the conspirators were to divide into several parties; some before, in the habit of labourers, were to overthrow a cart in the narrowest passage, so as to prevent all possibility of escape: others were to fight the guards, Walcot chusing that part upon a punctilio of honour; others were to shoot at the coachman, postillion, and horses; others to aim only at his Majesty's coach, which party was to be under the particular direction of Rumbold himself; the villain declaring beforehand, that, upon that occasion, he would make use of a very good blunderbuss, which was in West's possession, and blasphemously adding, that Ferguson should first consecrate it." ... "But whilst they were thus wholly intent on this barbarous work, and proceeded securely in its contrivance without any the least doubt of a prosperous success, behold! on a sudden, God miraculously disappointed all their hopes and designs, by the terrible conflagration unexpectedly breaking out at Newmarket. In which extraordinary event there was one remarkable passage, that is not so generally taken notice of, as, for the glory of God, and the confusion of his Majesty's enemies, it ought to be.
"For, after that the approaching fury of the flames had driven the king out of his own palace, his Majesty, at first, removed into another quarter of the town, remote from the fire, and, as yet, free from any annoyance of smoke and ashes. There his Majesty, finding he might be tolerably well accommodated, had resolved to stay, and continue his recreations as before, till the day first named for his journey back to London. But his Majesty had no sooner made that resolution, when the wind, as conducted by an invisible power from above, presently changed about, and blew the smoke and cinders directly on his new lodging, making them in a moment as untenable as the other. Upon this, his Majesty being put to a new shift, and not finding the like conveniency elsewhere, immediately declared, he would speedily return to Whitehall, as he did; which happening to be several days before the assassins expected him, or their preparations for the Rye were in readiness, it may justly give occasion to all the world to acknowledge, what one of the very conspirators could not but do, _that it was a providential fire._"--Pages 51_ et seq._
The proprietor of the Rye-house (for Rumbold was but a tenant) shocked at the intended purpose, for which it was to have been used, is said to have fired it with his own hand. This is the subject of a poem, called the Loyal Incendiary, or the generous _Boute-feu_.
10. The total ruin of those, who were directly involved in the Rye-house, was little to be regretted, had it not involved the fate of those who were pursuing reform, by means more manly and constitutional,--the fate of Russel, Essex, and Sidney.
Rumbold, "the one-eyed archer," fled to Holland, and came to Scotland with Argyle, on his ill-concerted expedition. He was singled out and pursued, after the dispersion of his companions in a skirmish. He defended himself with desperate resolution against two armed peasants, till a third, coming behind him with a pitch-fork, turned off his head-piece, when he was cut down and made prisoner, exclaiming, "Cruel countryman, to use me thus, while my face was to mine enemy." He suffered the doom of a traitor at Edinburgh, and maintained on the scaffold, with inflexible firmness, the principles in which he had lived. He could never believe, he said, that the many of human kind came into the world bridled and saddled, and the few with whips and spurs to ride them. "His rooted ingrained opinion, says Fountainhall, was for a republic against monarchy, to pull down which he thought a duty, and no sin." At his death, he declared, that were every hair of his head a man, he would venture them all in the good old cause.
11. "I must not," says Langbaine, "take the pains to acquaint my reader, that by the man on the pedestal, &c. is meant the late Lord Shaftesbury. I shall not pretend to pass my censure, whether he deserved this usage from our author or no, but leave it to the judgments of statesmen and politicians." Shaftesbury having been overturned in a carriage, received some internal injury which required a constant discharge by an issue in his side. Hence he was ridiculed under the name of _Tapski_. In a mock account of an apparition, stated to have appeared to Lady Gray, it says, "Bid Lord Shaftesbury have a care to his spigot--if he is tapt, all the plot will run out." _Ralph's History_, vol. i. p. 562. from a pamphlet in Lord Somers' collection. There are various allusions to this circumstance in the lampoons of the time. A satire called "The Hypocrite," written by Carryl, concludes thus:
His body thus and soul together vie. In vice's empire for the sovereignty; In ulcers shut this does abound in sin, Lazar without and Lucifer within. The silver pipe is no sufficient drain For the corruption of this little man; Who, though he ulcers have in every part, Is no where so corrupt as in his heart.
At length, in prosecution of this coarse and unhandsome jest, a sort of vessel with a turn-cock was constructed for holding wine, which was called a Shaftesbury, and used in the taverns of the royal party.
EPILOGUE
After our Æsop's fable shown to-day, I come to give the moral of the play. Feigned Zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace; But the last heat, Plain Dealing won the race: Plain Dealing for a jewel has been known; But ne'er till now the jewel of a crown. When heaven made man, to show the work divine, Truth was his image, stamped upon the coin: And when a king is to a God refined, On all he says and does he stamps his mind: This proves a soul without alloy, and pure; Kings, like their gold, should every touch endure. To dare in fields is valour; but how few Dare be so throughly valiant,--to be true! The name of great, let other kings affect: He's great indeed, the prince that is direct. His subjects know him now, and trust him more Than all their kings, and all their laws before. What safety could their public acts afford? Those he can break; but cannot break his word. So great a trust to him alone was due; Well have they trusted whom so well they knew. The saint, who walked on waves, securely trod, While he believed the beck'ning of his God; But when his faith no longer bore him out, Began to sink, as he began to doubt. Let us our native character maintain; 'Tis of our growth, to be sincerely plain. To excel in truth we loyally may strive, Set privilege against prerogative: He plights his faith, and we believe him just; His honour is to promise, ours to trust. Thus Britain's basis on a word is laid, As by a word the world itself was made[1].
Footnote: 1. From this Epilogue we learn, what is confirmed by many proofs elsewhere, that the attribute for which James desired to be distinguished and praised, was that of openness of purpose, and stern undeviating inflexibility of conduct. He scorned to disguise his designs, either upon the religion or the constitution of his country. He forgot that it was only the temporising concessions of his brother which secured his way to the throne, when his exclusion, or a civil war, seemed the only alternatives. His brother was the reed, which bent before the whirlwind, and recovered its erect posture when it had passed away; and James, the inflexible oak, which the first tempest rooted up for ever.
* * * * *
DON SEBASTIAN.
A
TRAGEDY.
_--Nec tarda senectus Debilitat vires animi, mutatque vigorem._ VIRG.
DON SEBASTIAN.
The following tragedy is founded upon the adventures supposed to have befallen Sebastian, king of Portugal, after the fatal battle of Alcazar. The reader may be briefly reminded of the memorable expedition of that gallant monarch to Africa, to signalize, against the Moors, his chivalry as a warrior, and his faith as a Christian. The ostensible pretext of invasion was the cause of Muly Mahomet, son of Abdalla, emperor of Morocco; upon whose death, his brother, Muly Moluch, had seized the crown, and driven his nephew into exile. The armies joined battle near Alcazar. The Portuguese, far inferior in number to the Moors, displayed the most desperate valour, and had nearly won the day, when Muly Moluch, who, though almost dying, was present on the field in a litter, fired with shame and indignation, threw himself on horseback, rallied his troops, renewed the combat, and, being carried back to his litter, immediately expired, with his finger placed on his lips, to impress on the chiefs, who surrounded him, the necessity of concealing his death. The Moors, rallied by their sovereign's dying exertion, surrounded, and totally routed, the army of Sebastian. Mahomet, the competitor for the throne of Morocco, was drowned in passing a river in his flight, and Sebastian, as his body was never found, probably perished in the same manner. But where the region of historical certainty ends, that of romantic tradition commences. The Portuguese, to whom the memory of their warlike sovereign was deservedly dear, grasped at the feeble hope which the uncertainty of his fate afforded, and long, with vain fondness, expected the return of Sebastian, to free them from the yoke of Spain. This mysterious termination of a hero's career, as it gave rise to various political intrigues, (for several persons assumed the name and character of Sebastian,) early afforded a subject for exercising the fancy of the dramatist and romance writer. "The Battle of Alcazar[1]" is known to the collectors of old plays; a ballad on the same subject is reprinted in Evans's collection; and our author mentions a French novel on the adventures of Don Sebastian, to which Langbaine also refers.
The situation of Dryden, after the Revolution, was so delicate as to require great caution and attention, both in his choice of a subject, and his mode of treating it. His distressed circumstances and lessened income compelled him to come before the public as an author; while the odium attached to the proselyte of a hated religion, and the partizan of a depressed faction, was likely, upon the slightest pretext, to transfer itself from the person of the poet to the labours on which his support depended. He was, therefore, not only obliged to chuse a theme, which had no offence in it, and to treat it in a manner which could not admit of misconstruction, but also so to exert the full force of his talents, as, by the conspicuous pre-eminence of his genius, to bribe prejudice and silence calumny. An observing reader will accordingly discover, throughout the following tragedy, symptoms of minute finishing, and marks of accurate attention, which, in our author's better days, he deigned not to bestow upon productions, to which his name alone was then sufficient to give weight and privilege. His choice of a subject was singularly happy: the name of Sebastian awaked historical recollections and associations, favourable to the character of his hero; while the dark uncertainty of his fate removed all possibility of shocking the audience by glaring offence against the majesty of historical truth. The subject has, therefore, all the advantages of a historical play, without the detects, which either a rigid coincidence with history, or a violent contradiction of known truth, seldom fail to bring along with them. Dryden appears from his preface to have been fully sensible of this; and he has not lost the advantage of a happy subject by treating it with the carelessness he sometimes allowed himself to indulge.
The characters in "Don Sebastian" are contrasted with singular ability and judgment. Sebastian, high-spirited and fiery; the soul of royal and military honour; the soldier and the king; almost embodies the idea which the reader forms at the first mention of his name. Dorax, to whom he is so admirable a contrast, is one of those characters whom the strong hand of adversity has wrested from their natural bias; and perhaps no equally vivid picture can be found, of a subject so awfully interesting. Born with a strong tendency to all that was honourable and virtuous, the very excess of his virtues became vice, when his own ill fate, and Sebastian's injustice, had driven him into exile. By comparing, as Dryden has requested, the character of Dorax, in the fifth act, with that he maintains in the former part of the play, the difference may be traced betwixt his natural virtues, and the vices engrafted on them by headlong passion and embittering calamity. There is no inconsistence in the change which takes place after his scene with Sebastian; as was objected by those, whom the poet justly terms, "the more ignorant sort of creatures." It is the same picture in a new light; the same ocean in tempest and in calm; the same traveller, whom sunshine has induced to abandon his cloak, which the storm only forced him to wrap more closely around him. The principal failing of Dorax is the excess of pride, which renders each supposed wound to his honour more venomously acute; yet he is not devoid of gentler affections, though even in indulging these the hardness of his character is conspicuous. He loves Violante, but that is a far subordinate feeling to his affection for Sebastian. Indeed, his love appears so inferior to his loyal devotion to his king, that, unless to gratify the taste of the age, I see little reason for its being introduced at all. It is obvious he was much more jealous of the regard of his sovereign, than of his mistress; he never mentions Violante till the scene of explanation with Sebastian; and he appears hardly to have retained a more painful recollection of his disappointment in that particular, than of the general neglect and disgrace he had sustained at the court of Lisbon. The last stage of a virtuous heart, corroded into evil by wounded pride, has been never more forcibly displayed than in the character of Dorax. When once induced to take the fatal step which degraded him in his own eyes, all his good affections seem to be converted into poison. The religion, which displays itself in the fifth act in his arguments against suicide, had, in his efforts to justify his apostacy, or at least to render it a matter of no moment, been exchanged for sentiments approaching, perhaps to atheism, certainly to total scepticism. His passion for Violante is changed into contempt and hatred for her sex, which he expresses in the coarsest terms. His feelings of generosity, and even of humanity, are drowned in the gloomy and stern misanthropy, which has its source in the self-discontent that endeavours to wreak itself upon others. This may be illustrated by his unfeeling behaviour, while Alvarez and Antonio, well known to him in former days, approach, and draw the deadly lot, which ratifies their fate. No yielding of compassion, no recollection of former friendship, has power to alter the cold and sardonic sarcasm with which he sketches their characters, and marks their deportment in that awful moment. Finally, the zealous attachment of Alonzo for his king, which, in its original expression, partakes of absolute devotion, is changed, by the circumstances of Dorax, into an irritated and frantic jealousy, which he mistakes for hatred; and which, in pursuing the destruction of its object, is almost more inveterate than hatred itself. Nothing has survived of the original Alonzo at the opening of the piece, except the gigantic passion which has caused his ruin. This character is drawn on a large scale, and in a heroic proportion; but it is so true to nature, that many readers must have lamented, even within the circle of domestic acquaintance, instances of feelings hardened, and virtues perverted, where a high spirit has sustained severe and unjust neglect and disgrace. The whole demeanour of this exquisite character suits the original sketch. From "the long stride and sullen port," by which Benducar distinguishes him at a distance, to the sullen stubbornness with which he obeys, or the haughty contempt with which he resists, the commands of the peremptory tyrant under whom he had taken service, all announce the untamed pride which had robbed Dorax of virtue, and which yet, when Benducar would seduce him into a conspiracy, and in his conduct towards Sebastian, assumes the port and dignity of virtue herself. In all his conduct and bearing, there is that mixed feeling and impulse, which constitutes the real spring of human action. The true motive of Alonzo in saving Sebastian, is not purely that of honourable hatred, which he proposes to himself; for to himself every man endeavours to appear consistent, and readily find arguments to prove to himself that he is so. Neither is his conduct to be ascribed altogether to the gentler feelings of loyal and friendly affection, relenting at the sight of his sovereign's ruin, and impending death. It is the result of a mixture of these opposite sensations, clashing against each other like two rivers at their conflux, yet urging their united course down the same channel. Actuated by a mixture of these feelings, Dorax meets Sebastian; and the art of the poet is displayed in that admirable scene, by suggesting a natural motive to justify to the injured subject himself the change of the course of his feelings. As his jealousy of Sebastian's favour, and resentment of his unjust neglect, was chiefly founded on the avowed preference which the king had given to Henriquez, the opportune mention of his rival's death, by removing the cause of that jealousy, gives the renegade an apology to his own pride, for throwing himself at the feet of that very sovereign, whom a moment before he was determined to force to combat. They are little acquainted with human passions, at least have only witnessed their operations among men of common minds, who doubt, that at the height of their very spring-tide, they are often most susceptible of sudden changes; revolutions, which seem to those who have not remarked how nearly the most opposite feelings are allied and united, the most extravagant and unaccountable. Muly Moluch is an admirable specimen of that very frequent theatrical character,--a stage tyrant. He is fierce and boisterous enough to be sufficiently terrible and odious, and that without much rant, considering he is an infidel Soldan, who, from the ancient deportment of Mahomed and Termagaunt, as they appeared in the old Mysteries, might claim a prescriptive right to tear a passion to tatters. Besides, the Moorish emperor has fine glances of savage generosity, and that free, unconstrained, and almost noble openness, the only good quality, perhaps, which a consciousness of unbounded power may encourage in a mind so firm as not to be totally depraved by it. The character of Muly Moluch, like that of Morat, in "Aureng-Zebe," to which it bears a strong resemblance, was admirably represented by Kynaston; who had, says Cibber, "a fierce lion-like majesty in his port and utterance, that gave the spectator a kind of trembling admiration." It is enough to say of Benducar, that the cool, fawning, intriguing, and unprincipled statesman, is fully developed in his whole conduct; and of Alvarez, that the little he has to say and do, is so said and done, as not to disgrace his common-place character of the possessor of the secret on which the plot depends; for it may be casually observed, that the depositary of such a clew to the catastrophe, though of the last importance to the plot, is seldom himself of any interest whatever. The haughty and high-spirited Almeyda is designed by the author as the counterpart of Sebastian. She breaks out with the same violence, I had almost said fury, and frequently discovers a sort of kindred sentiment, intended to prepare the reader for the unfortunate discovery, that she is the sister of the Portuguese monarch.
Of the diction, Dr Johnson has said, with meagre commendation, that it has "some sentiments which leave a strong impression," and "others of excellence, universally acknowledged." This, even when the admiration of the scene betwixt Dorax and Sebastian has been sanctioned by that great critic, seems scanty applause for the _chef d'oeuvre_ of Dryden's dramatic works. The reader will be disposed to look for more unqualified praise, when such a poet was induced, by every pressing consideration, to combine, in one effort, the powers of his mighty genius, and the fruits of his long theatrical experience: Accordingly, Shakespeare laid aside, it will be perhaps difficult to point out a play containing more animatory incident, impassioned language, and beautiful description, than "Don Sebastian." Of the former, the scene betwixt Dorax and the king, had it been the only one ever Dryden wrote, would have been sufficient to insure his immortality. There is not,--no, perhaps, not even in Shakespeare,--an instance where the chord, which the poet designed should vibrate, is more happily struck; strains there are of a higher mood, but not more correctly true; in evidence of which, we have known those, whom distresses of a gentler nature were unable to move, feel their stubborn feelings roused and melted by the injured pride and deep repentance of Dorax. The burst of anguish with which he answers the stern taunt of Sebastian, is one of those rare, but natural instances, in which high-toned passion assumes a figurative language, because all that is familiar seems inadequate to express its feelings:
_Dor._ Thou hast dared To tell me, what I durst not tell myself: I durst not think that I was spurned, and live; And live to hear it boasted to my face. All my long avarice of honour lost, Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age! Has honour's fountain then sucked back the stream? He has; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass, And gather pebbles from the naked ford. Give me my love, my honour; give them back-- Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it!
But I will not dwell on the beauties of this scene. If any one is incapable of relishing it, he may safely conclude, that nature has not merely denied him that rare gift, poetical taste, but common powers of comprehending the ordinary feelings of humanity. The love scene, betwixt Sebastian and Almeyda, is more purely conceived, and expressed with more reference to sentiment, than is common with our author. The description which Dorax gives of Sebastian, before his appearance, coming from a mortal enemy, at least from one whose altered love was as envenomed as hatred, is a grand preparation for the appearance of the hero. In many of the slighter descriptive passages, we recognize the poet by those minute touches, which a mind susceptible of poetic feeling is alone capable of bringing out. The approach of the emperor, while the conspirators are caballing, is announced by Orchan, with these picturesque circumstances:
I see the blaze of torches from afar, And hear the trampling of thick-beating feet-- This way they move.--
The following account, given by the slave sent to observe what passed in the castle of Dorax, believed to be dead, or dying, is equally striking:
_Haly._ Two hours I warily have watched his palace: All doors are shut, no servant peeps abroad; Some officers, with striding haste, past in; While others outward went on quick dispatch. Sometimes hushed silence seemed to reign within; Then cries confused, and a joint clamour followed; Then lights went gliding by, from room to room, And shot like thwarting meteors cross the house. Not daring further to inquire, I came With speed to bring you this imperfect news.
The description of the midnight insurrection of the rabble is not less impressive:
_Ham._ What you wish: The streets are thicker in this noon of night, Than at the mid-day sun: A drouzy horror Sits on their eyes, like fear, not well awake: All crowd in heaps, as, at a night alarm, The bees drive out upon each others backs, T'imboss their hives in clusters; all ask news: Their busy captain runs the weary round To whisper orders; and, commanding silence, Makes not noise cease, but deafens it to murmurs.
These illustrations are designedly selected from the parts of the lower characters, because they at once evince the diligence and success with which Dryden has laboured even the subordinate points of this tragedy.
"Don Sebastian" has been weighed, with reference to its tragic merits, against "Love for Love;" and one or other is universally allowed to be the first of Dryden's dramatic performances. To the youth of both sexes the latter presents the most pleasing subject of emotion; but to those whom age has rendered incredulous upon the romantic effects of love, and who do not fear to look into the recesses of the human heart, when agitated by darker and more stubborn passions, "Don Sebastian" offers a far superior source of gratification.
To point out the blemishes of so beautiful a tragedy, is a painful, though a necessary, task. The style, here and there, exhibits marks of a reviving taste for those frantic bursts of passion, which our author has himself termed the "Dalilahs of the theatre." The first speech of Sebastian has been often noticed as an extravagant rant, more worthy of Maximin, or Almanzor, than of a character drawn by our author in his advanced years, and chastened taste:
I beg no pity for this mouldering clay; For if you give it burial, there it takes Possession of your earth: If burnt and scatter'd in the air, the winds, That strew my dust, diffuse my royalty, And spread me o'er your clime; for where one atom Of mine shall light, know, there Sebastian reigns.
The reader's discernment will discover some similar extravagancies in the language of Almeyda and the Emperor.
It is a separate objection, that the manners of the age and country are not adhered to. Sebastian, by disposition a crusading knight-errant, devoted to religion and chivalry, becomes, in the hands of Dryden, merely a gallant soldier and high-spirited prince, such as existed in the poet's own days. But, what is worse, the manners of Mahometans are shockingly violated. Who ever heard of human sacrifices, or of any sacrifices, being offered up to Mahomet[2]; and when were his followers able to use the classical and learned allusions which occur throughout the dialogue! On this last topic Addison makes the following observations, in the "Guardian," No. 110.
"I have now Mr Dryden's "Don Sebastian" before me, in which I find frequent allusions to ancient poetry, and the old mythology of the heathens. It is not very natural to suppose a king of Portugal would be borrowing thoughts out of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," when he talked even to those of his own court; but to allude to these Roman fables, when he talks to an emperor of Barbary, seems very extraordinary. But observe how he defies him out of the classics in the following lines:
Why didst not thou engage me man to man, And try the virtue of that Gorgon face, To stare me into statue?
"Almeyda, at the same time, is more book-learned than Don Sebastian. She plays an Hydra upon the Emperor, that is full as good as the Gorgon:
O that I had the fruitful heads of Hydra, That one might bourgeon where another fell! Still would I give thee work, still, still, thou tyrant, And hiss thee with the last.
"She afterwards, in allusion to Hercules, bids him 'lay down the lion's skin, and take the distaff;' and, in the following speech, utters her passion still more learnedly:
No; were we joined, even though it were in death, Our bodies burning in one funeral pile, The prodigy of Thebes would be renewed, And my divided flame should break from thine.
"The emperor of Barbary shews himself acquainted with the Roman poets as well as either of his prisoners, and answers the foregoing speech in the same classic strain:
Serpent, I will engender poison with thee: Our offspring, like the seed of dragon's teeth, Shall issue armed, and fight themselves to death.
"Ovid seems to have been Muley-Moloch's favourite author; witness the lines that follow:
She, still inexorable, still imperious, And loud, as if, like Bacchus, born in thunder.
"I shall conclude my remarks on his part with that poetical complaint of his being in love; and leave my reader to consider, how prettily it would sound in the mouth of an emperor of Morocco:
The god of love once more has shot his fires Into my soul, and my whole heart receives him.
"Muley Zeydan is as ingenious a man as his brother Muley Moloch; as where he hints at the story of Castor and Pollux:
May we ne'er meet; For, like the twins of Leda, when I mount, He gallops down the skies.
"As for the Mufti, we will suppose that he was bred up a scholar, and not only versed in the law of Mahomet, but acquainted with all kinds of polite learning. For this reason he is not at all surprised when Dorax calls him a Phæton in one place, and in another tells him he is like Archimedes.
"The Mufti afterwards mentions Ximenes, Albornoz, and cardinal Wolsey, by name. The poet seems to think, he may make every person, in his play, know as much as himself, and talk as well as he could have done on the same occasion. At least, I believe, every reader will agree with me, that the above-mentioned sentiments, to which I might have added several others, would have been better suited to the court of Augustus than that of Muley Moloch. I grant they are beautiful in themselves, and much more so in that noble language, which was peculiar to this great poet. I only observe, that they are improper for the persons who make use of them."
The catastrophe of the tragedy may be also censured, not only on the grounds objected to that of "OEdipus," but because it does not naturally flow from the preceding events, and opens, in the fifth act, a new set of persons, and a train of circumstances, unconnected with the preceding action. In the concluding scene, it was remarked, by the critics, that there is a want of pure taste in the lovers dwelling more upon the pleasures than the horrors of their incestuous connection.
Of the lighter scenes, which were intended for comic, Dr Johnson has said, "they are such as that age did not probably commend, and as the present would not endure." Dryden has remarked, with self-complacency, the art with which they are made to depend upon the serious business. This has not, however, the merit of novelty; being not unlike the connection between the tragic and comic scenes of the "Spanish Friar." The persons introduced have also some resemblance; though the gaiety of Antonio is far more gross than that of Lorenzo, and Morayma is a very poor copy of Elvira. It is rather surprising, that when a gay libertine was to be introduced, Dryden did not avail himself of a real character, the English Stukely; a wild gallant, who, after spending a noble fortune, became the leader of a band of Italian Condottieri, engaged in the service of Sebastian, and actually fell in the battle of Alcazar. Collier complains, and with very good reason, that, in the character of the Mufti, Dryden has seized an opportunity to deride and calumniate the priesthood of every religion; an opportunity which, I am sorry to say, he seldom fails to use with unjustifiable inveteracy. The rabble scenes were probably given, as our author himself says of that in Cleomenes, "to gratify the more barbarous part of the audience." Indeed, to judge from the practice of the drama at this time, the representation of a riot upon the stage seems to have had the same charms for the popular part of the English audience, which its reality always possesses in the streets.
Notwithstanding the excellence of this tragedy, it appears to have been endured, rather than applauded, at its first representation; although, being judiciously curtailed, it soon became a great favourite with the public[3]; and, omitting the comic scenes, may be again brought forward with advantage, when the public shall be tired of children and of show. The tragedy of "Don Sebastian" was acted and printed in 1690.
Footnotes: 1. "The Battle of Alcazar, with Captain Stukely's death, acted by the Lord High Admiral's servants, 1594," 4to. Baker thinks Dryden might have taken the hint of "Don Sebastian" from this old play. Shakespeare drew from it some of the bouncing rants of Pistol, as, "Feed, and be fat; my fair Callipolis," &c.
2. In a Zambra dance, introduced in the "Conquest of Granada," our author had previously introduced the Moors bowing to the image of Jupiter; a gross solecism, hardly more pardonable, as Langbaine remarks, than the introduction of a pistol in the hand of Demetrius, a successor of Alexander the Great, which Dryden has justly censured.
3. Langbaine says, it was acted "with great applause;" but this must refer to its reception after the first night; for the author's own expressions, that "the audience endured it with much patience, and were weary with much good nature and silence," exclude the idea of a brilliant reception on the first representation. See the beginning of the Preface.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
PHILIP,
EARL OF LEICESTER, &c.[1]
Far be it from me, my most noble lord, to think, that any thing which my meanness can produce, should be worthy to be offered to your patronage; or that aught which I can say of you should recommend you farther to the esteem of good men in this present age, or to the veneration which will certainly be paid you by posterity. On the other side, I must acknowledge it a great presumption in me, to make you this address; and so much the greater, because by the common suffrage even of contrary parties, you have been always regarded as one of the first persons of the age, and yet not one writer has dared to tell you so; whether we have been all conscious to ourselves that it was a needless labour to give this notice to mankind, as all men are ashamed to tell stale news; or that we were justly diffident of our own performances, as even Cicero is observed to be in awe when he writes to Atticus; where, knowing himself over-matched in good sense, and truth of knowledge, he drops the gaudy train of words, and is no longer the vain-glorious orator. From whatever reason it may be, I am the first bold offender of this kind: I have broken down the fence, and ventured into the holy grove. How I may be punished for my profane attempt, I know not; but I wish it may not be of ill omen to your lordship: and that a crowd of bad writers do not rush into the quiet of your recesses after me. Every man in all changes of government, which have been, or may possibly arrive, will agree, that I could not have offered my incense, where it could be so well deserved. For you, my lord, are secure in your own merit; and all parties, as they rise uppermost, are sure to court you in their turns; it is a tribute which has ever been paid your virtue. The leading men still bring their bullion to your mint, to receive the stamp of their intrinsic value, that they may afterwards hope to pass with human kind. They rise and fall in the variety of revolutions, and are sometimes great, and therefore wise in men's opinions, who must court them for their interest. But the reputation of their parts most commonly follows their success; few of them are wise, but as they are in power; because indeed, they have no sphere of their own, but, like the moon in the Copernican system of the world, are whirled about by the motion of a greater planet. This it is to be ever busy; neither to give rest to their fellow-creatures, nor, which is more wretchedly ridiculous, to themselves; though, truly, the latter is a kind of justice, and giving mankind a due revenge, that they will not permit their own hearts to be at quiet, who disturb the repose of all beside them. Ambitious meteors! how willing they are to set themselves upon the wing, and taking every occasion of drawing upward to the sun, not considering that they have no more time allowed them for their mounting, than the short revolution of a day; and that when the light goes from them, they are of necessity to fall. How much happier is he, (and who he is I need not say, for there is but one phoenix in an age) who, centering on himself, remains immoveable, and smiles at the madness of the dance about him? he possesses the midst, which is the portion of safety and content. He will not be higher, because he needs it not; but by the prudence of that choice, he puts it out of fortune's power to throw him down. It is confest, that if he had not so been born, he might have been too high for happiness; but not endeavouring to ascend, he secures the native height of his station from envy, and cannot descend from what he is, because he depends not on another. What a glorious character was this once in Rome! I should say, in Athens; when, in the disturbances of a state as mad as ours, the wise Pomponius transported all the remaining wisdom and virtue of his country into the sanctuary of peace and learning. But I would ask the world, (for you, my lord, are too nearly concerned to judge this cause) whether there may not yet be found a character of a noble Englishman, equally shining with that illustrious Roman? Whether I need to name a second Atticus? or whether the world has not already prevented me, and fixed it there, without my naming? Not a second, with a _longo sed proximus intervallo_; not a young Marcellus, flattered by a poet into the resemblance of the first, with a _frons læta parum, et dejecto lumina vultu_, and the rest that follows, _si qua fata aspera rumpas, tu Marcellus eris_; but a person of the same stamp and magnitude, who owes nothing to the former, besides the word Roman, and the superstition of reverence, devolving on him by the precedency of eighteen hundred years; one who walks by him with equal paces, and shares the eyes of beholders with him; one who had been first, had he first lived; and, in spite of doating veneration, is still his equal: both of them born of noble families, in unhappy ages of change and tumult; both of them retiring from affairs of state; yet not leaving the commonwealth, till it had left itself; but never returning to public business, when they had once quitted it, though courted by the heads of either party. But who would trust the quiet of their lives with the extravagancies of their countrymen, when they are just in the giddiness of their turning; when the ground was tottering under them at every moment; and none could guess whether the next heave of the earthquake would settle them on the first foundation, or swallow it? Both of them knew mankind exactly well, for both of them began that study in themselves, and there they found the best part of human composition; the worst they learned by long experience of the folly, ignorance, and immorality of most beside them. Their philosophy, on both sides, was not wholly speculative, for that is barren, and produces nothing but vain ideas of things which cannot possibly be known, or, if they could, yet would only terminate in the understanding; but it was a noble, vigorous and practical philosophy, which exerted itself in all the offices of pity, to those who were unfortunate, and deserved not so to be. The friend was always more considered by them than the cause; and an Octavius, or an Antony in distress, were relieved by them, as well as a Brutus or a Cassius; for the lowermost party, to a noble mind, is ever the fittest object of good-will. The eldest of them, I will suppose, for his honour, to have been of the academic sect, neither dogmatist nor stoick; if he were not, I am sure he ought, in common justice, to yield the precedency to his younger brother. For stiffness of opinion is the effect of pride, and not of philosophy; it is a miserable presumption of that knowledge which human nature is too narrow to contain; and the ruggedness of a stoick is only a silly affectation of being a god,--to wind himself up by pullies to an insensibility of suffering, and, at the same time, to give the lie to his own experience, by saying he suffers not, what he knows he feels. True philosophy is certainly of a more pliant nature, and more accommodated to human use; _Homo sum, humani à me nihil alienum puto._ A wise man will never attempt an impossibility; and such it is to strain himself beyond the nature of his being, either to become a deity, by being above suffering, or to debase himself into a stock or stone, by pretending not to feel it. To find in ourselves the weaknesses and imperfections of our wretched kind, is surely the most reasonable step we can make towards the compassion of our fellow-creatures. I could give examples of this kind in the second Atticus. In every turn of state, without meddling on either side, he has always been favourable and assisting to opprest merit. The praises which were given by a great poet to the late queen-mother, on her rebuilding Somerset Palace, one part of which was fronting to the mean houses on the other side of the water, are as justly his:
For the distrest and the afflicted lie Most in his thoughts, and always in his eye[2].
Neither has he so far forgotten a poor inhabitant of his suburbs, whose best prospect is on the garden of Leicester House, but that more than once he has been offering him his patronage, to reconcile him to a world, of which his misfortunes have made him weary[3]. There is another Sidney still remaining, though there can never be another Spenser to deserve the favour. But one Sidney gave his patronage to the applications of a poet; the other offered it unasked. Thus, whether as a second Atticus, or a second Sir Philip Sidney, the latter in all respects will not have the worse of the comparison; and if he will take up with the second place, the world will not so far flatter his modesty, as to seat him there, unless it be out of a deference of manners, that he may place himself where he pleases at his own table.
I may therefore safely conclude, that he, who, by the consent of all men, bears so eminent a character, will out of his inborn nobleness forgive the presumption of this address. It is an unfinished picture, I confess, but the lines and features are so like, that it cannot be mistaken for any other; and without writing any name under it, every beholder must cry out, at first sight,--this was designed for Atticus; but the bad artist has cast too much of him into shades. But I have this excuse, that even the greatest masters commonly fall short of the best faces. They may flatter an indifferent beauty; but the excellencies of nature can have no right done to them; for there both the pencil and pen are overcome by the dignity of the subject; as our admirable Waller has expressed it,
The heroe's race transcends the poet's thought.
There are few in any age who can bear the load of a dedication; for where praise is undeserved, it is satire; though satire on folly is now no longer a scandal to any one person, where a whole age is dipt together. Yet I had rather undertake a multitude one way, than a single Atticus the other; for it is easier to descend than it is to climb. I should have gone ashamed out of the world, if I had not at least attempted this address, which I have long thought owing: and if I had never attempted, I might have been vain enough to think I might have succeeded in it. Now I have made the experiment, and have failed through my unworthiness, I may rest satisfied, that either the adventure is not to be atchieved, or that it is reserved for some other hand.
Be pleased, therefore, since the family of the Attici is and ought to be above the common forms of concluding letters, that I may take my leave in the words of Cicero to the first of them: _Me, O Pomponi, valdè pænitet vivere: tantùm te oro, ut quoniam me ipse semper amàsti, ut eodem amore sis; ego nimirum idem sum. Inimici mei mea mihi non meipsum ademerunt. Cura, Attice, ut valeas._
Dabam. Cal. Jan. 1690.
Footnotes: 1. In order to escape as far as possible the odium, which after the Revolution was attached to Dryden's politics and religion, he seems occasionally to have sought for patrons amongst those Nobles of opposite principles, whom moderation, or love of literature, rendered superior to the suggestions of party rancour; or, as he himself has expressed it in the Dedication of "Amphitryon," who, though of a contrary opinion themselves, blamed him not for adhering to a lost cause, and judging for himself what he could not chuse but judge. Philip Sidney, the third earl of Leicester, had taken an active part against the king in the civil wars, had been named one of his judges, though he never look his seat among the regicides, and had been one of Cromwell's Council of State. He was brother of the famous Algernon Sidney, and although retired from party strife, during the violent contests betwixt the Whigs and Tories in 1682-3, there can be no doubt which way his inclinations leaned. He died 6th March, 1696-7, aged more than eighty years. Mr Malone has strongly censured the strain of this Dedication, because it represents Leicester as abstracted from parties and public affairs, notwithstanding his active share in the civil wars. Yet Dryden was not obliged to draw the portrait of his patron from his conduct thirty years before; and if Leicester's character was to be taken from the latter part of his life, surely the praise of moderation is due to him, who, during the factious contests of Charles II's. reign, in which his own brother made so conspicuous a figure, maintained the neutrality of Pomponius Atticus.
2. When Henrietta Maria, widow of Charles I. and queen-dowager of England, visited her son after the Restoration, she chose Somerset-House for her residence, and added all the buildings fronting the river. Cowley, whom she had long patronised, composed a poem on the "Queen's repairing Somerset-House," to which our author refers. Mr Malone's accuracy has detected a slight alteration in the verses, as quoted by Dryden, and as written by Cowley:
If any prouder virtuoso's sense At that part of my prospect take offence, By which the meaner cabanes are descried Of my imperial river's humbler side; If they call that a blemish, let them know, God and my godlike mistress think not so; For the distressed and the afflicted lie Most in _their care_, and always in _their_ eye.
3. Our poet's house was in Gerard-Street, looking upon the gardens of Leicester-House.
THE
PREFACE.
Whether it happened through a long disuse of writing, that I forgot the usual compass of a play, or that, by crowding it with characters and incidents, I put a necessity upon myself of lengthening the main action, I know not; but the first day's audience sufficiently convinced me of my error, and that the poem was insupportably too long. It is an ill ambition of us poets, to please an audience with more than they can bear; and supposing that we wrote as well as vainly we imagine ourselves to write, yet we ought to consider, that no man can bear to be long tickled. There is a nauseousness in a city-feast, when we are to sit four hours after we are cloyed. I am therefore, in the first place, to acknowledge, with all manner of gratitude, their civility, who were pleased to endure it with so much patience; to be weary with so much good-nature and silence; and not to explode an entertainment which was designed to please them, or discourage an author, whose misfortunes have once more brought him, against his will, upon the stage. While I continue in these bad circumstances, (and, truly, I see very little probability of coming out) I must be obliged to write; and if I may still hope for the same kind usage, I shall the less repent of that hard necessity. I write not this out of any expectation to be pitied, for I have enemies enow to wish me yet in a worse condition; but give me leave to say, that if I can please by writing, as I shall endeavour it, the town may be somewhat obliged to my misfortunes for a part of their diversion. Having been longer acquainted with the stage than any poet now living, and having observed how difficult it was to please; that the humours of comedy were almost spent; that love and honour (the mistaken topics of tragedy) were quite worn out; that the theatres could not support their charges; that the audience forsook them; that young men, without learning, set up for judges, and that they talked loudest, who understood the least; all these discouragements had not only weaned me from the stage, but had also given me a loathing of it. But enough of this: the difficulties continue; they increase; and I am still condemned to dig in those exhausted mines.
Whatever fault I next commit, rest assured it shall not be that of too much length: Above twelve hundred lines have been cut off from this tragedy since it was first delivered to the actors. They were indeed so judiciously lopped by Mr Betterton, to whose care and excellent action I am equally obliged, that the connection of the story was not lost; but, on the other side, it was impossible to prevent some part of the action from being precipitated, and coming on without that due preparation which is required to all great events: as, in particular, that of raising the mobile, in the beginning of the fourth act, which a man of Benducar's cool character could not naturally attempt, without taking all those precautions, which he foresaw would be necessary to render his design successful. On this consideration, I have replaced those lines through the whole poem, and thereby restored it to that clearness of conception, and (if I may dare to say it) that lustre and masculine vigour, in which it was first written. It is obvious to every understanding reader, that the most poetical parts, which are descriptions, images, similitudes, and moral sentences, are those which of necessity were to be pared away, when the body was swollen into too large a bulk for the representation of the stage. But there is a vast difference betwixt a public entertainment on the theatre, and a private reading in the closet: In the first, we are confined to time; and though we talk not by the hour-glass, yet the watch often drawn out of the pocket warns the actors that their audience is weary; in the last, every reader is judge of his own convenience; he can take up the book and lay it down at his pleasure, and find out those beauties of propriety in thought and writing, which escaped him in the tumult and hurry of representing. And I dare boldly promise for this play, that in the roughness of the numbers and cadences, (which I assure was not casual, but so designed) you will see somewhat more masterly arising to your view, than in most, if not any, of my former tragedies. There is a more noble daring in the figures, and more suitable to the loftiness of the subject; and, besides this, some newnesses of English, translated from the beauties of modern tongues, as well as from the elegancies of the Latin; and here and there some old words are sprinkled, which, for their significance and sound, deserved not to be antiquated; such as we often find in Sallust amongst the Roman authors, and in Milton's "Paradise" amongst ours; though perhaps the latter, instead of sprinkling, has dealt them with too free a hand, even sometimes to the obscuring of his sense.
As for the story, or plot, of the tragedy, it is purely fiction; for I take it up where the history has laid it down. We are assured by all writers of those times, that Sebastian, a young prince of great courage and expectation, undertook that war, partly upon a religious account, partly at the solicitation of Muley Mahomet, who had been driven out of his dominions by Abdelmelech, or, as others call him, Muley Moluch, his nigh kinsman, who descended from the same family of Xeriffs, whose fathers, Hamet and Mahomet, had conquered that empire with joint forces, and shared it betwixt them after their victory; that the body of Don Sebastian was never found in the field of battle, which gave occasion for many to believe, that he was not slain[1]; that some years after, when the Spaniards, with a pretended title, by force of arms, had usurped the crown of Portugal from the house of Braganza, a certain person, who called himself Don Sebastian, and had all the marks of his body and features of his face, appeared at Venice, where he was owned by some of his countrymen; but being seized by the Spaniards, was first imprisoned, then sent to the gallies, and at last put to death in private. It is most certain, that the Portuguese expected his return for almost an age together after that battle, which is at least a proof of their extreme love to his memory; and the usage they had from their new conquerors, might possibly make them so extravagant in their hopes and wishes for their old master[2].
This ground-work the history afforded me, and I desire no better to build a play upon; for where the event of a great action is left doubtful, there the poet is left master. He may raise what he pleases on that foundation, provided he makes it of a piece, and according to the rule of probability. From hence I was only obliged, that Sebastian should return to Portugal no more; but at the same time I had him at my own disposal, whether to bestow him in Afric, or in any other corner of the world, or to have closed the tragedy with his death; and the last of these was certainly the most easy, but for the same reason the least artful; because, as I have somewhere said, the poison and the dagger are still at hand to butcher a hero, when a poet wants the brains to save him. It being therefore only necessary, according to the laws of the drama, that Sebastian should no more be seen upon the throne, I leave it for the world to judge, whether or no I have disposed of him according to art, or have bungled up the conclusion of his adventure. In the drawing of his character, I forgot not piety, which any one may observe to be one principal ingredient of it, even so far as to be a habit in him; though I shew him once to be transported from it by the violence of a sudden passion, to endeavour a self-murder. This being presupposed, that he was religious, the horror of his incest, though innocently committed, was the best reason which the stage could give for hindering his return. It is true, I have no right to blast his memory with such a crime; but declaring it to be fiction, I desire my audience to think it no longer true, than while they are seeing it represented; for that once ended, he may be a saint, for aught I know, and we have reason to presume he is. On this supposition, it was unreasonable to have killed him; for the learned Mr Rymer has well observed, that in all punishments we are to regulate ourselves by poetical justice; and according to those measures, an involuntary sin deserves not death; from whence it follows, that to divorce himself from the beloved object, to retire into a desert, and deprive himself of a throne, was the utmost punishment which a poet could inflict, as it was also the utmost reparation which Sebastian could make. For what relates to Almeyda, her part is wholly fictitious. I know it is the surname of a noble family in Portugal, which was very instrumental in the restoration of Don John de Braganza, father to the most illustrious and most pious princess, our queen-dowager. The French author of a novel, called "Don Sebastian," has given that name to an African lady of his own invention, and makes her sister to Muley Mahomet; but I have wholly changed the accidents, and borrowed nothing but the supposition, that she was beloved by the king of Portugal. Though, if I had taken the whole story, and wrought it up into a play, I might have done it exactly according to the practice of almost all the ancients, who were never accused of being plagiaries for building their tragedies on known fables. Thus, Augustus Cæsar wrote an "Ajax," which was not the less his own, because Euripides had written a play before him on that subject. Thus, of late years, Corneille writ an "OEdipus" after Sophocles; and I have designed one after him, which I wrote with Mr Lee; yet neither the French poet stole from the Greek, nor we from the Frenchman. It is the contrivance, the new turn, and new characters, which alter the property, and make it ours. The _materia poetica_ is as common to all writers, as the _materia medica_ to all physicians. Thus, in our Chronicles, Daniel's history is still his own, though Matthew Paris, Stow, and Hollingshed writ before him; otherwise we must have been content with their dull relations, if a better pen had not been allowed to come after them, and writ his own account after a new and better manner.
I must further declare freely, that I have not exactly kept to the three mechanic rules of unity. I knew them, and had them in my eye, but followed them only at a distance; for the genius of the English cannot bear too regular a play: we are given to variety, even to a debauchery of pleasure. My scenes are therefore sometimes broken, because my underplot required them so to be, though the general scene remains,--of the same castle; and I have taken the time of two days, because the variety of accidents, which are here represented, could not naturally be supposed to arrive in one: but to gain a greater beauty, it is lawful for a poet to supersede a less.
I must likewise own, that I have somewhat deviated from the known history, in the death of Muley Moluch, who, by all relations, died of a fever in the battle, before his army had wholly won the field; but if I have allowed him another day of life, it was because I stood in need of so shining a character of brutality as I have given him; which is indeed the same with that of the present emperor Muley-Ishmael, as some of our English officers, who have been in his court, have credibly informed me.
I have been listening--what objections had been made against the conduct of the play; but found them all so trivial, that if I should name them, a true critic would imagine that I played booty, and only raised up phantoms for myself to conquer. Some are pleased to say--the writing is dull; but, _ætatem habet, de se loquatur._ Others, that the double poison is unnatural: let the common received opinion, and Ausonius his famous epigram, answer that[3]. Lastly, a more ignorant sort of creatures than either of the former maintain, that the character of Dorax is not only unnatural, but inconsistent with itself: let them read the play, and think again; and if yet they are not satisfied, cast their eyes on that chapter of the wise Montaigne, which is intitled, _De l'Inconstance des Actions humaines_. A longer reply is what those cavillers deserve not; but I will give them and their fellows to understand, that the earl of Dorset was pleased to read the tragedy twice over before it was acted, and did me the favour to send me word, that I had written beyond any of my former plays, and that he was displeased any thing should be cut away. If I have not reason to prefer his single judgment to a whole faction, let the world be judge; for the opposition is the same with that of Lucan's hero against an army; _concurrere bellum, atque virum_.
I think I may modestly conclude, that whatever errors there may be, either in the design, or writing of this play, they are not those which have been objected to it. I think also, that I am not yet arrived to the age of doting; and that I have given so much application to this poem, that I could not probably let it run into many gross absurdities; which may caution my enemies from too rash a censure, and may also encourage my friends, who are many more than I could reasonably have expected, to believe their kindness has not been very undeservedly bestowed on me. This is not a play that was huddled up in haste; and, to shew it was not, I will own, that, besides the general moral of it, which is given in the four last lines, there is also another moral, couched under every one of the principal parts and characters, which a judicious critic will observe, though I point not to it in this preface. And there may be also some secret beauties in the decorum of parts, and uniformity of design, which my puny judges will not easily find out: let them consider in the last scene of the fourth act, whether I have not preserved the rule of decency, in giving all the advantage to the royal character, and in making Dorax first submit. Perhaps too they may have thought, that it was through indigence of characters that I have given the same to Sebastian and Almeyda, and consequently made them alike in all things but their sex. But let them look a little deeper into the matter, and they will find, that this identity of character in the greatness of their souls was intended for a preparation of the final discovery, and that the likeness of their nature was a fair hint to the proximity of their blood.
To avoid the imputation of too much vanity, (for all writers, and especially poets, will have some,) I will give but one other instance, in relation to the uniformity of the design. I have observed, that the English will not bear a thorough tragedy; but are pleased, that it should be lightened with underparts of mirth. It had been easy for me to have given my audience a better course of comedy, I mean a more diverting, than that of Antonio and Morayma; but I dare appeal, even to my enemies, if I, or any man, could have invented one, which had been more of a piece, and more depending on the serious part of the design. For what could be more uniform, than to draw from out of the members of a captive court, the subject of a comical entertainment? To prepare this episode, you see Dorax giving the character of Antonio, in the beginning of the play, upon his first sight of him at the lottery; and to make the dependence, Antonio is engaged, in the fourth act, for the deliverance of Almeyda; which is also prepared, by his being first made a slave to the captain of the rabble.
I should beg pardon for these instances; but perhaps they may be of use to future poets, in the conduct of their plays; at least, if I appear too positive, I am growing old, and thereby in possession of some experience, which men in years will always assume for a right of talking. Certainly if a man can ever have reason to set a value on himself, it is when his ungenerous enemies are taking the advantage of the times upon him, to ruin him in his reputation. And therefore, for once, I will make bold to take the counsel of my old master Virgil,
_Tu ne cede mails, sed contrà audentior ito._
Footnotes: 1. There was a Portuguese prophecy to this purpose, which they applied to the expected return of Sebastian:
_Vendra et Incubierto, Vendra cierto; Entrera en el huerto, Per el puerto, Questa mas a ca del muro; Y'lo que paresce escuro, Se vra claro e abierto._
Two false Sebastians, both hermits, laid claim to the throne of Portugal. One was hanged, and the other died in the galleys. Vide _Le Quien's Histoire Generale de Portugal_.--There are two tracts which appear to regard the last of these impostors, and which may have furnished our author with some slight hints; namely, "The true History of the late and lamentable Adventures of Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, after his imprisonment at Naples until this present day, being now in Spain, at San Lucar de Barrameda.--1602;" and, "A continuation of the lamentable and admirable Adventures of Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, with a Declaration of all his time employed since the Battle in Africk against the Infidels, 1578, until this present year 1603. London, 1603." Both pieces are reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, Vols IV. and V.
2. The uncertainty of his fate is alluded to by Fletcher:
_Wittypate._ In what service have ye been, sir?
_Ruinous._ The first that fleshed me a soldier, sir, Was that great battle at Alcazar, in Barbary, Where the noble English Stukely fell, and where The royal Portugal Sebastian ended His untimely days.
_Wittypate._ Are you sure Sebastian died there?
_Ruinous._ Faith, sir, there was some other rumour hoped Amongst us, that he, wounded, escaped, and touched On his native shore again, where finding his country at home More distressed by the invasion of the Spaniard Than his loss abroad, forsook it, still supporting A miserable and unfortunate life, Which where he ended is yet uncertain. _Wit at several Weapons._
I have printed this quotation as I find it in the edition of 1778; though I am unable to discover what pretensions it claims to be arranged as blank verse.
3. _Toxica zelotypo dedit uxor mæcha marito, Nec satis ad mortem credidit esse datum. Micuit argenti letalia pondera vivi; Cogeret ut celerem vis geminata necem. Dividat hæc si quis, faciunt discreta venenum: Antidotum sumet, qui sociata bibet. Ergo inter sese dum noxia pocula certant, Cessit letalis noxa salutiferæ. Protinus et vacuos alvi petiere recessus Lubrica dejectis quà via nota cibis. Quàm pia cura déum! prodest crudelior uxor, Et quum fata volunt, bina venena juvant._
PROLOGUE
SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY AN UNKNOWN HAND, AND PROPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS MOUNTFORD, DRESSED LIKE AN OFFICER[1].
Bright beauties, who in awful circle sit, And you, grave synod of the dreadful pit, And you the upper-tire of pop-gun wit,
Pray ease me of my wonder, if you may; Is all this crowd barely to see the play; Or is't the poet's execution-day?
His breath is in your hands I will presume, But I advise you to defer his doom, Till you have got a better in his room;
And don't maliciously combine together, As if in spite and spleen you were come hither; For he has kept the pen, tho' lost the feather[2].
And, on my honour, ladies, I avow, This play was writ in charity to you; For such a dearth of wit who ever knew?
Sure 'tis a judgment on this sinful nation, For the abuse of so great dispensation; And, therefore, I resolve to change vocation.
For want of petticoat, I've put on buff, To try what may be got by lying rough: How think you, sirs? is it not well enough?
Of bully-critics I a troop would lead; But, one replied,--Thank you, there's no such need, I at Groom-Porter's, sir, can safer bleed.
Another, who the name of danger loaths, Vow'd he would go, and swore me forty oaths, But that his horses were in body-clothes.
A third cried,--Damn my blood, I'll be content To push my fortune, if the parliament Would but recal claret from banishment.
A fourth (and I have done) made this excuse-- I'd draw my sword in Ireland, sir, to chuse; Had not their women gouty legs, and wore no shoes.
Well, I may march, thought I, and fight, and trudge, But, of these blades, the devil a man will budge; They there would fight, e'en just as here they judge.
Here they will pay for leave to find a fault; But, when their honour calls, they can't be bought; Honour in danger, blood, and wounds is sought.
Lost virtue, whither fled? or where's thy dwelling Who can reveal? at least, 'tis past my telling, Unless thou art embarked for Inniskilling.
On carrion-tits those sparks denounce their rage, In boot of wisp and Leinster frise engage; What would you do in such an equipage[3]?
The siege of Derry does you gallants threaten; Not out of errant shame of being beaten, As fear of wanting meat, or being eaten.
Were wit like honour, to be won by fighting, How few just judges would there be of writing! Then you would leave this villainous back-biting.
Your talents lie how to express your spite; But, where is he who knows to praise aright? You praise like cowards, but like critics fight.
Ladies, be wise, and wean these yearling calves, Who, in your service too, are meer faux braves; They judge, and write, and fight, and love--by halves.
Footnotes: 1. The humour of this intended prologue turns upon the unwillingness displayed to attend King William into Ireland by many of the nobility and gentry, who had taken arms at the Revolution. The truth is, that, though invited to go as volunteers, they could not but consider themselves as hostages, of whom William did not chuse to lose sight, lest, while he was conquering Ireland, he might, perchance, lose England, by means of the very men by whom he had won it. The disbanding of the royal regiment had furnished a subject for the satirical wit of Buckingham, at least, such a piece is printed in his Miscellanies; and for that of Shadwell, in his epilogue to Bury-fair. But Shadwell was now poet-laureat, and his satire was privileged, like the wit of the ancient royal jester. Our author was suspected of disaffection, and liable to misconstruction: For which reason, probably, he declined this sarcastic prologue, and substituted that which follows, the tone of which is submissive, and conciliatory towards the government. Contrary to custom, it was spoken by a woman.
2. In allusion to his being deprived of the office of poet laureat.
3. The Inniskilling horse, who behaved with great courage against King James, joined Schomberg and King William's forces at Dundalk, in 1689, rather resembled a foreign frey-corps, than regular troops. "They were followed by multitudes of their women; they were uncouth in their appearance; they rode on small horses, called _Garrons_; their pistols were not fixed in holsters, but dangled about their persons, being slung to their sword-belts; they offered, with spirit, to make always the forlorn of the army; but, upon the first order they received, they cried out, 'They could thrive no longer, since they were now put under orders.'--_Memoirs_, Vol. II. p. 133. The allusion in the next verse is to the dreadful siege of Londonderry, when the besieged suffered the last extremities of famine. The account of this memorable leaguer, by the author just quoted, is a most spirited piece of historical painting.
PROLOGUE,
SPOKEN BY A WOMAN.
The judge removed, though he's no more my lord, May plead at bar, or at the council-board: So may cast poets write; there's no pretension To argue loss of wit, from loss of pension. Your looks are chearful; and in all this place I see not one that wears a damning face. The British nation is too brave, to show Ignoble vengeance on a vanquished foe. At last be civil to the wretch imploring; And lay your paws upon him, without roaring. Suppose our poet was your foe before, Yet now, the business of the field is o'er; 'Tis time to let your civil wars alone, When troops are into winter-quarters gone. Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian; And you well know, a play's of no religion. Take good advice, and please yourselves this day; No matter from what hands you have the play. Among good fellows every health will pass, That serves to carry round another glass: When with full bowls of Burgundy you dine, } Though at the mighty monarch you repine, } You grant him still Most Christian in his wine. } Thus far the poet; but his brains grow addle, And all the rest is purely from this noddle. You have seen young ladies at the senate-door, Prefer petitions, and your grace implore; However grave the legislators were, Their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair. Reasons as weak as theirs, perhaps, I bring; But I could bribe you with as good a thing. I heard him make advances of good nature; That he, for once, would sheath his cutting satire. Sign but his peace, he vows he'll ne'er again The sacred names of fops and beaus profane. Strike up the bargain quickly; for I swear, As times go now, he offers very fair. Be not too hard on him with statutes neither; } Be kind; and do not set your teeth together, } To stretch the laws, as coblers do their leather. } Horses by Papists are not to be ridden, But sure the muses' horse was ne'er forbidden; For in no rate-book it was ever found That Pegasus was valued at five pound[1]: Fine him to daily drudging and inditing: And let him pay his taxes out in writing.
Footnote: 1. Alluding to the act for disarming the Catholics, by which, _inter alia_, it is enacted, "that no Papist, or reputed Papist, so refusing, or making default, as aforesaid, at any time after the 15th of May, 1689, shall, or may have, and keep in his own possession, or in the possession of any other person for his use, or at his disposition, any horse or horses, which shall be above the value of L.5."--1st William and Mary, c. 15.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
_Don_ SEBASTIAN, _King of Portugal._ MULEY-MOLUCH, _Emperor of Barbary._ DORAX, _a noble Portuguese, now a renegade; formerly Don_ ALONZO DE SYLVERA, _Alcade, or Governor of Alcazar._ BENDUCAR, _chief Minister, and favourite to the Emperor._ _The Mufti_ ABDALLA. MULEY-ZEYDAN, _brother to the Emperor._ _Don_ ANTONIO, _a young, noble, amorous Portuguese; now a slave._ _Don_ ALVAREZ, _an old counsellor to Don_ SEBASTIAN; _now a slave also._ MUSTAPHA, _Captain of the Rabble._ _Two Merchants._ _Rabble._ _A Servant to_ BENDUCAR. _A Servant to the Mufti._
ALMEYDA, _a captive Queen of Barbary._ MORAYMA, _daughter to the Mufti._ JOHAYMA, _chief wife to the Mufti._
SCENE,--_In the Castle of Alcazar._
DON SEBASTIAN,
KING OF PORTUGAL.