"Tis hard to write on such a subject more, By painful steps at last we labour up But what, alas! avails it, poor mankind, DRAMATISTS. JOHN DRYDEN. At the restoration of the monarchy the drama was also restored, and with new lustre, though less decency. Two theatres were licensed in the metropolis, one under the direction of Sir William Davenant, who, as already mentioned, had been permitted to act plays even during the general proscription of the drama, and whose performers were now (in compliment to the Duke of York) named the Duke's trical representation-the regular introduction of actresses, or female players, and the use of moveable scenery and appropriate decorations. Females had performed on the stage previous to the Restoration, and considerable splendour and variety of scenery had been exhibited in the Court Masques and Revels. Neither, however, had been familiar to the public, and they now formed a great attraction to the two patent theatres. Unfortunately, these powerful auxiliaries were not brought in aid of the good old dramas of the age of Elizabeth and James. Instead of adding grace and splendour to the creations of Shakspeare and Jonson, they were lavished to support a new and degenerate dramatic taste, which Charles II. had brought with him from the continent. Rhyming or heroic plays had long been fashionable in France, and were dignified by the genius of Corneille and Racine. They had little truth of colouring or natural passion, but dealt exclusively with personages in high life and of transcendent virtue or ambition; with fierce combats and splendid processions; with superhuman love and beauty; and with long dialogues alternately formed of metaphysical subtlety and the most extravagant and bombastic expression. 'Blank verse,' says Dryden, is acknowledged to be too low for a poem, nay more, for a paper of verses; but if too low for an ordinary sonnet, how much more for tragedy! Accordingly, the heroic plays were all in rhyme, set off not only with superb dresses and decorations, but with 'the richest and most ornate kind of verse, and the farthest removed from ordinary colloquial diction.' The comedies were degenerate in a different way. They were framed after the model of the Spanish stage, and adapted to the taste of the king, as exhibiting a variety of complicated intrigues, successful disguises, and constantly-shifting scenes and adventures. The old native English virtues of sincerity, conjugal fidelity, and prudence, were held up to constant ridicule, as if amusement could only be obtained by obliterating the moral feelings. Dryden ascribes the licentiousness of the stage to the example of the king. Part, however, must be assigned to the earlier comedies of Beaumont and Fletcher, and part to the ascetic puritanism and denial of all public amusements during the time of the commonwealth. If the Puritans had contented themselves with regulating and purifying the theatres, they would have conferred a benefit on the nation; but, by shutting them up entirely, and denouncing all public recreations, they provoked a counteraction in the taste and manners of the people. The over-austerity of one period led naturally to the shameless degeneracy of the succeeding period; and deeply is it to be deplored, that the great talents of Dryden were the most instrumental in extending and prolonging this depravation of the national taste. The operas and comedies of Sir William Davenant were the first pieces brought out on the stage after the Restoration. He wrote twenty-five in all; but, notwithstanding the partial revival of the old dramatists, none of Davenant's productions have been reprinted. His last work,' says Southey, 'was his worst; it was an alteration of the Tempest, executed in conjunction with Dryden; and marvellous indeed it is, that two men of such great and indubitable genius should have combined to debase, and vulgarise, and pollute such a poem as the Tempest.' The marvel is enhanced when we consider that Dryden writes of their joint labour with evident complacency, at the same time that his prologue Company. The other establishment was managed to the adapted play contains the following just and by Thomas Killigrew, a well-known wit and courtier, beautiful character of his great predecessor :ï whose company took the name of the King's Servants. As when a tree's cut down, the secret root Davenant effected two great improvements in thea- | Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot; So, from old Shakspeare's honour'd dust, this day If they have since outwrit all other men, 'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakspeare's pen. Dryden was in the full tide of his theatrical popu- commenced writing for the stage in 1662, when he produced his Wild Gallant, which was followed next year by the Rival Ladies, the serious parts of which are in rhyme. He then joined Sir Robert Howard in composing the Indian Queen, a rhyming heroic play, brought out in 1664, with a splendour never before seen in England upon a public stage. A continuation of this piece was shortly afterwards written by Dryden, entitled the Indian Emperor, and both formed, like all his other plays, by scenes of spurious and licentious comedy, it contains passages that approach closely to Shakspeare. The quarrel and reconciliation of Sebastian and Dorax is a masterly copy from the similar scene between Brutus and Cassius. In the altercation between Ventidius and Antony in 'All for Love,' he has also challenged comparison with the great poet, and seems to have been inspired to new vigour by the competition. This latter triumph in the genius of Dryden was completed by his 'Ode to St Cecilia' and the 'Fables,' published together in the spring of 1700, a few weeks before his death-thus realising a saying of his own Sebastian A setting sun Should leave a track of glory in the skies. Dryden's plays have fallen completely into oblivion. He could reason powerfully in verse, and had the command of rich stores of language, information, were received with great applause. All the defects Before presenting a scene from Dryden, we shall string together a few of those similes or detached sentiments which relieve the great mass of his turgid dramatic verse : Love is that madness which all lovers have; Conquest of Granada, Part II. As some fair tulip, by a storm oppress'd, Ibid. Part I. That friendship which from wither'd love doth shoot, Ibid. Part II. So Venus moves, when to the Thunderer, And drawn by doves, she cuts the liquid skies, A change so swift what heart did ever feel! [Midnight Repose.] Spanish Friar. Ber. Now death draws near, a strange perplexity Creeps coldly on me, like a fear to die: Courage uncertain dangers may abate, But who can bear th' approach of certain fate? St. Cath. The wisest and the best some fear may show, Both heavenly faith and human fear obey; Tyrannic Love. Ber. My earthy part, Which is my tyrant's right, death will remove. [Adam after the Fall.] ADAM. RAPHAEL. EVE. Ibid. Adam. Heaven is all mercy; labour I would choose; And could sustain this Paradise to lose: The bliss; but not the place. 'Here,' could I say, 'Heaven's winged messenger did pass the day; Under this pine the glorious angel stay'd :' Then show my wondering progeny the shade. In woods and lawns, where'er thou didst appear, Each place some monument of thee should bear. I, with green turfs, would grateful altars raise, And heaven, with gums and offer'd incense, praise. Raph. Where'er thou art, He is; th' eternal mind Acts through all places; is to none confined: Fills ocean, earth, and air, and all above. And through the universal mass does move. Thou canst be no where distant: yet this place Had been thy kingly seat, and here thy race, From all the ends of peopled earth, had come To reverence thee, and see their native home. Adam. The deaths thou show'st are forced and full of strife, Cast headlong from the precipice of life. Is there no smooth descent-no painless way Of kindly mixing with our native clay? Raph. There is but rarely shall that path be trod, Gently they lay them down, as evening sheep Adam. So noiseless would I live, such death to find, Eve. Thus daily changing, with a duller taste State of Innocence. [Scene between Mark Antony and Ventidius, his general.] [Dryden says he preferred this scene to anything which he had written of that kind. It occurs in the first act of All for Love,' a tragedy founded on the story of Antony and Cleopatra, and avowedly written in imitation of Shakspeare. All for Love' was the only play Dryden ever wrote for himself; the rest, he says, were given to the people. It will be observed that this scene, as also that between Dorax and Sebastian, is copied from the quarrel between Brutus and Cassius in Julius Cæsar.'] το 1689. My uncomb'd locks, matted like mistletoe, Vent. Methinks I fancy Myself there too. Ant. The herd come jumping by me, And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on More of this image; more; it lulls my thoughts. Vent. I must disturb him. I can hold no longer. Ant. [Starting up.] Art thou Ventidius? Vent. Are you Antony? I'm liker what I was, than you to him I left you last. Ant. I'm angry. Vent. So am I. Ant. I would be private. Vent. Sir, I love you, Leave me. And therefore will not leave you. Ant. Will not leave me! Where have you learn'd that answer? Who am I? Vent. My emperor; the man I love next heav'n. If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin: Ant. All that's wretched. To say I would not: but I dare not leave you; Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied! Vent. Look, emperor, this is no common dew; Ant. They tell me 'tis my birth-day, and I'll keep it I cannot help her softness. With double pomp of sadness. "Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I rais'd the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travell'd, Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downward To be trod out by Cæsar? Vent. [Aside] On my soul "Tis mournful, wondrous mournful! Ant. Count thy gains, Now, Antony: wouldst thou be born for this? Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth Vent. [Aside.] How sorrow shakes him! And on the ground extends the noble ruin. Ant. [Having thrown himself down.] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; The place thou pressest on thy mother earth (For Cleopatra will not live to see it), Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widow'd hand to Cæsar. Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep, Ant. Emperor! Why that's the style of victory. The conqu'ring soldier, and with unfelt wounds, Salutes his general so: but never more Shall that sound reach my ears. Vent. I warrant you. Ant. Actium, Actium! Oh Vent. It sits too near you. Ant. Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day; And in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, The hag that rides my dreams Vent. Out with it; give it vent. Ant. Urge not my shame I lost a battle. Vent. So has Julius done. Ant. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't. For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly; To see his rival of the universe 1 Ant. I know thy meaning. But I have lost my reason, have disgrac'd Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains, At length have wearied her, and now she's gone; Who labour'd to be wretched. Pr'ythee curse me. Without just cause? No; when I found all lost The cost of keeping. Vent. Cæsar thinks not so: He'll thank you for the gift he could not take. Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely. Ant. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve. A better reason. Ant. I have never us'd My soldiers to demand a reason of [hither! My actions. Why did they refuse to march? Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Ant. What was't they said! Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free license No word of Cleopatra; she deserves More worlds than I can lose. Vent. Behold, you pow'rs, To whom you have intrusted humankind; See Europe, Afric, Asia put in balance, And all weigh'd down by one light worthless woman { I think the gods are Antonies, and give, Like prodigals, this nether world away To none but wasteful hands. Ant. You grow presumptuous. Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. Thy men are cowards, thou an envious traitor; The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall. Oh, that thou wert my equal; great in arms Vent. You may kill me. You have done more already-call'd me traitor. Vent. For showing you yourself, Which none else durst have done. But had I been What hinder'd me to 've led my conqu'ring eagles Vent. I can die with you, too, when time shall A traitor then, a glorious happy traitor, serve; But fortune calls upon us now to live, To fight, to conquer. Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius! Vent. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscall'd philosophy. Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief. By painful journeys I led 'em patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile. 'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces, Their scarr'd cheeks, and chopt hands; there's virtue in 'em: They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy. Ant. Where left you them? Vent. I said in Lower Syria. Ant. Bring 'em hither; There may be life in these. Vent. They will not come. Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with pro mis'd aids, To double my despair? They're mutinous. Vent. Most firm and loyal. Ant. Yet they will not march To succour me. Oh, trifler ! And not have been so call'd. Ant. Forgive me, soldier; I've been too passionate. Vent. You thought me false; Thought my old age betray'd you. Kill me, sir; Ant. I did not think so; I said it in my rage; pr'ythee forgive me. Vent. No prince but you Could merit that sincerity I us'd; Nor durst another man have ventur'd it; Fram'd in the very pride and boast of nature. Ant. But Cleopatra Go on; for I can bear it now. Vent. No more. |