Whole book · 40 sections
NOW FIRST COLLECTED
IN EIGHTEEN VOLUMES.
ILLUSTRATED
WITH NOTES,
HISTORICAL, CRITICAL, AND EXPLANATORY,
AND
A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,
BY
WALTER SCOTT, Esq.
VOL. VIII.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR WILLIAM MILLER, ALBEMARLE STREET,
BY JAMES BALLANTYNE AND CO. EDINBURGH.
1808.
| PAGE. | |
| Amphitryon, or the Two Sosias, a Comedy, | 1 |
| Epistle Dedicatory to Sir William Leveson Gower, Bart. | 7 |
| King Arthur, or the British Worthy, a Dramatic Opera, | 107 |
| Epistle Dedicatory to the Marquis of Halifax, | 113 |
| Cleomenes, the Spartan Hero, a Tragedy, | 181 |
| Epistle Dedicatory to the Earl of Rochester, | 191 |
| Preface, | 196 |
| The Life of Cleomenes, translated from Plutarch by Mr Thomas Creech, | 207 |
| Love Triumphant, or Nature will prevail, a Tragi-comedy, | 331 |
| Epistle Dedicatory to the Earl of Salisbury, | 337 |
| Prologue, Song, Secular Masque, and Epilogue, | |
| written for the Pilgrim, revived for Dryden's benefit in 1700, | 437 |
Plautus, the venerable father of Roman comedy, who flourished during the second Punic war, left us a play on the subject of Amphitryon, which has had the honour to be deemed worthy of imitation by Moliere and Dryden. It cannot be expected, that the plain, blunt, and inartificial stile of so rude an age should bear any comparison with that of authors who enjoyed the highest advantages of the polished times, to which they were an ornament. But the merit of having devised and embodied most of the comic distresses, which have excited laughter throughout so many ages, is to be attributed to the ancient bard, upon whose original conception of the plot his successors have made few and inconsiderable improvements. It is true, that, instead of a formal Prologus, who stepped forth, in the character of Mercury, and gravely detailed to the audience the plot of the play, Moliere and Dryden have introduced it in the modern more artificial method, by the dialogue of the actors in the first scene. It is true, also, that with great contempt of one of the unities, afterwards deemed so indispensible by the ancients, Plautus introduces the birth of Hercules into a play, founded upon the intrigue which occasioned that event. Yet with all these disadvantages, and that of the rude flatness of his dialogue,—resting frequently, for wit, upon the most miserable puns,—the comic device of the two Sosias; the errors into which the malice of Mercury plunges his unlucky original; the quarrel of Alcmena with her real husband, and her reconciliation with Jupiter in his stead; the final confronting of the two Amphitryos; and the astonishment of the unfortunate general, at finding every proof of his identity exhibited by his rival,—are all, however rudely sketched, the inventions of the Roman poet. In one respect it would seem, that the jeu de theatre, necessary to render the piece probable upon the stage, was better managed in the time of Plautus than in that of Dryden and Moliere. Upon a modern stage it is evidently difficult to introduce two pair of characters, so extremely alike as to make it at all probable, or even possible, that the mistakes, depending upon their extreme resemblance, could take place. But, favoured by the masks and costume of the ancient theatre, Plautus contrived to render Jupiter and Mercury so exactly like Amphitryon and Sosia, that they were obliged to retain certain marks, supposed to be invisible to the other persons of the drama, by which the audience themselves might be enabled to distinguish the gods from the mortals, whose forms they had assumed[1].
The modern poets have treated the subject, which they had from Plautus, each according to the fashion of his country; and so far did the correctness of the French stage exceed ours at that period, that the palm of the comic writing must be, at once, awarded to Moliere. For, though Dryden had the advantage of the French author's labours, from which, and from Plautus, he has translated liberally, the wretched taste of the age has induced him to lard the piece with gratuitous indelicacy. He is, in general, coarse and vulgar, where Moliere is witty; and where the Frenchman ventures upon a double meaning, the Englishman always contrives to make it a single one. Yet although inferior to Moliere, and accommodated to the gross taste of the seventeenth century, "Amphitryon" is one of the happiest effusions of Dryden's comic muse. He has enriched the plot by the intrigue of Mercury and Phædra; and the petulant interested "Queen of Gipsies," as her lover terms her, is no bad paramour for the God of Thieves.
In the scenes of a higher cast, Dryden far outstrips both the French and Roman poet. The sensation to be expressed is not that of sentimental affection, which the good father of Olympus was not capable of feeling; but love, of that grosser and subordinate kind which prompted Jupiter in his intrigues, has been by none of the ancient poets expressed in more beautiful verse than that in which Dryden has clothed it, in the scenes between Jupiter and Alcmena. Even Milbourne, who afterwards attacked our author with such malignant asperity, was so sensible of the merit of "Amphitryon," that he addressed to the publisher the following letter and copy of verses, which Mr Malone's industry recovered from among Mr Tonson's papers.
"Mr Tonson, Yarmouth, Novemb. 24.—90.
"You'l wonder perhaps at this from a stranger; but ye reason of it may perhaps abate somewhat of ye miracle, and it's this. On Thursday the twentyth instant, I receiv'd Mr Drydens Amphytrio: I leave out the Greeke termination, as not so proper in my opinion, in English. But to passe that; I liked the play, and read it over with as much of criticisme and ill nature as ye time (being about one in ye morning, and in bed,) would permit. Going to sleep very well pleasd, I could not leave my bed in ye morning without this sacrifice to the authours genius: it was too sudden to be correct, but it was very honestly meant, and is submitted to yours and Mr Ds. disposall.
Milbourne concludes, by desiring to be supplied with such of our author's writings, as he had not already, to be sent to Yarmouth in Norfolk, where he probably had then a living.
"Amphitryon" was produced in the same year with "Don Sebastian;" and although it cannot be called altogether an original performance, yet it contains so much original writing as to shew, that our author's vein of poetry was, in his advanced age, distinguished by the same rapid fluency, as when he first began to write for the stage.
This comedy was acted and printed in 1690. It was very favourably received; and continued long to be what is called a stock-play.
There is one kind of virtue which is inborn in the nobility, and indeed in most of the ancient families of this nation; they are not apt to insult on the misfortunes of their countrymen. But you, sir, I may tell it without flattery, have grafted on this natural commiseration, and raised it to a nobler virtue. As you have been pleased to honour me, for a long time, with some part of your esteem, and your good will; so, in particular, since the late Revolution, you have increased the proofs of your kindness to me; and not suffered the difference of opinions, which produce such hatred and enmity in the brutal part of human kind, to remove you from the settled basis of your good nature, and good sense. This nobleness of yours, had it been exercised on an enemy, had certainly been a point of honour, and as such I might have justly recommended it to the world; but that of constancy to your former choice, and the pursuance of your first favours, are virtues not over-common amongst Englishmen. All things of honour have, at best, somewhat of ostentation in them, and self-love; there is a pride of doing more than is expected from us, and more than others would have done. But to proceed in the same track of goodness, favour, and protection, is to shew that a man is acted by a thorough principle: it carries somewhat of tenderness in it, which is humanity in a heroical degree; it is a kind of unmoveable good-nature; a word which is commonly despised, because it is so seldom practised. But, after all, it is the most generous virtue, opposed to the most degenerate vice, which is that of ruggedness and harshness to our fellow-creatures.
It is upon this knowledge of you, sir, that I have chosen you, with your permission, to be the patron of this poem. And as, since this wonderful Revolution, I have begun with the best pattern of humanity, the Earl of Leicester, I shall continue to follow the same method, in all to whom I shall address; and endeavour to pitch on such only, as have been pleased to own me, in this ruin of my small fortune; who, though they are of a contrary opinion themselves, yet blame not me for adhering to a lost cause; and judging for myself, what I cannot chuse but judge, so long as I am a patient sufferer, and no disturber of the government. Which, if it be a severe penance, as a great wit has told the world, it is at least enjoined me by myself: and Sancho Pança, as much fool as I, was observed to discipline his body no farther than he found he could endure the smart.
You see, sir, I am not entertaining you like Ovid, with a lamentable epistle from Pontus: I suffer no more than I can easily undergo; and so long as I enjoy my liberty, which is the birth-right of an Englishman, the rest shall never go near my heart. The merry philosopher is more to my humour than the melancholic; and I find no disposition in myself to cry, while the mad world is daily supplying me with such occasions of laughter. The more reasonable sort of my countrymen have shewn so much favour to this piece, that they give me no doubt of their protection for the future.
As you, sir, have been pleased to follow the example of their goodness, in favouring me; so give me leave to say that I follow yours, in this dedication to a person of a different persuasion. Though I must confess withal, that I have had a former encouragement from you for this address; and the warm remembrance of your noble hospitality to me, at Trentham[3], when some years ago I visited my friends and relations in your country, has ever since given me a violent temptation to this boldness.
It is true, were this comedy wholly mine, I should call it a trifle, and perhaps not think it worth your patronage; but, when the names of Plautus and Moliere are joined in it, that is, the two greatest names of ancient and modern comedy, I must not presume so far on their reputation, to think their best and most unquestioned productions can be termed little. I will not give you the trouble of acquainting you what I have added, or altered, in either of them, so much, it may be, for the worse; but only, that the difference of our stage, from the Roman and the French, did so require it. But I am afraid, for my own interest, the world will too easily discover, that more than half of it is mine; and that the rest is rather a lame imitation of their excellencies, than a just translation. It is enough, that the reader know by you, that I neither deserve nor desire any applause from it: if I have performed any thing, it is the genius of my authors that inspired me; and, if it pleased in representation let the actors share the praise amongst themselves. As for Plautus and Moliere, they are dangerous people; and I am too weak a gamester to put myself into their form of play. But what has been wanting on my part, has been abundantly supplied by the excellent composition of Mr Purcell; in whose person we have at length found an Englishman, equal with the best abroad. At least, my opinion of him has been such, since his happy and judicious performances in the late opera[4], and the experience I have had of him, in the setting my three songs for this "Amphitryon:" to all which, and particularly to the composition of the pastoral dialogue, the numerous choir of fair ladies gave so just an applause on the third day. I am only sorry, for my own sake, that there was one star wanting, as beautiful as any in our hemisphere; that young Berenice[5], who is misemploying all her charms on stupid country souls, that can never know the value of them; and losing the triumphs, which are ready prepared for her, in the court and town. And yet I know not whether I am so much a loser by her absence; for I have reason to apprehend the sharpness of her judgment, if it were not allayed with the sweetness of her nature; and, after all, I fear she may come time enough to discover a thousand imperfections in my play, which might have passed on vulgar understandings. Be pleased to use the authority of a father over her, on my behalf: enjoin her to keep her own thoughts of "Amphitryon" to herself; or at least not to compare him too strictly with Moliere's. It is true, I have an interest in this partiality of hers: but withal, I plead some sort of merit for it, in being so particularly, as I am,
SIR,
Your most obedient,
Humble servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.
October 24th, 1690.
Jupiter.
Mercury.
Phœbus.
Amphitryon, the Theban General.
Sosia, his Slave.
Gripus, a Theban Judge.
Polidas, } Officers of the Theban Army.
Tranio, }
Alcmena, Wife to Amphitryon.
Phædra, } Her Slaves.
Bromia, }
Night.
SCENE,—Thebes.
Mercury and Phœbus descend in two Machines.
I have discharged my duty, which was, to summon you, Phœbus: we shall know more anon, when the Thunderer comes down. 'Tis our part to obey our father; for, to confess the truth, we two are little better than sons of harlots; and, if Jupiter had not been pleased to take a little pains with our mothers, instead of being gods, we might have been a couple of link-boys.
Phœ. But know you nothing farther, Hermes? What news in court?
Merc. There has been a devilish quarrel, I can tell you, between Jupiter and Juno. She threatened to sue him in the spiritual court for some matrimonial omissions; and he stood upon his prerogative: then she hit him in the teeth of all his bastards; and your name and mine were used with less reverence than became our godships. They were both in their cups; and at last the matter grew so high, that they were ready to have thrown stars at one another's heads.
Phœ. 'Twas happy for me that I was at my vocation, driving day-light about the world. But I had rather stand my father's thunderbolts, than my stepmother's railing.
Merc. When the tongue-battle was over, and the championess had harnessed her peacocks to go for Samos, and hear the prayers that were made to her—
Phœ. By the way, her worshippers had a bad time on't; she was in a damnable humour for receiving petitions.
Merc. Jupiter immediately beckons me aside, and charges me, that, as soon as ever you had set up your horses, you and I should meet him here at Thebes: Now, putting the premises together, as dark as it is, methinks I begin to see day-light.
Phœ. As plain as one of my own beams; she has made him uneasy at home, and he is going to seek his diversion abroad. I see heaven itself is no privileged place for happiness, if a man must carry his wife along with him.
Merc. 'Tis neither better nor worse, upon my conscience. He is weary of hunting in the spacious forest of a wife, and is following his game incognito in some little purlieu here at Thebes: that's many an honest man's case on earth too, Jove help them! as indeed he does, to make them cuckolds.
Phœ. But, if so, Mercury, then I, who am a poet, must indite his love-letter; and you, who are by trade a porter, must convey it.
Merc. No more; he's coming down souse upon us, and hears as far as he can see too. He's plaguy hot upon the business, I know it by his hard driving.
Jupiter descends.
Merc. I'll say that for my father, he's constant to a handsome family; he knows when they have a good smack with them, and snuff's up incense so savourily when 'tis offered by a fair hand,——
Merc. Mine was a very homely thought.—I was considering into what form your almightyship would be pleased to transform yourself to-night: whether you would fornicate in the shape of a bull, or a ram, or an eagle, or a swan; what bird or beast you would please to honour, by transgressing your own laws in his likeness; or, in short, whether you would recreate yourself in feathers, or in leather?
Phœ. Any disguise to hide the king of gods.
Merc. Here's omnipotence with a vengeance! to make a man a cuckold, and yet not to do him wrong! Then I find, father Jupiter, that when you made fate, you had the wit to contrive a holiday for yourself now and then; for you kings never enact a law, but you have a kind of an eye to your own prerogative.
Merc. Ay, brother Phœbus; and our father made all those monsters for Hercules to conquer, and contrived all those vices on purpose for him to reform too, there's the jest on't.
Merc. Why that's the point; this same arbitrary power is a knock-down argument; 'tis but a word and a blow. Now methinks, our father speaks out like an honest bare-faced god, as he is; he lays the stress in the right place, upon absolute dominion: I confess, if he had been a man, he might have been a tyrant, if his subjects durst have called him to account. But you, brother Phœbus, are but a mere country gentleman, that never comes to court; that are abroad all day on horseback, making visits about the world; are drinking all night; and, in your cups are still railing at the government. O, these patriots, these bumpkin patriots, are a very silly sort of animal!
Merc. [To Phœbus.] No more of your grumbletonian morals, brother; there's preferment coming; be advised, and pimp dutifully.
Merc. That's but short warning, father Jupiter; having made no former advances of courtship to her, you have need of your omnipotence, and all your godship, if you mean to be beforehand with him.
Merc. I'll lay on the woman's side for all that, that she shall love longest to-night, in spite of your omnipotence.
Merc. [To Night.] Madam Night, a good even to you! Fair and softly, I beseech you, madam; I have a word or two to you from no less a god than Jupiter.
Night. O my nimble-fingered god of theft, what makes you here on earth at this unseasonable hour? What banker's shop is to be broke open to-night? or what clippers, and coiners, and conspirators, have been invoking your deity for their assistance?
Merc. Faith, none of those enormities, and yet I am still in my vocation; for you know I am a jack of all trades. At a word, Jupiter is indulging his genius to-night with a certain noble sort of recreation; called wenching; the truth on't is, adultery is its proper name.
Night. Jupiter would do well to stick to his wife, Juno.
Merc. He has been married to her above these hundred years; and that's long enough, in conscience, to stick to one woman.
Night. She's his sister too, as well as his wife; that's a double tie of affection to her.
Merc. Nay, if he made bold with his own flesh and blood, 'tis likely he will not spare his neighbours.
Night. If I were his wife, I would raise a rebellion against him, for the violation of my bed.
Merc. Thou art mistaken, old Night; his wife could raise no faction. All the deities in heaven would take the part of the cuckold-making god, for they are all given to the flesh most damnably. Nay, the very goddesses would stickle in the cause of love; 'tis the way to be popular, to whore and love. For what dost thou think old Saturn was deposed, but that he was cold and impotent, and made no court to the fair ladies? Pallas and Juno themselves, as chaste as they are, cried, Shame on him!—I say unto thee, old Night, woe be to the monarch that has not the women on his side!
Night. Then, by your rule, Mercury, a king who would live happily, must debauch his whole nation of women.
Merc. As far as his ready money will go, I mean; for Jupiter himself can't please all of them.—But this is beside my present commission: He has sent me to will and require you to make a swinging long night for him, for he hates to be stinted in his pleasures.
Night. Tell him plainly, I'll rather lay down my commission. What, would he make a bawd of me?
Merc. Poor ignorant! why he meant thee for a bawd, when he first made thee. What art thou good for, but to be a bawd? Is not day-light better for mankind, I mean as to any other use, but only for love and fornication? Thou hast been a bawd too, a reverend, primitive, original bawd, from the first hour of thy creation; and all the laudable actions of love have been committed under thy mantle. Pr'ythee, for what dost thou think that thou art worshipped?
Night. Why, for my stars and moonshine.
Merc. That is, for holding a candle to iniquity. But if they were put out, thou would'st be doubly worshipped by the willing bashful virgins.
Night. Then, for my quiet, and the sweetness of my sleep.
Merc. No:—For thy sweet waking all the night; for sleep comes not upon lovers, till thou art vanished.
Night. But it will be against nature, to make a long winter's night at midsummer.
Merc. Trouble not yourself for that: Phœbus is ordered to make a short summer's day to-morrow; so, in four-and-twenty hours, all will be at rights again.
Night. Well, I am edified by your discourse; and my comfort is, that, whatever work is made, I see nothing.
Merc. About your business then. Put a spoke into your chariot-wheels, and order the seven stars to halt, while I put myself into the habit of a serving-man, and dress up a false Sosia, to wait upon a false Amphitryon.—Good night, Night.
Night. My service to Jupiter.—Farewell, Mercury.
[Night goes backward. Exit Mercury.
Enter Alcmena.
Enter Phædra, running.
Phæd. Good news, good news, madam; O such admirable news, that, if I kept it in a moment, I should burst with it.
Alc. Is it from the army?
Phæd. No matter.
Alc. From Amphitryon?
Phæd. No matter, neither.
Alc. Answer me, I charge thee, if thy good news be any thing relating to my lord; if it be, assure thyself of a reward.
Phæd. Ay, madam, now you say something to the matter: You know the business of a poor waiting-woman, here upon earth, is to be scraping up something against a rainy day, called the day of marriage; every one in our own vocation:—But what matter is it to me if my lord has routed the enemy, if I get nothing of their spoils?
Alc. Say, is my lord victorious?
Phæd. Why, he is victorious: indeed I prayed devoutly to Jupiter for a victory; by the same token, that you should give me ten pieces of gold if I brought you news of it.
Alc. They are thine, supposing he be safe too.
Phæd. Nay, that's a new bargain, for I vowed to Jupiter, that then you should give me ten pieces more; but I do undertake for my lord's safety, if you will please to discharge his godship Jupiter of the debt, and take it upon you to pay.
Alc. When he returns in safety, Jupiter and I will pay your vow.
Phæd. And I am sure I articled with Jupiter, that, if I brought you news that my lord was upon return, you should grant me one small favour more, that will cost you nothing.
Alc. Make haste, thou torturer; is my Amphitryon upon return?
Phæd. Promise me, that I shall be your bedfellow to-night, as I have been ever since my lord's absence; unless I shall be pleased to release you of your word.
Alc. That's a small request; 'tis granted.
Phæd. But swear by Jupiter.
Alc. But why by Jupiter?
Phæd. Because he's the greatest: I hate to deal with one of your little baffling gods, that can do nothing but by permission; but Jupiter can swinge you off, if you swear by him, and are forsworn.
Alc. I swear by Jupiter.
Phæd. Then—I believe he is victorious, and I know he is safe; for I looked through the key-hole, and saw him knocking at the gate; and I had the conscience to let him cool his heels there.
Alc. And would'st thou not open to him? Oh, thou traitress!
Phæd. No, I was a little wiser: I left Sosia's wife to let him in; for I was resolved to bring the news, and make my pennyworths out of him, as time shall show.
Enter Jupiter, in the shape of Amphitryon, with Sosia's wife, Bromia. He kisses and embraces Alcmena.
Brom. Good my lord, what is become of my poor bedfellow, your man Sosia? you keep such a billing and cooing here, to set one's mouth a watering—what I say, though I am a poor woman, I have a husband as well as my lady; and should be as glad as she, of a little honest recreation.
Phæd. And what have you done with your old friend, and my old sweetheart, Judge Gripus? has he brought me home a crammed purse, that swells with bribes? if he be rich, I will make him welcome like an honourable magistrate; but if he has not had the wit to sell justice, he judges no causes in my court, I warrant him.
Jup. [Aside.] A man had need be a god, to stand the fury of three talking women! I think, in my conscience, I made their tongues of thunder.
Brom. [Pulling him on one side.] I asked the first question; answer me, my lord.
Phæd. [Pulling him on the other side.] Peace! mine is a lover, and yours but a husband; and my judge is my lord too; the title shall take place, and I will be answered.
Brom. [To Phædha.] My lord is very hot upon it: this absence is a great friend to us poor neglected wives; it makes us new again.
Phæd. [Aside.] My lady's eyes are pinking to bed-ward too: now is she to look very sleepy, counterfeiting yawning,—but she shall ask me leave first.
Phæd. 'Tis very true, madam; the poor gentleman must needs be weary; and, therefore, it was not ill contrived, that he must lie alone to-night, to recruit himself with sleep, and lay in enough for to-morrow night, when you may keep him waking.
Alc. [To Jupiter.] I must confess, I made a kind of promise.——
Phæd. [Almost crying.] A kind of promise, do you call it? I see you would fain be coming off. I am sure you swore to me, by Jupiter, that I should be your bedfellow; and I'll accuse you to him, too, the first prayers I make; and I'll pray o' purpose, too, that I will, though I have not prayed to him this seven years.
Jup. O, the malicious hilding!
Alc. I did swear, indeed, my lord.
Phæd. The more shame for him, if he does: there would be a fine god, indeed, for us women to worship, if he laughs when our sweethearts cheat us of our maidenheads. No, no, Jupiter is an honester gentleman than you make of him.
Phæd. Ay, my lord, I see you are on fire; but the devil a bucket shall be brought to quench it, without my leave. You may go to bed, madam; but you shall see how heaven will bless your night's work, if you forswear yourself:—Some fool, some mere elder-brother, or some blockheadly hero, Jove, I beseech thee, send her!
Phæd. Why truly, madam, I am not cruel in my nature, to poor distressed lovers; for it may be my own case another day: and therefore, if my lord pleases to consider me——
Jup. Any thing, any thing! but name thy wish, and have it.
Phæd. Ay, now you say, any thing, any thing; but you would tell me another story to-morrow morning. Look you, my lord, here is a hand open to receive; you know the meaning of it; I am for nothing but the ready——
Jup. Thou shalt have all the treasury of heaven.
Phæd. Yes, when you are Jupiter, to dispose of it.
Phæd. You have forgot some part of the enemies' spoil, I warrant you. I see a little trifling diamond upon your finger; and I am proud enough to think it would become mine too.
Phæd. Ay, ay, 'tis no matter what you say of us. What, would you have your money out of the treasury, without paying the officers their fees? Go, get you together, you naughty couple, till you are both weary of worrying one another; and then to-morrow morning I shall have another fee for parting you.
[Phædra goes out before Alcmena with a light.
Sosia, with a Dark-Lanthorn; Mercury, in Sosia's shape,
with a Dark-Lanthorn also.
Sos. Was not the devil in my master, to send me out this dreadful dark night, to bring the news of his victory to my lady? and was not I possessed with ten devils, for going on his errand, without a convoy for the safeguard of my person? Lord, how am I melted into sweat with fear! I am diminished of my natural weight, above two stone: I shall not bring half myself home again, to my poor wife and family; I have been in an ague fit, ever since shut of evening; what with the fright of trees by the highway, which looked maliciously, like thieves, by moonshine; and what with bulrushes by the river-side, that shaked like spears and lances at me. Well, the greatest plague of a serving-man, is to be hired to some great lord! They care not what drudgery they put upon us, while they lie lolling at their ease a-bed, and stretch their lazy limbs, in expectation of the whore which we are fetching for them.
Merc. [Aside.] He is but a poor mortal, that suffers this; but I, who am a god, am degraded to a foot-pimp; a waiter without doors! a very civil employment for a deity!
Sos. The better sort of them will say, "Upon my honour," at every word; yet ask them for our wages, and they plead the privilege of their honour, and will not pay us; nor let us take our privilege of the law upon them. These are a very hopeful sort of patriots, to stand up, as they do, for liberty and property of the subject: There's conscience for you!
Merc. [Aside.] This fellow has something of the republican spirit in him.
Sos. [Looking about him.] Stay; this, methinks, should be our house; and I should thank the gods now for bringing me safe home: but, I think, I had as good let my devotions alone, till I have got the reward for my good news, and then thank them once for all; for, if I praise them before I am safe within doors, some damned mastiff dog may come out and worry me; and then my thanks are thrown away upon them.
Merc. [Aside.] Thou art a wicked rogue, and wilt have thy bargain beforehand; therefore thou get'st not into the house this night; and thank me accordingly as I use thee.
Sos. Now am I to give my lady an account of my lord's victory; 'tis good to exercise my parts beforehand, and file my tongue into eloquent expressions, to tickle her ladyship's imagination.
Merc. [Aside.] Good! and here's the god of eloquence to judge of thy oration.
Sos. [Setting down his Lanthorn.] This lanthorn, for once, shall be my lady; because she is the lamp of all beauty and perfection.
Merc. [Aside.] No, rogue! 'tis thy lord is the lanthorn by this time, or Jupiter is turned fumbler.
Sos. Then thus I make my addresses to her:—[Bows.] Madam, my lord has chosen me out, as the most faithful, though the most unworthy, of his followers, to bring your ladyship this following account of our glorious expedition. Then she,—O my poor Sosia, [In a shrill tone.] how am I overjoyed to see thee! She can say no less.—Madam, you do me too much honour, and the world will envy me this glory:—Well answered on my side. And how does my lord Amphitryon?—Madam, he always does like a man of courage, when he is called by honour.—There I think I nicked it.—But when will he return?—As soon as possibly he can; but not so soon as his impatient heart could wish him with your ladyship.
Merc. [Aside.] When Thebes is an university, thou deservest to be their orator.
Sos. But what does he do, and what does he say? Pr'ythee tell me something more of him.—He always says less than he does, madam; and his enemies have found it to their cost.—Where the devil did I learn these elegancies and gallantries!
Merc. So, he has all the natural endowments of a fop, and only wants the education.
Sos. [Staring up to the sky.] What, is the devil in the night! She's as long as two nights. The seven stars are just where they were seven hours ago! high day—high night, I mean, by my favour. What, has Phœbus been playing the good fellow, and overslept himself, that he forgets his duty to us mortals!
Merc. How familiarly the rascal treats us gods! but I shall make him alter his tone immediately.
[Mercury comes nearer, and stands just before him.
Sos. [Seeing him, and starting back, aside.] How now? what, do my eyes dazzle, or is my dark lanthorn false to me! is not that a giant before our door? or a ghost of somebody slain in the late battle? If he be, 'tis unconscionably done, to fright an honest man thus, who never drew weapon wrathfully in all my life. Whatever wight he be, I am devilishly afraid, that's certain; but, 'tis discretion to keep my own counsel; I'll sing, that I may seem valiant.
[Sosia sings; and, as Mercury speaks,
by little and little drops his voice.
Merc. What saucy companion is this, that deafens us with his hoarse voice? What midnight ballad-singer have we here? I shall teach the villain to leave off catterwauling.
Sos. I would I had courage, for his sake, that I might teach him to call my singing catterwauling! an illiterate rogue! an enemy to the muses, and to music.
Merc. There is an ill savour that offends my nostrils and it wafteth this way.
Sos. He has smelt me out; my fear has betrayed me into this savour. I am a dead man: the bloody villain is at his fee, fa, fum, already.
Merc. Stand, who goes there?
Sos. A friend.
Merc. What friend?
Sos. Why, a friend to all the world, that will give me leave to live peaceably.
Merc. I defy peace and all its works; my arms are out of exercise, they have mauled nobody these three days: I long for an honourable occasion to pound a man, and lay him asleep at the first buffet.
Sos. [Aside.] That would almost do me a kindness; for I have been kept waking, without tipping one wink of sleep, these three nights.
Merc. Of what quality are you, fellow?
Sos. Why, I am a man, fellow.—Courage, Sosia!
Merc. What kind of man?
Sos. Why, a two-legged man; what man should I be? [Aside.] I must bear up to him, he may prove as arrant a milksop as myself.
Merc. Thou art a coward, I warrant thee; do not I hear thy teeth chatter in thy head?
Sos. Ay, ay; that's only a sign they would be snapping at thy nose. [Aside.] Bless me, what an arm and fist he has, with great thumbs too; and golls and knuckle-bones of a very butcher!
Merc. Sirrah, from whence came you, and whither go you; answer me directly, upon pain of assassination.
Sos. I am coming from whence I came, and am going whither I go,—that's directly home; though this is somewhat an uncivil manner of proceeding, at the first sight of a man, let me tell you.
Merc. Then, to begin our better acquaintance, let me first make you a small present of this box o' the ear—— [Strikes him.
Sos. If I were as choleric a fool as you are now, here would be fine work betwixt us two; but I am a little better bred, than to disturb the sleeping neighbourhood; and so good-night, friend—— [Is going.
Merc. [Stopping him.] Hold, sir; you and I must not part so easily; once more, whither are you going?
Sos. Why I am going as fast as I can, to get out of the reach of your clutches. Let me but only knock at the door there.
Merc. What business have you at that door, sirrah?
Sos. This is our house; and, when I am got in, I will tell you more.
Merc. Whose house is this, sauciness, that you are so familiar with, to call it ours?
Sos. 'Tis mine, in the first place; and next, my master's; for I lie in the garret, and he lies under me.
Merc. Have your master and you no names, sirrah?
Sos. His name is Amphitryon; hear that, and tremble.
Merc. What, my lord general?
Sos. O, has his name mollified you! I have brought you down a peg lower already, friend.
Merc. And your name is——
Sos. Lord, friend, you are so very troublesome—what should my name be, but Sosia?
Merc. How, Sosia, say you? how long have you taken up that name, sirrah?
Sos. Here's a fine question! Why I never took it up, friend; it was born with me.
Merc. What, was your name born Sosia? take this remembrance for that lie. [Beats him.
Sos. Hold, friend! you are so very flippant with your hands, you won't hear reason: What offence has my name done you, that you should beat me for it? S. O. S. I. A. they are as civil, honest, harmless letters, as any are in the whole alphabet.
Merc. I have no quarrel to the name; but that 'tis e'en too good for you, and 'tis none of yours.
Sos. What, am not I Sosia, say you?
Merc. No.
Sos. I should think you are somewhat merrily disposed, if you had not beaten me in such sober sadness. You would persuade me out of my heathen name, would you?
Merc. Say you are Sosia again, at your peril, sirrah.
Sos. I dare say nothing, but thought is free; but whatever I am called, I am Amphitryon's man, and the first letter of my name is S. too. You had best tell me that my master did not send me home to my lady, with news of his victory?
Merc. I say, he did not.
Sos. Lord, Lord, friend, one of us two is horribly given to lying; but I do not say which of us, to avoid contention.
Merc. I say my name is Sosia, and yours is not.
Sos. I would you could make good your words; for then I should not be beaten, and you should.
Merc. I find you would be Sosia, if you durst; but if I catch you thinking so——
Sos. I hope I may think I was Sosia; and I can find no difference between my former self, and my present self, but that I was plain Sosia before, and now I am laced Sosia.
Merc. Take this, for being so impudent to think so. [Beats him.
Sos. [Kneeling.] Truce a little, I beseech thee! I would be a stock or a stone now by my good will, and would not think at all, for self-preservation. But will you give me leave to argue the matter fairly with you, and promise me to depose that cudgel, if I can prove myself to be that man that I was before I was beaten?
Merc. Well, proceed in safety; I promise you I will not beat you.
Sos. In the first place, then, is not this town called Thebes?
Merc. Undoubtedly.
Sos. And is not this house Amphitryon's?
Merc. Who denies it?
Sos. I thought you would have denied that too; for all hang upon a string. Remember then, that those two preliminary articles are already granted. In the next place, did not the aforesaid Amphitryon beat the Teleboans, kill their king Pterelas, and send a certain servant, meaning somebody, that for sake-sake shall be nameless, to bring a present to his wife, with news of his victory, and of his resolution to return to-morrow?
Merc. This is all true, to a very tittle; but who is that certain servant? there's all the question.
Sos. Is it peace or war betwixt us?
Merc. Peace.
Sos. I dare not wholly trust that abominable cudgel; but 'tis a certain friend of yours and mine, that had a certain name before he was beaten out of it; but if you are a man that depend not altogether upon force and brutality, but somewhat also upon reason, now do you bring better proofs, that you are that same certain man; and, in order to it, answer me to certain questions.
Merc. I say I am Sosia, Amphitryon's man; what reason have you to urge against it?
Sos. What was your father's name?
Merc. Davus; who was an honest husbandman, whose sister's name was Harpage, that was married, and died in a foreign country.
Sos. So far you are right, I must confess; and your wife's name is——
Merc. Bromia, a devilish shrew of her tongue, and a vixen of her hands, that leads me a miserable life; keeps me to hard duty a-bed; and beats me every morning when I have risen from her side, without having first——
Sos. I understand you, by many a sorrowful token;—this must be I. [Aside.
Merc. I was once taken upon suspicion of burglary, and was whipt through Thebes, and branded for my pains.
Sos. Right, me again; but if you are I, as I begin to suspect, that whipping and branding might have been past over in silence, for both our credits. And yet now I think on't, if I am I, (as I am I) he cannot be I. All these circumstances he might have heard; but I will now interrogate him upon some private passages.—What was the present that Amphitryon sent by you or me, no matter which of us, to his wife Alcmena?
Merc. A buckle of diamonds, consisting of five large stones.
Sos. And where are they now?
Merc. In a case, sealed with my master's coat of arms.
Sos. This is prodigious, I confess; but yet 'tis nothing, now I think on't; for some false brother may have revealed it to him. [Aside.] But I have another question to ask you, of somewhat that passed only betwixt myself and me;—if you are Sosia, what were you doing in the heat of battle?
Merc. What a wise man should, that has respect for his own person. I ran into our tent, and hid myself amongst the baggage.
Sos. [Aside.] Such another cutting answer; and I must provide myself of another name.—[To him.] And how did you pass your time in that same tent? You need not answer to every circumstance so exactly now; you must lie a little, that I may think you the more me.
Merc. That cunning shall not serve your turn, to circumvent me out of my name: I am for plain naked truth. There stood a hogshead of old wine, which my lord reserved for his own drinking——
Sos. [Aside.] O the devil! as sure as death, he must have hid himself in that hogshead, or he could never have known that!
Merc. And by that hogshead, upon the ground, there lay the kind inviter and provoker of good drinking——
Sos. Nay, now I have caught you; there was neither inviter, nor provoker, for I was all alone.
Merc. A lusty gammon of——
Sos. [Sighing.] Bacon!—that word has quite made an end of me.—Let me see—this must be I, in spite of me; but let me view him nearer.
[Walks about Mercury with his Dark Lanthorn.
Merc. What are you walking about me for, with your dark lanthorn?
Sos. No harm, friend; I am only surveying a parcel of earth here, that I find we two are about to bargain for:—He's damnable like me, that's certain. Imprimis, there's the patch upon my nose, with a pox to him. Item, A very foolish face, with a long chin at end on't. Item, One pair of shambling legs, with two splay feet belonging to them; and, summa totallis, from head to foot all my bodily apparel. [To Mercury.] Well, you are Sosia; there's no denying it:—but what am I then? for my mind gives me, I am somebody still, if I knew but who I were.
Merc. When I have a mind to be Sosia no more, then thou may'st be Sosia again.
Sos. I have but one request more to thee; that, though not as Sosia, yet as a stranger, I may go into that house, and carry a civil message to my lady.
Merc. No, sirrah; not being Sosia, you have no message to deliver, nor no lady in this house.
Sos. Thou canst not be so barbarous, to let me lie in the streets all night, after such a journey, and such a beating; and therefore I am resolved to knock at the door, in my own defence.
Merc. If you come near the door, I recal my word, and break off the truce, and then expect—— [Holds up his Cudgel.
Sos. No, the devil take me if I do expect; I have felt too well what sour fruit that crab-tree bears: I'll rather beat it back upon the hoof to my lord Amphitryon, to see if he will acknowledge me for Sosia; if he does not, then I am no longer his slave; there's my freedom dearly purchased with a sore drubbing: if he does acknowledge me, then I am Sosia again. So far 'tis tolerably well: but then I shall have a second drubbing for an unfortunate ambassador, as I am; and that's intolerable. [Exit Sosia.
Merc. [Alone.] I have fobbed off his excellency pretty well. Now let him return, and make the best of his credentials. I think, too, I have given Jupiter sufficient time for his consummation.—Oh, he has taken his cue; and here he comes as leisurely, and as lank, as if he had emptied himself of the best part of his almightyship.
Enter Jupiter, leading Alcmena, followed by Phædra.
Pages with Torches before them.
Phæd. [Aside.] I find my lord is an excellent school-master, my lady is so willing to repeat her lesson.
Merc. [Aside.] That's a plaguy little devil; what a roguish eye she has! I begin to like her strangely. She's the perquisite of my place too; for my lady's waiting-woman is the proper fees of my lord's chief gentleman. I have the privilege of a god too; I can view her naked through all her clothes. Let me see, let me see;—I have discovered something, that pleases me already.
[Exeunt Jup. and Alcm. severally; Phæd. follows her.
Merc. [Alone.] Now I should follow him; but love has laid a lime-twig for me, and made a lame god of me. Yet why should I love this Phædra? She's interested, and a jilt into the bargain. Three thousand years hence, there will be a whole nation of such women, in a certain country, that will be called France; and there's a neighbour island, too, where the men of that country will be all interest. O what a precious generation will that be, which the men of the island shall propagate out of the women of the continent!—
Phædra re-enters.
And so much for prophecy; for she's here again, and I must love her, in spite of me. And since I must, I have this comfort, that the greatest wits are commonly the greatest cullies; because neither of the sexes can be wiser than some certain parts about them will give them leave.
Phæd. Well, Sosia, and how go matters?
Merc. Our army is victorious.
Phæd. And my servant, judge Gripus?
Merc. A voluptuous gormand.
Phæd. But has he gotten wherewithal to be voluptuous; is he wealthy?
Merc. He sells justice as he uses; fleeces the rich rebels, and hangs up the poor.
Phæd. Then, while he has money, he may make love to me. Has he sent me no token?
Merc. Yes, a kiss; and by the same token I am to give it you, as a remembrance from him.
Phæd. How now, impudence! A beggarly serving-man presume to kiss me?
Merc. Suppose I were a god, and should make love to you?
Phæd. I would first be satisfied, whether you were a poor god, or a rich god.
Merc. Suppose I were Mercury, the god of merchandise?
Phæd. What! the god of small wares, and fripperies, of pedlers and pilferers?
Merc. How the gipsy despises me! [Aside.
Phæd. I had rather you were Plutus, the god of money; or Jupiter, in a golden shower: there was a god for us women! he had the art of making love. Dost thou think that kings, or gods either, get mistresses by their good faces? no, it is the gold, and the presents they can make; there is the prerogative they have over their fair subjects.
Merc. All this notwithstanding, I must tell you, pretty Phædra, I am desperately in love with you.
Phæd. And I must tell thee, ugly Sosia, thou hast not wherewithal to be in love.
Merc. Yes, a poor man may be in love, I hope.
Phæd. I grant a poor rogue may be in love, but he can never make love. Alas, Sosia, thou hast neither face to invite me, nor youth to please me, nor gold to bribe me; and, besides all this, thou hast a wife, poor miserable Sosia!—What, ho, Bromia!
Merc. O thou merciless creature, why dost thou conjure up that sprite of a wife?
Phæd. To rid myself of that devil of a poor lover. Since you are so lovingly disposed, I'll put you together to exercise your fury upon your own wedlock.—What, Bromia, I say, make haste; here is a vessel of yours, full freighted, that is going off without paying duties.
Merc. Since thou wilt not let me steal custom, she shall have all the cargo I have gotten in the wars; but thou mightst have lent me a little creek, to smuggle in.
Phæd. Why, what have you gotten, good gentleman soldier, besides a legion of—— [Snaps her fingers.
Merc. When the enemy was routed, I had the plundering of a tent.
Phæd. That is to say, a house of canvas, with moveables of straw.—Make haste, Bromia!——
Merc. But it was the general's own tent.
Phæd. You durst not fight, I am certain; and therefore came last in, when the rich plunder was gone beforehand.—Will you come, Bromia?
Merc. Pr'ythee, do not call so loud:—A great goblet, that holds a gallon.
Phæd. Of what was that goblet made? answer quickly, for I am just calling very loud——Bro—
Merc. Of beaten gold. Now, call aloud, if thou dost not like the metal.
Phæd. Bromia. [Very softly.
Merc. That struts in this fashion, with his arms a-kimbo, like a city magistrate; and a great bouncing belly, like a hostess with child of a kilderkin of wine. Now, what say you to that present, Phædra?
Phæd. Why, I am considering——
Merc. What, I pr'ythee?
Phæd. Why, how to divide the business equally; to take the gift, and refuse the giver, thou art so damnably ugly, and so old.
Merc. Now the devil take Jupiter, for confining me to this ungodly shape to-day! [Aside.] but Gripus is as old and as ugly too.
Phæd. But Gripus is a person of quality, and my lady's uncle; and if he marries me, I shall take place of my lady.—Hark, your wife! she has sent her tongue before her. I hear the thunderclap already; there is a storm approaching.
Merc. Yes, of thy brewing; I thank thee for it. O how I should hate thee now, if I could leave loving thee!
Phæd. Not a word of the dear golden goblet, as you hope for—you know what, Sosia.
Merc. You give me hope, then——
Phæd. Not absolutely hope neither; but gold is a great cordial in love matters; and the more you apply of it, the better.—[Aside.] I am honest, that is certain; but when I weigh my honesty against the goblet, I am not quite resolved on which side the scale will turn. [Exit Phæd.
Merc. [Aloud.] Farewell, Phædra; remember me to my wife, and tell her——
Enter Bromia.
Brom. Tell her what, traitor? that you are going away without seeing her?
Merc. That I am doing my duty, and following my master.
Brom. 'Umph!—so brisk, too! your master did his duty to my lady before he parted: He could leave his army in the lurch, and come galloping home at midnight to have a lick at the honey-pot; and steal to-bed as quietly as any mouse, I warrant you. My master knew what belonged to a married life; but you, sirrah—you trencher-carrying rascal—you worse than dunghill-cock; that stood clapping your wings, and crowing without doors, when you should have been at roost, you villain—
Merc. Hold your peace, dame Partlet, and leave your cackling; my master charged me to stand centry without doors.
Brom. My master! I dare swear thou beliest him; my master is more a gentleman than to lay such an unreasonable command upon a poor distressed married couple, and after such an absence too. No, there is no comparison between my master and thee, thou sneaksby.
Merc. No more than there is betwixt my lady and you, Bromia. You and I have had our time in a civil way, spouse, and much good love has been betwixt us; but we have been married fifteen years, I take it; and that hoighty toighty business ought, in conscience, to be over.
Brom. Marry come up, my saucy companion! I am neither old nor ugly enough to have that said to me.
Merc. But will you hear reason, Bromia? my lord and my lady are yet in a manner bride and bridegroom; they are in honey-moon still: do but think, in decency, what a jest it would be to the family, to see two venerable old married people lying snug in a bed together, and sighing out fine tender things to one another!
Brom. How now, traitor, darest thou maintain that I am past the age of having fine things said to me?
Merc. Not so, my dear; but certainly I am past the age of saying them.
Brom. Thou deservest not to be yoked with a woman of honour, as I am, thou perjured villain.
Merc. Ay, you are too much a woman of honour, to my sorrow; many a poor husband would be glad to compound for less honour in his wife, and more quiet. Pr'ythee, be but honest and continent in thy tongue, and do thy worst with every thing else about thee.
Brom. Thou wouldst have a woman of the town, wouldst thou! to be always speaking my husband fair, to make him digest his cuckoldom more easily! wouldst thou be a wittol, with a vengeance to thee? I am resolved I'll scour thy hide for that word. [Holds up her ladle at him.
Merc. Thou wilt not strike thy lord and husband, wilt thou?
Brom. Since thou wilt none of the meat, 'tis but justice to give thee the bastings of the ladle. [She courses him about.
Merc. [Running about.] Was ever poor deity so hen-pecked as I am! nay, then 'tis time to charm her asleep with my enchanted rod, before I am disgraced or ravished. [Plucks out his Caduceus, and strikes her upon the shoulder with it.
Brom. What, art thou rebelling against thy anointed wife! I'll make thee—how now—What, has the rogue bewitched me! I grow dull and stupid on the sudden—I can neither stir hand nor foot—I am just like him—I have lost the use of all my—members—[Yawning.]—I can't so much as wag my tongue—neither, and that's the last liv—ing part about a—woman— [Falls down.
Mercury alone.
Lord, what have I suffered for being but a counterfeit married man one day! If ever I come to this house as a husband again—then—and yet that then was a lie too; for, while I am in love with this young gipsy, Phædra, I must return. But lie thou there, thou type of Juno; thou that wantest nothing of her tongue, but the immortality. If Jupiter ever let thee set foot in heaven, Juno will have a rattling second of thee; and there will never be a fair day in heaven or earth after it:
Amphitryon and Sosia.
Amph. Now, sirrah, follow me into the house; thou shalt be convinced at thy own cost, villain! What horrible lies hast thou told me! such improbabilities, such stuff, such nonsense!—that the monster, with two long horns, that frighted the great king, and the devil at the stone-cutter's, are truths to these.[8]
Sos. I am but a slave, and you are master; and a poor man is always to lie when a rich man is pleased to contradict him: but, as sure as this is our house—
Amph. So sure 'tis thy place of execution.—Thou art not made for lying neither.
Sos. That's certain; for all my neighbours say I have an honest face; or else they would never call me cuckold, as they do.
Amph. I mean thou hast not wit enough to make a lie that will hang together: thou hast set up a trade that thou hast not stock enough to manage. O that I had but a crab-tree cudgel for thy sake!
Sos. How, a cudgel, said you! the devil take Jupiter for inventing that hard-hearted, merciless, knobby wood.
Amph. The bitterness is yet to come: thou hast had but a half dose of it.
Sos. I was never good at swallowing physic; and my stomach wambles at the very thought of it. But, if I must have a second beating, in conscience let me strip first, that I may show you the black and blue streaks upon my sides and shoulders. I am sure I suffered them in your service.
Amph. To what purpose wouldst thou show them?
Sos. Why, to the purpose that you may not strike me upon the sore places; and that, as he beat me the last night cross-ways, so you would please to beat me long-ways, to make clean work on't, that at least my skin may look like chequer-work.
Amph. This request is too reasonable to be refused. But, that all things may be done in order, tell me over again the same story, with all the circumstances of thy commission, that a blow may follow in due form for every lie. To repetition, rogue; to repetition.
Sos. No; it shall be all a lie, if you please; and I'll eat my words, to save my shoulders.
Amph. Ay, sirrah, now you find you are to be disproved; but 'tis too late. To repetition, rogue; to repetition.
Sos. With all my heart, to any repetition but the cudgel. But would you be pleased to answer me one civil question? Am I to use complaisance to you, as to a great person that will have all things said your own way? or am I to tell you the naked truth alone, without the ceremony of a farther beating?
Amph. Nothing but the truth, and the whole truth; so help thee, cudgel!
Sos. That's a damned conclusion of a sentence: but, since it must be so—back and sides, at your own peril!—I set out from the port in an unlucky hour; the dusky canopy of night enveloping the hemisphere.—
Amph. [Strikes him.] Imprimis, for fustian:—now proceed.
Sos. I stand corrected: In plain prose then,—I went darkling, and whistling to keep myself from being afraid; mumbling curses betwixt my teeth, for being sent at such an unnatural time of night.
Amph. How, sirrah, cursing and swearing against your lord and master! take— [Going to strike.
Sos. Hold, sir—pray, consider if this be not unreasonable to strike me for telling the whole truth, when you commanded me: I'll fall into my old dog-trot of lying again, if this must come of plain dealing.
Amph. To avoid impertinences make an end of your journey, and come to the house;—what found you there, a god's name?
Sos. I came thither in no god's name at all, but in the devil's name; I found before the door a swinging fellow, with all my shapes and features, and accoutred also in my habit.
Amph. Who was that fellow?
Sos. Who should it be, but another Sosia! a certain kind of other me: who knew all my unfortunate commission, precisely to a word, as well as I Sosia; as being sent by yourself from the port upon the same errand to Alcmena.
Amph. What gross absurdities are these?
Sos. O Lord, O Lord, what absurdities!—as plain as any packstaff. That other me had posted himself there before me, me.—You won't give a man leave to speak poetically now; or else I would say, that I was arrived at the door just before I came thither.
Amph. This must either be a dream or drunkenness, or madness in thee. Leave your buffooning and lying; I am not in humour to bear it, sirrah.
Sos. I would you should know I scorn a lie, and am a man of honour in every thing but just fighting. I tell you once again, in plain sincerity and simplicity of heart, that, before last night, I never took myself but for one single individual Sosia; but, coming to our door, I found myself, I know not how, divided, and, as it were, split into two Sosias.
Amph. Leave buffooning: I see you would make me laugh, but you play the fool scurvily.
Sos. That may be; but, if I am a fool, I am not the only fool in this company.
Amph. How now, impudence! I shall——
Sos. Be not in wrath, sir; I meant not you: I cannot possibly be the only fool; for, if I am one fool, I must certainly be two fools; because, as I told you, I am double.
Amph. That one should be two, is very probable!
Sos. Have you not seen a six-pence split into two halves, by some ingenious school-boy, which bore on either side the impression of the monarch's face? Now, as those moieties were two three-pences, and yet in effect but one six-pence——
Amph. No more of your villainous tropes and figures.
Sos. Nay, if an orator must be disarmed of his similitudes——
Amph. A man had need of patience, to endure this gibberish! be brief, and come to a conclusion.
Sos. What would you have, sir? I came thither, but the t'other I was before me; for that there was two I's, is as certain, as that I have two eyes in this head of mine. This I, that am here, was weary: the t'other I was fresh; this I was peaceable, and t'other I was a hectoring bully I.
Amph. And thou expect'st I should believe thee?
Sos. No; I am not so unreasonable; for I could never have believed it myself, if I had not been well beaten into it: but a cudgel, you know, is a convincing argument in a brawny fist. What shall I say, but that I was compelled, at last, to acknowledge myself! I found that he was very I, without fraud, cozen, or deceit. Besides, I viewed myself, as in a mirror, from head to foot; he was handsome of a noble presence, a charming air, loose and free in all his motions; and saw he was so much I, that I should have reason to be better satisfied with my own person, if his hands had not been a little of the heaviest.
Amph. Once again, to a conclusion: Say you passed by him, and entered into the house.
Sos. I am a friend to truth, and say no such thing; he defended the door, and I could not enter.
Amph. How, not enter?
Sos. Why, how should I enter? unless I were a spirit, to glide by him, and shoot myself through locks, and bolts, and two-inch boards.
Amph. O coward! Didst thou not attempt to pass?
Sos. Yes, and was repulsed and beaten for my pains.
Amph. Who beat thee?
Sos. I beat me.
Amph. Didst thou beat thyself?
Sos. I don't mean I, here: but the absent Me beat me here present.
Amph. There's no end of this intricate piece of nonsense.
Sos. 'Tis only nonsense, because I speak it, who am a poor fellow; but it would be sense, and substantial sense, if a great man said it, that was backed with a title, and the eloquence of ten thousand pounds a-year.
Amph. No more; but let us enter:—Hold! my Alcmena is coming out, and has prevented me: how strangely will she be surprised to see me here so unexpectedly!
Enter Alcmena and Phædra.
Alcm. [To Phæd.] Make haste after me to the temple; that we may thank the gods for this glorious success, which Amphitryon has had against the rebels—O heaven! [Seeing him.
Alcm. 'Tis but a just requital for my dream.
Phæd. I find my master took too much of the creature last night, [Aside.] and now is angling for a quarrel, that no more may be expected from him to-night, when he has no assets.
[In the mean time, Amph. and Alc. walk by
themselves, and frown at each other as they meet.
Amph. You dare not justify it to my face.
Alcm. Not what?
Amph. That I returned before this hour.
Alcm. You dare not, sure, deny you came last night,
And staid till break of day?
Amph. O impudence!—Why Sosia!
Sos. Nay, I say nothing; for all things here may go by enchantment, as they did with me, for aught I know.
Alcm. Speak, Phædra,—was he here?
Phæd. You know, madam, I am but a chamber-maid; and, by my place, I am to forget all that was done over night in love-matters,—unless my master please to rub up my memory with another diamond.
Amph. Now answer, Sosia.
Sos. Yes, now I can answer with a safe conscience, as to that point; all the rest may be art magic, but, as for the diamonds, here they are, under safe custody.
Alcm. Then what are these upon my arm? [To Sosia.
Sos. Flints, or pebbles, or some such trumpery of enchanted stones.
Phæd. They say, the proof of a true diamond is to glitter in the dark: I think my master had best take my lady into some by-corner, and try whose diamond will sparkle best.
Sos. Yet, now I think on't, madam, did not a certain friend of mine present them to you?
Alcm. What friend?
Sos. Why another Sosia, one that made himself Sosia in my despite, and also unsosiated me.
Amph. Sirrah, leave your nauseous nonsense; break open the seal, and take out the diamonds.
Sos. More words than one to a bargain, sir. I I thank you,—that's no part of prudence for me to commit burglary upon the seals: Do you look first upon the signet, and tell me, in your conscience, whether the seals be not as firm as when you clapt the wax upon them.
Amph. The signature is firm. [Looking.
Sos. Then take the signature into your own custody, and open it; for I will have nothing done at my proper peril. [Giving him the Casket.
Amph. O heavens! here's nothing but an empty space, the nest where they were laid. [Breaking open the Seal.
Sos. Then, if the birds are flown, the fault's not mine. Here has been fine conjuring work; or else the jewel, knowing to whom it should be given, took occasion to steal out, by a natural instinct, and tied itself to that pretty arm.
Amph. Can this be possible?
Sos. Yes, very possible: You, my lord Amphitryon, may have brought forth another. You my lord Amphitryon, as well as I, Sosia, have brought forth another Me, Sosia; and our diamonds may have procreated these diamonds, and so we are all three double.
Phæd. If this be true, I hope my goblet has gigged another golden goblet; and then they may carry double upon all four. [Aside.
Phæd. So, this is as good sport for me, as an examination of a great belly before a magistrate.
Alcm. You would not stay to sup; but much complaining of your drowsiness, and want of natural rest——
Sos. What if I should lie now, and say we have been here before? I never saw any good that came of telling truth. [Aside.
Phæd. He makes no more advances to me: I begin a little to suspect, that my gold goblet will prove but copper. [Aside.
Sos. Yes, 'tis resolved, I will lie abominably, against the light of my own conscience. For, suppose the other Sosia has been here, perhaps that strong dog has not only beaten me, but also has been predominant upon my wife, and most carnally misused her! Now, by asking certain questions of her, with a side-wind, I may come to understand how squares go, and whether my nuptial bed be violated. [Aside.
Phæd. Most certainly he has learned impudence of his master, and will deny his being here; but that shall not serve his turn, to cheat me of my present. [Aside.]—Why, Sosia! What, in a brown study?
Sos. A little cogitabund, or so, concerning this dismal revolution in our family.
Phæd. But that should not make you neglect your duty to me, your mistress.
Sos. Pretty soul! I would thou wert, upon condition that old Bromia were six foot under ground.
Phæd. What! is all your hot courtship to me dwindled into a poor unprofitable wish? You may remember, I did not bid you absolutely despair.
Sos. No, for all things yet may be accommodated, in an amicable manner, betwixt my master and my lady.
Phæd. I mean, to the business betwixt you and me—
Sos. Why, I hope we two never quarrelled?
Phæd. Must I remember you of a certain promise, that you made me at our last parting?
Sos. Oh, when I went to the army: that I should still be praising thy beauty to judge Gripus, and keep up his affections to thee?
Phæd. No, I mean the business betwixt you and me this morning—that you promised me——
Sos. That I promised thee—I find it now. That strong dog, my brother Sosia, has been here before me, and made love to her. [Aside.
Phæd. You are considering, whether or no you should keep your promise—
Sos. That I should keep my promise.—The truth on't is, she's another-guess morsel than old Bromia. [Aside.
Phæd. And I had rather you should break it, in a manner, and as it were, and in some sense——
Sos. In a manner, and as it were, and in some sense, thou say'st?—I find, the strong dog has only tickled up her imagination, and not enjoyed her; so that, with my own limbs, I may perform the sweetness of his function with her. [Aside.]—No, sweet creature, the promise shall not be broken; but what I have undertaken, I will perform like a man of honour.
Phæd. Then you remember the preliminaries of the present——
Sos. Yes, yes, in gross I do remember something; but this disturbance of the family has somewhat stupified my memory. Some pretty quelque chose, I warrant thee; some acceptable toy, of small value.
Phæd. You may call a gold goblet a toy; but I put a greater value upon your presents.
Sos. A gold goblet, say'st thou! Yes, now I think on't, it was a kind of a gold goblet, as a gratuity after consummation.
Phæd. No, no; I had rather make sure of one bribe beforehand, than be promised ten gratuities.
Sos. Yes, now I remember, it was, in some sense, a gold goblet, by way of earnest; and it contained—
Phæd. One large—
Sos. How, one large—
Phæd. Gallon.
Sos. No; that was somewhat too large, in conscience: It was not a whole gallon; but it may contain, reasonably speaking, one large—thimble-full; but gallons and thimble-fulls are so like, that, in speaking, I might easily mistake them.
Phæd. Is it come to this?—Out, traitor!
Sos. I had been a traitor, indeed, to have betrayed thee to the swallowing of a gallon; but a thimble-full of cordial water is easily sipt off: and then, this same goblet is so very light too, that it will be no burden to carry it about with thee in thy pocket.
Phæd. O apostate to thy love! O perjured villain!—
Enter Bromia.
What, are you here, Bromia? I was telling him his own: I was giving him a rattle for his treacheries to you, his love: You see I can be a friend, upon occasion.
Brom. Ay, chicken, I never doubted of thy kindness; but, for this fugitive—this rebel—this miscreant——
Sos. A kind welcome, to an absent lover, as I have been.
Brom. Ay; and a kind greeting you gave me, at your return; when you used me so barbarously this morning.
Sos. The t'other Sosia has been with her too; and has used her barbarously: barbarously,—that is to say, uncivilly: and uncivilly,—I am afraid that means too civilly. [Aside.
Phæd. You had best deny you were here this morning! And by the same token——
Sos. Nay, no more tokens, for Heaven's sake, dear Phædra.—Now must I ponder with myself a little, whether it be better for me to have been here, or not to have been here, this morning. [Aside.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Phædra, my lord's without; and will not enter till he has first spoken with you. [Exit Serv.
Phæd. [To him in private.] Oh, that I could stay to help worry thee for this abuse; but the best on't is, I leave thee in good hands.——Farewell, Thimble——To him, Bromia. [Exit Phædra.
Brom. No; you did not beat me, and put me into a swoon, and deprive me of the natural use of my tongue for a long half hour: you did not beat me down with your little wand:—but I shall teach you to use your rod another time——I shall.
Sos. Put her into a swoon, with my little wand, and so forth! That's more than ever I could do. These are terrible circumstances, that some Sosia or other has been here. Now, if he has literally beaten her, gramercy, brother Sosia! he has but done what I would have done, if I had durst. But I am afraid it was only a damned love-figure; and that the wand, that laid her asleep, might signify the peace-maker. [Aside.
Brom. Now you are snuffling up on a cold scent, for some pitiful excuse. I know you; twenty to one, but you will plead a drunkenness; you are used to be pot-valiant.
Sos. I was pumping, and I thank her, she has invented for me.—Yes, Bromia, I must confess I was exalted; and, possibly, I might scour upon thee, or perhaps be a little more familiar with thy person, by the way of kindness, than if I had been sober: but, pr'ythee, inform me what I did, that I may consider what satisfaction I am to make thee.
Brom. Are you there at your dog-tricks! You would be forgetting, would you? like a drunken bully that affronts over night, and, when he is called to account the next morning, remembers nothing of the quarrel; and asks pardon, to avoid fighting.
Sos. By Bacchus, I was overtaken; but I should be loth that I committed any folly with thee.
Brom. I am sure, I kept myself awake all night, that I did, in expectation of your coming. [Crying.
Sos. But what amends did I make thee, when I came?
Brom. You know well enough, to my sorrow, but that you play the hypocrite.
Sos. I warrant, I was monstrous kind to thee.
Brom. Yes, monstrous kind indeed: You never said a truer word; for, when I came to kiss you, you pulled away your mouth, and turned your cheek to me.
Sos. Good.
Brom. How, good! Here's fine impudence! He justifies!
Sos. Yes, I do justify, that I turned my cheek, like a prudent person, that my breath might not offend thee; for, now I remember, I had eaten garlick.
Brom. Ay, you remember, and forget, just as it makes for you, or against you; but, to mend the matter, you never spoke one civil word to me; but stood like a stock, without sense or motion.
Sos. Yet better. [Aside.
Brom. After which, I lovingly invited you to take your place in your nuptial bed, as the laws of matrimony oblige you; and you inhumanly refused me.
Sos. Ay, there's the main point of the business! Art thou morally certain, that I refused thee? Look me now in the face, and say I did not commit matrimony with thee!
Brom. I wonder how thou canst look me in the face, after that refusal!
Sos. Say it once again, that I did not feloniously come to bed to thee!
Brom. No, thou cold traitor, thou know'st thou didst not.
Sos. Best of all!—'twas discreetly done of me to abstain.
Brom. What, do you insult upon me too?
Sos. No, I do not insult upon you——but—
Brom. But what? How was it discreetly done then? ha!
Sos. Because it is the received opinion of physicians, that nothing but puling chits, and booby-fools are procreated in drunkenness.
Brom. A received opinion, snivel-guts! I'll be judged by all the married women of this town, if any one of them has received it. The devil take the physicians for meddling in our matters! If a husband will be ruled by them, there are five weeks of abstinence in dog-days too; for fear a child, that was got in August, should be born just nine months after, and be blear-eyed, like a May kitten.
Sos. Let the physicians alone; they are honest men, whatever the world says of them. But, for a certain reason, that I best know, I am glad that matter ended so fairly and peaceably betwixt us.
Brom. Yes, 'twas very fair and peaceably; to strike a woman down, and beat her most outrageously.
Sos. Is't possible that I drubbed thee?
Brom. I find your drift; you would fain be provoking me to a new trial now: but, i'faith, you shall bring me to no more handy-blows; I shall make bold to trust to my tongue hereafter. You never durst have offered to hold up a finger against me, till you went a trooping.
Sos. Then I am a conqueror; and I laud my own courage: this renown I have atchieved by soldier-ship and stratagem. Know your duty, spouse, hence-forward, to your supreme commander. [Strutting.
Enter Jupiter
and Phædra,
attended by Musicians and Dancers.
Phæd. Indeed I wondered at your quick return.
Phæd. 'Tis possible I may solicit for you.
Jup. But wilt thou promise me to do thy best?
Phæd. Nay, I promise nothing—unless you begin to promise first. [Curtsying.
Jup. I will not be ungrateful.
Phæd. Well; I'll try to bring her to the window; you shall have a fair shot at her; if you can bring her down, you are a good marksman.
Phæd. What, with catsguts and rosin! This Solla is but a lamentable empty sound.
Jup. Then, there's a sound will please thee better. [Throwing her a purse.
Phæd. Ay, there's something of melody in this sound. I could dance all day to the music of Chink, Chink.
Sos. [Taking Jupiter about the knees.] Let me embrace you, sir. [Jupiter pushes him away.] Nay, you must give me leave to express my gratitude; I have not eaten, to say eating, nor drunk, to say drinking, never since our villainous encamping so near the enemy. It is true, I escaped the bloody-flux, because I had so little in my bowels to come out; and I durst let nothing go, in conscience, because I had nothing to swallow in the room on't.
Jup. You, Bromia, see that all things be prepared, With that magnificence, as if some god Were guest or master here.
Sos. Or rather, as much as if twenty gods were to be guests or masters here.
Brom. That you may eat for to-day and to-morrow.
Sos. Or, rather again, for to-day and yesterday, and as many months backward, as I am indebted to my own belly.
Enter Mercury to Jupiter; Alcmena and Phædra appear above.
Jupiter signs to the Musicians. Song and Dance:
After which, Alcmena withdraws, frowning.
SONG.
I.
II.
III.
Jupiter following Alcmena; Mercury and Phædra.
Merc. Your lady has made the challenge of reconciliation to my lord: here's a fair example for us two, Phædra.
Phæd. No example at all, Sosia; for my lady had the diamonds beforehand, and I have none of the gold goblet.
Merc. The goblet shall be forthcoming, if thou wilt give me weight for weight.
Phæd. Yes, and measure for measure too, Sosia; that is, for a thimble-full of gold, a thimble-full of love.
Merc. What think you now, Phædra? Here's a weighty argument of love for you.
[Pulling out the Goblet in a case from under his Cloak.
Phæd. Now Jupiter, of his mercy, let me kiss thee, O thou dear metal!
[Taking it in both hands.
Merc. And Venus, of her mercy, let me kiss thee, dear, dear Phædra!
Phæd. Not so fast, Sosia; there's a damned proverb in your way,—"Many things happen betwixt the cup and the lip," you know.
Merc. Why, thou wilt not cheat me of my goblet?
Phæd. Yes, as sure as you would cheat me of my maidenhead: I am yet but just even with you, for the last trick you played me. And, besides, this is but a bare retaining fee; you must give me another before the cause is opened.
Merc. Shall I not come to your bed-side to-night?
Phæd. No, nor to-morrow night neither; but this shall be my sweetheart in your place: 'tis a better bedfellow, and will keep me warmer in cold weather. [Exit Phædra.
Mercury alone.
Merc. Now, what's the god of wit in a woman's hand? This very goblet I stole from Gripus; and he got it out of bribes, too. But this is the common fate of ill-gotten goods, that, as they came in by covetousness, they go out by whoring.—
Enter Amphitryon.
Oh, here's Amphitryon again; but I'll manage him above in the balcony [Exit Mercury.
Merc. [From the Balcony, aside.] This is no very charitable action of a god, to use him ill, who has never offended me; but my planet disposes me to malice; and when we great persons do but a little mischief, the world has a good bargain of us.
Amph. How now, what means the locking up of my doors at this time of day? [Knocks.
Merc. Softly, friend, softly; you knock as loud, and as saucily, as a lord's footman, that was sent before him to warn the family of his honour's visit. Sure you think the doors have no feeling! What the devil are you, that rap with such authority?
Amph. Look out, and see; 'tis I.
Merc. You! what you?
Amph. No more, I say, but open.
Merc. I'll know to whom first.
Amph. I am one, that can command the doors open.
Merc. Then you had best command them, and try whether they will obey you.
Amph. Dost thou not know me?
Merc. Pr'ythee, how should I know thee? Dost thou take me for a conjurer?
Amph. What's this? midsummer-moon! Is all the world gone a madding?—Why, Sosia!
Merc. That's my name, indeed; didst thou think I had forgot it?
Amph. Dost thou see me?
Merc. Why, dost thou pretend to go invisible? If thou hast any business here, dispatch it quickly; I have no leisure to throw away upon such prattling companions.
Amph. Thy companion, slave! How darest thou use this insolent language to thy master?
Merc. How! Thou my master? By what title? I never had any other master but Amphitryon.
Amph. Well; and for whom dost thou take me?
Merc. For some rogue or other; but what rogue I know not.
Amph. Dost thou not know me for Amphitryon, slave!
Merc. How should I know thee, when I see thou dost not know thyself? Thou Amphitryon! In what tavern hast thou been? and how many bottles did thy business, to metamorphose thee into my lord?
Amph. I will so drub thee for this insolence!
Merc. How now, impudence, are you threatening your betters? I should bring you to condign punishment, but that I have a great respect for the good wine, though I find it in a fool's noddle.
Amph. What, none to let me in? Why, Phædra! Bromia!——
Merc. Peace, fellow; if my wife hears thee, we are both undone. At a word, Phædra and Bromia are very busy; one in making a caudle for my lady, and the other in heating napkins, to rub down my lord when he rises from bed.
Amph. Amazement seizes me!
Merc. At what art thou amazed? My master and my lady had a falling out, and are retired, without seconds, to decide the quarrel. If thou wert not a meddlesome fool, thou wouldst not be thrusting thy nose into other people's matters. Get thee about thy business, if thou hast any; for I'll hear no more of thee.
[Exit Mercury from above.
Enter Sosia, Polidas, Gripus, and Tranio.
Grip. Yonder he is, walking hastily to and fro before his door, like a citizen clapping his sides before his shop in a frosty morning; 'tis to catch a stomach, I believe.
Sos. I begin to be afraid, that he has more stomach to my sides and shoulders, than to his own victuals. How he shakes his head, and stamps, and what strides he fetches! He's in one of his damned moods again; I don't like the looks of him.
Amph. Oh, my mannerly, fair-spoken, obedient slave, are you there! I can reach you now without climbing: Now we shall try who's drunk, and who's sober.
Sos. Why this is as it should be: I was somewhat suspicious that you were in a pestilent humour. Yes, we will have a crash at the bottle, when your lordship pleases; I have summoned them, you see, and they are notable topers, especially judge Gripus.
Grip. Yes, faith; I never refuse my glass in a good quarrel.
Amph. [To Sos.] Why, thou insolent villain! I'll teach a slave how to use his master thus.
Sos. Here's a fine business towards! I am sure I ran as fast as ever my legs could carry me, to call them; nay, you may trust my diligence in all affairs belonging to the belly.
Grip. He has been very faithful to his commission. I'll bear him witness.
Amph. How can you be witness, where you were not present?—The balcony, sirrah! the balcony!
Sos. Why, to my best remembrance, you never invited the balcony.
Amph. What nonsense dost thou plead, for an excuse of thy foul language, and thy base replies!
Sos. You fright a man out of his senses first, and blame him afterwards for talking nonsense! But it is better for me to talk nonsense, than for some to do nonsense; I will say that, whate'er comes on't. Pray, sir, let all things be done decently: what, I hope, when a man is to be hanged, he is not trussed upon the gallows, like a dumb dog, without telling him wherefore.
Amph. By your pardon, gentlemen; I have no longer patience to forbear him.
Sos. Justice, justice!—My Lord Gripus, as you are a true magistrate, protect me. Here's a process of beating going forward, without sentence given.
Grip. My Lord Amphitryon, this must not be; let me first understand the demerits of the criminal.
Sos. Hold you to that point, I beseech your honour, as you commiserate the case of a poor, innocent malefactor.
Amph. To shut the door against me in my very face, to deny me entrance, to brave me from the balcony, to laugh at me, to threaten me! what proofs of innocence call you these? but if I punish not this insolence——
[Is going to beat him, and is held by Polidas and Tranio.
I beg you, let me go.
Sos. I charge you, in the king's name, hold him fast; for you see he's bloodily disposed.
Grip. Now, what hast thou to say for thyself, Sosia?
Sos. I say, in the first place, be sure you hold him, gentlemen; for I shall never plead worth one farthing, while I am bodily afraid.
Pol. Speak boldly; I warrant thee.
Sos. Then if I may speak boldly, under my lord's favour, I do not say he lies neither: no, I am too well bred for that; but his lordship fibs most abominably.
Amph. Do you hear his impudence? yet will you let me go?
Sos. No impudence at all, my lord; for how could I, naturally speaking, be in the balcony, and affronting you, when at the same time I was in every street of Thebes, inviting these gentlemen to dinner?
Grip. Hold a little:—How long since was it that he spoke to you from the said balcony?
Amph. Just now; not a minute before he brought you hither.
Sos. Now speak, my witnesses.
Grip. I can answer for him for this last half hour.
Pol. And I.
Tran. And I.
Sos. Now judge equitably, gentlemen, whether I was not a civil well-bred person, to tell my lord he fibs only?
Amph. Who gave you that order, to invite them?
Sos. He that best might,—yourself: By the same token, you bid old Bromia provide an' 'twere for a god, and I put in for a brace, or a leash;—no, now I think on't, it was for ten couple of gods, to make sure of plenty.
Amph. When did I give thee this pretended commission?
Sos. Why, you gave me this pretended commission, when you were just ready to give my lady the fiddles, and a dance; in order, as I suppose, to your second bedding.
Amph. Where, in what place, did I give this order?
Sos. Here, in this place, in the presence of this very door, and of that balcony; and, if they could speak, they would both justify it.
Amph. O, heaven! These accidents are so surprising, the more I think of them, the more I am lost in my imagination.
Grip. Nay, he has told us some passages, as he came along, that seem to surpass the power of nature.
Sos. What think you now, my lord, of a certain twin-brother of mine, called Sosia? 'Tis a sly youth: pray heaven, you have not just such another relation within doors, called Amphitryon. It may be it was he that put upon me, in your likeness; and perhaps he may have put something upon your lordship too, that may weigh heavy upon the forehead.
Amph. [To those who hold him.] Let me go; Sosia may be innocent, and I will not hurt him. Open the door, I'll resolve my doubts immediately.
Sos. The door is peremptory, that it will not be opened without keys; and my brother on the inside is in possession, and will not part with them.
Amph. Then 'tis manifest that I am affronted.—Break open the door there.
Grip. Stir not a man of you to his assistance.
Amph. Dost thou take part with my adulteress too, because she is thy niece?
Grip. I take part with nothing, but the law; and, to break the doors open, is to break the law.
Amph. Do thou command them then.
Grip. I command nothing without my warrant; and my clerk is not here to take his fees for drawing it.
Amph. [Aside.] The devil take all justice-brokers! I curse him too, when I have been hunting him all over the town, to be my witness! But I'll bring soldiers, to force open the doors, by my own commission. [Exit Amph.
Sos. Pox o' these forms of law, to defeat a man of a dinner, when he's sharp set! 'Tis against the privilege of a free-born stomach; and is no less than subversion of fundamentals. [Jupiter above in the Balcony.
Jup. Oh, my friends, I am sorry I have made you wait so long: you are welcome; and the door shall be opened to you immediately. [Exit Jupiter.
Grip. Was not that Amphitryon?
Sos. Why, who should it be else?
Grip. In all appearance it was he; but how got be thither?
Pol. In such a trice too!
Tran. And after he had just left us!
Grip. And so much altered, for the better, in his humour!
Sos. Here's such a company of foolish questions, when a man's hungry! You had best stay dinner, till he has proved himself to be Amphitryon in form of law: but I'll make short work of that business; for I'll take mine oath 'tis he.
Grip. I should be glad it were.
Sos. How! glad it were? with your damned interrogatories, when you ought to be thankful, that so it is.
Grip. [Aside.] That I may see my mistress Phædra, and present her with my great gold goblet.
Sos. If this be not the true Amphitryon, I wish I may be kept without doors, fasting, and biting my own fingers, for want of victuals; and that's a dreadful imprecation! I am for the inviting, and eating, and treating Amphitryon; I am sure 'tis he that is my lawfully begotten lord; and, if you had an ounce of true justice in you, you ought to have laid hold on the other Amphitryon, and committed him for a rogue, and an impostor, and a vagabond. [The Door is opened.
Merc. [From within.] Enter quickly, masters: The passage, on the right hand, leads to the gallery, where my lord expects you; for I am called another way.
[Gripus, Tranio, and Polidas, go into the House.
Sos. I should know that voice by a secret instinct; 'tis a tongue of my family, and belongs to my brother Sosia: it must be so; for it carries a cudgelling kind of sound in it.—But put the worst: Let me weigh this matter wisely: Here's a beating, and a belly-full, against no beating, and no belly-full. The beating is bad; but the dinner is good. Now, not to be beaten, is but negatively good; but, not to fill my belly, is positively bad. Upon the whole matter, my final resolution is, to take the good and the bad as they come together.
[Is entering: Mercury meets him at the Door.
Merc. Whither now, ye kitchen-scum? From whence this impudence, to enter here without permission?
Sos. Most illustrious sir, my ticket is my hunger: Show the full bowels of your compassion to the empty bowels of my famine.
Merc. Were you not charged to return no more? I'll cut you into quarters, and hang you upon the shambles.
Sos. You'll get but little credit by me. Alas, sir, I am but mere carrion! Brave Sosia, compassionate coward Sosia; and beat not thyself, in beating me.
Merc. Who gave you that privilege, sirrah, to assume my name? have you not been sufficiently warned of it, and received part of punishment already?
Sos. May it please you, sir, the name is big enough for both of us; and we may use it in common, like a strumpet. Witness heaven, that I would have obeyed you, and quitted my title to the name; but, wherever I come, the malicious world will call me Sosia, in spite of me. I am sensible there are two Amphitryons; and why may there not be two Sosias? Let those two cut one another's throats at their own pleasure; but you and I will be wiser, by my consent, and hold good intelligence together.
Merc. No, no; two Sosias would but make two fools.
Sos. Then let me be the fool, and be you the prudent person; and chuse for yourself some wiser name: Or you shall be the eldest brother; and I'll be content to be the younger, though I lose my inheritance.
Merc. I tell thee, I am the only son of our family.
Sos. Ah! Then let me be your bastard brother, and the son of a whore; I hope that's but reasonable.
Merc. No, thou shall not disgrace my father; for there are few bastards now-a-days worth owning.
Sos. Ah, poor Sosia! what will become of thee?
Merc. Yet again profanely using my proper name?
Sos. I did not mean myself; I was thinking of another Sosia, a poor fellow, that was once of my acquaintance, unfortunately banished out of doors, when dinner was just coming upon the table.
Enter Phædra.
Phæd. Sosia, you and I must—Bless me! what have we here? a couple of you? or do I see double?
Sos. I would fain bring it about, that I might make one of them; but he's unreasonable, and will needs incorporate me, and swallow me whole into himself. If he would be content to be but one-and-a-half, 'twould never grieve me.
Merc. 'Tis a perverse rascal: I kick him, and cudgel him, to no purpose; for still he's obstinate to stick to me; and I can never beat him out of my resemblance.
Phæd. Which of you two is Sosia? for t'other must be the devil.
Sos. You had best ask him, that has played the devil with my back and sides.
Merc. You had best ask him,—who gave you the gold goblet?
Phæd. No, that's already given; but he shall be my Sosia, that will give me such another.
Merc. I find you have been interloping, sirrah.
Sos. No, indeed, sir; I only promised her a gold thimble, which was as much as comes to my proportion of being Sosia.
Phæd. This is no Sosia for my money; beat him away, t'other Sosia; he grows insufferable.
Sos. [Aside.] Would I were valiant, that I might beat him away; and succeed him at the dinner, for a pragmatical son of a whore, as he is!
Merc. What's that you are muttering betwixt your teeth, of a son of a whore, sirrah?
Sos. I am sure, I meant you no offence; for, if I am not Sosia, I am the son of a whore, for aught I know; and, if you are Sosia, you may be the son of a whore, for aught you know.
Merc. Whatever I am, I will be Sosia, as long as I please; and whenever you visit me, you shall be sure of the civility of the cudgel.
Sos. If you will promise to beat me into the house, you may begin when you please with me; but to be beaten out of the house, at dinner-time, flesh and blood can never bear it.
[Mercury beats him about, and Sosia is still making towards the Door; but Mercury gets betwixt, and at length drives him off the Stage.
Phæd. In the name of wonder, what are you, that are Sosia, and are not Sosia?
Merc. If thou would'st know more of me, my person is freely at thy disposing.
Phæd. Then I dispose of it to you again; for 'tis so ugly, 'tis not for my use.
Merc. I can be ugly, or handsome, as I please; go to bed old, and rise young. I have so many suits of persons by me, I can shift them when I will.
Phæd. You are a fool, then, to put on your worst clothes, when you come a-wooing.
Merc. Go to; ask no more questions. I am for thy turn; for I know thy heart, and see all thou hast about thee.
Phæd. Then you can see my backside too; there's a bargain for you.
Merc. In thy right pocket:—let me see; three love letters from judge Gripus, written to the bottom, on three sides; full of fustian passion, and hearty nonsense: as also, in the same pocket, a letter of thine intended to him, consisting of nine lines and a half, scrawled and false spelled, to show thou art a woman; and full of fraudulence, and equivocations, and shoeing-horns of love to him; to promise much, and mean nothing; to show, over and above, that thou art a mere woman.
Phæd. Is the devil in you, to see all this? Now, for heaven's sake, do not look in t'other pocket.
Merc. Nay, there's nothing there, but a little godly prayer-book, and a bawdy lampoon, and——
Phæd. [Giving a great frisk.] Look no farther, I beseech you.
Merc. And a silver spoon——
Phæd. [Shrieking.] Ah!——
Merc. Which you purloined last night from Bromia.
Phæd. Keep my counsel, or I am undone for ever. [Holding up her hands to him.
Merc. No; I'll mortify thee, now I have an handle to thy iniquity, if thou wilt not love me.
Phæd. Well, if you'll promise me to be secret, I will love you; because indeed I dare do no other.
Merc. 'Tis a good girl; I will be secret: and, further, I will be assisting to thee in thy filching; for thou and I were born under the same planet.
Phæd. And we shall come to the same end too, I'm afraid.
Merc. No, no; since thou hast wit enough already to cozen a judge, thou needst never fear hanging.
Phæd. And will you make yourself a younger man, and be handsome too, and rich? for you, that know hearts, must needs know, that I shall never be constant to such an ugly old Sosia.
Merc. Thou shalt know more of that another time; in the mean while, here is a cast of my office for thee.
[He stamps upon the ground: some Dancers come from under-ground; and others from the sides of the Stage: a Song, and a fantastic Dance.
MERCURY'S SONG TO PHÆDRA.
Phæd. This power of yours makes me suspect you for little better than a god; but if you are one, for more certainty, tell me what I am just now thinking.
Merc. Why, thou art thinking,—let me see; for thou art a woman, and your minds are so variable, that it is very hard, even for a god, to know them,—but, to satisfy thee, thou art wishing, now, for the same power I have exercised, that thou might'st stamp like me, and have more singers come up for another song.
Phæd. Gad, I think the devil's in you. Then I do stamp in somebody's name, but I know not whose: [Stamps.] Come up, gentle-folks from below, and sing me a pastoral dialogue, where the woman may have the better of the man; as we always have in love-matters.
[New Singers come up, and sing a Song.
A PASTORAL DIALOGUE BETWIXT THYRSIS
AND IRIS.
A RONDEAU.
Phæd. Adieu, I leave you to pay the music. Hope well, Mr. Planet; there is a better heaven in store for you: I say no more, but you can guess.
Enter Gripus and Phædra. Gripus has the Goblet in his hand.
Phæd. You will not be so base to take it from me?
Grip. 'Tis my proper chattel; and I'll seize my own, in whatever hands I find it.
Phæd. You know I only showed it you, to provoke your generosity, that you might out-bid your rival with a better present.
Grip. My rival is a thief; and I'll indite you for a receiver of stolen goods.
Phæd. Thou hide-bound lover!
Grip. Thou very mercenary mistress!
Phæd. Thou most mercenary magistrate!
Grip. Thou seller of thyself!
Phæd. Thou seller of other people: thou weather-cock of government; that, when the wind blows for the subject, pointest to privilege; and when it changes for the sovereign, veerest to prerogative[9]!
Grip. Will you compound, and take it as my present?
Phæd. No; but I'll send thy rival to force it from thee.
Grip. When a thief is rival to his judge, the hangman will soon decide the difference.
[Exit Phædra.
Enter Mercury, with two Swords.
Merc. [Bowing.] Save your good lordship.
Grip. From an impertinent coxcomb: I am out of humour, and am in haste; leave me.
Merc. 'Tis my duty to attend on your lordship, and to ease you of that undecent burden.
Grip. Gold was never any burden to one of my profession.
Merc. By your lordship's permission, Phædra has sent me to take it from you.
Grip. What, by violence?
Merc. [still bowing.] No; but by your honour's permission, I am to restore it to her, and persuade your lordship to renounce your pretensions to her.
Grip. Tell her flatly, I will neither do one, nor t'other.
Merc. O my good lord, I dare pass my word for your free consent to both.——Will your honour be pleased to take your choice of one of these?
Grip. Why, these are swords: what have I to do with them?
Merc. Only to take your choice of one of them, which your lordship pleases; and leave the other to your most obedient servant.
Grip. What, one of these ungodly weapons? Take notice, I'll lay you by the heels, sirrah: this has the appearance of an unlawful bloody challenge.
Merc. You magistrates are pleased to call it so, my lord; but with us swordmen, it is an honourable invitation to the cutting of one another's throats.
Grip. Be answered; I have no throat to cut. The law shall decide our controversy.
Merc. By your permission, my lord, it must be dispatched this way.
Grip. I'll see thee hanged before I give thee any such permission, to dispatch me into another world.
Merc. At the least, my lord, you have no occasion to complain of my want of respect to you. You will neither restore the goblet, nor renounce Phædra: I offer you the combat; you refuse it; all this is done in the forms of honour: It follows, that I am to affront, cudgel you, or kick you, at my own arbitrement; and, I suppose, you are too honourable not to approve of my proceeding.
Grip. Here is a new sort of process, that was never heard of in any of our courts.
Merc. This, my good lord, is law in short-hand, without your long preambles, and tedious repetitions that signify nothing but to squeeze the subject: therefore, with your lordship's favour, I begin. [Fillips him under the chin.
Grip. What is this for?
Merc. To give you an occasion of returning me a box o' the ear; that so all things may proceed methodically.
Grip. I put in no answer, but suffer a non-suit.
Merc. No, my lord; for the costs and charges are to be paid: will you please to restore the cup?
Grip. I told thee, no.
Merc. Then from your chin, I must ascend to your lordship's ears.
Grip. Oh, oh, oh, oh!—Wilt thou never leave lugging me by the ears?
Merc. Not till your lordship will be pleased to hear reason. [Pulling again.
Grip. Take the cup, and the devil give thee joy on't.
Merc. [Still holding him.] And your lordship will farther be graciously pleased, to release all claims, titles, and actions whatsoever, to Phædra: you must give me leave to add one small memento for that too. [Pulling him again.
Grip. I renounce her; I release her.
Enter Phædra.
Merc. [To her.] Phædra, my lord has been pleased to be very gracious, without pushing matters to extremity.
Phæd. I overheard it all; but give me livery and seisin of the goblet, in the first place.
Merc. There is an act of oblivion should be passed too.
Phæd. Let him begin to remember quarrels, when he dares; now I have him under my girdle, I'll cap verses with him to the end of the chapter.
Enter Amphitryon, and Guards.
Amph. [To Gripus.] At the last I have got possession without your lordship's warrant.—Phædra, tell Alcmena I am here.
Phæd. I'll carry no such lying message: you are not here, and you cannot be here; for, to my knowledge, you are above with my lady, in the chamber.
Amph. All of a piece, and all witchcraft!—Answer me precisely: dost thou not know me for Amphitryon?
Phæd. Answer me first: did you give me a diamond and a purse of gold?
Amph. Thou knowest I did not.
Phæd. Then, by the same token, I know you are not the true Amphitryon: if you are he, I am sure I left you in bed with your own wife. Now you had best stretch out a leg, and feel about for a fair lady.
Amph. I'll undo this enchantment with my sword, and kill the sorcerer.—Come up, gentlemen, and follow me. [To the Guards.
Phæd. I'll save you the labour, and call him down to confront you, if you dare attend him. [Exit Phædra.
Merc. [Aside.] Now the spell is ended, and Jupiter can enchant no more; or else Amphitryon had not entered so easily. [Gripus is stealing off.]—Whither now, Gripus? I have business for you: if you offer to stir, you know what follows.
Enter Jupiter, followed by Tranio and Polidas.
Tran. Two drops of water cannot be more like.
Pol. They are two very sames.
Merc. Our Jupiter is a great comedian, he counterfeits most admirably: sure his priests have copied their hypocrisy from their master. [Aside.
Amph. I am content: let him proceed to examination.
Grip. On whose side would you please that I should give the sentence?
[Aside to Merc.
Merc. Follow thy conscience for once; but not to make a custom of it neither, nor to leave an evil precedent of uprightness to future judges. [Aside.]—'Tis a good thing to have a magistrate under correction: your old fornicating judge dares never give sentence against him that knows his haunts.
Pol. Your lordship knows I was master of Amphitryon's ship; and desire to know of him, what passed, in private, betwixt us two at his landing, when he was just ready to engage the enemy?
Grip. Let the true Amphitryon answer first.
Jup. and Amph. together. My lord, I told him——
Grip. Peace, both of you:—'Tis a plain case they are both true; for they both speak together: but, for more certainty, let the false Amphitryon speak first.
Merc. Now they are both silent.
Grip. Then 'tis plain, on the other side, that they are both false Amphitryons.
Merc. Which Amphitryon shall speak first?
Grip. Let the cholerick Amphitryon speak; and let the peaceable hold his peace.
Amph. [To Polid.] You may remember that I whispered you, not to part from the stern one single moment.
Polid. You did so.
Grip. No more words then: I proceed to sentence.
Jup. 'Twas I that whispered him; and he may remember I gave him this reason for it, that, if our men were beaten, I might secure my own retreat.
Polid. You did so.
Grip. Now again he is as true as the other.
Tran. You know I was paymaster: what directions did you give me the night before the battle?
Grip. To which of the you's art thou speaking?
Merc. It should be a double u; but they have no such letter in their tongue. [Aside.
Amph. I ordered you to take particular care of the great bag.
Grip. Why this is demonstration.
Jup. The bag, that I recommended to you, was of tygers-skin; and marked Beta.
Grip. In sadness, I think they are both jugglers: here is nothing, and here is nothing; and then hiccius doccius, and they are both here again.
Tran. You peaceable Amphitryon, what money was there in that bag?
Jup. The sum, in gross, amounted just to fifty Attick talents.
Tran. To a farthing.
Grip. Paugh: Obvious, obvious.
Amph. Two thousand pieces of gold were tied up in a handkerchief, by themselves.
Tran. I remember it.
Grip. Then it is dubious again.
Jup. But the rest was not all silver; for there were just four thousand brass half-pence.
Grip. Being but brass, the proof is inconsiderable: if they had been silver, it had gone on your side.
Amph. Death and hell, you will not persuade me, that I did not kill Pterelas? [To Jupiter.
Jup. Nor you me, that I did not enjoy Alcmena?
Omnes. This is the true Amphitryon.
Jup. May your lordship please——
Grip. No, sirrah, it does not please me: hold your tongue, I charge you, for the case is manifest.
Jup. By your favour then, this shall speak for me. [Bares his arm, and shows it.
Tran. 'Tis just in the same muscle.
Polid. Of the same length and breadth; and the scar of the same blueish colour.
Grip. [To Jup.] Did not I charge you not to speak? 'twas plain enough before; and now you have puzzled it again.
Amph. Good gods, how can this be!
Grip. For certain there was but one Pterelas; and he must have been in the plot against himself too; for he was killed first by one of them, and then rose again out of respect to the other Amphitryon, to be killed twice over.
Enter Alcmena, Phædra, and Bromia.
[Jupiter re-enters the house; with him Amphitryon Alcmena, Polidas, Tranio, and Guards.
Brom. But, an't please your lordship, is my fellow Phædra to be exalted into the heavens, and made a star?
Phæd. When that comes to pass, if you look up a-nights, I shall remember old kindness, and vouch-safe to twinkle on you.
Enter Sosia, peeping about him; and, seeing Mercury, is starting back.
Sos. Here he is again; and there's no passing by him into the house, unless I were a sprite, to glide in through the key-hole. I am to be a vagabond, I find.
Merc. Sosia, come back.
Sos. No, I thank you; you may whistle me long enough; a beaten dog has always the wit to avoid his master.
Merc. I permit thee to be Sosia again.
Sos. 'Tis an unfortunate name, and I abandon it: he that has an itch to be beaten, let him take it up for Sosia;—What have I said now! I mean for me; for I neither am nor will be Sosia.
Merc. But thou may'st be so in safety; for I have acknowledged myself to be god Mercury.
Sos. You may be a god, for aught I know; but the devil take me if ever I worship you, for an unmerciful deity as you are.
Merc. You ought to take it for an honour to be drubbed by the hand of a divinity.
Sos. I am your most humble servant, good Mr God; but, by the faith of a mortal, I could well have spared the honour that you did me. But how shall I be sure that you will never assume my shape again?
Merc. Because I am weary of wearing so villainous an outside.
Sos. Well, well; as villainous as it is, here's old Bromia will be contented with it.
Brom. Yes, now I am sure that I may chastise you safely, and that there's no god lurking under your appearance.
Sos. Ay; but you had best take heed how you attempt it; for, as Mercury has turned himself into me, so I may take the toy into my head, and turn myself into Mercury, that I may swinge you off condignly.
Merc. In the mean time, be all my witnesses, that I take Phædra for my wife of the left hand; that is, in the nature of a lawful concubine.
Phæd. You shall pardon me for believing you, for all you are a god; for you have a terrible ill name below; and I am afraid you'll get a footman, instead of a priest, to marry us.
Merc. But here's Gripus shall draw up articles betwixt us.
Phæd. But he's damnably used to false conveyancing. Well, be it so; for my counsel shall over-look them before I sign—Come on, Gripus, that I may have him under black and white.
[Here Gripus gets ready pen, ink, and paper.
Merc. With all my heart, that I may have thee under black and white hereafter.
Phæd. [To Gripus.] Begin, begin—Heads of articles to be made, &c. betwixt Mercury, god of thieves——
Merc. And Phædra, queen of gypsies.——Imprimis, I promise to buy and settle upon her an estate, containing nine thousand acres of land, in any part of Bœotia, to her own liking.
Phæd. Provided always, that no part of the said nine thousand acres shall be upon, or adjoining to, Mount Parnassus; for I will not be fobbed off with a poetical estate.
Merc. Memorandum, that she be always constant to me, and admit of no other lover.
Phæd. Memorandum, unless it be a lover that offers more; and that the constancy shall not exceed the settlement.
Merc. Item, that she shall keep no male servants in her house: Item, no rival lap-dog for a bedfellow: Item, that she shall never pray to any of the gods.
Phæd. What, would you have me an atheist?
Merc. No devotion to any he-deity, good Phædra.
Brom. Here's no provision made for children yet.
Phæd. Well remembered, Bromia; I bargain that my eldest son shall be a hero, and my eldest daughter a king's mistress.
Merc. That is to say, a blockhead, and a harlot, Phædra.
Phæd. That's true; but who dares call them so? Then, for the younger children—But now I think on't, we'll have no more, but Mass and Miss; for the rest would be but chargeable, and a burden to the nation.
Merc. Yes, yes; the second shall be a false prophet: he shall have wit enough to set up a new religion, and too much wit to die a martyr for it.
Phæd. O what had I forgot? there's pin-money, and alimony, and separate maintenance, and a thousand things more to be considered, that are all to be tacked to this act of settlement.
Sos. I am a fool, I must confess; but yet I can see as far into a mill-stone as the best of you. I have observed, that you women-wits are commonly so quick upon the scent, that you often over-run it: now I would ask of Madam Phædra, that in case Mr Heaven there should be pleased to break these articles, in what court of judicature she intends to sue him?
Phæd. The fool has hit upon't:—Gods, and great men, are never to be sued, for they can always plead privilege of peerage; and therefore for once, monsieur, I'll take your word; for, as long as you love me, you'll be sure to keep it: and, in the mean time, I shall be gaining experience how to manage some rich cully; for no woman ever made her fortune by a wit.
It thunders; and the company within doors, Amphitryon, Alcmena, Polidas, and Tranio, all come running out, and join with the rest, who were on the stage before.
Merc. Amphitryon and Alcmena both stand mute, and know not how to take it. [Aside.
Sos. Our sovereign lord Jupiter is a sly companion; he knows how to gild a bitter pill. [Aside.
Omnes. We all congratulate Amphitryon.
Merc. Keep your congratulations to yourselves, gentlemen. 'Tis a nice point, let me tell you that; and the less that's said of it the better. Upon the whole matter, if Amphitryon takes the favour of Jupiter in patience, as from a god, he's a good heathen.
Sos. I must take a little extraordinary pains to-night, that my spouse may come even with her lady, and produce a squire to attend on young Hercules, when he goes out to seek adventures; that, when his master kills a man, he may stand ready to pick his pockets, and piously relieve his aged parents.—Ah, Bromia, Bromia, if thou hadst been as handsome and as young as Phædra!—I say no more, but somebody might have made his fortunes as well as his master, and never the worse man neither.
The Seventeenth century was still familiar with
Fired by the splendid fictions which romancers had raised on the basis of Geoffrey of Monmouth and the Welsh traditions, Milton had designed the exploits of King Arthur for the subject of his lofty epic strain. What we have lost, in his abandoning the theme, can only be estimated by the enthusiastic tone into which he always swells, when he touches upon the "shores of old romance." The sublime glow of his imagination, which delighted in painting what was beyond the reach of human experience; the dignity of his language, formed to express the sentiments of heroes and of immortals; his powers of describing alike the beautiful and terrible; above all, the justice with which he conceived and assigned to each supernatural agent a character as decidedly peculiar, as lesser poets have given to their human actors, would have sent him forth to encounter such a subject with gigantic might. Whoever has ventured, undeterred by their magnitude, upon the old romances of "Lancelot du Lac," "Sir Tristrem," and others, founded on the achievements of the Knights of the Round Table, cannot but remember a thousand striking Gothic incidents, worthy subjects of the pen of Milton. What would he not have made of the adventure of the Ruinous Chapel, the Perilous Manor, the Forbidden Seat, the Dolorous Wound, and many others susceptible of being described in the most sublime poetry! Even when that sun had set, Arthur had yet another chance for immortality; for Dryden repeatedly expressed his intention to found an epic poem upon his history. Our poet, it may be guessed, was too much in the trammels of French criticism, to have ventured upon a style of composition allied to the Gothic romance. His poem would probably have been formed upon the model of the ancients, which, although more classical and correct, might have wanted the force, which reality of painting and description never fails to give to epic narrative. Arthur, in such a poem, would, like Rinaldo, have reminded us of Achilles; and the sameness of a copy would have been substituted for the spirit of a characteristic original. But, had Dryden executed his intended plan, we should have found picturesque narrative detailed in the most manly and majestic verse, and interspersed with lessons teaching us to know human life, maxims proper to guide it, and sentiments which ought to adorn it. In the Knight's Tale, and in Dryden's other narrative poems, we see enough to induce us to regret the sordid negligence, or avarice, which withheld from him the means of decent support, while employed upon the promised task. But Arthur, as a sort of counterpoise to his extravagant reputation during the middle ages, was doomed, in the seventeenth century, to be reluctantly abandoned by Milton and Dryden; and to be celebrated by the pen of Blackmore.
It is probable, that, when Dryden abandoned all thoughts of a larger work, he adapted the intended subject to the following opera, and converted the Genii of the kingdoms, by whom the supernatural machinery of the epic was to have been conducted, into the lighter and simpler device of airy and earthy spirits, whose idea the Rosicrucian philosophy had long rendered popular and familiar. There is no attempt to avail himself of any fragments of Arthur's romantic renown. He is not, in this drama, the formidable possessor of Excalibar, and the superior of the chivalry of the Round Table; nor is Merlin the fiend-born necromancer, of whom antiquity related and believed so many wonders. They are the prince and magician of a beautiful fairy tale, the story of which, abstracted from the poetry, might have been written by Madame D'Aunois. At the same time, the obvious advantages of an appeal to the ancient prejudices, which our author has neglected, are supplied from the funds of his own genius. The incidents, being intended more for the purpose of displaying machinery, and introducing music and dances, than with any reference to the rules of the drama, are abundantly fantastic and extravagant; but the poet has supported them with wonderful address. The blindness of Emmeline, and the innocence with which she expresses her conception of visible objects, gives her character an interest often wanting in what may be called the heroine of a play, whose perfections generally raise her so far beyond mere mortal excellence, as to render superfluous all human sympathy. The scene in which Emmeline recovers her sight, when well represented, never fails to excite the most pleasing testimony of interest and applause. The machinery is simple, and well managed: the language and ministry of Grimbald, the fierce earthy dæmon, are painted with some touches which arise even to sublimity. The conception of Philidel, a fallen angel, retaining some of the hue of heaven, who is touched with repentance, and not without hope of being finally received, is an idea, so far as I know, altogether original. Klopstock has since introduced a similar character into sacred poetry[10]. The principal incident in "King Arthur" is copied, in almost every circumstance, from the adventures of Rinaldo in the haunted grove on Mount Olivet[11], which makes also the subject of an Italian opera.
From what is mentioned in the author's preface, we may conceive the disadvantages under which "King Arthur" was finally brought forward. It was written originally for the conclusion of the reign of Charles II, and the political masque of "Albion and Albanius" was often rehearsed before him, as the prologue to "King Arthur." We may therefore conclude, that the piece, as originally written, had a strong political tendency, and probably abounded with these ingenious parallels, by which Dryden, with dexterity far exceeding that of every other writer, could draw, from remote or distant events, a moral directly applicable to those of his own time. But the Revolution, while it ruined our author's prospects, imposed a cautious restraint upon his muse; and therefore, as he himself states, he was obliged to deprive his play of many beauties, not to offend the present times, or displease a government by which he had hitherto been protected, or at least endured. Thus, our author was obliged to convert an ingenious, and probably highly poetical political drama, into a mere fairy tale, as totally divested as possible of any meaning beyond extravagant adventure. How much the drama must have suffered in this transformation is easy to judge, from the spirit with which all Dryden's political pieces are composed; and from recollecting with what reluctance he must have gone through alterations, that were to deprive the play of what was intended to have been its principal merit. This is the disadvantage of which the poet had already complained:
Under all these disadvantages, "King Arthur" was received with great applause, at its first appearance; was often repeated, and continues to be occasionally represented, being the only one of Dryden's numerous plays which has retained possession of the stage. Some part of its success was doubtless owing to the music, of which Dr Burney gives the following account in his "History of Music:"
"Of the music in "King Arthur," I shall say but little, as it has been lately revived, well performed, and printed. If ever it could, with truth, be said of a composer, that he had devancé son siecle, Purcell is entitled to that praise; as there are movements in many of his works which a century has not injured, particularly the duet in "King Arthur," "Two Daughters of this Aged Stream," and "Fairest Isle, all Isles excelling," which contain not a single passage that the best composers of the present times, if it presented itself to their imagination, would reject." vol. iii. p. 492.
The dances, which were composed by the famous Priest, did not disgrace the music and poetry; and the company, according to Downes, were well rewarded for the time and expence they had bestowed on "King Arthur."
This opera was acted and printed in 1691.
MY LORD,
This poem was the last piece of service which I had the honour to do for my gracious master King Charles II.; and, though he lived not to see the performance of it on the stage, yet the Prologue to it, which was the opera of "Albion and Albanius," was often practised before him at Whitehall, and encouraged by his royal approbation. It was indeed a time which was proper for triumph, when he had overcome all those difficulties which, for some years, had perplexed his peaceful reign: but, when he had just restored his people to their senses, and made the latter end of his government of a piece with the happy beginning of it, he was on the sudden snatched away from the blessings and acclamations of his subjects, who arrived so late to the knowledge of him, that they had but just time enough to desire him longer, before they were to part with him for ever. Peace be with the ashes of so good a king! Let his human frailties be forgotten, and his clemency and moderation (the inherent virtues of his family) be remembered with a grateful veneration by three kingdoms, through which he spread the blessings of them. And, as your lordship held a principal place in his esteem, and, perhaps, the first in his affection, during his latter troubles, the success which accompanied those prudent counsels cannot but reflect an honour on those few who managed them, and wrought out, by their faithfulness and diligence, the public safety. I might dilate on the difficulties which attended that undertaking, the temper of the people, the power, arts and interest of the contrary party, but those are all of them invidious topics,—they are too green in our remembrance, and he, who touches on them, Incedit per ignes suppositos cineri doleso. But, without reproaching one side to praise another, I may justly recommend to both those wholesome counsels, which, wisely administered, and as well executed, were the means of preventing a civil war, and of extinguishing a growing fire which was just ready to have broken forth among us. So many wives, who have yet their husbands in their arms; so many parents, who have not the number of their children lessened; so many villages, towns and cities, whose inhabitants are not decreased, their property violated, or their wealth diminished,—are yet owing to the sober conduct, and happy results of your advice. If a true account may be expected by future ages from the present, your lordship will be delivered over to posterity in a fairer character than I have given; and be read, not in the preface of a play, (whose author is not vain enough to promise immortality to others, or to hope it for himself,) but in many pages of a chronicle, filled with praises of your administration. For, if writers be just to the memory of King Charles II., they cannot deny him to have been an exact knower of mankind, and a perfect distinguisher of their talents. It is true, his necessities often forced him to vary his counsellors and councils, and sometimes to employ such persons in the management of his affairs, who were rather fit for his present purpose than satisfactory to his judgment: but where it was choice in him, not compulsion, he was master of too much good sense to delight in heavy conversation; and whatever his favourites of state might be, yet those of his affection were men of wit[13]. He was easy with these, and complied only with the former. But in the latter part of his life, which certainly required to be most cautiously managed, his secret thoughts were communicated but to few, and those selected of that sort who were amici omnium horarum, able to advise him in a serious consult, where his honour and safety were concerned, and afterwards capable of entertaining him with pleasant discourse, as well as profitable. In this maturest part of his age, when he had been long seasoned with difficulties and dangers, and was grown to a niceness in his choice, as being satisfied how few could be trusted,—and, of those who could be trusted, how few could serve him,—he confined himself to a small number of bosom friends, amongst whom the world is much mistaken if your lordship was not first.
If the rewards which you received for those services were only honours, it rather shewed the necessities of the times, than any want of kindness in your royal master; and, as the splendour of your fortune stood not in need of being supported by the Crown, so likewise, in being satisfied without other recompence, you showed yourself to be above a mercenary interest, and strengthened that power which bestowed those titles on you; which, truly speaking, were marks of acknowledgement more than favour.
But, as a skilful pilot will not be tempted out to sea in suspected weather, so have you wisely chosen to withdraw yourself from public business, when the face of heaven grew troubled, and the frequent shifting of the winds foreshewed a storm. There are times and seasons when the best patriots are willing to withdraw their hands from the commonwealth, as Phocion, in his latter days, was observed to decline the management of affairs; or as Cicero, (to draw the similitude more home) left the pulpit for Tusculum, and the praise of oratory for the sweet enjoyments of a private life; and, in the happiness of those retirements, has more obliged posterity by his moral precepts, than he did the republic in quelling the conspiracy of Catiline. What prudent man would not rather follow the example of his retreat, than stay, like Cato, with a stubborn unseasonable virtue, to oppose the torrent of the people, and at last be driven from the market-place by a riot of a multitude, uncapable of counsel, and deaf to eloquence? There is likewise a portion of our lives, which every wise man may justly reserve to his own peculiar use, and that without defrauding his native country. A Roman soldier was allowed to plead the merit of his services for his dismission at such an age; and there was but one exception to that rule, which was, an invasion from the Gauls. How far that may work with your lordship, I am not certain, but I hope it is not coming to the trial[14].
In the mean time, while the nation is secured from foreign attempts by so powerful a fleet, and we enjoy, not only the happiness, but even the ornaments of peace, in the divertisement of the town, I humbly offer you this trifle, which, if it succeed upon the stage, is like to be the chiefest entertainment of our ladies and gentlemen this summer. When I wrote it, seven years ago, I employed some reading about it, to inform myself out of Beda, Bochartus and other authors, concerning the rites and customs of the heathen Saxons; as I also used the little skill I have in poetry to adorn it[15]. But, not to offend the present times, nor a government which has hitherto protected me, I have been obliged so much to alter the first design, and take away so many beauties from the writing, that it is now no more what it was formerly, than the present ship of the Royal Sovereign, after so often taking down and altering, is the vessel it was at the first building. There is nothing better than what I intended, but the music; which has since arrived to a greater perfection in England than ever formerly; especially passing through the artful hands of Mr Purcell, who has composed it with so great a genius, that he has nothing to fear but an ignorant, ill-judging audience. But the numbers of poetry and vocal music are sometimes so contrary, that, in many places, I have been obliged to cramp my verses, and make them rugged to the reader, that they may be harmonious to the hearer; of which I have no reason to repent me, because these sorts of entertainments are principally designed for the ear and eye; and therefore, in reason, my art, on this occasion, ought to be subservient to his. And, besides, I flatter myself with an imagination, that a judicious audience will easily distinguish betwixt the songs wherein I have complied with him, and those in which I have followed the rules of poetry, in the sound and cadence of the words. Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, there is somewhat still remaining of the first spirit with which I wrote it; and though I can only speak by guess, of what pleased my first and best patroness the Duchess of Monmouth in the reading, yet I will venture my opinion, by the knowledge I have long had of her Grace's excellent judgment and true taste of poetry, that the parts of the airy and earthy spirits, and that fairy kind of writing which depends only upon the force of imagination, were the grounds of her liking the poem, and afterwards of her recommending it to the Queen. I have likewise had the satisfaction to hear, that her majesty has graciously been pleased to peruse the manuscript of this opera, and given it her royal approbation. Poets, who subsist not but on the favour of sovereign princes, and of great persons, may have leave to be a little vain, and boast of their patronage, who encourage the genius that animates them; and therefore, I will again presume to guess, that her majesty was not displeased to find in this poem the praises of her native country, and the heroic actions of so famous a predecessor in the government of Great Britain as King Arthur.
All this, my lord, I must confess, looks with a kind of insinuation, that I present you with somewhat not unworthy your protection; but I may easily mistake the favour of her majesty for her judgment: I think I cannot be deceived in thus addressing to your lordship, whom I have had the honour to know, at that distance which becomes me, for so many years. It is true, that formerly I have shadowed some part of your virtues under another name; but the character, though short and imperfect, was so true, that it broke through the fable, and was discovered by its native light[16]. What I pretend by this dedication, is an honour which I do myself to posterity, by acquainting them, that I have been conversant with the first persons of the age in which I lived; and thereby perpetuate my prose, when my verses may possibly be forgotten, or obscured by the fame of future poets. Which ambition, amongst my other faults and imperfections, be pleased to pardon, in,
My Lord,
Your Lordship's most obedient servant,
John Dryden.
SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.
King Arthur.
Oswald, King of Kent, a Saxon, and a Heathen.
Conon, Duke of Cornwall, Tributary to King Arthur.
Merlin, a famous Enchanter.
Osmond, a Saxon Magician, and a Heathen.
Aurelius, Friend to Arthur.
Albanact, Captain of Arthur's Guards.
Guillimar, Friend to Oswald.
Emmeline, Daughter of Conon.
Matilda, her Attendant.
Philidel, an Airy Spirit.
Grimbald, an Earthy Spirit.
Officers and Soldiers, Singers and Dancers.
SCENE—Kent.
Enter Conon, Aurelius, Albanact.
Alb. Oh, now I understand you. This is St George of Cappadocia's day. Well, it may be so, but faith I was ignorant. We soldiers seldom examine the rubrick, and now and then a saint may happen to slip by us; but, if he be a gentleman saint, he will forgive us.
Con. Oswald undoubtedly will fight it bravely.
Aur. And it behoves him well, 'tis his last stake. But what manner of man is this Oswald? Have you ever seen him? [To Albanact.
Alb. Never but once; and that was to my cost too. I followed him too close, and, to say the truth, somewhat uncivilly, upon a rout; but he turned upon me, as quick and as round as a chafed boar, and gave me two licks a-cross the face, to put me in mind of my Christianity.
Con. I know him well; he's free and open-hearted.
Aur. His country's character: that speaks a German.
Alb. I cannot blame him for courting the heiress of Cornwall. All heiresses are beautiful; and, as blind as she is, he would have had no blind bargain of her.
Enter King Arthur, reading a letter, with Attendants.
Enter Emmeline, led by Matilda.
A Place of Heathen Worship. The Three Saxon Gods, Woden, Thor, and Freya, placed on Pedestals. An Altar.
Enter Oswald and Osmond.
Grimbald goes to the Door, and re-enters with six Saxons in White, with Swords in their Hands. They range themselves, three and three, in opposition to each other. The rest of the Stage is filled with Priests and Singers.
ODE.
A Battle supposed to be given behind the Scenes, with Drums, Trumpets, and Military Shouts and Excursions; after which, the Britons, expressing their joy for the Victory, sing this Song of triumph.
Enter Philidel.
Merlin, with Spirits, descends to Philidel, in a Chariot drawn by Dragons.
Enter Grimbald in the habit of a Shepherd, followed by King Arthur, Conon, Aurelius, Albanact, and Soldiers, who wander at a distance in the Scenes.
[Philidel and the Spirits go off singing, with King Arthur and the rest in the middle of them.
Enter Emmeline, led by Matilda.
Enter Shepherds and Shepherdesses.
1 Shepherd sings.
Enter Arthur, Conon, and Aurelius.
Enter Philidel.
II.
Enter Osmond.
As he is going forward, Nymphs and Sylvans come out from behind the Trees. A Bass and two Trebles sing the following Song to a Minuet.
Dance with a Song, all with Branches in their Hands.
Enter Osmond, as affrighted.
Æolus singing.
Æolus ascends, and the four Winds fly off. The Scene opens, and discovers a calm Sea, to the end of the House. An Island arises, to a soft Tune; Britannia, seated in the Island, with Fishermen at her Feet, &c. The Tune changes, the Fishermen come ashore, and dance a while; after which, Pan and a Nereid come on the Stage, and sing.
Pan and Nereid sing.
SONG BY MR HOWE.
Honour sings.
SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.
A
TRAGEDY.
TO WHICH IS PREFIXED
THE LIFE OF CLEOMENES,
BY Mr THOMAS CREECH.
His armis, illâ quoque tutus in Aulâ.—Juv. Sat. iv.
There has been occasion to remark, that Dryden seldom avails himself of national peculiarities, or national costume, in sketching his dramatic personages; the present tragedy forms, however, a remarkable exception to this general observation. Cleomenes, the last of the Spartans, is designed, not only as a hero, but as a Lacedemonian; and is a just picture of that extraordinary race of men, whose virtues were comprized in patriotism, and whose whole passions centered in a thirst for military glory. This character Dryden has drawn with admirable spirit and precision. It was indeed peculiarly suited to his genius; for, although sometimes deficient in the pathos and natural expression of violent passion, by which Otway, and even Southerne, could affect the passions of an audience, he never fails in expressing, in the most noble language, the sentiments of that stoical philosophy, which considers sufferings rather as subjects of moral reflection, than of natural feeling. Yet, lest a character so invulnerable to the shafts of adversity, so much the totus teres atque rotundus of the poet, should fail to interest the audience, (for we seldom pity those who shew no symptoms of feeling their own sorrows,) Dryden has softened the character of his Spartan hero by the influence of those chaste and tender domestic affections, which thrive best in bosoms rendered by nature or philosophy inaccessible to selfish feeling. The haughty and unbending spirit, the love of war, and thirst of honour proper to the Lacedemonian, and inculcated by the whole train of his education, complete the character of Cleomenes. The same spirit, which animates the father, is finely represented as descending upon the son. Cleonidas is a model of a Spartan youth; and every slight expression which he uses, tends to bring out that celebrated character. The idea of this spirited boy seems to be taken from the excellent character of Hengo, in the "Bonduca" of Beaumont and Fletcher; whom Cleonidas resembles in the manner of his death, and in his previous sufferings by hunger, as well as in his premature courage, and emulation of his father's military glory.[26] The wife and mother of Cleomenes seem to be sketched after those of Coriolanus: the former exhibiting a mild and gentle disposition; the latter, the high-souled magnanimity of a Spartan matron. Of the other characters, little need be said. Ptolemy is a silly tyrant, Sosibius a wily minister, and Cleanthes a friend and confident; such as tyrants, ministers, and confidents in tragedies usually are. Judging from his first appearance, the author seems to have intended Pantheus as a character somewhat in contrast to that of Cleomenes; but he soon tires of the task of discrimination, and Pantheus sinks into a mere assistant. Cassandra is not sketched with any peculiar care; her snares are of a nature not very perilous to Spartan virtue, for her manners are too openly licentious. Such, however, as are fond of tracing the ideas of poets to those who have written before them, may consider Cassandra,—in her pride, her love, and her alternate schemes for saving and destroying Cleomenes,—as furnishing the original hint of the much more highly finished character of Zara in Congreve's "Mourning Bride."
The conduct of the piece, being calculated to evince the Spartan virtue, patience, and courage, contains a long train of hopes disappointed, seducing temptations resisted, sufferings patiently endured, and finally closed by a voluntary death. There is no particular object to which the attention of the audience is fixed, as that upon which the conclusion of the piece necessarily depends. The liberation of Cleomenes from his Egyptian bondage is doubtless the consummation concerning which the poet meant that we should be anxious; but this event might be brought about in so many different ways, and, if accomplished, brings Cleomenes so little nearer to the restoration of Spartan liberty, that it is perhaps insufficient to excite that strong, concentrated, and vivid interest, which the plot of a drama ought properly to inspire. The mind is distracted among the various possibilities by which the desired catastrophe might be accomplished; and feels a consciousness, that even were Cleomenes dismissed with full sails from the port of Alexandria, it would be rather the beginning than the winding up of his history. For these reasons, the plot seems more deficient in interest than might have been expected, from the spirited delineation of the principal character.
It appears that Dryden was unable, from illness, to put the finishing strokes to "Cleomenes." That task he committed to Southerne, now his intimate friend, and who, as may be easily imagined, felt himself much honoured by the task imposed upon him.[27] The half of the fifth act was that upon which Southerne exercised this power of revisal and finishing; for that it amounted to no more, will, I think, be obvious to any who takes the trouble to compare that act with those which precede it. The rabble-scene, introduced, as the poet himself tells us, to gratify the more barbarous part of his audience, is indeed deplorably bad.
The play, when presented to the theatre, met with unexpected opposition from the government, then directed by Queen Mary, in the absence of her husband. This was not very surprising, considering the subject of the play, and Dryden's well-known principles. The history of an exiled monarch, soliciting, in the court of an ally, aid to relieve his country from a foreign yoke, and to restore him to the throne of his fathers, with the account of a popular insurrection undertaken for the same purposes, were delicate themes during the reign of William III.; at least, when the pen of Dryden was to be employed in them, whose well-known skill at adapting an ancient story to a modern moral had so often been exercised in the cause of the house of Stuart. Besides, he had already given offence by his prologue to the "Prophetess," when revived, which contains some familiar metaphorical sneers, as Cibber calls them, at the Irish war, the female regency, and even the Revolution itself. This prologue had been forbidden; and a similar exertion of authority was deemed fit in the case of "Cleomenes." Accordingly, before the inoffensive nature of the piece could be explained, the court took alarm at the subject in the abstract, and the performance of the piece was prohibited by the Chamberlain.[28] It appears, the exertions of Lord Rochester, the maternal uncle of Queen Mary, and of his family, had been sufficiently powerful to guarantee the harmless nature of the play, and to procure a recal of the mandate, by which the acting of the piece, and the consequent profits of the author, had been for some time suspended.
When the play was performed, our author had the satisfaction to see the first character admirably represented by the well-known Mrs Barry, to whom he has paid, in the preface, the splendid compliment of saying, "that she had gained by her performance a reputation beyond any woman he had ever seen on the theatre."[29] If this expression, as Cibber seems to think, be a little over-stretched, it at least serves to prove to us, that the play was well received; for, otherwise, the intercourse of civility between the author and performers is generally very slender.
Cleomenes was acted and published in 1692.
KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF
THE GARTER, &c;[30].
It is enough for your lordship to be conscious to yourself of having performed a just and honourable action, in redeeming this play from the persecution of my enemies; but it would be ingratitude in me, not to publish it to the world. That it has appeared on the stage, is principally owing to you: that it has succeeded, is the approbation of your judgment by that of the public. It is just the inversion of an act of parliament: Your lordship first signed it, and then it was passed amongst the Lords and Commons. The children of old men are generally observed to be short-lived, and of a weakly constitution. How this may prove, I know not, but hitherto it has promised well; and if it survive to posterity, it will carry the noble fame of its patron along with it; or, rather, it will be carried by yours to after-ages. Ariosto, in his Voyage of Astolpho to the Moon, has given us a fine allegory of two swans; who, when Time had thrown the writings of many poets into the river of oblivion, were ever in a readiness to secure the best, and bear them aloft into the temple of immortality.[31] Whether this poem be of that number, is left to the judgment of the swan who has preserved it; and, though I can claim little from his justice, I may presume to value myself upon his charity. It will be told me, that I have mistaken the Italian poet, who means only, that some excellent writers, almost as few in number as the swans, have rescued the memory of their patrons from forgetfulness and time; when a vast multitude of crows and vultures, that is, bad scribblers, parasites, and flatterers, oppressed by the weight of the names which they endeavoured to redeem, were forced to let them fall into Lethe, where they were lost for ever. If it be thus, my lord, the table would be turned upon me; but I should only fail in my vain attempt; for, either some immortal swan will be more capable of sustaining such a weight, or you, who have so long been conversant in the management of great affairs, are able with your pen to do justice to yourself, and, at the same time, to give the nation a clearer and more faithful insight into those transactions, wherein you have worthily sustained so great a part; for, to your experience in state affairs, you have also joined no vulgar erudition, which all your modesty is not able to conceal: for, to understand critically the delicacies of Horace, is a height to which few of our noblemen have arrived; and that this is your deserved commendation, I am a living evidence, as far, at least, as I can be allowed a competent judge on that subject. Your affection to that admirable Ode, which Horace writes to his Mecænas, and which I had the honour to inscribe to you, is not the only proof of this assertion[32]. You may please to remember that, in the late happy conversation which I had with your lordship at a noble relation's of yours, you took me aside, and pleased yourself with repeating to me one of the most beautiful pieces in that author. It was the Ode to Barine, wherein you were so particularly affected with that elegant expression, Juvenumque prodis publica cura. There is indeed the virtue of a whole poem in those words; that curiosa felicitas, which Petronius so justly ascribes to our author. The barbarity of our language is not able to reach it; yet, when I have leisure, I mean to try how near I can raise my English to his Latin; though, in the mean time, I cannot but imagine to myself, with what scorn his sacred manes would look on so lame a translation as I could make. His recalcitrat undique tutus might more easily be applied to me, than he himself applied it to Augustus Cæsar. I ought to reckon that day as very fortunate to me, and distinguish it, as the ancients did, with a whiter stone; because it furnished me with an occasion of reading my Cleomenes to a beautiful assembly of ladies, where your lordship's three fair daughters were pleased to grace it with their presence[33]; and, if I may have leave to single out any one in particular, there was your admirable daughter-in-law, shining, not like a star, but a constellation of herself, a more true and brighter Berenice. Then it was, that, whether out of your own partiality, and indulgence to my writings, or out of complaisance to the fair company, who gave the first good omen to my success by their approbation, your lordship was pleased to add your own, and afterwards to represent it to the queen, as wholly innocent of those crimes which were laid unjustly to its charge. Neither am I to forget my charming patroness, though she will not allow my public address to her in a dedication, but protects me unseen, like my guardian-angel, and shuns my gratitude, like a fairy, who is bountiful by stealth, and conceals the giver when she bestows the gift; but, my Lady Silvius[34] has been juster to me, and pointed out the goddess at whose altar I was to pay my sacrifice and thanks-offering; and, had she been silent, yet my Lord Chamberlain himself, in restoring my play without any alteration, avowed to me, that I had the most earnest solicitress, as well as the fairest, and that nothing could be refused to my Lady Hyde.
These favours, my lord, received from yourself, and your noble family, have encouraged me to this dedication; wherein I not only give you back a play, which, had you not redeemed it, had not been mine; but also, at the same time, dedicate to you the unworthy author, with my inviolable faith, and (how mean soever) my utmost service; and I shall be proud to hold my dependance on you in chief, as I do part of my small fortune in Wiltshire. Your goodness has not been wanting to me during the reign of my two masters; and, even from a bare treasury, my success has been contrary to that of Mr Cowley; and Gideon's fleece has then been moistened, when all the ground has been dry about it[35]. Such and so many provocations of this nature have concurred to my invading of your modesty with this address. I am sensible that it is in a manner forced upon you; but your lordship has been the aggressor in this quarrel, by so many favours, which you were not weary of conferring on me, though, at the same time, I own the ambition on my side, to be ever esteemed,
Your Lordship's most thankful,
And most obedient Servant,
John Dryden.
It is now seven or eight years since I designed to write this play of "Cleomenes;" and my Lord Falkland[36], (whose name I cannot mention without honour, for the many favours I have received from him) is pleased to witness for me, that, in a French book which I presented him about that time, there were the names of many subjects that I had thought on for the stage, amongst which this tragedy was one. This was out of my remembrance; but my lord, on the occasion of stopping my play, took the opportunity of doing me a good office at court, by representing it as it was, a piece long ago designed; which being judiciously treated, I thought was capable of moving compassion on the stage. The success has justified my opinion; and that at a time when the world is running mad after Farce, the extremity of bad poetry, or rather the judgment that is fallen upon dramatic writing. Were I in the humour, I have sufficient cause to expose it in its true colours; but, having for once escaped, I will forbear my satire, and only be thankful for my deliverance. A great part of my good fortune, I must confess, is owing to the justice which was done me in the performance. I can scarcely refrain from giving every one of the actors their particular commendations; but none of them will be offended, if I say what the town has generally granted, that Mrs Barry, always excellent, has, in this tragedy, excelled herself, and gained a reputation beyond any woman whom I have ever seen on the theatre. After all, it was a bold attempt of mine, to write upon a single plot, unmixed with comedy; which, though it be the natural and true way, yet is not to the genius of the nation. Yet, to gratify the barbarous party of my audience, I gave them a short rabble-scene, because the mob (as they call them) are represented by Plutarch and Polybius, with the same character of baseness and cowardice, which are here described in the last attempt of "Cleomenes." They may thank me, if they please, for this indulgence; for no French poet would have allowed them any more than a bare relation of that scene, which debases a tragedy to show upon the stage.
For the rest, some of the mechanic rules of unity are observed, and others are neglected. The action is but one, which is the death of Cleomenes; and every scene in the play is tending to the accomplishment of the main design. The place is likewise one; for, it is all in the compass of Alexandria, and the port of that city. The time might easily have been reduced into the space of twenty-four hours, if I would have omitted the scene of famine in the fifth act; but it pleased me to try how Spartans could endure it; and, besides, gave me the occasion of writing that other scene, betwixt Cleomenes and his suspected friend; and, in such a case, it is better to trespass on a rule, than leave out a beauty.
As for other objections, I never heard any worth answering; and, least of all, that foolish one which is raised against me by the sparks, for Cleomenes not accepting the favours of Cassandra. They would not have refused a fair lady! I grant they would not; but, let them grant me, that they are not heroes; and so much for the point of honour[37]. A man might have pleaded an excuse for himself, if he had been false to an old wife, for the sake of a young mistress; but Cleora was in the flower of her age, and it was yet but honey-moon with Cleomenes; and so much for nature. Some have told me, that many of the fair sex complain for want of tender scenes, and soft expressions of love. I will endeavour to make them some amends, if I write again, and my next hero shall be no Spartan.
I know it will be here expected, that I should write somewhat concerning the forbidding of my play; but, the less I say of it, the better. And, besides, I was so little concerned at it, that, had it not been on consideration of the actors, who were to suffer on my account, I should not have been at all solicitous whether it were played or no. Nobody can imagine that, in my declining age, I write willingly, or that I am desirous of exposing, at this time of day, the small reputation which I have gotten on the theatre. The subsistence which I had from the former government is lost; and the reward I have from the stage is so little, that it is not worth my labour.
As for the reasons which were given for suspending the play, it seems they were so ill-founded, that my Lord Chamberlain no sooner took the pains to read it, but they vanished; and my copy was restored to me, without the least alteration by his lordship. It is printed as it was acted; and, I dare assure you, that here is no parallel to be found: it is neither compliment, nor satire; but a plain story, more strictly followed than any which has appeared upon the stage. It is true, it had been garbled before by the superiors of the play-house; and I cannot reasonably blame them for their caution, because they are answerable for any thing that is publicly represented; and their zeal for the government is such, that they had rather lose the best poetry in the world, than give the least suspicion of their loyalty. The short is, that they were diligent enough to make sure work, and to geld it so clearly in some places, that they took away the very manhood of it. I can only apply to them, what Cassandra says somewhere in the play to Ptolemy;
But, since it concerns me to be as circumspect as they are, I have given leave to my bookseller to print the life of Cleomenes, as it is elegantly and faithfully translated out of Plutarch, by my learned friend, Mr Creech, to whom the world has been indebted for his excellent version of Lucretius, and I particularly obliged in his translation of Horace[38]. We daily expect Manilius from him, an author worthy only of such hands; which, having formerly revealed the secrets of nature to us here on earth, is now discovering to us her palace in the skies, and, if I might be allowed to say it, giving light to the stars of heaven:
But, to return to Plutarch: you will find him particularly fond of Cleomenes his character; who, as he was the last of the Spartan heroes, so he was, in my opinion, the greatest. Even his enemy, Polybius, though engaged in the contrary faction, yet speaks honourably of him, and especially of his last action in Egypt. This author is also made English, and will shortly be published for the common benefit[40].
What I have added to the story, is chiefly the love of Agathoclea, the king's mistress, whose name I have changed into Cassandra, only for the better sound; as I have also the name of Nicagoras, into that of Cœnus, for the same reason. Cratesiclæa, Pantheus, and Sosybius, are to be found in the story, with the same characters which they have in the tragedy. There is likewise mention made of the son of Cleomenes, who had resolution enough to throw himself headlong from a tower, when he had heard of his father's ill success. And for Cleora, whom I make the second wife of Cleomenes, (for Ægiatis was dead before) you will find a hint of her in Plutarch; for, he tells us, that after the loss of the battle at Sellasia, he returned to Sparta, and, entering his own house, was there attended by a free-born woman of Megalopolis.
The picture of Ptolemy Philopater is given by the fore-mentioned authors to the full. Both agree that he was an original of his kind; a lazy, effeminate, cowardly, cruel, and luxurious prince, managed by his favourite, and imposed on by his mistress. The son of Sosybius, whom I call Cleanthes, was a friend to Cleomenes; but, Plutarch says, he at length forsook him. I have given him a fairer character, and made it only a seeming treachery, which he practised. If any be so curious to enquire what became of Cassandra, whose fortune was left in suspence at the conclusion of the play, I must first inform them, that, after the death of Cleomenes, (the hero of my poem) I was obliged by the laws of the drama, to let fall the curtain immediately, because the action was then concluded. But Polybius tells us, that she survived Ptolemy, who reigned about twenty-seven years; that, with her brother Agathocles, she governed Egypt in the minority of his son Ptolemy Epiphanes; and that, finally, for oppressing of the people, both the brother and sister were slain in a popular insurrection.
There is nothing remaining, but my thanks to the town in general, and to the fair ladies in particular, for their kind reception of my play. And, though I cannot retract what I said before, that I was not much concerned, in my own particular, for the embargo which was laid upon it, yet I think myself obliged, at the same time, to render my acknowledgments to those honourable persons, who were instrumental in the freeing it; for, as it was from a principle of nobleness in them, that they would not suffer one to want, who was grown old in their service, so, it is from a principle of another sort, that I have learned to possess my soul in patience, and not to be much disquieted with any disappointment of this nature.
[The following verses were sent me by a young gentleman, under twenty years of age, whose modesty would have concealed his name; but I learned it from another hand, and have taken the boldness to subscribe it without his leave. I presume that, on the reading of them, nobody can blame me for making Cleonidas speak above his youth, when you see an Englishman so far surpassing my Spartan.]
TRANSLATED FROM PLUTARCH
BY
Mr THOMAS CREECH.
Thus fell Agis. His brother Archidamus was too quick for Leonidas, and saved himself by a timely retreat. But his wife then newly brought to bed, the tyrant forced her from her own house, and compelled her to marry his son Cleomenes, though at that time too young for a wife; for he was unwilling that any one else should have her, she being heiress to her father Gylippus's great estate; for person, the finest woman in all Greece, very good-natured, of an exemplary life; and therefore, they say, she did all she could, that she might not be compelled to this match.
Being thus married to Cleomenes, she hated Leonidas; but to the youth she showed herself a kind and obliging wife. He, as soon as they came together, began to love her very much; and the constant kindness that she still retained for the memory of Agis, wrought somewhat of concern in the young man for him; so that he would often enquire of her concerning what had passed, and attentively listen to the story of Agis's designs. Now Cleomenes had a generous and great soul: he was as temperate and moderate in his pleasures as Agis, but not so very cautious, circumspect, and gentle; a spur of passion always galled him, and his eagerness to pursue that which he thought good and just, was violent and heady. To make men willing to obey, he conceived to be the best discipline; but likewise to break the stubborn, and force them to be better, was, in his opinion, commendable and brave. This disposition made him dislike the management of the city. The citizens lay dissolved in supine idleness and pleasures; the king minded nothing, designing, if nobody gave him any disturbance, to waste his time in ease and riot; the public was neglected, and each man intent upon his private gain. It was dangerous, now Agis was killed, to mention the exercising and training of their youth; and to set up for the ancient bravery and equality, was treason against the state. It is said also, that Cleomenes, whilst a boy, studied philosophy under Sphærus the Borysthenite, who, coming to Sparta, was very diligent in instructing the youth. Sphærus was one of the chief of Zeno the Citiean's scholars; and it is likely that he admired the manly temper of Cleomenes, and inflamed his generous ambition. The ancient Leonidas, as story saith, being asked, What manner of poet he thought Tyrtæus? replied, An excellent one to whet the courages of youth; for, being filled with fury by his poems, they daringly ventured on any danger. Now the Stoic philosophy is a dangerous incentive to hot and fiery dispositions; but being mixed with a grave and cautious temper, is very good to fix and settle the resolutions.
Upon the death of his father Leonidas, he succeeded; and, observing the citizens of all sorts to be debauched, the rich neglecting the public, and intent on their own gain and pleasure, and the poor being cramped in their private fortunes, grown inactive, cowards, and not inclinable to the Spartan institution and way of breeding, that he had only the name of King, and the Ephori all the power, was resolved to change the present posture of affairs. He had a friend, whose name was Xenares, his lover, (such an affection the Spartans express by the word [Greek: empneithai],) him he sounded; and of him he would commonly enquire, What manner of king Agis was, by what means, and by what assistance he began and pursued his designs. Xenares at first willingly complied with his request, and told him the whole story, with all the particular circumstances of the actions. But when he observed Cleomenes to be extremely affected at the relation, and more than ordinarily moved at Agis's new model of the government, and begging a repetition of the story, he at first severely chid him, told him he was frantic, and at last left off all sort of familiarity and conversation with him; yet he never told any man the cause of their disagreement, but would only say, "Cleomenes knew very well." Cleomenes finding Xenares averse to his designs, and thinking all others to be of the same opinion, consulted with none, but contrived the whole business by himself. And considering that it would be easier to bring about an alteration when the city was at war than when in peace, he engaged the commonwealth in a quarrel with the Achæans, who had given them fair occasions to complain; for Aratus, a man of the greatest power amongst all the Achæans, designed, from the very beginning, to bring all the Peloponnesians into one common body. And to effect this, he undertook many expeditions, and ran through a long course of policy; for he thought this the only means to make them an equal match for their foreign enemies. All the rest agreed to his proposals; only the Lacedæmonians, the Eleans, and as many of the Arcadians as inclined to the Spartan interest, refused. Therefore, as soon as Leonidas was dead, he fell upon the Arcadians, and wasted those especially that bordered on Achaia; by this means designing to try the inclinations of the Spartans, and despising Cleomenes as a youth, and of no experience in affairs of state or war. Upon this the Ephori sent Cleomenes to surprise the Athenæum, dedicated to Minerva, near Belbina, which is a pass of Laconia, and was then under the jurisdiction of the Megalopolitans. Cleomenes possessed himself of the place, and fortified it; at which action Aratus shewed no public resentment, but marched by night to surprise Tegea and Orchomenium. The design failed; for those that were to betray the cities into his hands, doubted the success; so Aratus retreated, imagining that his design had been undiscovered. But Cleomenes wrote a jeering letter to him, and desired to know, as from a friend, whither he intended to march at night? And Aratus answering, That having understood his design to fortify Belbina, he resolved to march thither to oppose him; Cleomenes returned, That he believed it, but desired him to give an account, if it stood with his convenience, why he carried those torches and ladders with him.
Aratus laughing at the jeer, and asking what manner of youth this was? Democrites, a Spartan exile, replied, "If you have any designs upon the Lacedæmonians, begin before this young eagle's talons are grown." Presently after this, Cleomenes being in Arcadia with a few horse, and 300 foot, the Ephori, fearing to engage in the war, commanded him home; but upon his retreat, Aratus taking Caphuæ, they commissioned him again. In this expedition he took Methudrium, and spoiled the country of the Argives; and the Achæans, to stop his victory, and secure their friends, sent 20,000 foot and 1000 horse against him, under the command of Aristomachus. Cleomenes faced them at Palantium, and offered battle; but Aratus being dashed at his bravery, would not suffer the general to engage, but retreated; being cursed by the Achæans, and hooted at, and scorned by the Spartans, who were not above 5000, for a coward. Cleomenes, encouraged by this success, began to vaunt among the citizens, a sentence of one of their ancient kings, who said, "The Spartans seldom enquired how many their enemies were, but where they were." After this, marching to the assistance of the Eleans, upon whom the Achæans warred, and about Lycæum falling upon the enemy in their retreat, he routed their whole army, taking a great number of captives, and leaving many dead upon the place; so that it was commonly reported amongst the Greeks, that Aratus was slain. But Aratus making the best advantage of the opportunity presently after the defeat, marched to Mantinæa and, before any body suspected it, took the city, and put a new garrison into it. Upon this the Lacedæmonians being quite discouraged, and opposing Cleomenes's design of carrying on the war, he was eager to send for Archidamus, Agis's brother, from Messena; for he of the other family had a right to the kingdom: and, beside, Cleomenes thought, that the power of the Ephori would be abated, when the kingly state was filled up, and equally poised between the two families. But those that were concerned in the murder of Agis, understanding the design, and fearing that upon Archidamus's return they should be called to an account, received him coming privately into town, waited on him, and presently after murdered him; but whether Cleomenes was against it, as Phylarchus imagines or whether he was persuaded by his friends, and winked at the contrivance, is uncertain; however, they were most blamed, as having forced his consent. But he still resolving to new-model the state, bribed the Ephori to make him general; and won the affections of many others by means of his mother Cratesiclea, who spared no cost, and was very zealous to promote the same interest; and though of herself she had no inclination to marry, yet for her son's sake she wedded one of the chiefest citizens for wealth and power. Cleomenes marching forth with the army now under his command, took Leuctra, a place belonging to Megalopolis; and the Achæans quickly facing him with a good body of men commanded by Aratus, in a battle under the very walls of the city, some part of his army was routed; but Aratus commanding the Achæans not to pass a deep hollow, and stopping the pursuit, Lydiadas the Megalopolitan, fretting at the orders, encouraging the horse which he led, and pursuing the routed enemy, fell into a place full of vines, hedges, and ditches; and being forced to break his ranks, was put into a great disorder. Cleomenes observing the advantage, commanded the Tarentines and Cretans to engage him, by whom, after a brave dispute, he was routed and slain. The Lacedæmonians, thus encouraged, with a great shout fell upon the Achæans, and routed their whole army. Of the slain, which were very many, some Cleomenes delivered upon articles; but the body of Lydiadas he commanded to be brought to him; and then putting on it a purple robe, and a crown upon its head, sent a convoy with it to the gates of Megalopolis. This Lydiadas was the man that resigned his crown, restored liberty to the citizens, and joined the city to the Achæan interest. Cleomenes being very much raised by this success, and persuaded, that if matters were wholly at his disposal, he should quickly be too hard for the Achæans; he taught Megistones, his mother's husband, that it was expedient for the state to shake off the power of the Ephori, and to put all their wealth into one common stock for the whole body; that Sparta, being restored to its old equality, might be raised up to be mistress of all Greece. Megistones liked the design, and engaged two or three more of his friends. About that time one of the Ephori, sleeping in Pasiphae's temple, dreamed a very surprising dream; for he thought he saw the four chairs removed out of the place where the Ephori used to sit and hear causes, and one only set there; and whilst he wondered, he heard a voice out of the temple, saying, "This is best for Sparta." The person telling Cleomenes this dream, he was a little troubled at first, fearing that he used this as a trick to sift him, upon some suspicion of his design; but when he was satisfied that the relater spoke truth, he took heart again; and taking with him those whom he thought would be against his model, he took Eræa and Alcæa, two cities of the Achæans, furnished Orchomenium with provisions, besieged Mantinæa, and with long marches so harassed the Lacedæmonians, that many of them desired to be left in Arcadia; and he satisfied their request. With the mercenaries he marched to Sparta; and by the way communicated his design to those, whom he thought fittest for his purpose, and marched slowly, that he might catch the Ephori at supper. When he was come near the city, he sent Eurycleidas to the Sussitium, the eating place of the Ephori, under pretence of carrying some message from him from the army; Threicion, Phæbis, and two of those who were bred with Cleomenes, whom they call Samothracæ followed with a few soldiers; and whilst Eurycleidas was delivering his message to the Ephori, they ran upon them with their drawn swords, and slew them. Agesilaus, as soon as he was run through, fell, and lay as dead; but in a little time he rose, silently conveyed himself out of the room, and crept undiscovered into a little house, which was the temple of Fear, and which always used to be shut, but was then by chance open; being got in, he shut the door, and lay close: the other four were killed, and above ten more that came to their assistance. To those that were quiet, they did no harm, stopt none that fled the city, and spared Agesilaus, who came out of the temple the next day. The Lacedæmonians have not only temples dedicated to Fear, but also to Death, Laughter, and the like passions. Now they worship Fear, not as they do those deities which they dread, esteeming it hurtful, but thinking their policy is chiefly kept up by law; and therefore the Ephori, (Aristotle is my author,) when they enter upon their government, make proclamation to the people, that they should shave their whiskers, and be obedient to the laws, that they might not be forced to be severe; using this trivial particular, in my opinion, to accustom their youth to obedience, even in the smallest matters. And the ancients, I think, did not imagine fortitude to be plain fearlessness, but a cautious fear of infamy and disgrace: for those that shew most fear towards the laws, are most bold against their enemies; and those are least afraid of any danger, who are most afraid of a just reproach. Therefore he said well,
A reverence still attends on fear.
And Homer,
Feared you shall be, dear uncle, and revered.
And again,
In silence fearing those that bore the sway.
For it is very commonly seen, that men reverence those whom they fear; and therefore the Lacedæmonians placed the temple of Fear by the Sussitium of the Ephori, having raised their power to almost absolute monarchy.
The next day Cleomenes proscribed eighty of the citizens, whom he thought necessary to banish, and removed all the seats of the Ephori, except one, in which he himself designed to sit, and hear causes; and calling the citizens together, he made an apology for his proceedings; saying, "That by Lycurgus the senate was joined to the kings, and that that model of government had continued a long time, and needed no other sort of magistrates to give it perfection. But afterward, in the long war with the Messenians, when the kings, being to command the army, had no time to attend civil causes, they chose some of their friends, and left them to determine the suits of the citizens in their stead. These were called Ephori, and at first behaved themselves as servants to the kings; but afterward, by degrees, they appropriated the power to themselves, and erected a distinct sort of magistracy. An evidence of the truth of this may be taken from the usual behaviour of the kings, who, upon the first and second message of the Ephori, refuse to go; but upon the third, readily attend them: and Asteropus, the first that raised the Ephori to that height of power, lived a great many years after their institution; therefore, whilst they modestly contained themselves within their own proper sphere, it was better to bear with them than to make a disturbance. But that an upstart introduced power should so far destroy the old model of government, as to banish some kings, murder others without hearing their defence, and threaten those who desired to see the best and most divine constitution restored in Sparta, was insufferable; therefore if it had been possible for him, without bloodshed, to have freed Lacedæmon from those foreign plagues, luxury, vanity, debts, and usury, and from those more ancient evils, poverty and riches, he should have thought himself the happiest king in the world; having, like an expert physician, cured the diseases of his country without pain. But now, in this necessity, Lycurgus's example favoured his proceedings, who, being neither king nor magistrate, but a private man, and aiming at the kingdom, came armed into the market-place, and, for fear of the king Carileus, fled to the altar; but he being a good man, and a lover of his country, readily consented to Lycurgus's project, and admitted an alteration in the state. Thus, by his own actions, Lycurgus showed, that it was difficult to correct the government without force and fear; in using which, he said, he would be so moderate, as never to desire their assistance, but either to terrify or ruin the enemies of Sparta's happiness and safety." He commanded, that all the land should be left in common, and private claims laid aside; that debtors should be discharged of their debts, and a strict search made, who were foreigners, and who not; that the true Spartans, recovering their courage, might defend the city by their arms; and that we may no longer see Laconia, for want of a sufficient number to secure it, wasted by the Ætolians and Illyrians. Then he himself first, with his father-in-law Megistones, and his friends, brought all their wealth into one public stock, and all the other citizens followed the example. The land was divided, and every one that he had banished had a share assigned him; for he promised to restore all, as soon as things were settled, and in quiet: and compleating the common number of citizens, out of the best and most agreeable of the neighbouring inhabitants, he raised a body of four thousand men; and, instead of a spear, taught them to use a sarissa (a long pike) with both hands, and to carry their shields by a string fastened round their arms, and not by a handle, as before. After this he began to consult about the exercising and breeding of the youth, many particulars of which, Sphærus, being then at Sparta, directed; and in a short time the schools of exercise, and their Sussitia, (common eating places,) recovered their ancient decency and order; a few out of necessity, but the most voluntarily applying themselves to that generous and Laconic way of living. Besides, that the name of monarch might give them no jealousy, he made Eucleidas, his brother, partner in the throne; and that was the only time that Sparta had two kings of the same family. Then understanding that the Achæans and Aratus imagined that this change had disturbed and shaken his affairs, and that he would not venture out of Sparta, and leave the city, now unsettled by so great an alteration, he thought it great and serviceable to his designs, to convince his enemies that he was eagerly desirous of a war; and therefore making an incursion into the territories of Megalopolis, he wasted the country very much, and got a considerable booty. And at last taking those that used to act in the public solemnities travelling from Messena, and building a theatre in the enemy's country, and setting a prize of L. 40 value, he sat spectator a whole day; not that he either desired or needed such a divertisement, but as it were insulting over his enemies; and that by thus manifestly despising them, he might show, that he had more than conquered the Achæans. For that alone, of all the Greek or kings' armies, had no stage-players, no jugglers, no dancing or singing women attending it, but was free from all sorts of looseness, wantonness, and foppery; the young men being for the most part upon duty, and the old men teaching them at leisure time to apply themselves to their usual drollery, and to rally one another facetiously after the Laconic fashion; the advantages of which I have discovered in the life of Lycurgus. He himself instructed all by his example: he was a living pattern of temperance before every body's eyes, and his course of living was neither more stately nor more expensive than any of the commons. And this was a considerable advantage to him in his designs on Greece; for men, when they waited upon other kings, did not so much admire their wealth, costly furniture, and numerous attendance, as they hated their pride and state, their difficulty of access, and scornful commanding answers to their petitions. But when they came to Cleomenes, who was both really a king, and bore that title, and saw no purple, no robes of state upon him, no chairs and couches about him for his ease, and that he did not receive petitions, and return answers, after a long delay, by a number of messengers, waiters, or by bills, but that he rose and came forward to meet those that came to wait upon him, stayed, talked freely and graciously with all that had business; they were extremely taken, won to his service, and professed that he alone was the true son of Hercules. His common every-day's meal was in a mean room, very sparing, and after the Laconic manner; and when he entertained ambassadors, or strangers, two more beds were added, and a little better dinner provided by his servants; but no fricasees, no dainties, only the dishes were larger, and the wine more plentiful; for he reproved one of his friends for entertaining some strangers with nothing but pulse and black broth, such diet as they usually had in their Phiditia; saying, that upon such occasions, and when they treat strangers, it was not requisite to be too exact Laconians. After supper, a stand was brought in with a brass vessel full of wine, two silver pots, which held almost a quart a piece, a few silver cups, of which he that pleased might drink, but no liquor was forced on any of the guests. There was no music, nor was any required; for he entertained the company, sometimes asking questions, sometimes telling stories: and his discourse was neither too grave, and unpleasantly serious, nor vain and abusive, but merrily facetious; for he thought those ways of catching men by gifts and presents, which other kings use, to be mean and inartificial; and it seemed to him to be the most glorious method, and most suitable to a king, to win the affections of those that came near him, by pleasant discourse, and unaffected conversation; for a friend and mercenary differ only in this, that the one is made by conversation and agreeableness of humour, and the other by reward. The Mantinæans were the first that obliged him; for, getting by night into the city, and driving out the Achæan garrison, they put themselves under his protection; he restored them their polity and laws, and the same day marched to Tegea; and a little while after, fetching a compass through Arcadia, he made a descent upon Pheræ, in Achaia, intending to force Aratus to a battle, or bring him into disrepute, for refusing to engage, and suffering him to waste the country. Hyperbatus at that time commanded the army, but Aratus had all the power amongst the Achæans. The Achæans marching forth with their whole strength, and encamping in Dumeæ, about Hecatombæum, Cleomenes came up, and thinking it not advisable to pitch between Dumeæ, a city of the enemy's, and the camp of the Achæans, he boldly dared the Achæans, and forced them to a battle; and routing the phalanx, slew a great many in the fight, and took many prisoners; thence marching to Lagon, and driving out the Achæan garrison, he restored the city to the Elæans. The affairs of the Achæans being in this desperate condition, Aratus, who was wont to continue in his government above a year, refused the command, though they entreated and urged him to accept it; and this was ill done, when the storm was high, to put the power out of his own hands, and set another to the helm. Cleomenes at first proposed fair and easy conditions by his ambassadors to the Achæans; but afterwards he sent others, and required the chief command to be settled upon him; and in other matters he promised to agree to reasonable terms, and to restore their captives and their country. The Achæans were willing to come to an agreement upon those terms, and invited Cleomenes to Lerna, where an assembly was to be held; but it happened that Cleomenes hastily marching on, and unseasonably drinking water, brought up abundance of blood, and lost his voice; therefore, being unable to continue his march, he sent the chiefest of the captives to the Achæans, and putting off the meeting for some time, retired to Lacedæmon. This ruined the affairs of Greece, which was just then ready to recover itself out of its disasters, and avoid the insulting and covetousness of the Macedonians: for Aratus, whether fearing or distrusting Cleomenes, or envying his unlooked-for success, or thinking it a disgrace for him, who had commanded thirty-three years, to have a young man succeed to all his glory and his power, and be head of that government which he had been raising and settling so many years: he first endeavoured to keep the Achæans from closing with Cleomenes; but when they would not hearken to him, fearing Cleomenes's daring spirit, and thinking the Lacedæmonians' proposals to be very reasonable, who designed only to reduce Peloponnesus to its old model, he took his last refuge, in an action which was unbecoming any of the Greeks, most dishonourable to him, and most unworthy his former bravery and exploits; for he called Antigonus into Greece, and filled Peloponnesus with Macedonians, whom he himself, when a youth, having beaten their garrison out of the castle of Corinth, had driven from the same country; beside he declared himself an enemy to all kings, and hath left many dishonourable stories of this same Antigonus, in those commentaries which he wrote: and though he declares that he suffered considerable losses, and underwent great dangers, that he might free Athens from the power of the Macedonians, yet afterward he brought the very same men armed into his own country, and his own house, even to the women's apartment. He would not endure, that one of the family of Hercules, and king of Sparta, and one that had reformed the polity of his country, as it were a disordered harmony, and tuned it to the plain Doric measure of Lycurgus, to be stiled, head of the Triccæans and Sicyonians; and whilst he fled the pulse and short coat, and, which were his chief accusations against Cleomenes, the extirpation of wealth, and reformation of poverty, he basely subjected himself, together with Achaia, to the diadem and purple, to the imperious commands of the Macedonians and their Satrapæ. That he might not seem to be under Cleomenes, he sacrificed the Antigonea, (sacrifices in honour of Antigonus,) and sung Pæans himself with a garland on his head, to the honour of a rotten, consumptive Macedonian. I write this not out of any design to disgrace Aratus, (for in many things he shewed himself vigorous for the Grecian interest, and a great man;) but out of pity to the weakness of human nature, which, in such a person, so excellent, and so many ways disposed to virtue, cannot attain to a state irreprehensible.
The Achæans meeting again at Argos, and Cleomenes descending from Tegea, there were great hopes that all differences would be composed. But Aratus (Antigonus and he having already agreed upon the chief articles of their league) fearing that Cleomenes would carry all before him, and either win or force the multitude to comply with his demands, proposed that, having three hundred hostages put into his hands, he should come alone into the town, or bring his army to the place of exercise, called Cillarabion, without the city, and treat there.
Cleomenes hearing this, said, that he was unjustly dealt with; for they ought to have told him so plainly at first, and not, now he was come even to their doors, show their jealousy, and deny him admission. And writing an epistle to the Achæans about the same subject, the greatest part of which was an accusation of Aratus; and Aratus, on the other side, ripping up his faults to the assembly, he hastily dislodged, and sent a trumpeter to denounce war against the Achæans, but not to Argos, but to Ægium, as Aratus delivers, that he might not give them notice enough to make provision for their defence. Upon this, the Achæans were mightily disturbed; the common people expecting a division of the land, and a release from their debts: and the chief men being on many accounts displeased with Aratus, and some angry, and at odds with him, as the occasion of the Macedonians' descent on Peloponnesus. Encouraged by these misunderstandings, Cleomenes invades Achæa; and first took Pellene by surprise, and beat out the Achæan garrison; and afterwards brought over Pheneon and Pentelæon to his side. Now the Achæans suspecting some treacherous designs at Corinth and Sicyon, sent their horse and mercenaries out of Argos to have an eye upon those cities; and they themselves went to Argos to celebrate the Nemean games. Cleomenes advertised of this march, and hoping (as it afterwards fell out) that upon an unexpected advance to the city, now busied in the solemnity of the games, and thronged with numerous spectators, he should raise a considerable terror and confusion amongst them; by night, he marched with his army to the walls, and taking the quarter of the town called Aspis, which lies above the theatre, a place well fortified, and hard to be approached, he so terrified them, that none offered to resist, but agreed to accept a garrison, to give twenty citizens for hostages, and to assist the Lacedæmonians, and that he should have the chief command. This action considerably increased his reputation, and his power; for the antient Spartan kings, though they many ways endeavoured to effect it, could never bring Argos to be stedfastly and sincerely theirs. And Pyrrhus, a most experienced captain, and brave soldier, though he entered the city by force, could not keep possession, but was slain himself with a considerable part of his army. Therefore they admired the dispatch and contrivance of Cleomenes; and those that before derided him for saying that he imitated Solon and Lycurgus in releasing the people from their debts, and in equally dividing the wealth of the citizens, were now persuaded, that he was the cause of the desirable alterations in the Spartan commonwealth. For, before, they were very low in the world, and so unable to secure their own, that the Ætolians invading Laconia, brought away fifty thousand slaves; so that one of the elder Spartans is reported to have said, that "they had done Laconia a kindness by unburdening it;" and yet, a little while after, applying themselves to their own customs, and antient institutions, they gave notable instances of courage and obedience, as if they had been under the eye of Lycurgus himself, and quickly raised Sparta to be head of all Greece, and recovered Peloponnesus to themselves. Whilst Argos was taken, and Cleonæ and Philius sided with Cleomenes, Aratus was at Corinth searching after some, who were reported to favour the Spartan interest. The news being brought to him, disturbed him very much; for he perceived the city inclining to Cleomenes, and the Achæans willing to be at ease; therefore he called all the citizens into the common hall, and, as it were undesignedly retreating to the gate, he mounted his horse that stood ready there, and fled to Sicyon; and the Corinthians made such haste to Cleomenes at Argos, that, (as Aratus says) striving who should be first there, they spoiled all their horses: and Cleomenes was very angry with the Corinthians for letting Aratus escape. And Megistones came from Cleomenes to him, desiring him to deliver up the castle of Corinth, which was then garrisoned by the Achæans, and offered him a considerable sum of money; and that he answered, that "matters were not now in his power, but he in theirs." Thus Aratus himself writes. But Cleomenes marching from Argos, and taking in the Træzenians, Epidaurians, and Hermioneans, came to Corinth, and blocked up the castle, which the Achæans would not surrender; and sending for Aratus's friends and stewards, committed his house and estate to their care and management and sent Tritimallus the Messenian to him a second time, desiring that the castle might be equally garrisoned by the Spartans and Achæans, and promising to Aratus himself double the pension that he received from king Ptolemy; but Aratus refusing the conditions, and sending his own son with other hostages to Antigonus, and persuading the Achæans to make a decree for delivering the castle into Antigonus's hands, Cleomenes invaded the territory of the Sicyonians, and, by a decree of the Corinthians, seized on all Aratus's estate. In the mean time, Antigonus, with a great army, passed Gerania; and Cleomenes thinking it more advisable to fortify and garrison, not the Isthmus, but the mountains called Onia, and by a long siege and skirmishes to weary the Macedonians, than to venture a set battle, put his design in execution, which very much distressed Antigonus; for he had not brought victuals sufficient for his army, nor was it easy to force a way through, whilst Cleomenes guarded the pass. He attempted by night to pass through Lechæum, but failed, and lost some men; so that Cleomenes and his army were mightily encouraged, and so flushed with the victory, that they went merrily to supper; and Antigonus was very much dejected, being reduced to those miserable straits. At last he designed to march to the promontory Heræum, and thence transport his army in boats to Sicyon, which would take up a great deal of time, and be very chargeable. The same time, about evening, some of Aratus's friends came from Argos by sea, and invited him to return; for the Argives would revolt from Cleomenes. Aristotle was the man that wrought the revolt, and he had no hard task to persuade the common people; for they were all angry with Cleomenes for not releasing them from their debts, as they expected. Upon this advertisement, Aratus, with fifteen hundred of Antigonus's soldiers, sailed to Epidaurus; but Aristotle, not staying for his coming, drew out the citizens, and fought against the garrison of the castle; and Timoxenus, with the Achæans from Sicyon, came to his assistance. Cleomenes heard the news about the second watch of the night, and, sending for Megistones, angrily commanded him to go and set things right at Argos. This Megistones was the man who passed his word for the Argives' loyalty, and persuaded him not to banish the suspected. This Megistones he dispatched with two thousand soldiers, and observed Antigonus himself, and encouraged the Corinthians; pretending, that there was no great matter in the stirs at Argos, but only a little disturbance raised by a few inconsiderable persons. But when Megistones, entering Argos, was slain, and the garrison could scarce hold out, and frequent messengers came to Cleomenes for succours, he,—fearing lest the enemy, having taken Argos, should shut up the passes, and securely waste Laconia, and besiege Sparta itself, which he had left without forces,—he dislodged from Corinth, and presently lost that city, for Antigonus entered it, and garrisoned the town. He turned aside from his direct march, and, assaulting the wall of Argos, endeavoured to break in; and having cleared a way under the quarter called Aspis, he joined the garrison, which still held out against the Achæans; some parts of the city he scaled and took, and his Cretan archers cleared the streets. But, when he saw Antigonus, with his phalanx, descending from the mountains into the plain, and the horse on all sides entering the city, he thought it impossible to maintain his post; and therefore, with all his men, made a safe retreat behind the wall; having in a short time raised himself to a considerable height, and, in one march, made himself master of almost all Peloponnesus, and lost all again in as short a time: for some of his allies presently forsook him, and others not long after put themselves under Antigonus's protection. His army thus defeated, as he was leading back the relicks of his forces, some from Lacedæmon met him in the evening at Tegea, and brought him news of as great a misfortune as that which he had lately suffered; and that was the death of his wife, whom he doated on so much, that when he was most prosperous, he would ever now and then make a step to Sparta to visit his beloved Ægiatis.
This news afflicted him extremely; and he grieved as a young man would do for the loss of a very beautiful and excellent wife; yet his passion did not debase the greatness of his mind, but, keeping his usual voice, his countenance, and his habit, he gave necessary orders to his captains, and took care to secure the Tegeans. The next day he retired to Sparta; and having at home, with his mother and children, bewailed the loss, and finished his mourning, he presently appeared about the public affairs of the state. Now Ptolemy, the king of Egypt, promised him assistance, but demanded his mother and children for hostages. This, for some considerable time, he was ashamed to discover to his mother; and though he often went to her on purpose, and was just upon the discourse, yet still refrained, and kept it to himself; so that she began to suspect somewhat, and asked his friends, Whether Cleomenes had somewhat to say to her, which he was afraid to speak? At last Cleomenes venturing to tell her, she laughed heartily, and said, "Was this the thing that you had often a mind to tell me, and was afraid? Why do you not put me on shipboard, and send this carcase where it may be most serviceable to Sparta, before age wastes it unprofitably here?" Therefore, all things being provided for the voyage, they went to Tænarus on foot, and the army waited on them. Cratesiclea, when she was ready to go on board, took Cleomenes aside into Neptune's temple, and embracing him, who was very much dejected, and extremely discomposed, she said thus: "Go to, king of Sparta; when we are without door, let none see us weep, or show any passion below the honour and dignity of Sparta, for that alone is in our own power; as for success or disappointments, those wait on us as the Deity decrees." Having said thus, and composed her countenance, she went to the ship with her little grandson, and bade the pilot put presently out to sea. When she came to Egypt, and understood that Ptolemy entertained proposals and overtures of peace from Antigonus, and that Cleomenes, though the Achæans invited and urged him to an agreement, was afraid, for her sake, to come to any, without Ptolemy's consent; she wrote to him, advising him to do that which was most becoming and most profitable for Sparta, and not, for the sake of an old woman and a little child, always stand in fear of Ptolemy. This character she maintained in her misfortunes. Antigonus having taken Tegea, and plundered Orchomenum and Mantinæa, Cleomenes was shut up within the narrow bounds of Laconia, and made such of the Helots, as could pay five Attick pounds, free of Sparta, and by that means got together 500 talents; and arming 2000 after the Macedonian fashion, that he might make a body fit to oppose Antigonus's Leucaspidæ, (white shields,) he undertook a very surprising enterprize. Megalopolis was at that time a city of itself, as big and as powerful as Sparta, and had the forces of the Achæans and Antigonus encamping on its sides; and it was chiefly the Megalopolitans' doing, that Antigonus was called in to assist the Achæans. Cleomenes having a design upon this city, (no action was ever more sudden and more unexpected) ordered his men to take five days provision, and so marched to Sellasia, as if he intended to spoil the country of the Argives; but from thence making a descent into the territories of Megalopolis, and refreshing his army about Rhætium, he marched through Helicon, directly to the city. When he was not far off the town, he sent Pantheus with two regiments to surprise the Mesopyrgion, (the quarter between the two towers,) which he understood to be the most unguarded quarter of the Megalopolitans' fortifications; and with the rest of his forces he followed leisurely. Pantheus not only surprised that place, but, finding a great part of the wall without guards, he pulled down some places, and demolished others, and killed all the defenders that he found. Whilst he was thus busied, Cleomenes came up to him, and was got with his army within the city, before the Megalopolitans knew of the surprise. At last, as soon as it was discovered, some left the town immediately, taking with them what money they had ready; some armed, and engaged the enemy; and though they were not able to beat them out, yet they gave their citizens time and opportunity safely to retire: so that there were not above 1000 persons left in the town, all the rest flying with their wives and children, and escaping to Messena. A great number of those that armed and fought the enemy were saved, and very few taken, amongst whom were Lysandridas and Thearidas, two men of great power and reputation amongst the Megalopolitans; and therefore the soldiers, as soon as they were taken, brought them to Cleomenes. And Lysandridas, as soon as he saw Cleomenes afar off, cried out,—"Now, king of Sparta, it is in your power, by doing a most kingly and braver action than you have already performed, to purchase a considerable glory." And Cleomenes guessing at his meaning, replied,—"What do you say, Lysandridas? sure you will not advise me to restore your city to you again?" "It is that which I mean," Lysandridas replied; "and I advise you not to ruin so brave a city, but to fill it with faithful and stedfast friends and allies, by restoring their country to the Megalopolitans, and being the saviour of so considerable a people." Cleomenes paused a while, and then said,—"It is very hard to trust so far in these matters; but with us let profit always yield to glory." Having said this, he sent the two men to Messena with a trumpeter from himself, offering the Megalopolitans their city again, if they would forsake the Achæan interest, and be on his side. Though Cleomenes made these kind and obliging proposals, yet Philopæmen would not suffer them to break their league with the Achæans; and accusing Cleomenes to the people, as if his design was not to restore the city, but to take the citizens too, he forced Thearidas and Lysandridas to leave Messena.
This was that Philopæmen, who was afterward chief of the Achæans, and a man of the greatest reputation amongst the Greeks, as I have made it appear in his own Life. This news coming to Cleomenes though he had before taken such strict care that the city should not be plundered, yet then being in a fury, and put out of all patience, he rifled them of all their coin, plate, and jewels, and sent their statues and pictures to Sparta; and demolishing a great part of the city, he marched away for fear of Antigonus and the Achæans; but they never stirred, for they were in Ægium at a council of war. Aratus mounted the desk, wept a long while, and held his mantle before his face; and at last, the company being amazed, and commanding him to speak, he said,—"Megalopolis is ruined by Cleomenes." The assembly was presently dissolved; the Achæans being extremely surprised at the suddenness and greatness of the loss; and Antigonus intending to send speedy succours, when he found his army to gather very slowly out of their winter-quarters, he sent them orders to continue there still; and he himself marched to Argos with a considerable body of men. The second enterprize of Cleomenes seemed to be carried on by extreme boldness, and unaccountable madness; but yet, in Polybius's opinion, was done upon mature deliberation, and exact foresight; for, knowing very well, that the Macedonians were dispersed into their winter quarters, and that Antigonus, with his friends and a few mercenaries about him, wintered in Argos; upon these considerations, he invaded the country of the Argives, hoping to shame Antigonus to a battle upon unequal terms; or else, if he did not dare to fight, to bring him into disrepute with the Achæans. And this accordingly happened; for Cleomenes wasting, plundering, and spoiling the whole country, the Argives, vexed at the loss, run in troops to the palace of the king, and clamoured, that he should either fight, or surrender his command to better and braver men. But Antigonus, as became an experienced captain, accounting it dishonourable foolishly to hazard his army, and quit his security, not to be abused and railed at by the rabble, would not march out against Cleomenes, but stood fixed to the designs which he had laid. Cleomenes, in the mean time, brought his army up to the very walls, and having uncontrouledly spoiled the country, and insulted over his enemies, drew off again. A little while after, being advertised that Antigonus designed for Tegea, and thence to make an incursion into Laconia, he hastily marched with his army another way, and appeared early in the morning before Argos, and wasted the fields about it: the corn he did not cut down with reaping-hooks and scythes, as men usually do, but beat it down with staves made like scymeters; and with a great deal of contempt and wanton scorn he spoiled the fields, and wasted the country in his march; yet when his soldiers would have set Cyllabris, the school of exercise, on fire, he hindered the attempt, reflecting, upon serious consideration, that the outrages committed at Megalopolis were the effects of his passion rather than his wisdom. He pretended to make such little account of, and so much to despise Antigonus, who first retired to Argos, and afterward placed garrisons on all the mountains round about, that he sent a trumpeter to desire the keys of Heræum, (Juno's temple,) that he might sacrifice to the goddess. Thus with a scoff, and bitter reflection on Antigonus, and having sacrificed to the goddess, under the walls of the temple, that was shut, he marched to Phlius; and from thence driving out those that garrisoned Hologountum, he marched down to Orchomenum. And these enterprizes not only encouraged the citizens, but made him appear to the very enemies to be an experienced captain, and very worthy of command; for, with the strength of one city, not only to fight the power of the Macedonians, and all the Peloponnesians; not only to preserve Laconia from being spoiled, but to waste the enemy's country, and to take so many and such considerable cities, is an argument of no common bravery. He that first said, "That money was the sinews of affairs," seemed chiefly in that saying to respect war: and Demades, when the Athenians voted that a navy should be made ready, but had no money, said, "They should make bread before they thought of sailing:" and the old Archidamus, in the beginning of the Peloponnesian war, when the allies desired, that each party's share of contributions for the war should be determined, is reported to have said, "War cannot be kept to a set diet." For, as well-breathed wrestlers do in time weary and tire out the most active and skilful combatant; so Antigonus, coming to the war with a great stock of wealth, wearied out Cleomenes, whose poverty made it difficult for him either to provide pay for the mercenaries, or provisions for the citizens. For in all other respects the time favoured Cleomenes; for Antigonus's affairs at home began to be disturbed: for the Barbarians wasted and over-ran Macedonia whilst he was absent; and at that time a vast army of the Illyrians came down, to be freed from whose outrages, the Macedonians sent for Antigonus, and the letters had almost been brought to him before the battle was fought, upon the receipt of which he presently dislodged, and left the Achæans' affairs to themselves. But fortune that loves to determine the greatest affairs by a minute, in this conjuncture showed such an exact niceness of time, that immediately after the battle in Sellasia was over, and Cleomenes had lost his army and his city, the messengers reached Antigonus. And this made Cleomenes's misfortune more to be pitied; for, if he had forborne fighting two days longer, there had been no need of hazarding a battle, since, upon the departure of the Macedonians he might have had what conditions he pleased from the Achæans. But now (as I hinted before) for want of money, being necessitated to rely wholly on his arms, he was forced, with 20,000 (this is Polybius's account) to engage 30,000; and approving himself an excellent commander in this difficulty, his citizens showing an extraordinary courage, and his mercenaries bravery enough, he was overborne by the different way of fighting, and the weight of the armed phalanx. Besides, Phylarchus affirms, that the treachery of some about him was the chief cause of Cleomenes's ruin. For Antigonus gave orders, that the Illyrians and Acharnanians should march round by a secret way, and encompass the other wing, which Eucleidas, Cleomenes's brother, commanded; and then drew out the rest of his forces to the battle. And Cleomenes, from a convenient rising, viewing his order, and not seeing any of the Illyrians and Acharnanians, began to suspect that Antigonus had sent them upon some such design; and calling for Damoteles, who was to inspect and to provide against ambushes, commanded him carefully to look after, and discover the enemy's designs upon his rear.
But Damoteles (for some say Antigonus had bribed him) telling him, that he should not be solicitous about that matter, for all was well enough, but mind and fight those that met him in the front; he was satisfied, and advanced against Antigonus; and, by the vigorous charge of his Spartans, made the Macedonian phalanx give ground, and pressed upon them with great advantage about half a mile; but then making a stand, and seeing the danger which the surrounded wing, commanded by his brother Eucleidas, was in, he cried out, "Thou art lost, dear brother! thou art lost, thou brave example to our Spartan youth, and theme of our matrons' songs!"
Eucleidas's wing being thus cut in pieces, and the conquerors from that part falling upon his battle, he perceived his soldiers to be disordered, and unable to maintain the fight, and therefore provided for his own safety. When he came into the city, he advised those citizens that he met, to receive Antigonus; and as for himself, he said, which should appear most advantageous to Sparta, whether his life or death, that he would chuse. Seeing the women running out to those that fled with him, taking their arms, and bringing drink to them, he entered into his own house, and his servant, who was a free-born woman, taken from Megalopolis after his wife's death, offering, as she used to do, to make necessary provision for him returning from the battle; though he was very thirsty, he refused to drink, and though very weary, to sit down; but, armed as he was, he clapped his arm side-way to a pillar, and leaning his forehead upon his elbow, he rested his body a little while, and ran over in his thoughts what course he should take; and then with his friends went presently to Gythium, where, finding ships fitted for the purpose, they embarked. Antigonus, taking the city, treated the Lacedæmonians courteously; and, neither affronting, nor ruining the dignity of Sparta, but permitting them to enjoy their own laws and polity, and sacrificing to the gods, dislodged the third day; for he heard that there was a great war kindled in Macedonia, and that the country was spoiled by the Barbarians; besides, he grew sick of a consumption, and continual defluxion on the lungs; yet he still kept up, that he might return and free his own country, and fall more gloriously upon an heap of slaughtered barbarians. As Phylarchus says, and it is probable, he broke a vein by shouting in the battle. In the plays, it was said, that after the victory he cried out for joy, "O fine day!" and presently bringing up abundance of blood, fell into a fever, and died in a short time. And thus much concerning Antigonus.
Cleomenes sailing from Cytheræ, touched at another island called Ægialia, whence, as he was about to depart from Cyrene, one of his friends, Therycion by name, a man of an haughty spirit in all enterprizes, and high and boasting in his talk, came privately to him, and said thus: "Sir, death in battle, which is the most glorious, we have let go, though all heard us say, that Antigonus should never tread over the king of Sparta, unless dead; and now, that which is next in bravery and glory, is presented to us. Whither do we madly sail, flying that which is near, and seeking that which is far removed? For, if it is not dishonourable for the race of Hercules to serve the successors of Philip and Alexander, we shall save a long voyage, by delivering ourselves up to Antigonus, who probably surpasseth Ptolemy, as much as the Macedonians do the Egyptians: but if we think it mean to submit to those whose arms have conquered us, why should we choose him for our lord, by whom we have not yet been beaten? Is it, that instead of one, we might appear meaner than two, whilst we fly Antigonus, and flatter Ptolemy? Or, is it for your mother's sake that you retreat to Egypt? It will indeed be a very fine, and very desirable sight for her to be shown her son by Ptolemy's women, now changed from a prince into an exile and a slave! Are we not still masters of our own swords? And whilst we have Laconia in view, shall we not here free ourselves from this disgraceful misery, and clear ourselves to those, who at Sellasia died for the honour and defence of Sparta? Or shall we sit lazily in Egypt, enquiring, what news from Sparta? and whom Antigonus hath been pleased to make governor of Lacedæmon:"—Thus spoke Therycion; and this was Cleomenes's reply:—"By seeking death, you coward, the most easy, and most ready refuge, you fancy that you shall appear courageous and brave, though this flight is baser than thy former. Better men than we have given way to their enemies, having been betrayed by fortune, or oppressed by multitudes; but he that sinks under labour or afflictions, the opinions or reproaches of men, is overcome by his own effeminacy and softness: for a voluntary death ought not to be chosen as a relief from action, but as an exemplary action itself; and it is base either to live or die only to ourselves. That death, to which you now invite us, is proposed only as a release from our present miseries, but carries nothing of bravery or profit in it. And I think it becomes both me and you not to despair of our country; but when there are no hopes of that left, those that have an inclination may quickly die."—To this Therycion returned no answer; but, as soon as he could get out of Cleomenes's company, went toward the shore, and ran himself through. But Cleomenes sailed from Ægialia, landed in Lybia, and, being honourably conducted through the king's country, came to Alexandria. When he was first brought to Ptolemy, no more than common civilities, and usual ceremonies, were paid him; but when, upon trial, he found him a man of deep sense and great reason, and that his plain laconic way of conversation carried a free pleasantness with it; that he did nothing unbecoming the greatness of his birth, nor bent under fortune, and appeared a more faithful counsellor, than those who made it their business to please and flatter; he was ashamed, and repented that he had neglected so great a man, and suffered Antigonus to get so much power and reputation by ruining him. Therefore he heaped up honours and kindnesses on Cleomenes, and gave him hopes that he would furnish him with an army and a navy to recover Greece, and reinstate him in his throne. Besides, he allowed him a yearly pension of four-and-twenty talents; a little part of which sum supplied his and his friends' thrifty temperance; and the rest was employed in doing good offices to, and in relieving the necessities of those that fled Greece, and retired into Egypt.
But the elder Ptolemy, dying before Cleomenes's affairs had received a full dispatch, and the successor being a loose, voluptuous, and effeminate prince, under the power of his pleasures and his women, his business was neglected: for the king was so besotted with his women and his wine, that balls, music, and dancing, were the only employments of his most busy and serious hours; and the greatest affairs of state were managed by Agathoclea, the king's mistress, her mother, and the pimp Oinanthes. Therefore, at the first, they seemed to stand in need of Cleomenes; for Ptolemy, being afraid of his brother Magas, who, by his mother's means, had a great interest among the soldiers, took Cleomenes into his cabinet council, and acquainted him with the design of taking off his brother. He, though all were for it, declared his opinion to the contrary, saying, "The king, if it were possible, should have more brothers, for the better security and management of his affairs." And Sosibius, the greatest favourite, replying, "That they were not secure of the mercenaries whilst Magas was alive;" Cleomenes returned, "That he need not trouble himself about that matter; for amongst the mercenaries there were above three thousand Peloponnesians, who were his fast friends, and whom he could command at any time with his nod." This discourse made Cleomenes for the present to be looked upon as a man of integrity and power; but afterwards (Ptolemy's weakness increasing his fear, as it usually happens, where there is no judgment and wisdom at the bottom, placing his security in jealousy and suspicion) rendered Cleomenes suspected to the courtiers, as having too much interest with the mercenaries; and many had this saying in their mouths, "That he was a lion amidst a flock of sheep;" for such he seemed to be in the court, slily overlooking and taking notice of the management of affairs; therefore, when he desired a navy and an army from the king, his petition was rejected. But when he understood that Antigonus was dead, that the Achæans were engaged in a war with the Ætolians, and that the affairs of Peloponnessus, being now in very great distraction and distress, required and invited his assistance, he desired leave to depart only with his friends; but could not obtain that, the king not so much as hearing his petition, being shut up amongst his women, and wasting his hours in debauchery and frolics. But Sosibius, the chief minister of state, thought that Cleomenes, being detained against his will, would grow ungovernable and dangerous, and yet it was not safe to let him go, being an aspiring, daring man, and well acquainted with the diseases and weakness of the kingdom; for no presents, no gifts, could win him to compliance. But as the ox Apis, though revelling in all possible plenty and delight, yet desires to live as nature would provide for him, to be at liberty and frisk about the fields, and can scarce endure to be under the priests' keeping; so he could not brook their courtship, and tender entertainment, but, like Achilles,
His affairs standing in this condition, Nicagoras, the Messenian, came to Alexandria: a man that deeply hated Cleomenes, yet pretended to be his friend; for he had formerly sold Cleomenes a fair estate, but never received the money, because Cleomenes was either unable, (as it may be) or else, by reason of his engagement in the wars and other distractions, had no time to pay him. Cleomenes, seeing him landing, (for he was then walking upon the key) kindly saluted him, and asked, "What business brought him to Egypt?" Nicagoras returned his compliment, and told him, "That he came to bring some excellent war-horses to the king." And Cleomenes, with a smile, subjoined, "I wish you had rather brought pimps, whores, and pathics; for those now are the king's chief delight." Nicagoras at the present smiled at the conceit; but, a few days after, he put Cleomenes in mind of the estate that he had bought of him, and desired his money, protesting, that he would not have troubled him, if his merchandize had turned to that account, which he thought it would. Cleomenes replied, "That he had not a penny left of all that had been given him;" at which answer Nicagoras being nettled, told Sosibius Cleomenes' scoff upon the king. He caressed him for the discovery; but desiring to have some greater reason to excite the king against Cleomenes, persuaded Nicagoras to leave a letter written against Cleomenes, importing, that he had a design, if he could have gotten ships and soldiers, to surprise Cyrene. Nicagoras wrote such a letter, and left Egypt. Four days after, Sosibius brought the letter to Ptolemy, pretending it was just then delivered him, and with a bitter invective excited the fury of the youth. Upon this it was agreed, that Cleomenes should be invited into a large apartment, and treated as formerly, but not suffered to go out again. This usage was grievous to Cleomenes; and by this unlucky accident, his hopes, for the future, seemed to be quite dashed. Ptolemy, the son of Chrysermas, a favourite of the king's, always carried himself fairly towards Cleomenes: they contracted a near acquaintance, and would talk freely together about the state. He, at Cleomenes's desire, came to him, had some discourse with him upon a few and inconsiderable subjects, to avoid suspicion, and made some excuses for the king; but as he went out again, not knowing that Cleomenes followed him to the door, he very severely reprimanded the keepers, for their carelessness in looking after so great and so furious a wild beast. This Cleomenes himself heard; and retiring before Ptolemy perceived it, told his friends what he had heard. Upon this they cast off all their former hopes, and determined for violent proceedings, resolving to be revenged on Ptolemy for his base and unjust dealing, to have satisfaction for the affronts, to die as it became Spartans, and not stay till, like fatted sacrifices, they were butchered; for it was both grievous and dishonourable for Cleomenes, who had scorned to come to terms with Antigonus, a brave warrior, and a man of action, to wait an effeminate king's leisure, till he should lay aside his fiddle, and end his dance, and then kill him. These courses being resolved on, and Ptolemy happening at the same time to make a progress to Canopus, they first spread abroad a report, that his freedom was ordered by the king; and it being the king's custom to send presents and an entertainment to those whom he would free, Cleomenes's friends made that provision, and sent it into the prison, thereby deceiving the keepers, who thought it had been sent by the king; for he sacrificed, and gave them large portions, and with a crown upon his head feasted and made merry with his friends. It is said, that he began the action sooner than he designed, having understood that a servant of one of the accomplices lay abroad with a mistress that he loved. This made him afraid of a discovery; and therefore, as soon as it was full noon, and all the keepers drunk and fast asleep, he put on his coat, and opening the seam on his right shoulder, with his sword drawn in his hand, he issued forth, together with his friends, provided in the same manner, making thirteen in all. One of them, by name Hippotas, was lame; he followed the first onset very well; but when afterwards he perceived that they were more slow in their advances for his sake, he desired them to run him through, and not ruin their enterprise, by staying for an useless, unprofitable man. By chance an Alexandrian was then riding by the door; him they threw off, and, setting Hippotas on horseback, ran through the narrow lanes, and proclaimed liberty to the people; but they, it seems, had courage enough to praise and admire Cleomenes's daring, but not one had the heart to follow and assist him. Three of them fell on Ptolemy, the son of Chrysermas, as he was coming out of the palace, and killed him: another Ptolemy, the lieutenant of the city, advancing against them in a chariot, they set upon, dispersed his guards and attendants and pulling him out of the chariot, killed him upon the place. Then they made toward the castle, designing to break open the prison, and take the prisoners to their assistance; but the keepers were too quick for them, and secured the passages. Being baffled in this attempt, Cleomenes, with his company, roamed about the city, none joining with them, but all retreating from, and flying his approach; therefore, despairing of success, and saying to his friends, "That it was no wonder that women ruled over those men that fled liberty," he excited them all to die as bravely as became his followers, and men of their glorious performances. This said, Hippotas was first, as he desired, run through by one of the young men, and then each of them readily and resolutely fell upon his own sword, except Pantheus, that Pantheus that first surprised Megalopolis. This man, being a very handsome person, and a better companion than any of the youth, the king loved, and bade him, when he had seen him and the rest fallen, die by their example. Pantheus walked over them as they lay, and pricked every one with his dagger, to try whether any was alive; when he pricked Cleomenes in the leg, and saw him turn upon his back, he kissed him, sat down by him, and when he was quite dead, covered his carcase, and then killed himself upon his body.
Thus fell Cleomenes, that great, brave man, after he had been king of Sparta sixteen years. The news of their fall being noised through the city, Cratesiclea, though a woman of a great spirit, could not bear up against the insupportable weight of this affliction, but, embracing Cleomenes's children, made grievous lamentations; but the eldest boy, none suspecting such a spirit in a child, threw himself headlong from the top of the house; he was bruised very much, but not killed by the fall, and was taken up crying, and expressing his resentment for not being permitted to destroy himself. Ptolemy, as soon as an account of the action was brought him, gave order, that Cleomenes's body should be flayed and hung up; that his children, mother, and the women that were with her, should be killed. Among those was Pantheus's wife, a very fair woman, and of a stately carriage, who had been but newly married, and suffered these disasters in the height of her love. Her parents would not let her embark with Pantheus presently after they were married, though she eagerly desired it, but shut her up, and kept her by violence at home; yet a few days after, she got a horse and a little money, and, escaping by night, made speed to Tænarus, where she embarked for Egypt, came to her husband, and with him cheerfully endured to live in a foreign country. She led Cratesiclea, as she was going with the soldiers to execution, held up her train, and begged her to be courageous, who of herself was not in the least afraid of death, and desired nothing else, but only to be killed before the children. When they were come to the place of execution, the children were first killed before Cratesiclea's eyes, and afterwards she herself, with only these words in her mouth; "O children, whither are you gone?" But Pantheus's wife girding her garments close to her, and being a strong woman, without any noise or lamentation, looked after every one that was slain, and wound them up as well as her present circumstances would permit; and after all were killed, dressing herself, bound her clothes close about her, and, suffering none to come near, or be an eye witness of her fall, beside the executioner, she courageously submitted to the stroke, and wanted nobody to look after, or wind her up after she was dead. Thus, in her death, the modesty of her mind appeared, and set the guard upon her body, which she always kept when alive; and she, in the declining age of the Spartans, shewed, that women were no unequal rivals of the men, and was an instance of such a courage as would not sneak to the affronts of fortune. A few days after, those that watched the hanging body of Cleomenes, saw a very great snake winding about his head, and covering his face, so that no bird of prey should fly at it. This made the king superstitiously afraid, and set the women upon several lustrations, as if he had been an extraordinary man, and one beloved by the gods, that had been slain. And the Alexandrians made processions to the place, and gave Cleomenes the title of Hero, and the Son of the gods, till the philosophers satisfied them, by saying, "That, as oxen breed bees, putrefying horses breed hornets, and beetles rise from the carcases of dead asses, so the humours and juices of the marrow of a man's body, coagulating, produce serpents." And this the antients observing, appropriated a serpent rather than any other creature to heroes.
SPOKEN BY MR MOUNTFORD.
Enter Cleomenes.
Enter Cleomenes, Cleanthes, and Pantheus.
Enter King Ptolemy, Sosibius, with papers, after him.
The Scene opens, and discovers Cassandra's Apartment. Musicians and Dancers. Ptolemy leads in Cassandra; Sosibius follows—They sit. Towards the end of the song and dance, enter Cleomenes and Cleanthes on one side of the stage, where they stand.
SONG.
[While she walks, Cleom. and Cleon. are looking on a picture hanging on the side of the Scenes. She takes out a pocket-glass, and looks in it.
[She turns round to them, and observes what they are doing. Cleom. turns and meets her; Cleon. looks still on the picture.
A Table set. Ptolemy, Sosibius, Cassandra sitting: Ptolemy at the upper end; Cassandra sitting on the one side, Sosibius on the other.
Of a Temple with Illuminations. An Altar, Apis painted above; Priests and Choristers.
Ptolemy, Cassandra, Courtiers, men and women, all decently placed. Musick, Instrumental and Vocal. Then Ptolemy, taking Cassandra by the hand, advances to the Altar of Apis, bowing thrice, and gives the High Priest a purse. Soft Musick all the while Ptolemy and Cassandra are adoring and speaking.
Enter Cleomenes, and Cleanthes.
Enter Ptolemy, Sosibius, Cœnus, and Cassandra.
Enter Cassandra and Sosibius.
Enter Cleomenes.
3 Egypt. That's according as you succeed: of your side hitherto.
Panth. If you are men, come join with us.
4 Egypt. You are too few for us to join with you; but get the greater party of your side, and we'll be sure to help the common cry.
Cleom. Dare you do nothing to assert your freedom?
3 Egypt. Yes,—we'll pray devoutly for you.
Clean. The brave pray with their swords; that's a man's part.
4 Egypt. Praying with our swords, the law calls fighting; and fighting is bloodshed; and bloodshed is hanging; and hanging is the part of a dog, and not of a man, in my opinion.
1 Egypt. Every one for himself. [Egyptian Trumpets within.
Enter Sosibius and Cœnus, at the Head of many Egyptians: They, who spoke before, bolt out of their Doors, and join with them.
[Cleomenes, Cleanthes, Cleonidas, and their Party go off the Stage, to fight the Egyptians. Trumpets, Drums, Shouts, and Clashings within.
Re-enter both Parties; the Egyptians first, driven by Cleomenes; Pantheus ready to kill Sosibius, as having him down: Cleanthes runs to him and interposes.
Clean. Pantheus, hold; or turn thy sword on me.
Panth. [To Sosib.] Rise, sir; and thank your son.
Clean. [To Panth.] Pursue the foes: I have no joy of conquest,
Till I have set my father safe.
Sosib. The gods reward thy pious care.
[Cleanthes leads off his Father; while Pantheus follows Cleomenes: The Egyptians are driven to the bottom of the Stage: They make a wheeling Fight; still retiring before the Spartans: Cleomenes advances eagerly after the Egyptians, and, with Pantheus, drives them off: Cleonidas is left behind: So is Cœnus, who had skulked.
SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.
OR
NATURE WILL PREVAIL.
A
TRAGI-COMEDY.
——Quod optanti Divûm promittere nemo
Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultrò. Virg.
This piece, which concluded our author's labours as a dramatic poet, was unsuccessful when represented, and affords very little pleasure when perused. If we except "Amboyna," our author never produced a play, where the tragic part had less interest, or the comic less humour. For the faults of "Amboyna," Dryden pleaded the barren nature of the subject, chosen not with a view to dramatic effect, but to attain a political purpose, and the hurry of writing upon a temporary theme. But that he should have failed, in a play avowedly intended to crown his dramatic labours, where the story was of his own device, and the composition at his own leisure, can only be imputed to that occasional flatness, or cessation of the divine influence, as an ancient would have expressed it, from which men of the highest poetic genius are not exempted. In despite of all cold reasoning upon this subject, the fact is irresistible, that our capacity of exerting mental talents, is not more absolute than that which we possess over our bodily powers. We are in each case limited by a thousand external and internal circumstances, which occasion the greatest and most involuntary inequalities, between our happier and our inferior efforts, of mental abilities or of corporeal strength. It can only be to the temporary failure of the poetic inspiration, which, like the wind of heaven, bloweth where it listeth, and neither to want of labour, nor to impaired talents, that we are to attribute the inferiority of "Love Triumphant," to almost all Dryden's other compositions.
The plot is unhappily chosen. For, as we have had already occasion to notice, stories turning, or appearing to turn, upon incestuous passion, have seldom been successful upon the modern stage[47]. Davies, in his "Dramatic Miscellanies," attributes Garrick's renouncing his intention of reviving the admirable old play of "King and no King," to the ardent passion which Arbaces conceives for his supposed sister; and which that excellent judge suspected would not be tolerated in our age. "Phædra and Hippolitus," though most powerfully supported, both by actors and admirers, failed for the same reason; and, according to Davies, even the various excellencies of "Don Sebastian" were unable to expiate the disgust, excited by the unpleasing discovery of his relation to Almeyda. While "Love Triumphant" labours under this capital and disagreeable defect, little ingenuity can be discovered in the story, abstracted from that consideration. The king of Castile suffers his sole and only offspring to remain in the court of a rival and hostile monarch, and even to head armies against him, supposing himself the son of his enemy. The virtuous Queen of Arragon cultivates and encourages a passion, having all the moral guilt of an incestuous attachment, between her own daughter and her supposed son. The tyrant Veramond is the only person who acts upon rational principles through the piece. He refuses the liberty of a rival king to the petulant demand of Alphonso; and not very unreasonably proposes to separate his son and daughter, before worse consequences arose from their infamous and impudently avowed passion. But by this very natural conduct, he gains the hatred of his wife, his children, and his subjects:
Miranda canit, sed non credenda, poeta.
After so many and such violent stretches of probability, the author does not deign to wind up the plot, otherwise than by a sudden change in the temper and resolutions of Veramond, a conclusion which he himself admits in general to be grossly inartificial, and which in the present case is peculiarly infelicitous. The ruling passion of Veramond seems to be a hatred of his rival Ramirez, and a sort of instinctive antipathy to Alphonso, even when he believes him to be his own son, just arrived from conquest in his behalf. This hatred and aversion was not likely to be abated, by the objects of them turning out to be father and son; nor much soothed, by the circumstance of their making him prisoner in his own metropolis. Yet, in this situation, moved by a few soft speeches from Celidea, who had taken a fancy to the intended husband of her sister, the tyrant of Arragon alters his whole family arrangements, and habits of mind; and takes his hated foes into his family and bosom, merely that the play may be concluded. The author of these inconsistencies can hardly escape the censure of Aristotle, against which he has pleaded in the preface.
With regard to the poetry of "Love Triumphant," it is somewhat remarkable, that, in the most laboured scenes of this last effort of his tragic muse, Dryden has had recourse to his discarded mistress, Rhyme. As this could hardly arise from an alteration of his final opinion, it may have been owing to a consciousness, that there was some deficiency in the piece, which the harmony of numbers might veil, though it could not supply. The turn of the dialogue, also, is quite in our poet's early manner. The lovers, in the first scene of the second act, burning with a horrible passion, which they felt it death to conceal, and infamy and mortal sin to avow, communicate their feelings to each other in alternate couplets, like two contending Arcadians. Their horror evaporates in antithesis, and their passion in quaint prettinesses. Witness the speech of Alphonso:
If the tragic part of "Love Triumphant" have little merit, the comic has even less. The absurdity of the two gallants disguising themselves, in hopes to pass for the deceased Conde upon a mistress, who had borne him two children, is too gross for a puppet-show, or pantomime; and there is nothing in the dialogue to attone for the flatness, and extravagance of the plot. It may, however, be remarked, that Sancho, a tawdry and conceited coxcomb, the son of a Jewish usurer, and favoured by the father of his mistress, only for his wealth, has some resemblance in manners and genealogy to a much more pleasant character, that of Isaac in the "Duenna."
It is impossible to dismiss a performance of Dryden, without some tribute of praise. The verse, where it is employed, possesses, as usual, all the dignity which numbers can give to language; and the Song upon Jealousy, as well as that in the character of a Girl, have superior merit.
The play was received as ill as might be; so at least we are informed by a curious letter, preserved by Mr Malone, dated 22d March 1693-4, in which the writer, after chuckling over the failure of the "Double Dealer," and the absolute damnation of "Love Triumphant," concludes, that the success of Southerne's "Fatal Marriage" will encourage the minor poets, "and vex huffing Dryden, and Congreve, to madness[48]." Dryden himself, it may be noticed, says nothing in the preface concerning the reception of the piece: all authorities, however, state it to have been unfavourable; and thus, as Dr Johnson has remarked, this great poet opened and closed his theatrical career with bad success; a fact, which may secure the inexperienced author from despondence, and teach him who has gained reputation, how little he ought to presume on its stability.
"Love Triumphant" was first acted and published in 1693-4.
MY LORD,
This poem, being the last which I intend for the theatre, ought to have the same provision made for it, which old men make for their youngest child, which is commonly a favourite. They, who were born before it, carry away the patrimony by right of eldership; this is to make its fortune in the world, and since I can do little for it, natural affection calls upon me to put it out, at least, into the best service which I can procure for it; and, as it is the usual practice of our decayed gentry to look about them for some illustrious family, and their endeavour to fix their young darling, where he may be both well educated and supported;[50] I have herein also followed the custom of the world, and am satisfied in my judgment, that I could not have made a more worthy choice. It is true, I am not vain enough to think that anything of mine can in any measure be worthy of your lordship's patronage; and yet I should be ashamed to leave the stage, without some acknowledgment of your former favours, which I have more than once experienced. Besides the honour of my wife's relation to your noble house,[51] to which my sons may plead some title, though I cannot; you have been pleased to take a particular notice of me, even in this lowness of my fortunes, to which I have voluntarily reduced myself; and of which I have no reason to be ashamed. This condescension, my lord, is not only becoming of your antient family, but of your personal character in the world; and, if I value myself the more for your indulgence to me, and your opinion of me, it is because any thing which you like, ought to be considered as something in itself; and therefore I must not undervalue my present labours, because I have presumed to make you my patron. A man may be just to himself, though he ought not to be partial; and I dare affirm, that the several manners which I have given to the persons of this drama, are truly drawn from nature, all perfectly distinguished from each other; that the fable is not injudiciously contrived; that the turns of fortune are not managed unartfully; and that the last revolution is happily enough invented. Aristotle, I acknowledge, has declared, that the catastrophe which is made from the change of will, is not of the first order of beauty; but it may reasonably be alledged, in defence of this play, as well as of the "Cinna," (which I take to be the very best of Corneille's,) that the philosopher, who made the rule, copied all the laws, which he gave for the theatre, from the authorities and examples of the Greek poets, which he had read; and from their poverty of invention, he could get nothing but mean conclusions of wretched tales: where the mind of the chief actor was, for the most part, changed without art or preparation; only because the poet could not otherwise end his play. Had it been possible for Aristotle to have seen the "Cinna," I am confident he would have altered his opinion; and concluded, that a simple change of will might be managed with so much judgment, as to render it the most agreeable, as well as the most surprising part of the whole fable; let Dacier, and all the rest of the modern critics, who are too much bigotted to the ancients, contend ever so much to the contrary. I was afraid that I had been the inventor of a new sort of designing, when, in my third act, I make a discovery of my Alphonso's true parentage. If it were so, what wonder had it been, that dramatic poetry, though a limited art, yet might be capable of receiving some innovations for the better? But afterwards I casually found, that Menander and Terence, in the "Heautontimoroumenos," had been before me; and made the same kind of discovery in the same act. As for the mechanic unities;—that of time is much within the compass of an astrological day, which begins at twelve, and ends at the same hour the day following: that of place is not observed so justly by me, as by the ancients; for their scene was always one, and almost constantly in some public place. Some of the late French poets, and, amongst the English, my most ingenious friend, Mr Congreve, have observed this rule strictly; though the place was not altogether so public as a street. I have followed the example of Corneille, and stretched the latitude to a street and palace, not far distant from each other in the same city. They, who will not allow this liberty to a poet, make it a very ridiculous thing for an audience to suppose themselves, sometimes to be in a field, sometimes in a garden, and at other times in a chamber. There are not, indeed, so many absurdities in their supposition, as in ours; but it is an original absurdity for the audience to suppose themselves to be in any other place, than in the very theatre in which they sit; which is neither chamber, nor garden, nor yet a public place of any business, but that of the representation. For my action it is evidently double; and in that I have the most of the ancients for my examples. Yet I dare not defend this way by reason, much less by their authority; for their actions, though double, were of the same species; that is to say, in their comedies, two amours; and their persons were better linked in interests than mine. Yet even this is a fault which I should often practise, if I were to write again, because it is agreeable to the English genius. We love variety more than any other nation; and so long as the audience will not be pleased without it, the poet is obliged to humour them. On condition they were cured of this public vice, I could be content to change my method, and gladly give them a more reasonable pleasure. This digression, my lord, is not altogether the purpose of an epistle dedicatory; yet it is expected, that somewhat should be said, even here, in relation to criticism; at least in vindication of my address, that you may not be desired to patronize a poem, which is wholly unworthy of your protection. Though, after all, I doubt not but some will liken me to the lover in a modern comedy, who was combing his peruke,[52] and setting his cravat before his mistress; and being asked by her, when he intended to begin his court, replied, "He had been doing it all this while." Yet thus it happens, my lord, that self will come into all addresses of this nature, though it is the most unmannerly word of the world in civil conversation, and the most ungrateful to all hearers. For which reason, I, who have nothing to boast of, but my misfortunes, ought to be the first to banish it; especially since I have so large a field before me, as your inborn goodness, your evenness of temper, your humility in so ample a share of fortune as you possess, your humanity to all men, and your kindness to your friends; besides your natural and acquired endowments, and your brotherly love to your relations. Notus in fratres animo paterno, was the great commendation which Horace gave to one of his patrons; and it is that praise which particularly crowns your other virtues. But here, my lord, I am obliged, in common prudence to stop short, and to cast under a veil some other of your praises, as the chemists use to shadow the secret of their great elixir, lest, if it were made public, the world should make a bad use of it.[53] To enjoy our own quiet, without disturbing that of others, is the practice of every moral man; and, for the rest, to live chearfully and splendidly, as it is becoming your illustrious birth, so it is likewise to thank God for his benefits in the best manner. It is unnecessary to wish you more worldly happiness or content of mind, than you enjoy; but the continuance of both to yourself, and your posterity, is earnestly desired by all who have the honour to be known to you, and more particularly by,
SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.
Veramond, King of Arragon.
Alphonso, his supposed Son.
Garcia, King of Navarre.
Ramirez, King of Castile.
Sancho, }
Carlos, } Two Colonels.
Lopez, an old Courtier.
Ximena, Queen of Arragon.
Victoria, eldest daughter to the King and Queen,
Celidea, her Sister.
Dalinda, Daughter to Lopez.
A Nurse with two Children.
SCENE,—Saragossa in Spain.
At the drawing up of the Curtain, Veramond, King of Arragon, appears; Ximena, the Queen, by him; Victoria, their eldest Daughter, on the right Hand; and Celidea, their younger Daughter, on the left; Courtiers stand attending in File on each Side of the stage; The Men on the one Hand, the Ladies on the other. Amongst the Men, Don Lopez; amongst the Women, Dalinda, his Daughter.
Enter Alphonso and Garcia, hand in hand. After them, the Prisoner, King Ramirez, alone; then the two Colonels, Sancho and Carlos; after them, other Officers of the Army. Veramond advances to meet them; the Queen and the two Princesses follow him. Alphonso first kneels to his Father and Mother, and immediately runs to salute his Sister Victoria tenderly; then slightly salutes Celidea, and returns to Victoria. In the mean time Veramond embraces Don Garcia, who afterwards kisses the Queen's hand.
[Here Garcia, after bowing to the King and Queen, goes to the two Princesses, and salutes them. After a little dumb courtship, he leads out Victoria and Celidea; the Ladies follow; Alphonso observes it with discontent, and then turns to his Father.
[Exeunt Ver. Xim. Cel. Gar. Vict. and all the Courtiers, Men and Women. The Guards follow: San. Carl. remain.
San. Good news; Carlos, the old Jew, is dead.
Carl. What Jew?
San. Why, the rich Jew, my father. He's gone to the bosom of Abraham his father, and I, his Christian son, am left sole heir. Now do I intend to be monstrously in love.
Carl. With whom, colonel?
San. That's not yet resolved, colonel; but with one of the court ladies. You may stand a man's friend, Carlos, in such a business.
Carl. You may depend on me, Sancho, because my dependance is on you. You got plunder in the battle; while I was hacked and hewed, and almost laid asleep in the damned bed of honour.
San. Nay, I confess I am a lucky rogue, for I was born with a caul upon my head.
Carl. I'm sure I came bare enough into the world, and live as barely in it.
San. Make me but lustily in love, and I'll adopt thee into my fortune; but thou standest—shall I, shall I, till all the ladies are out of sight. Here, take that billet-doux, which I have pulled out by chance from amongst twenty, that I always wear about me for such occasions.
Carl. But to which of them shall I deliver it?
San. Even to her thou canst first overtake.—Nay, do not lose thy time in looking on't, there's no particular direction, man. Fortune ever superscribes my letters to the fair sex: I let her alone to find me out a handsome mistress; and let me alone to make her kind afterwards.
Carl. But suppose I should happen to deliver it to my own mistress, for she was in the presence with her father.
San. Then I suppose thou wilt be the first that shall repent it; for she will certainly fall in love with me.
Lopez and Dalinda re-enter, and walk softly over the Stage.
Look, there's one of them already; my heart beats at the very sight of her. This must and shall be she, by Cupid.
Carl. And, by Venus, the very she I love!
San. Pr'ythee no more words then, for fate will have it so.
Carl. [Aside.] I know it's impossible for her father to receive him, or her to love him; and yet his good fortune, and my rascally, three-penny planet[56], make me suspicious without reason. But hang superstition! I'll draw such a picture of him as shall do his business.
San. Now will I stand incognito, like some mighty potentate, and see my own embassy delivered.
[Carlos overtakes Lopez and Dalinda, just going off, and salutes them.
Lop. Cousin Carlos, you are welcome from the wars; I think I saw you in the show to day.
Carl. The ceremony hindered me from paying my respects; but I made haste, you see——
Lop. I hope you'll no more be a stranger to my house, than you have been formerly. Your mistress here will be proud to entertain you; and then you shall tell me the whole expedition. I love battles wonderfully, when a man may hear them without peril of his person.
San. [Aside.] Nothing of my letter all this while!—why when Carlos?
[Whispering aloud to him.
Carl. [Aside.] Now I dare not but deliver it, because he sees me.—Don Lopez, I have a foolish kind of petition to you. [To Lop.
Lop. Why do you call it a foolish petition?
Carl. Because I bring it from a fool. There's a friend of mine, of a plentiful fortune, that's desperately in love with your fair daughter, Dalinda; and has commanded me, by your permission, to deliver this letter to her.
Lop. A rich man's letter may be delivered. [Carlos gives her the Letter.
Dal. What's here? A note without a superscription [She seems to read.] As I live, a bill of exchange for two hundred pistoles, charged upon a banker, and payable to the bearer! An accomplished cavalier I warrant him; he writes finely, and in the best manner.
Carl. [Aside.] There's the covetous sex, at the first syllable! The fool's good planet begins to work already; but I shall stop its influence.
Lop. Good cousin colonel, what manner of man is my son-in-law that may be?
Carl. D'ye see that sneaking fellow yonder?
Lop. Who, that gallant cavalier?
Dal. I wish it were no worse.
Carl. Plague, ye make me mad betwixt ye. His outside's tawdry, and his inside's fool. He's an usurer's son, and his father was a Jew.
Dal. No matter for all that, he's rich.
Carl. He was begot upon the wife of a desperate debtor, out of pure good husbandry, to save something. He's covetous by the father's side, a blockhead by the mother's, and a knave by both.
Lop. I see nothing like your description of him, at this distance. Call him hither, I would fain speak with him.
Carl. Come hither, Don Sancho, and make good the character I have given of you.
[Sancho comes up, and salutes them awkwardly.
Lop. Cavalier, I shall be glad to be better known to you.
San. [To Carl.] You see I have luck in a bag, Carlos.
Carl. [Aside.] Ay, in a bag of money; I see it to my sorrow.—Try his wit, signior, you'll find it as heavy as lead. [Aside to Lopez.
Lop. [To Sancho.] So his money be silver, I care not.—Come, cavalier, what say you to my daughter?
San. Why, I say, I was resolved to love the first fair lady that I met.
Dal. Oh lord, sir!
Carl. [To Lop.] Do but mark his breeding.
Lop. I like him never the worse for his plain dealing.
Dal. Bluntness, methinks, becomes a soldier.
Carl. [Aside.] How naturally old men take to riches, and women to fools!
Lop. [To San.] You have made a noble declaration of your love, sir, with a handsome present of two hundred pistoles.
San. What, I hope I have not mistaken papers, and sent you my letter of exchange for two hundred pistoles, charged upon the banker Porto Carrero? Pray return that letter, madam, and I'll look out for another, that shall treat only of dry love, without those terrible appendixes.
Dal. Why, did not you intend this for me, cavalier?
San. No; you shall hear me rap out all the oaths in Christendom, that I am wholly innocent of this accusation.
Dal. Come, you bely your noble nature. Look upon me again, cavalier, [She makes the doux yeux to him.] and then examine your own heart, if you meant it not to me.
San. Nay, I confess my heart beats a charge towards you;—and yet two hundred pistoles is a swinging sum for one kind look, Carlos!
Carl. A damnable hard penny-worth! hold you there, Don Sancho.
[Dalinda looks upon him again more sweetly.
San. She has two devils in her eyes; that last ogle was a lick-penny.—Well, madam, I dedicate those fair two hundred pistoles to your more fair hand; and, now you have received them, I meant them for you.
Dal. And, in requital, I receive you for my servant, cavalier.
Carl. [Aside.] Damn him for his awkward liberality; he's always covetous, but when 'tis to do me a mischief.
Lop. [To Dal.] He's come on again; my heart was almost at my mouth.—Now, Mrs Minion, let me take you to task in private. [Draws her aside a little.] What hope have you of the Conde Don Alonzo de Cardona?
Dal. Little or none; a bare possibility. You know what has passed betwixt us.
Lop. But suppose he should renew his love, had you rather marry that rich old Conde, or this poor young rogue, Don Carlos?
Dal. This poor young rogue, if you please, father.
Lop. I thought as much, good madam. But, to come closer to the present business, betwixt Don Carlos and Don Sancho, that is to say, a poor young wit, and a rich young fool; put the case, gentlewoman, which of them would you chuse?
Dal. If it were not for mere necessity, I have a kind of a loathing to a fool.
Lop. The more fool you, madam.
Dal. Would you have a race of booby grandsons?
Lop. That's as your conscience serves you. I say only, that your husband shall be a fool; I say not, your children's father shall be one.
San. [To Car.] This is a plaguy long whisper, I do not like it. And yet, now I think on't, my left eye itches, some good luck is coming towards me.
Lop. [To them.] I'll be short and pithy with you. Don Sancho,—I think they call ye,—if out of my abundant love I should bestow my dutiful daughter on you, what kind of husband would you make?
San. Husband, sennor? Why, none at all. None of my predecessors were ever married; my father and my mother never were, and I will not be the first of my family that shall degenerate. I thought my two hundred pistoles would have done my business with Dalinda, and a little winking money with you.
Lop. What, would you make me a pimp to my own daughter?
Dal. And imagine my chastity could be corrupted with a petty bribe?
San. Nay, I am not so obstinate neither against marriage. Carlos gave me this wicked counsel, on purpose to banish me; and, in revenge to him, I will marry.
Lop. I hope you'll ask her leave first?
San. Pho! I take that for granted; no woman has the power to resist my courtship.
Lop. Suppose then, as before supposed; what kind of husband would you make?
San. Then, to deal roundly with you, I would run a rambling myself, and leave the drudgery of my house to her management; all things should go at sixes and sevens for Sancho. In short, sennor, I will be as absolute as the Great Turk, and take as little care of my people as a heathen god.
Lop. Now, Don Carlos, what say you?
Carl. [Aside.] I'll fit them for a husband.—[To Lop.] Why, sennor, I would be the most careful creature of her business; I would inspect every thing, would manage the whole estate, to save her the trouble; I would be careful of her health, by keeping her within doors; she should neither give nor receive visits; nor kneel at church among the fops, that look one way, and pray another.
Dal. Oh abominable!
Lop. Why, thou ungrateful fellow! wouldst thou make a slave of my daughter? And leave her no business, that is to say, no authority in her own house?
Dal. Ay, and to call fine young gentlemen fops too? To lock me up from visitants, which are the only comfort of a disconsolate, miserable, married woman!
Lop. An' 'twere not for fear thou shouldst beat me, I could find in my heart to beat thee.—Don Sancho, I have an olla at home, and you shall be welcome to it.—Farewell, kinsman. [To Carl.
[Exeunt Lop. and San. leading out Dal.
Carl. Now, if I had another head, I could find in my heart to run this head against that wall. Nature has given me my portion in sense, with a pox to her, and turned me out into the wide world to starve upon it. She has given Sancho an empty noddle; but fortune, in revenge, has filled his pockets: just a lord's estate in land and wit. Well, I have lost Dalinda; and something must be done to undermine Sancho in her good opinion. Some pernicious counsel must be given him. He is my prince, and I am his statesman; and when our two interests come to clash, I hope to make a mere monarch of him[57]: and my hunger is somewhat in my way to quicken my invention.
A Bed-Chamber; a Couch prepared, and set so near the Pit that the Audience may hear.
Alphonso enters with a Book in his Hand, and sits; reads to himself a little while. Enter Victoria, and sits by him, then speaks.
Alphonso reading.
Enter Carlos before Don Lopez's Door.
Carl. That is the door of Lopez, and Sancho must come out this way. Now, fool, sit fast, for thou shalt not want for pestilent advice: but first, I must know how far thou hast proceeded with the father and the daughter, that I may know what drugs I must prepare for the present condition of my patient.—Oh, the door opens already, and he bolts out single, as I wished.
Enter Sancho, picking his Teeth.
San. What, Carlos, you have dined before me; but, it may be, you have not fared so well.
Carl. The best part of your entertainment, I suppose, was the desert of the fair Dalinda after dinner; and how, and how go matters?
San. Better than thou wouldst have them; thou wouldst have put a spoke in my wheel, I know it.
Carl. No; fortune always sets those of your admirable understanding uppermost. But, remember, Dalinda was once mine, however.
San. Thou wouldst not have me give the box away, when I have thrown seven? Come, set upon it what thou darest, and I'll give thee leave to do thy worst.
Carl. You are very confident of your good luck.
San. Thou knowest I have a perpetual ascendant over thee.
Carl. And you are sure to carry her?
San. She is fond of my person; she ogled me all dinner-time; she put her foot under the table, and trod upon mine; and if these are not certain symptoms of passion, the devil's in womankind.
Carl. And her father?
San. The goodest old man! he drank my health to his daughter; and I, to comply with my obligation, answered the challenge. There, I think, I was with her again.
Carl. You have no more to do but to take out a licence.
San. Indeed, I have her licence for it.
Carl. What, quibbling too in your prosperity? If you let another, I shall be enraged. But you have not told me that her father is consenting.
San. In a manner; but—
Carl. But what? is he not absolutely yours?
San. There is a small demur upon the matter: in short, he hit me in the teeth with a damnable rich old Conde; who, I find, has been dabbling with this covetous old hunks; but, bating him, Don Lopez tells me I shall be the welcomest man alive.
Carl. Do you know that Conde's name?
San. Don something de Cardona, whom the devil confound!
Carl. My old acquaintance; he charged with me in the battle, but what became of him I know not. If he be the man, despair betimes, Sancho; he'll revenge my quarrel, and carry her in spite of you.
San. I am cunning, you know; and I believe he named that cursed Conde, only to draw me on the faster.
Carl. And do you think a gentleman can succeed against a Conde with a woman?
San. Why not?
Carl. No more than a Conde against a duke, and so upwards;—abandon her, I say.
San. No; I am resolute.
Carl. To be the shoeing-horn for the Conde?
San. I confess I would not be the shoeing-horn, to draw him on.
Carl. No, for that's to be a pimp for him.
San. Right; therefore I will leave her.
Carl. Then go back, and quarrel with her and her father; go, I say, immediately, before your virtue cools.
San. I'll give them their own, I'll warrant them. What, make a shoeing-horn of a man of honour? [Exit Sancho.
Carl. [alone] If the Conde be in love, then why should Lopez admit of Sancho for a suitor? if not, the fool is in the right, that it was only feigned, to draw him on. However, my advice will strike on both sides; for, if Sancho quarrels, he's discarded; and for the Conde—stay a little—what, if I should play this Conde? I know him, and can mimic him exactly; 'tis but a jest if I am discovered; and if the Conde loves her, and she him, then I marry her in his shape.—Oh, they are coming out to quarrel in the open air, for the house is grown too hot for them; but I dare not stay to see the battle, for fear of getting blows on both sides. [Exit Carlos.
Enter Lopez, Dalinda, and Sancho.
Lop. I'll wait upon you out of my house, however.
San. Father-in-law, that might have been, no more ceremonies; I'll be no shoeing-horn for any man.
Lop. You would not be my daughter's hindrance?
San. There's no more to be said on't; but either a bargain, or no bargain.
Lop. A bargain, if the Conde comes not on.
San. Then, as he comes on, I must go off, with a pox to you and to your daughter!
Dal. At least it shall not be a pox of your giving.
San. The Conde's pox take you then! that's an honourable pox, descended in a right line from Don Roderic the Goth, I'll warrant you.
Lop. Indeed, if your estate were as great as his—
San. Nay, for that matter, I can drop gold with him, as little as I care for her.
Dal. But then his title?
San. I have more gold yet, to weigh down his parchment: and then my wit against a Conde's wit; that's for overplus; for, though I say it—
Lop. Who should not say it—
San. Yet I do say it, and will say it, especially as lords go now. Come, there's no more to be said, Lopez; but take back your trumpery, I mean your daughter; or I'll send for the scavenger with a dung-cart.
Lop. This is insufferable; and by this honourable beard—
San. Which I'll pull off by handfuls, if you swagger—
Lop. [Aside, to Dal.] What shall we do with this madman, daughter?
Dal. You should send for an alguazil to order him, if I were sure that the Conde would come on again; but, since that's uncertain, go in, father, and let me alone with him: if I make him your son-in-law, that's punishment sufficient for him.
Lop. Well, cavalier, you may chance to hear of me. [Exit Lopez.
San. Yes, and of your daughter too, in the next lampoon, I doubt not.—[To Dalinda.] Why don't you follow him? What do you and I together, madam countess?
Dal. Nay, I know not.
San. Nor I neither.
Dal. I hope you will not beat me. [She looks languishingly upon him.
San. I can't tell that; thou hast a damnable kind of leer, that would provoke me to somewhat—I say not what.
Dal. Beat me with my own hand, if I deserve it; there 'tis for you.
[Gives him her hand, and squeezes his.
San. If I should beat thee now, as thou hast deserved richly, I could make thee satisfaction.
Dal. Indeed they say an old man should never beat a young woman, because he cannot make her satisfaction.
San. Abominable chuck! if I did not hate thee mortally, I could be content to love thee for a quarter of an hour or so.—Why, what's here to do? you are at your old tricks again. Pr'ythee, sweet devil, do not ogle me, nor squeeze my palm so feelingly; thou dear infernal, do not.
Dal. Why, do I hurt you?
San. No, but thou ticklest me to the very heart-strings, most wickedly.
Dal. You command me then to leave you? [Seems to be going.
San. Not command you neither, not absolutely.
Dal. I go then—
San. Then I do command thee. I mean to stay a little longer. Thou hast fired my blood most horribly with that squeezing: hast not thou the itch? speak, damnation! I think I have got the infection of thee. [He shakes his hands.
Dal. I'll go and comfort my old father for the affronts you gave him.
San. No, perverseness; I'll make thee stay: in very spite of thy proud sex, I'll humble thee.
Dal. But was not you a grievous man to use him so? you shall tell me, or I break your fingers.
San. Not a word, to save thee from perdition; I am as dumb as a heathen oracle.
Dal. Then I must squeeze it out of you. [Pressing his hand again.
San. Ah, ha! it runs through me like wild-fire. [Panting.
Dal. Did not Carlos give you this naughty counsel?
San. I should not answer thee, I know it. Hartlykins! this is just cramping a man when he's asleep, to make him tell his dream. Let go my hand, and Carlos did not advise me; but hold it, and he did:—now, will you be at quiet with me?
Dal. Not till you promise me to be friends with my father.
San. Well, confound thee, I am friends with him.
Dal. And to banish Carlos for an evil counsellor.
San. Upon condition you'll discharge the count from seeing you.
Dal. No conditions: either surrender upon discretion, or I'll put you to the sword.
San. Pox on thee for being so tyrannical; but I can't help myself, and therefore I totally submit.
Dal. Now, then, you shall perceive how gracious a princess I intend to be. My father doats upon this count, but I despise him.
San. That's a good girl; for love of me, I'll warrant you.
Dal. You think I coax you now.
San. No, I know my own merit too well for that.
Dal. Then do what I advise you. My father has not often seen this count; what if you should pass for him?
San. Hum! I do not apprehend thee.
Dal. A man of your wit, and be so stupid! you shall counterfeit the count.
San. Counterfeit the count! that's a pure quibble; but I can make no more on't.
Dal. He's an old fellow, and a fool: now, you shall take upon you to be this count, to deceive my father; and I'll keep your counsel, and teach you how to represent him.
San. Oh, now I understand you! but 'tis impossible for me to counterfeit a fool.
Dal. I'll warrant you; trust nature.
San. A man of my sense can never hide his parts.
Dal. No, but you may shew them. Go back to your lodgings; I'll provide you clothes, and send you directions in writing how to behave yourself before my father.—One word more; be sure you manage this in private, and shut out Carlos, lest he should discover our intrigue.
San. Well, I will strive for once to get the better of my wit, and play the natural as naturally as I can: but you had better come yourself and teach me, for you have put me in a pure way of taking your instructions. [Exit Sancho.
Dal. [Alone.] When I consider what has passed between the count and me, there's little reason to believe a man should put on a foul shirt again, when he has put it off already, and has change of linen by him. However, my father shall know nothing of this disguise; for he, that sold my first maidenhead to the lord, may sell my second to the fool; and that would be too much in conscience, that a woman, once in twice, should not have the letting her own freehold. And therefore I will have the selling of myself, and Sancho shall have the refusal of the bargain.
Enter Alphonso, with Music.
A Song is sung; when it is beginning, Victoria enters.
SONG OF JEALOUSY.
Enter Sancho, habited like Don Alonzo de Cardona, with a hunch-back, Dalinda meeting him.
Dal. I watched your coming at the window, and told my father. He's coming out to welcome you.
San. But if I chance to break out into a little wit sometimes, you'll excuse my frailty.
Dal. Pugh, you are so suspicious of yourself, and have so little reason for it. Be as witty as you can; I fear you not.
Enter Don Lopez, and salutes him.
Lop. Noble Conde, you are welcome from the wars. And who did best in the battle, I beseech your honour?
San. Why, next my honour, one colonel Sancho did best.
Lop. Who, Sancho? he's little better than a coxcomb.
San. Nay, he has too much wit; if he had as much grace, 'twould be better for him.
Lop. But he's your lordship's rival in my daughter.
San. Is he so? then make much of him, old gentleman.
Lop. You would not have me prefer him to your excellency?
San. Faith, you can hardly chuse amiss betwixt us two; he's my other self, man.
Lop. I make a vast difference betwixt you.
San. That shall be a very good jest between you and me another time.
Dal. [Aside.] The fool's too much a fool; he's going to discover himself, if I prevent it not.—[To Lopez.] Make haste, father, and put him upon the point, or he'll give me up to Sancho.
Lop. Let Sancho be no fool, since your lordship pleases; for he is not bound to make my daughter any satisfaction, as you are.
San. And satisfaction she shall have. What, I hope you don't think I am a eunuch?
Dal. [Aside.] Oh heaven! I shall be ruined between them; I forgot to instruct my father not to meddle with that point.—[To Lopez.] Say no more of it, I beseech you, sir.
Lop. [To her.] 'Tis for thy good; let me alone.— You know you have injured the poor girl, my lord.
San. Not to my remembrance, sennor. You and I may have quarrelled, I confess, and I think I may have given you some hard words to-day.
Dal. [Aside.] Now has he forgotten he's my lord, and is harping upon the quarrel he had with him as Sancho. This must end in my destruction.
Lop. Your lordship and I can have had no quarrel to-day, for I have not seen you this twelvemonth.
San. That's true; now I remember myself, you have not.
Lop. But that you have wronged my daughter is manifest.
Dal. [To Sancho.] Sir, I must needs speak a word with you in private. If you love me, confess you have enjoyed me; for I told my father so, on purpose to make him the more condescending to the match.
San. [To her.] A word to the wise, I understand you. Now you shall see me top upon the old fellow [To Lopez.] Well, sennor, I won't stand with you for a night's lodging with your daughter; I acknowledge I have been a little familiar with her, or so: but, to make her amends, I will marry her, and consummate with her most abundantly.
Lop. Then all shall be set right, and the man shall have his mare again.
Enter Carlos, habited like Sancho.
Lop. What, another Don Alonzo? this is prodigious!
Carl. [Aside, seeing Sancho.] Bless me, the post is taken up already, and the true count is here before me.
Dal. [Aside.] This is not my Conde; but some other counterfeit. [To Sancho.] You are as true a count as he: stand to your likeness.
San. Would I were out of my likeness! [Sneaking back.
Dal. Put forward, man, I'll second you.
San. But what a devilish high back he has gotten too? he'll carry me away a pick-a-pack, that's certain.
Carl. [Aside.] I find him now: by their whispering and by his aukwardness, this must be Sancho; and I'll out-face him. [To Lopez.] Sennor Don Lopez, I am come, by your permission, to renew my addresses to your fair daughter.
Lop. Your lordship is most welcome.
San. Whose lordship?
Lop. Why, one of your lordships; I know not which, for by your backs you are both my lords. That's as you two can agree the matter.
San. [To Carlos.] Sirrah, where did you steal that back of mine?
Carl. Sirrah, I was born with it; but what he-camel has your mother been dealing withal, that you are begotten in my resemblance?
San. What, I hope you wont pretend to pass for the true Conde?
Carl. I am Don Alonzo de Cardona.
San. And so am I.
Carl. If you stay a little longer, I'll stretch your bones, till you are as strait as an arrow.
San. Do not provoke me; I am mischievously bent.
Carl. Nay, you are bent enough in conscience; but I have a bent fist for boxing.
San. And I have a strait foot for kicking. [They come up to each other.
Lop. Here will be bloodshed immediately.—Hold, noblemen both; will ye be content that I should examine ye, and then stand to my award which is the true Conde?
San. Well, to save Christian blood, I will.
Carl. And, to save Jewish blood,—that is your blood, sirrah,—I am contented too.
Lop. [To Carlos.] What command had you, my lord, in the last battle?
Carl. I had none; I was a volunteer, and charged with honourable Colonel Carlos in the fight.
Lop. [To Sancho.] And what command had your lordship there?
San. I had none neither; and I charged with that rogue Carlos.
Lop. [Aside.] So far they are both right, as I have heard. [To Sancho.] And what became of you afterwards?
San. Now I am posed; for Carlos told me he knew nothing of the count afterward:—Sennor, I do not well remember what became of me, for I was in a very great passion; but I did prodigious things, that is certain.
Carl. [To Lop.] Sennor, you may see he is a counterfeit, because he knows nothing of himself; but I, the true Conde, was trodden under the horses' feet, and lay for dead above half an hour.
San. Well, and now I remember myself, I was laid for dead too, for just about half a year.
Lop. [To Dal.] This is the wrong lord; he can say nothing but what the other lord has said before him.
Dal. Then he's the likelier to be the true Conde; for he's a fool, father.
Carl. You see, sennor, he does not remember what became of him, as I said before.
San. How would you have a man remember, when he was laid for dead?
Carl. But I recovered, rogue, and pursued the enemy.
San. And I recovered, and pursued them too, for above an hundred miles together, at full speed.
Lop. That's farther than you needed, by three-score miles; for 'tis but forty from the place of battle to the city.
Carl. Yes, at full speed upon the same horse, and never drew bit neither.
San. [To Dal.] Help me, dear Dalinda! I am bogged, you see.
Dal. [To him.] That's with pursuing your enemies too far; but I'll help you out again—[To Lopez.]—Pray, sir, let me examine them a little.
Lop. You'll make nothing of that first Conde.
Dal. Yes, a son-in-law, I warrant you.—[To them.] Which of you two promised me marriage?
Both. I did.
Dal. [To Carl.] And did you enjoy me?
Carl. Heaven forbid, madam! What, before marriage?
Dal. [To San.] And what did you?
San. I did enjoy her; so I did: and there I was before you, for a false Conde, as you are.
Carl. Speak for yourself, madam, and clear your reputation from that scandalous companion.
Dal. [With her Fan before her Face.] I must confess the true Conde has enjoyed me; the more my frailty.
Lop. The matter mends on that side.
San. Now, goodman Goose-cap, who's the most a man of honour, he, who has enjoyed a fair lady, or he, who has only licked his lips, and gone without her?
Carl. [Aside.] I see she takes his part; this is all a lie contrived betwixt them.
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. [To Dal.] Madam, I am sent to you on a sad errand from the late Conde Don Alonzo, who was killed in the last battle.
Lop. You are mistaken, friend; for here he stands alive and well. [Pointing to Sancho.] And, for fear of failing, here's a counterpart of him. [Pointing to Carlos.
Mess. Do not abuse yourself, sennor; neither of these is the true Conde: I took him from under the horses' feet, and he had only life enough to say, remember me to my fair Dalinda.
Lop. [To San.] What does your lordship say to this?
San. He was fairly killed, I must confess; but I can give you a better account of his lordship afterwards.
Lop. You? why, who are you?
San. Nay, I am he too.
Mess. You see he's a counterfeit; and so is the other.
Lop. 'Tis too true.
Dal. Did the Conde leave me nothing in his will?
Mess. Not a cross, madam.
Dal. There's the same payment for your news; be gone, poor fellow. [Exit Messenger.
Carl. At least I have the satisfaction, that he's discovered as well as I am. [Throwing off some part of his disguise.] Now, Sancho, you are welcome to the discovery of your fine intrigue.
Lop. Then, Sancho, I make good my word to you; since the Conde is dead, you stand fairest for my daughter;—and you, cousin Carlos, with your wit and your poverty, are in statu quo.—Come away, son-in-law, and leave the forsaken lover to make himself a willow garland.
[Exeunt Sancho, Lopez, and Dalinda.
Carl. Yet if I could hinder Sancho from marrying her, I should make myself some satisfaction. I'll think on't farther; and something comes into my head already.
[Stands musing.
Enter Alphonso.
Alph. Now, Carlos, what make you here in this disguise? I have been looking for you at least half an hour.
Carl. Only a masquerade, sir; an innocent diversion in times of peace.
Carl. Just my own condition: I have had a revolution in my small affairs too; I am banished, and going to look for the next commodious tree to make a wry face upon it.
Carl. No, sir; I shall never break with you for so small a matter as a rebellion. I warrant you for my soldiers; they'll never flinch, when there's a town to plunder.
Enter Garcia, with a Letter in his hand; Ximena, and Celidea.
Carl. Follow! whither? No plunder, when the town was fairly taken! there's a hopeful general to follow. The son and father are both gone away, without providing for me, who betrayed the city to them; a fine encouragement for virtue! Well, these monarchs make no more of us soldiers, when their turn is served, than we make of our old battered horses. To put us off for stallions, is the best that can become of us; and those indeed are my present circumstances. Dalinda will none, and Sancho is just mounting, if I get not between, and thrust him off; for which purpose I have insinuated to him that I have left Dalinda for his sake, and am upon another scent.——Yonder he comes: this, and another lie which I have ready coined, will go near to spoil his market.
Enter Sancho.
San. Well, Carlos, the hurly burly's quite over. I met Ramirez marching off the army; and just afterwards appeared a fellow in a fool's coat, on horseback with three trumpets. Herod, I think they called him; some such Jewish name.
Carl. A herald at arms you mean.
San. It may be so; but I should have taken him for some pardonner, for he scattered indulgences, by handfuls, to the people; but only they paid nothing for them.
Carl. But did he proclaim nothing?
San. Oh, yes; and now I remember, he began his speech with, O yes, too: he proclaimed a general pardon to all rebels, of which number, you know, you and I, Carlos, were two ring-leaders.
Carl. Then farewell Ramirez; even trudge on by yourself, for there is an end of my expedition. I will lay down my arms like a dutiful subject, and submit to his majesty, when I can rebel no longer.
San. Very good; and try the other touch for Dalinda, will you?
Carl. You know I have quitted her for your sake, and now am altogether for—let me see, what lady am I for?
San. Pump, pump, Carlos, for that's to be invented yet.
Carl. Only out of my head a little:—'tis the dead Count's sister; a great fortune since her brother died, but somewhat homely: she has already made some advances to me, or else I lie.
San. And will you say To have and to hold, with an ugly woman?
Carl. Yes, and For better for worse,—that is, for virgin, or for whore; as you will, Sancho, who are listing yourself into the honourable company of cuckolds.
San. What, a hero as I am, to be a cuckold?
Carl. Do not disdain your calling; Julius Cæsar was one before you. The Count has had her by her own confession; so she's a nobleman's dowager, for your comfort.
San. Pugh, she denied it afterwards; that was but a copy of her countenance.
Carl. What if it prove a copy of the Conde's countenance? do you think she had not a bastard by him?
San. That was only a plot betwixt us, to cheat her father.
Carl. Did her father know nothing of it?
San. Not a syllable.
Carl. Then, when he believed you to be the Count, how came he to charge you with enjoying her?
San. That is something to the purpose;—but now I think on't, 'tis nothing neither; 'tis but asking her the question, and I know she'll satisfy me.
Carl. And you are resolved to take her word?
San. Rather than yours; for you may have a mind to have a lick at the honey-pot yourself.
Carl. Farewell; you know I have other business upon the stocks. [Seems going out.
San. Stay, Carlos; I am afraid you know something more of this bawdy business than you confess.
Carl. Fecks, not I.
San. Fecks! what a sneaking oath is that for a man of honour? swear me bloodily like a soldier, if you would be believed.
Carl. Without swearing, I believe her honest; therefore make sure of her immediately.
San. That is, take a rival's counsel, and make sure of being an antedated cuckold.
Carl. If you won't believe me, I cannot help it. But marry Dalinda, and be happy; for I may prevent you, if you make not haste.
San. Thou hast cheated me so often, that I cannot credit one syllable thou sayest.
Carl. [Going out.] Then take your fortune.—
[Carlos pulls out his handkerchief to wipe his face, and drops a letter.
Yonder comes Dalinda; I know her by her trip. I'll watch their greeting. [Exit.
San. The rogue's malicious, and would have me marry her in spite; besides he is off and on at so devilish a rate, a man knows not where to have him. Well, I am resolved, in the first place, not to follow the rogue's counsel. I will not marry her, because he advised me to it;—and yet I will marry her, because he counselled me not to marry her.—Hey-day! I will marry her, and I will not marry her! what's the meaning of this, friend Sancho? That's taking the rogue's advice one way or t'other. [Sees the letter and takes it up.] What, has he dropt a letter! To whom is it directed? to Don Carlos D'Ybarra;—that is himself. [Mutters, as reading to himself.
Dalinda's fair, and a fortune; but marry her not; for to my knowledge (pox confound him for his knowledge) she has had a——(What a——Mr Friend? why—) a bastard, by the late Conde: (Ay, I thought as much.) But his sister Leonora is in love with you.
Damn it, I will read no more: it agrees with what he first told me; and therefore it must be all orthodox. Here she comes, too, just in the nick of my revenge; but I shall be very laconic with her.
Enter Dalinda.
Dal. Now, servant.
San. Now, cockatrice.
Dal. You're pretty familiar——
San. So have you been——
Dal. With your mistress.
San. With the Conde, of whoring memory.
Dal. A fine salutation!
San. A final parting.
Dal. What's the meaning of this? will you come in?
San. Will you go in?
Dal. Come, look upon me. [She makes the doux yeux to him.
San. I have no eyes.
Dal. Then I must take you by the hand. [She offers, and he pulls back.
San. I have no hands neither.
Dal. How's this? I have been but too kind——
San. Yes, to the Conde.
Dal. Pugh, that was a jest, you know.
San. 'Tis turned to earnest.
Dal. You know 'twas of my conception.
San. And of your bringing forth too.
Dal. What did I bring forth?
San. A bastard.
Dal. O impudent!
San. Woman.
Dal. What proof have you of that scandal?
San. This, with a pox t'ye. [Throws her the letter.
Patience, oh ye gods! [Exit.
[She takes up the note, and, as she is reading it, re-enter Carlos.
Carl. Much good may do you with your note, madam; now I think I am revenged at full: your cully has forsaken you.
Dal. Well, I did not expect this from you, cousin Carlos.
Carl. What did you take me for? King Log in Æsop's Fables, for you to insult me, and play at leap-frog over me? Did not you forsake me for a fool?
Dal. But was not this a terrible revenge of yours? must you needs shew him the letter, which has ruined my reputation, and lost my fortune? Am I the first frail creature, that had the misfortune of two great bellies, and yet afterwards was decently married, and passed for a virgin?
Carl. Nay, do not aggravate the matter: consult your note, and you will find but one bastard charged upon you; you see I was not for laying loaders.
Dal. A great courtesy, to bate me one, as if that was not enough to do my business.
Carl. Well, suppose I should discover this contrivance of mine, and set all right again?
Dal. [Aside.] Contrivance! oh heaven! I have undone myself, by confessing all too soon.
Carl. If I should prove you innocent, you would prove ungrateful?
Dal. No, you know I always loved you.
Carl. You have shown it most abundantly, in choosing Sancho.
Dal. You speak more truly than you think. I have shewn it; for, since I must confess the truth to you, I am no fortune: my father, though he bears it high, to put me off, has mortgaged his estate: we keep servants for shew; and when we should pay their wages, pick a quarrel with their service, and turn them off pennyless. There is neither sheet nor shirt in the whole family; the lodging-rooms are furnished with loam; and bare mattresses are the beds. The dining-room plays the hypocrite for all the house; for all the furniture is there. When strangers dine with us, we eat before the servants, and then they fast; but when we dine alone, 'tis all a muss[59]: they scramble for victuals, before 'tis served up, and then we fast.
Carl. The spirit of famine comes upon me, at the very description of it.
Dal. Now, since neither you nor I have fortunes, what should we do together, unless we should turn canibals, and eat up one another? But if you would make up this foul business, and help me to that rich fool Sancho, I say no more, but——
Carl. But thou wouldst be kind to me? speak out, for I dare not trust thee, thou art such a woman.
Dal. You should——
Carl. What should I?
Dal. Why, you should——
Carl. Well, well, I will believe thee, though my heart misgives me plaguily. And therefore, in the first place, I beg your pardon for the scandal I have laid upon you. In the next, I restore your virginity and take away your bastard.
Dal. And you'll tell Sancho 'twas a forged letter?
Carl. No doubt on't; for I wrote it to myself; and out of revenge invented the whole story.
Dal. But suppose, dear cousin, that Sancho should not believe all this to be your invention; and should still suspect the letter to be true?
Carl. I can easily convince him, by writing the same hand again, in which that letter was indited.
Dal. That's an excellent expedient; but do it now; for a woman can never be cleared too soon.
Carl. But when you are cleared, you will forget your promise to me——
Dal. But if I am not cleared, I cannot marry him; nor be put in a way to keep my promise. Come, I'll hold my hand; write upon it, I always carry pen and ink about me.
Carl. Let me seal my affection first. [Kisses her hand.] Now, what should I write?
Dal. Only these words at the bottom of the note, in the same character:—This letter was wholly forged by me, Carlos. [He kneels and writes.
Carl. There 'tis.—— [Gives it her, she puts it in her pocket.
But now tell me truly, what made you confess a couple of bastards? have you indeed been dabbling?
Dal. Who, I confess it! Oh thou impudent fellow! I only soothed thee up in thy villainy, to make thee betray thy own plot. I confessed seemingly, to make thee confess really. Heaven and thy own conscience know I did. [Seems to weep.
Carl. But when you're married, you'll remember your promise?
Dal. What promise?
Carl. That I should——
Dal. Should what?
Carl. Must I tell you?
Dal. No, I'll tell you; I said you should,—and so you shall,—be cozened in your expectation.
Carl. I foreboded this, and yet was fool enough to trust thee. Give me back my letter.
Dal. What, deliver up my evidence, that's the testimony of my virtue, and thy wickedness?
Carl. I'll search your petticoat.
Dal. Dare but touch my petticoat, and I'll cry out a rape against thee.
Carl. Oh thou Eve of Genesis! thou wouldst have tempted the serpent, if thou hadst been there.
Dal. The next news you hear is of my wedding; be patient, and you shall be invited to the dinner.
Carl. I say no more; but I'll go home and indite iambics: thou shalt not want for an epithalamium; I'll do thy business in verse. [Exit.
Dal. My comfort is, I have done your business in prose already.
Enter Sancho, Lopez, Dalinda. Carlos meeting them.
Carl. Give you joy, Mr Bridegroom and Mrs Bride; you see I have accepted your invitation.
San. And thou art welcome, as a witness of my triumph.
Carl. I could tell tales that would spoil your appetite, both to your dinner and your bride.—You think you are married to a vast fortune.
Dal. A better, perhaps, than you imagine.
Lop. For, if Sancho looks into his writings, he'll find that my estate was mortgaged to his father.
San. Then would I had looked into my writings, before I had looked so far into your daughter.
Dal. My father's fortune will be yours at last; and I have but redeemed it for you.
San. I'm sure I'm married without redemption!
Carl. You must take the good and the bad together; he that keeps a tame cat must be content to be scratched a little.
Dal. The count's sister, I hope, has claws for you too.
Carl. That was invented only in hopes of you, Dalinda; though now I thank my stars that I have missed you: for two wits without fortunes would be like two millstones without corn betwixt them; they would only grind upon one another, and make a terrible noise, but no meal would follow.
Enter a Nurse, leading a Boy and Girl.
Nurse. Madam, here are two poor orphans, that, hearing you are married, come to dine with you.
Dal. [Aside.] My two bastards! I am undone: what shall I do with them?
Lop. [Aside.] The devil take my damned grand-children for their unseasonable visit.
San. Welcome, welcome: They're come a mumming[60] to grace my wedding, I'll warrant you.
Carl. I begin to suspect they come to sup and lodge, as well as dine here.
Lop. [To Nurse.] There's two pistoles for you; take them away, and bring them again to-morrow morning.
Nurse. Thank your honour.—Come away, children; but first I must deliver a note to this gentleman.—Don Carlos, I am sure you remember me. [Gives him a Note.
Carl. Did not you wait on Donna Leonora, the Conde's sister?
Nurse. Have you forgotten Ynez, the faithful trustee of your affection? Read your letter; there's better news than you deserve. [Carlos reads his Letter to himself.
Dal. [To Nurse.] Steal away, dear nurse, while he's reading, and there's more money for you:—fear not, you shall be duly paid; for I am married to one who can provide for them.
Nurse. [To her.] Well, I'll keep your credit; but remember. [Exit Nurse, with the Children.
Carl. [After Reading.] Poor loving creature, she is e'en too constant; I could never have expected this from her.—Look you here, you shall see I have no reason to envy your fortune, Sancho.—[Looks about him.] How now, what's become of the nurse and the two children?
Dal. They would have been but too troublesome guests, and are gone away.
Carl. By your favour, I shall make bold to call them back again. [Exit Carlos.
Dal. [To Lop.] Oh barbarous villain! he'll discover all.
Lop. The best on't is, you're already married.
Dal. But we have not consummated. I could have so wheedled Mr Bridegroom to-night, that ere to-morrow morning he should have forgiven me.
Re-enter Carlos, with Nurse and Children.
Carl. Come, nurse, no more mincing matters; your lady's orders in my letter must be obeyed: I must find a father and mother for the children in this company.
San. Whose pretty children are these, Carlos, that you are to provide for?
Carl. E'en your bride's, Sancho, at your service.— Children, do your duty to your mother.
Children. [Kneeling.] Mamma, your blessing.
San. Hey day, what's here to do? Are these the issue of your body, Madam Bride?
Carl. Yes; and they are now your children by the mother's side. The late Conde presents his service to you, with these two pledges of his affection to your wife.
San. Is it even thus, Dalinda?
Lop. Christian patience, son-in-law.
San. Christian patience! I say pagan fury. This is enough to make me turn Jew again, like my father of Hebrew memory.
Carl. You may make your assault, colonel, without danger; the breach is already made to your hands.
San. Ay, the devil take him that stormed it first!
Carl. Speak well of the dead.
Dal. [Kneeling.] And forgive the living!
San. Oh Dalinda! no more Dalinda, but Dalilah the Philistine! Could you find none but me to practise on?
Carl. Sooner upon you than upon any man; for nature has put a superscription upon a fool's face, and all cheats are directed thither.
Lop. There's no recalling what's past and done.
San. You never said a truer word, father-in-law; 'tis done, indeed, to my sorrow.
Carl. If you could undo it, Sancho, it were something; but, since you cannot, your only remedy is to do it again.
San. That's true; but the memory of that damned Conde is enough to turn one's stomach to her. Do you remember what a devilish hunch back he had, when you and I played him?
Carl. For that reason you may be sure she'll loath the thought of him.
San. Do you think so, Carlos?
Dal. How can I do otherwise, when I have in my arms so handsome, so sweet, and so charming a cavalier as you?
San. Well, I am—I know not howish; she has a delicious tongue of her own, and I begin to mollify.
Carl. Do, Sancho: Faith, you've held it out too long, in conscience, for so slight a quarrel; this is nothing among great ladies, man. How many fathers have I known, that have given their blessings to other men's children? Come, bless them, bless them, honest daddy—Kneel down, children.
Children. [Kneeling.] Your blessing, papa. [Children cry.
San. It goes against the grain to give it them.
Carl. For shame, Sancho, take them up; you'll break their pretty hearts else: 'twould grieve a man's soul to see them weep thus.
San. Ay, they learnt that trick of their mother; but I cannot be obdurate, the fault was none of theirs, I'm sure. [Crying.] Heaven e'en bless you, and I'll provide for you; nay, and it shall go hard but I'll get you some more play-fellows, if your mother be as fruitful as she used to be.
Lop. Why this is as it should be.
Dal. Heaven reward you; and I'll study obedience to you.
San. They say, children are great blessings; if they are, I have two great blessings ready gotten to my hands.
Carl. For your comfort, marriage, they say, is holy.
San. Ay, and so is martyrdom, as they say; but both of them are good for just nothing, but to make an end of a man's life.
Lop. Cheer up, son-in-law: your children are very towardly, you see they can ask blessing already.
Dal. If he does not like them, he may get the next himself.
Carl. I will not trouble the company with reading my letter from the dead count's sister; 'tis enough to tell you, that I loved her once, and forsook her, because she was then no fortune. But she has been kinder to me than I deserve; and has offered me her brother's estate in dowry with her.
Dal. Which I hope you will accept.
Carl. Yes, and release you of a certain promise to me, without explaining.—She only recommended to me her brother's children by Dalinda: and I think I have taken a decent care in providing them a rich father.
San. I always loved a harlot, and, now I have one of my own, I'll e'en take up with her; for my youth is going, and my days of whoring, I mean emphatical whoring, are almost over. But for once, we'll have a frolick; come, offspring, can either of you two dance?
1 Child. Yes, forsooth, father, and my sister can sing too, like an angel.
San. Then foot it featly; that you may say hereafter you remember when your mother was first married, and danced at her wedding.
Carl. Hold a little;—you may remember too, Madam Bride, that I promised you an epithalamium. 'Twas meant a satire; but fortune has turned it to a jest. I have given it to the musicians, and brought them along with me; strike up, gentlemen.
[The Dance is first, then the Song, the last Words of which are sung while the Company is going out, and the Musick plays before them.
SONG.
BY MR CONGREVE.
I.
II.
SONG
FOR A GIRL.
I.
II.
III.
IV.
A Royal Chamber is discovered by drawing the former Scene; Veramond, Garcia, Ximena, Victoria Celidea, with a full Train of Courtiers and Guards: amongst the Crowd, Ramirez disguised with some of his Party.
SPOKEN BY DALINDA.
REVIVED FOR DRYDEN'S BENEFIT, IN 1700.
Our Author's connection with the Theatre only ended with his life. The pieces, which follow, have reference to the performance of "The Pilgrim," a play of Beaumont and Fletcher, which was revived in 1700. Vanburgh, a lively comic writer, who seems to have looked up to Dryden with that veneration which was his due, added some light touches of humour, to adapt this play to the taste of the age. The aged poet himself furnished a Prologue and Epilogue, a Song, and Secular Masque; and, with these additions, the piece was performed for the benefit of Dryden. It seems dubious, whether the kind intentions of Vanburgh and the players actually took effect in favour of our author himself, or in that of his son. It is certain, that, if he did not die before the representation, he did not survive it many weeks, as the play[62] was not published till after his death.
But his lamp burned bright to the close. The Prologue and Epilogue, written within a few weeks of his death, equal any thing of the kind which he ever produced. He combats his two enemies, Blackmore and Collier, with his usual spirit; but with manliness concedes, that they had attacked him in one vulnerable and indefensible particular, where he lay open, less from any peculiar depravity in his own taste, than from compliance with the general licence of the age.
Cibber informs us, that Sir John Vanburgh, who cast the parts, being pleased with the young actor's moderation, in contenting himself with those of the Stuttering Cook, and Mad Englishman, assigned him also the creditable task of speaking the Epilogue, which, as it was so much above the ordinary strain, highly gratified his vanity. Dryden himself, on hearing Cibber recite it, made him the further compliment of trusting him with the Prologue also; an honourable distinction, which drew upon him the jealousy of the other actors, and the indignation of Wilkes in particular. This revival of "The Pilgrim" was also remarkable, as affording Mrs Oldfield, who had been about a year or more a mute on the stage, an opportunity of attracting public attention in the character of Alinda, which suited the want of confidence natural to her inexperience, and in which she afforded that promise of future excellence, which was afterwards so amply fulfilled.
REVIVED FOR OUR AUTHOR'S BENEFIT, ANNO 1700.
OF A SCHOLAR AND HIS MISTRESS, WHO, BEING CROSSED BY THEIR FRIENDS, FELL MAD FOR ONE ANOTHER, AND NOW FIRST MEET IN BEDLAM.
In "The Pilgrim," as originally written by Beaumont and Fletcher, one scene is laid in a mad-house, where the humours of the different persons confined are described with some pleasantry. Amongst others is introduced a Scholar, who has solicited dismission from his confinement, and who, after having been carefully examined by two gentlemen, whom his patron had appointed to visit him, is on the point of being discharged as possessed of his perfect understanding. The Dialogue, which follows, probably formed the introduction to our Author's Song.
Here it seems probable the following Mad Song, betwixt the Scholar and his Mistress, was introduced. Probably the Dialogue sustained some alterations in the action, to render the introduction of Phillis more natural; for, in the original, the Scholar, far from having lost his senses by being crossed in love, disclaims acquaintance with the passion during his previous examination.
This passage is retained in "The Pilgrim," as altered by Sir John Vanburgh; so that it does not appear what alterations were made, to accommodate the Song to the Scholar's previous appearance. The idea of the character is copied from the story told by the Curate, in the First Chapter of the Second Part of the Adventures of the Knight of La Mancha, and applied by him to the relapse of that doughty champion.
MUSIC WITHIN.
The Lovers enter at opposite Doors, each held by a Keeper.
The moral of this emblematical representation is sufficiently intelligible. By the introduction of the deities of the chace, of war, and of love, as governing the various changes of the seventeenth century, the poet alludes to the sylvan sports of James the First, the bloody wars of his son, and the licentious gallantry which reigned in the courts of Charles II. and James his successor.
James I. was inordinately attached to the sports of the chace: it was indeed the only manly passion which our British Solomon ever manifested; his dress was of the forest-green, and his only severity was in executing the game-laws[69]. Able hunters were the bribes by which the English courtiers endeavoured to secure his favour[70], while he was yet but king of Scotland; and, in England, his perpetual hunting expeditions were censured by his prelates[71], and their oppressive duration deprecated by his subjects, who, to render their complaints more palatable, contrived, upon one occasion, to make a favourite hound convey a hint of the burthen, which his long residence at a hunting seat imposed upon the neighbourhood[72]. Even in the most advanced state of his age and imbecility, when unable to sit on horseback without assistance, he contrived to pursue the chace by being laced or tied up in his saddle! When we add to this vehement passion for hunting, the spirit of extravagant dissipation, which discharged itself "in shows, sights, and banquetings, from morn to eve[73]," where even the ladies abandoned their sobriety, the age of James might well be characterised, as in the Masque,
To show how justly the middle part of the seventeenth century was characterised, as under the influence of Mars, we have only to mention the great civil war, which so long ravaged the whole kingdom.
The manners of the court of Charles II., so notoriously dissolute and licentious, when, as our author says in the Epilogue,
amply vindicate Dryden for placing the period in which they were fashionable under the dominion of the queen of Cyprus.
The moral, by which the whole masque is winded up, was sadly true. The frivolity of James the First's sports would have been admitted by the sapient monarch himself—
But it is less credible, were it not a historical fact, that the wars of Charles the First "brought nothing about;" since royal prerogative, and popular encroachment, far from being adjusted by so many years bloodshed, were as much themes of mutual dissention betwixt the Court and the House of Commons in the reign of Charles II. as during that of his father. But so bloody a lesson was not entirely lost. The contending parties at the Revolution lived too near that eventful period, not to be aware of the direful consequences of civil war, and thence, by mutual concession, were determined to avoid the repetition of similar calamities. The nation gained by the compromise; for freedom is always benefited by the equal balance of contending factions, and as certainly suffers by the decided ascendancy of either.
A thousand lampoons bear witness, that, during the reign of Venus, under the auspices of Charles II. her
The modern reader will find the most decent, and, at the same time, the most lively record of their infidelities, in Count Hamilton's Memoires du Compte de Grammont.
From the "Secular Masque" being performed in the beginning of the year 1700, it appears, that, by a blunder, or rather confusion of ideas, the century was supposed to terminate with 1699; in other words, a hundred years were considered as accomplished when the hundredth was just commenced:—an error of calculation which, though it could not puzzle a horse-jockey, who, if he was to ride twenty miles, would hardly think he had accomplished the match by riding nineteen, did, nevertheless, find patrons in the year 1800, though hardly any of such account as Dryden.
The original music of the Masque was very much approved. It is mentioned in the Travels of John Buncle. Mr Malone believes Daniel Purcel to have been the composer. It was set anew by Dr Boyce, and afterwards revived with success at Drury-Lane in 1749. The hunting song was long popular.
Enter Janus.
This epilogue bears chiefly reference to the violent controversy, which, about this time, arose between the favourers of the drama and Jeremy Collier, who, in 1698, published "A short View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage;"—"I believe," says Johnson, "with no other view, than religious zeal, and honest indignation.[76] He was formed for a controvertist; with sufficient learning, with diction vehement and pointed, though often vulgar and incorrect, with unconquerable pertinacity, with wit in the highest degree keen and sarcastic, and with all those powers exalted and invigorated by just confidence in his cause.
"Thus qualified, and thus incited, he walked forth to battle, and assailed, at once, most of the living writers, from Dryden to Durfey. His onset was violent. Those passages which, while they had stood single, had passed with little notice, when they were accumulated and exposed together, excited horror. The wise and the pious caught the alarm; and the nation wondered why it had so long suffered irreligion and licentiousness to be openly taught at the public charge."—Life of Congreve.
Dryden had his personal share of rough treatment in this indiscriminate attack upon dramatic profligacy. But it is creditable to him, that, whatever his feelings of resentment might be, he was too much conscience-struck to attempt a defence of what was really indefensible. "I shall say the less of Mr Collier, because in many things he has taxed me justly; and I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of mine, which can be truly argued of obscenity, profaneness, or immorality, and retract them. If he be my enemy, let him triumph; if he be my friend, as I have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise, he will be glad of my repentance. It becomes me not to draw my pen in the defence of a bad cause, when I have so often drawn it for a good one." Preface to the Fables.
This candid avowal, and the coincidence of their political sentiments, (for Collier was a rigid Non-juror,) did not save Dryden from some oblique thrusts in an Answer published by Collier to the Vindications of Congreve and Vanburgh, who, less patient or prudent than our poet, had stepped forward to assert the correctness of their dramatic writings. These passages in the "Defence of the Short View," which was published in 1699, seem to have incited our poet to put himself upon his defence, or at least to offer the best apology he could, by throwing upon the gay court of Charles the scandal of importing the open profligacy, which the poet insists had corrupted the stage, instead of being derived from thence. Lord Lansdowne, in a prologue to the "Jew of Venice," when revived, took the freedom to dissent from Dryden and Collier; and, by exculpating both the theatre and court, to throw the whole blame upon the public at large:
There is, in every case of this kind, much partial accusation. The court, stage, and public at large, have a mutual action and re-action on the manners of each other. If the habits of a court be licentious, the poet will hardly venture to paint them noble and innocent; but it will depend upon the extent which that licence has attained amongst his audience at large, whether he represents the courtly vices in gay, or in disgusting and odious colours. In any case, the dramatist, who degrades himself by indecency, has little personal apology; for, if he has condescended to blot his pages with filth, it avails but little where he has gathered it.
Collier's attack on the stage was attended with good consequences, which that active disputant lived to witness: indecencies were no longer either fashionable or tolerated; and, by degrees, the ladies began to fill the boxes at a new play, without either the necessity of wearing masks, or the risk of incurring censure. Later times have carried this laudable restraint still farther; till, at last, if we have lost almost all the wit of our predecessors, we at least have retained none of their licentiousness.
The following verses appear upon Dryden's death, in the "State Poems," vol. iii. founded upon his controversy with Sir Richard Blackmore and Collier, which so immediately preceded that event:
[1] This caution is given by Mercury in the prologue.
[2] This gentleman united in his person the ancient families of Gower and Leveson. He was second son of Sir Thomas Gower, bart., and succeeded to the title and estate, by the death of his nephew, Sir Edward Gower, in the year before. He was a keen whig, and distinguished himself, both by his attachment to Monmouth, and his zeal for the Revolution; but his alliance with Lawrence Earl of Rochester, whose eldest son, Lord Hyde, had married his daughter, might smooth our poet's access to his favour; since Rochester is distinguished as his constant patron. Dryden also refers to former passages of intimacy between him and Sir William. Above all, we are to suppose that, in admiration of our author's poetical talents, Sir William Gower was capable of drowning every unfavourable recollection of his political tenets. Sir William Leveson Gower is ancestor of the present Marquis of Stafford.
[3] A noble seat in Staffordshire, inhabited by Sir William Gower, from the Levesons, his maternal ancestors.
[4] Betterton, having recovered the dislike to operas, which the failure of "Albion and Albanius" occasioned, had brought out the "Prophetess," of Beaumont and Fletcher, shortened and altered into a musical piece, which was set by the famous Purcell. Dr. Burney has sanctioned the compliment, which Dryden bestows upon it. There is something in our author's turn of expression, which may lead us to infer, that he was but a recent convert to the English school of music. Sir John Hawkins seems to be mistaken, in placing this opera posterior to that of "Prince Arthur." The dances were invented by the celebrated Priest.
[5] Under this poetical appellation, the author here, and in the dedication to "Cleomenes," celebrates Jane Lady Hyde, daughter to Sir William L. Gower, and wife, as has been noticed, to Henry Lord Hyde; eldest son of Lawrence Earl of Rochester.
[6] Julian, who styled himself secretary to the muses, made a dirty livelihood, by copying and dispersing lampoons at the Wits' coffee-house. He was the subject of a copy of verses, which the reader will find among those ascribed to Dryden on doubtful authority.
[7] The poetasters of that age were so numerous, and so active, that the most deplorable attempt at wit, or satire, was usually answered in one which was yet worse. Parody and personal abuse were the implements of this warfare, which sometimes extended to answers, replies, rejoinders, rebutters, and sur-rebutters, all only distinguished by malignant scurrility.
[8] The author alludes to some popular tales of the day, or perhaps of former; but the editor confesses himself unable to trace the reference.
[9] The infamous Scroggs, and several of Charles the Second's judges, had huffed, and roared, and ranted, and domineered, over the unfortunate victims, who suffered for the Popish Plot; and had been equally partial to prerogative, when the king's party attained a decided ascendancy.
[10] The author acknowledges, with gratitude, the opinion of his "first and best patroness, the duchess of Monmouth," which, to the author of "Absalom and Achitophel," must have excited a strange mixture of recollections and emotions. The judgment of that accomplished lady alleged the fairy kind of writing, which depends only on the force of imagination, as the grounds for liking a piece which has that chiefly to recommend it.
[11] Tasso's "Gierusaleme Liberata."
[12] We have often occasion, in these notes, to mention the Marquis of Halifax. He was originally Sir George Saville, Baronet; but, being early characterized by unmatched dexterity in political intrigue, he successively attained the rank of Viscount, Earl, and, in 1682, Marquis of Halifax. He acted alternately for the people against the Crown, and for the Crown against the people; for he delighted in nice and delicate strokes of policy, and in balancing, by a slight but well-applied exertion, the sinking against the rising faction. Hence he was accounted the head of the little faction called Trimmers; and hence his counsels became particularly acceptable to Charles II., whose administration he guided, as Lord Privy Seal, during the last years of that monarch's life. The king had no mind that the high-flying tories should attain an absolute predominance; for he feared his brother, who had placed himself at their head, and he loved Monmouth, who was the object of their most violent hatred. Still less could he be supposed to favour the whigs, whose ranks contained many determined republicans. A minister, therefore, whose ingenious and versatile councils could enable him to check the triumph of the tories, without too much encouraging the whigs, was a treasure to him,—and just such a minister was Halifax. Our author therefore dedicates to him, with great propriety, a piece written for Charles, when Halifax was his favourite minister; and the subjects of eulogium are chosen with Dryden's usual felicity. Some allowance must doubtless be made, for the indispensible obligation which compelled a dedicator to view the conduct of his patron on the favourable side. Such an unfortunate wight cannot be reasonably tied down to uniformity of sentiment in different addresses. The character of Dryden's immediate patron was always his cue for praise: if he stood forward against a predominant party, he was necessarily Cato, the most virtuous of men; if he yielded to the torrent, he was Phocion or Cicero, and Cato was a fool to him. With the few grains of allowance which his situation required, Dryden's praise of Halifax is an honest panegyric. It is certain, his wisdom prevented a civil war in the last years of the reign of Charles, and indirectly led the way to a bloodless revolution. The age in which he lived was therefore so far indebted to him, as our author has elegantly said, for the lives of husbands and of children, for property unviolated, and wealth undiminished. Nor does the present owe him less; for, when is it that a government, erected by a party successful in civil dissention, does not far exceed their just, and even their original pretensions? The parties had each founded their plea and their pretensions upon sacred and integral parts of the constitution, as the contending factions of the Jews occupied, the one the temple, and the other the palace of Jerusalem. In a civil war, one bulwark or other must have fallen with the party which it sheltered; and it was only the Revolution of 1688, which, leaving both whig and tory in full strength, compelled them mutually to respect the constitutional vantage-ground assumed by each other.
[13] Lord Halifax was unquestionably a man of wit; and we have some tolerable bon mots of his, handed down by his contemporaries. Burnet says, "The liveliness of his imagination was always too hard for his judgment. A severe jest was preferred by him to all arguments whatever; and he was endless in consultations; for when, after much discourse, a point was settled, if he could find a new jest to make even that which was suggested by himself ridiculous, he could not hold, but would study to raise the credit of his wit, though it made others call his judgment in question." We may not, perhaps, refine too far in supposing, that the bishop was not always able to estimate the policy of this subtle statesman. It was more frequently his wish to avoid taking decisive steps than to recommend them; and what could more effectually retard violent councils than the conduct remarked by Burnet, or what argument would have weighed with Charles II. like a keen jest?
[14] The Roman veterans were dismissed after twenty years service; a regulation equally politic and humane. In 1691 a French invasion, in behalf of King James, appeared not improbable.
[15] We cannot trace the result of this study any where but in the song of the Saxon priests; and it did not surely require much reading to glean up the names of the Saxon deities, which are almost the only traits of national manners exhibited through the drama.
[16] Under that of Jotham in "Absalom and Achitophel."
[17] The ancient game of shovel-board was played by sliding pieces of money along a smooth table, something on the principle of billiards. The allusion seems to be the same as if a modern poet had said, that a feeble player at billiards runs no risk of pocketing his own ball. The reader will find a variety of passages concerning this pastime in the notes of the various commentators upon a passage in the "Merry Wives of Windsor," where Slender enumerates among the contents of his pocket, when picked by Pistol, "two Edward shovel-boards," that is, two broad shillings of Edward VI. used for playing at this game. In some old halls the shovel-board table is still preserved, and sometimes used.
[18] Cardinal Ottoboni, a Venetian by birth, succeeded to the tiara on the death of Innocent XI., and assumed the name of Alexander VIII. He was, like his predecessor, an enemy to France, and maintained the privileges of the Holy See, both in the point of the regale, and in refusing to grant bulls to those French bishops who had signed the formulary of 1682, by which the Pope was declared fallible, and subject to the decrees of a general council. His death took place during the congress of 1690. It was therefore a recent event when this play was first represented, and the disposition of his successor, towards the French or Imperial Courts, was matter of anxious speculation to the politicians of the day.
[19] In imitation of the blind man, who said, that "red resembled the sound of a trumpet."
[20] One virtue ascribed by Odinn to the Runick characters was, to blunt the weapons of an enemy.
[21] In this Ode is contained all the use which our poet made of his knowledge of the Saxon manners, gleaned from Bede and Bochart. It is certain, that the Saxons, like the other Northmen, used the horrible superstition of human sacrifices. Woden, Freya or Frigga his wife, and Thor the god of war, were worshipped by the Saxons with probably the same attributes ascribed to them as in Denmark and Sweden. The casting of lots is mentioned by Alfred in his version of Bede, pluton mid tanum, "they cast lots with twigs." Much, and most extensive learning, has been displayed on the subject, by Mr Turner, in the fourth volume of his Anglo-Saxon History.
[22] This long stage direction contains an attempt to render interesting what is necessarily ridiculous. With all the assistance of bloody spunges, a stage combat must be always a ludicrous representation of a real one. We are content, in old plays, to let it pass, as a hieroglyphic, which conveys to us the author's meaning; but modern dramatists would do well to obscure their combats, if the termination is to be a bloody one.
[23] The Nine Worthies were equally divided among three religions; namely, Three Pagans, Hector, Pompey, and Alexander the Great; three Jews, Joshua, David, and Judas Machabæus; and three Christians, Arthur, Charlemagne, and Godfrey of Boulogne.
[24] In this passage, Dryden's discontent with the existing circumstances glances out: It is probable, that much was here omitted, or altered, which would have adorned the termination of the piece, had it been represented to Charles II. as originally designed by the author.
[25] With a slight alteration in spelling, a modern poet would have written Bond-Street beaux. A billet-doux from Bow-Street would be now more alarming than flattering.
[26] The whole passage is so very fine, that I think I may venture to extract it from this beautiful and forgotten tragedy. Caratach and Hengo, the uncle and nephew, are besieged on a rock by the Romans, and reduced to extremity by hunger. They are decoyed by some food, hung on a rock by the centurion Judas.
This extract is perhaps longer than necessary; but, independently of its extreme beauty, it serves to justify the observation in the text, that Dryden had the recollection of Hengo strongly in his memory while composing the character of Cleonidas. Both are extenuated by hunger, and both killed insidiously by a cowardly enemy; and the reader will discover more minute resemblances to the very dialogue of Beaumont and Fletcher on perusing p. 209, and pp. 324, 325. I do Dryden no injury in ascribing a decided superiority to the more ancient dramatists.]
[27] This fact is ascertained by the following passage in the Dedication of Southerne's play, called the "Wife's Excuse," to the Honourable Thomas Wharton.
"These, sir, are capital objections against me; but they hit very few faults, nor have they mortified me into a despair of pleasing the more reasonable part of mankind. If Mr Dryden's judgment goes for any thing, I have it on my side; for, speaking of this play, he has publicly said, "the town was kind to Sir Anthony Love; I needed them only to be just to this;" and to prove there was more than friendship in his opinion, upon the credit of this play with him, falling sick last summer, he bequeathed to my care the half of the last act of his tragedy of "Cleomenes;" which, when it comes into the world, you will find to be so considerable a trust, that all the town will pardon me for defending this play, that preferred me to it. If modesty be sometimes a weakness, what I say can hardly be a crime: in a fair English trial, both parties are allowed to be heard; and, without this vanity of mentioning Mr Dryden, I had lost the best evidence of my cause."
I cannot but remark a material difference between this quotation, as here quoted from the 8vo edition of Southerne's Plays, 1774, and as quoted by Mr Malone, who reads "the fifth act," instead of "the half of the fifth act."
[28] Motteux, in the "Gentleman's Journal," has announced the prohibition of Cleomenes, and its removal, in a remarkable passage quoted by Mr Malone.
"I was in hopes to have given you in this letter an account of the acting of Dryden's "Cleomenes:" it was to have appeared upon the stage on Saturday last, and you need not doubt but that the town was big with the expectation of the performance; but orders came from her Majesty to hinder its being acted; so that none can tell when it shall be played."
"I told you in my last," says the same writer in the following month, "that none could tell when Mr Dryden's "Cleomenes" would appear. Since that time, the innocence and merit of the play have raised it several eminent advocates, who have prevailed to have it acted; and you need not doubt but it has been with great applause."
[29] Cibber has thus described Mrs Barry at the time when she was honoured by this high compliment from Dryden:
"Mrs Barry was then (in 1690) in possession of almost all the chief parts in tragedy: With what skill she gave life to them, you may judge from the words of Dryden in his preface to "Cleomenes." I perfectly remember her acting that part; and, however unnecessary it may seem to give my judgement after Dryden's, I cannot help saying, I do not only close with his opinion, but will venture to add, that though Dryden has been dead these thirty-eight years, the same compliment to this hour may be due to her excellence. And though she was then not a little past her youth, she was not till that time fully arrived to her maturity of power and judgment. From whence I would observe, that the short life of beauty is not long enough to form a complete actress. In men, the delicacy of person is not so absolutely necessary, nor the decline of it so soon taken notice of. The fame Mrs Barry arrived at, is a particular proof of the difficulty there is in judging with certainty from their first trials, whether young people will ever make any great figure in a theatre. There was, it seems, so little hope of Mrs Barry at her first setting out, that she was at the end of the first year discharged the company, among others that were thought to be a useless expence to it. I take it for granted, that the objection to Mrs Barry at that time must have been a defective ear, or some unskilful dissonance in her manner of pronouncing. But where there is a proper voice and person, with the addition of a good understanding, experience tells us, that such defect is not always invincible; of which not only Mrs Barry, but the late Mrs Oldfield, are eminent instances,—Mrs Barry, in characters of greatness, had a presence of elevated dignity; her mien and motion superb, and gracefully majestic; her voice full, clear, and strong, so that no violence of passion could be too much for her; and when distress or tenderness possessed her, she subsided into the most affecting melody and softness. In the art of exciting pity, she had a power beyond all the actresses I have yet seen, or what your imagination can conceive. Of the former of these two great excellencies, she gave the most delightful proofs in almost all the heroic plays of Dryden and Lee; and of the latter, in the softer passions of Otway's Monimia and Belvidera. In scenes of anger, defiance, or resentment, while she was impetuous and terrible, she poured out the sentiment with an enchanting harmony; and it was this particular excellence for which Dryden made her the above-recited compliment upon her acting Cassandra in his "Cleomenes." But here I am apt to think his partiality for that character may have tempted his judgment to let it pass for her master-piece, when he could not but know there are several other characters in which her action might have given her a fairer pretence to the praise he has bestowed upon her for Cassandra: for in no part of that is there the least ground for compassion, as in Monimia; nor equal cause for admiration, as in the nobler love of Cleopatra, or the tempestuous jealousy of Roxana. 'Twas in these lights I thought Mrs Barry shone with a much brighter excellence than in Cassandra. She was the first person whose merit was distinguished by the indulgence of having an annual benefit-play, which was granted to her alone, if I mistake not, first in King James's time; and which became not common to others, till the division of this company after the death of King William's Queen Mary. This great actress died of a fever towards the latter end of Queen Anne; the year I have forgot, but perhaps you will recollect it by an expression that fell from her in blank verse, in her last hours, when she was delirious, viz.
"And yet (says Antony Aston, in his curious 'Supplement to Cibber's work,') this fine creature was not handsome, her mouth opening most on the right side, which she strove to draw t'other way, and at times composing her face, as if sitting to have her picture drawn. Mrs Barry was middle-sized, and had darkish hair, light eyes, dark eye-brows, and was indifferently plump. She had a manner of drawing out her words, which became her, but not Mrs Bradshaw and Mrs Porter, her successors. Neither she, nor any of the actresses of those times, had any tone in their speech, so much lately in use. In tragedy she was solemn and august; in free comedy, alert, easy, and genteel; pleasant in her face and action; filling the stage with variety of gesture. She was woman to Lady Shelton, of Norfolk, (my godmother,) when Lord Rochester took her on the stage, where for some time they could make nothing of her. She could neither sing nor dance, no not in a country-dance."—Malone, Vol. III. p. 227.
[30] Dryden had already distinguished Hyde, Earl of Rochester, by inscribing "The Duke of Guise" to him. As he was son of the famous Lord Clarendon, he was, of course, uncle to Queen Mary, by the mother's side, and his protection continued therefore to be respectable, although his political tenets were strongly Jacobitical.
[31] See the end of the 34th and beginning of the 35th canto of the "Orlando Furioso."
[32] The 29th Ode of the First Book. See it among our author's translations from Horace.
[33] These ladies, Mr Malone supposes to be Lord Rochester's two daughters, Henrietta Lady Dalkeith, and Mary Lady Conway, with his daughter-in-law Lady Hyde, the Berenice who is mentioned presently afterward. The Duchess of Ormond, eldest daughter of the Earl, died in 1685, and therefore could not be of the number.
[34] Lady Silvius was the wife of Sir Gabriel Silvius, employed upon various occasions as an English envoy on the Continent.
[36] Anthony, fourth Lord Viscount Falkland, succeeded to that title by the death of his father in 1664. He was a person of wit and honour, as the phrase then was; a character which he maintained by writing prologues, and occasional verses, as well as by keeping company with men of more genius than his own. He died in 1694.
[37] This objection and answer are stated by Steele to have taken place in an extempore conversation betwixt Dryden and a young beau just come from the representation of "Cleomenes."—See the Guardian, No. 45. The retort may doubtless have been first made by the poet in this manner; but it is more probable that Steele either had an inaccurate recollection of the passage, or thought it had a more lively effect when thrown into dialogue.
[38] The enemies of Dryden, imputing to him the pitiful jealousy of which they were probably themselves conscious, pretended, that, envious of the reputation which Creech acquired by his translation of Lucretius, Dryden insidiously pushed him on to attempt a version of Horace, a task for which he was totally unfit, and by which he forfeited all the credit he had gained. The accusation is thus stated by Tom Brown, and may serve for a specimen of the under-bred petulance in which he indulges.
Bays. "I have a certain profound stratagem still behind, my Sacra Anchora I call it, which is only to be made use of upon extraordinary occasions, and which I was never forced to employ but once in my time, and is as follows: When any young author has been so fortunate in his first undertaking, as to win himself the applause of all the world, so that 'tis impossible for one to ruin his reputation, without running the hazard of having his throat cut by all sort of company, I am as forward as the best of them all to commend his ingenuity, to extol his parts, and promise him a copy of verses before his book, if he honours the world with a second edition.
Crites. "Very good.
Bays. "At the same time I privately feel his pulse, and examine the nature, and inclination of the beast. If he chances to be a little saturnine like myself, I set him upon a gay undertaking, where 'tis the devil and all of ill luck if he does not ship-wreck all his former credit. But, if he proves a man of a brisk and jolly temper, I persuade him of all loves to make an experiment of his abilities upon some serious solemn subject; tell him, if ever he expects to be saved, he must out of hand do justice to the Psalms and Canticles, which work he's as incapable to manage, egad, as little David was to fight in Saul's armour. Thus, gentlemen, by engaging the author in a province, where he has not stock enough to carry on the plantation, I never fail one way or other to compass my designs, and, at long-run, to defeat my competitor.
Crites. "Why, Mr Bays, this is like enjoining a painter, that has a good fancy at drawing of Saracens' heads, and grotesque figures only, to draw you a Venus or an Adonis, where he must certainly miscarry. Now, I am apt to fancy you trepanned the honest translator of Lucretius with this profound piece of policy: Come, confess the truth, man; did you not?
Bays. "You could not have guessed better, Mr Crites, if you had dived into my diaphragma for the secret. It was not in my power, you must know, either to suppress the work, or to discommend it; because, to give the gentleman his due, it was performed beyond all expectation, and, what was a mighty matter, it suited as pat as might be with the philosophy of the town that was then in fashion. Now, to undermine and ruin him to all intents and purposes, I took these measures. I flatter, hug, and caress him, like an Achitophel as I was; after the strangest manner imaginable, profess all the respect and friendship in the world for him; tell him that providence had certainly reserved him for working miracles in poetry; and that I had some ancient prophecies by me at home, which declared him to be the very person that was to deliver the immortal writers of former ages out of that Algerine captivity they had so long laboured under—
Crites. "Well, for daubing and wheedling, I'll let thee loose to any poet in Christendom."
Bays. "That, if by his mighty feat he could form those Irish atoms of Lucretius into so regular, and well-disciplined an army, could raise such harmony out of a dull unmusical philosopher, how glorious and exalted would his attempts be upon Horace, or what might we not expect from so advantageous, so promising an undertaking. And so, gentlemen, with the help of a little incense and flattery, I so cajoled this Æsop's crow, that he presently dropt his Epicurean cheese out of his mouth, to sing one of his unmusical ill-turned Odes of Horace. I persuaded this Welch courser to leave his ragged unaccessible precipices, where there was no coming after him, to try his strength and feet upon good plain ground, where an English vinegar horse, I knew, would easily distance him." The Reasons of Mr Bayes changing his Religion considered in a Dialogue.
Shields, or whoever wrote Creech's Life, in the collection to which Theophilus Cibber gave his name, has not only adopted this tale of scandal, but has added, that the great contempt expressed by Dryden for the translation of Horace, gave the author a shock, from which he never recovered, and, in short, occasioned his falling into low-spirits, and finally committing suicide. The passage, to which this note refers, is sufficient to clear our author from so gross and scandalous a reproach. It shews that after the publication of Creech's Horace he continued, in the most public manner, not only to speak kindly and respectfully of the translator, but to stimulate him to new exertions. It is hence evident, that no breach of friendship took place between them on this occasion; far less could Dryden have driven him to despair by harshness or contempt. The inference, that Dryden urged Creech to attempt Horace, because he foresaw his failure, seems the unfounded deduction of calumny and envy. In the dedication to the Translation of Horace, which is addressed to our author, Creech himself bears the following strong testimony to the liberality of Dryden's sentiments.
"'Tis you, sir, that have advanced our dramatic to its height, and showed that epic poetry is not confined to Italy and Greece. That you are honoured by the best, and envied by others, proclaims excellency and worth; for, true honour is built only upon perfection; and envy, as it is as sharp sighted, so 'tis as soaring as an eagle; and who ever saw it stoop at a sparrow or a wren? and that candour and goodness have the greatest share in your composition, I dare appeal to every one whom you have any way favoured with your conversation; these so fill your mind, that there is no room left for pride, or any disobliging quality. This appears from the encouragement you are ready to give any tolerable attempts, and reach out a helping hand to all those who endeavour to climb that height where you are already seated. Even this owes its completion to those smiles which you condescended to bestow upon some parts of it, and now ventures to appear a second time, where at first it found a favourable entertainment."
The reader will observe that this dedication is prefixed to the second edition of the Translation of Horace; a circumstance which confutes the assertion that Dryden ridiculed the work, and indeed the whole of a tale, so malignantly invented by slander, and repeated by credulity.
[39] Marcus Manilius, a poet of the Augustan age, wrote the poem on astronomy, to which Dryden refers.
[40] Sir Henry Shere published his Translation of Polybius in 1692-3, in two volumes, 8vo., to which there was prefixed a character of the author, and of his writings, by Dryden.
[41] Ægiatis was the first wife of Cleomenes. The reader will find an account of the modest custom of Sparta here alluded to, with a curious advantage taken of it by a stranger, in "Les Voyages D'Antenor."
[42] It is surprising that Dryden has not here availed himself of the beautiful and affectionate apostrophe of Cleomenes, when he saw his brother Eucleidas overpowered in the battle of Sellasia: "Thou art lost, dear brother! lost for ever, thou brave example to our Spartan youth, and theme of our matrons' songs!"
[43] This very appropriate simile is taken literally from Plutarch. See the prefixed Life of Cleomenes, p. 239.
[44] This sentiment was used, and absolutely acted upon, by the famous Hewet, in very similar circumstances to those of Cleomenes. "Being taken with a suppression of urine," says Smollet, "he resolved, in imitation of Pomponius Atticus, to take himself off by abstinence; and this resolution he executed like an ancient Roman. He saw company to the last, cracked his jokes, conversed freely, and entertained his guests with music. On the third day of his fast, he found himself entirely freed of his complaint, but refused taking sustenance. He said, the most disagreeable part of the voyage was past; and he should be a cursed fool indeed to put about ship, when he was just entering the harbour. In these sentiments he persisted, without any marks of affectation; and thus finished his course with such ease and serenity, as would have done honour to the firmest Stoic of antiquity."—Note upon the Expedition of Humphrey Clinker.
[45] William Fuller was an informer, who pretended, about this time, to make discovery of a formidable plot, by the Jacobites, against the government. But his luck was not so great as that of his prototype, Titus Oates; for the House of Commons finding him unable to produce the witnesses, to whom he referred for support of his tale, on the 24th February 1691, declared him "a notorious impostor, a cheat, and a false accuser, having scandalized their Majesties, and their government, abused this house, and falsely accused several persons of honour and quality." Fuller was prosecuted by the Attorney General for this offence, and punished by the pillory; notwithstanding which he did not profit by Mrs Bracegirdle's legacy, so as to make "his next plot more clear;" for, in 1702, he was sentenced to the same painful elevation, for publishing an impudent forgery, concerning the birth of the Prince of Wales, son to James II.—See State Trials, vol. VI. p. 442; and the Journals of the House of Commons, for February 1691.
[46] Of Wickham I can learn nothing; but the nature of his imposture is easily to be gathered from the text.
[47] See Introduction to Œdipus, vol. VI. p. 121.
[48] "The second play is Mr Dryden's, called "Love Triumphant, or Nature will prevail." It is a tragi-comedy; but, in my opinion, one of the worst he ever writ, if not the very worst: the comical part descends beneath the style and show of a Bartholomew-Fair droll. It was damned by the universal cry of the town, nemine contradicente but the conceited poet. He says in his prologue, that this is the last the town must expect from him; he had done himself a kindness, had he taken his leave before."
[49] James, the fourth Earl of Salisbury, was strongly attached to the religion and cause of his former master, James II., a reason, doubtless, for Dryden inscribing to him his last dramatic offspring. There was also a connection betwixt our poet's lady and the Earl, which is alluded to in the dedication. The Earl succeeded to the title in 1683.
[50] It was an ancient custom derived from the days of chivalry, but which long survived them, that, as formerly the future knight had to go through a preliminary course of education, as page and squire to some person of rank and valour; so the pages of the quality, so late as the Revolution, were the sons of gentlemen, and in no way derogated from their birth by accepting that menial situation. This is often alluded to in the old plays. In the "New Inn" for example, when Lovel asks of the Host his son for a page, we have an account of the decay of the institution from its original purposes and respectability.
[51] The second earl of Salisbury married an aunt of Lady Elizabeth Dryden; his son, lord Cranbourne, was grandfather of James, the fourth earl; and therein consisted the relationship between Dryden's sons, and the family of his patron, to which it is somewhat difficult, in modern days, to give an exact name.
[52] This attitude and employment, however inconsistent with our modern ideas of good breeding, seems to have been an air frequently assumed by the beaus of the seventeenth century. In a play by Killigrew, called the "Parson's Wedding," we have this direction: "Enter Jack Constant, Will Sad, Jolly, and a footman: they comb their heads, and talk." Our author alludes to the same fashion, in the Prologue to the "Conquest of Grenada," Part II.
The same custom is alluded to by Congreve, and is supposed to have remained fashionable during Queen Anne's time.
[53] Mr Malone conjectures, with great probability, that this virtue, which would not bear the light, must have been lord Salisbury's secret attachment to the exiled monarch.
[54] This seems to be an allusion to the pretended dukedom of Marine, in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Noble Gentleman," which had been revived in 1688, by Tom D'urfey, under the title of the "Three Dukes of Dunstable."
[55] I do not know if any individual is here levelled at. Shakespeare has had his critics in all ages, who, like the inexpert tinker, have generally made two holes in patching one. In the end of the seventeenth century, his plays were usually acted in a sophisticated state, as altered by Tate, D'Avenant, Crowne, Ravenscroft, and others. The last, in the preface to his alteration of "Titus Andronicus," has the impudence to say, "That if the reader will compare the old play with his copy, he will find that none in all that author's works ever received greater alterations or additions, the language not only refined, but many scenes entirely new, besides most of the principal characters heightened, and the plot much increased."
[56] Alluding to the vulgar proverb, "One who is born under a three-penny planet will never be worth a groat."
[57] There would probably occur to the audience of the period, some recollection of the manner in which King James had been treated by Sunderland.
[58] Meaning, that the courtiers, although their eyes be as fatal as those of basilisks, are not subject to the fate of that fabulous serpent, which died if a man beheld it first.
[59] Our author uses the same old word, for a scramble, in the prologue to "The Widow Ranter."
It occurs frequently in old authors, and particularly in the well known passage in "Anthony and Cleopatra."
[60] This old English word, for a Christmas masquerading frolic, is still used in some parts of England.
[61] See the lines in the prologue,
[62] Mr Malone supposes the play to have been acted on the 25th March, 1700; Dryden died on the 1st of May following. The play was advertised for publication in the London Gazette of 17th June, 1700. The following is the full title:—
"The Pilgrim, a Comedy, as it is acted at the Theatre-royal in Drury-lane, written originally by Mr Fletcher, and now very much altered, with several additions; likewise, a Prologue, Epilogue, Dialogue, and Masque, written by the late great poet, Mr Dryden, just before his death, being the last of his works. Printed for Benjamin Tooke, near the Middle Temple Gate, in Fleet-street. 1700."
In the published copy our author is mentioned as dead:—"Governor. I hope before you go, sir, you'll share with us an entertainment, the late great poet of our age prepared to celebrate this day." But this, as Mr Malone observes, was probably an addition, after Dryden's death had taken place. Gildon, in his "Comparison between the Stages," seems to say that the play was performed for the benefit of Dryden's son; probably, because in his father's extreme illness, or upon his death, his son would naturally draw the profits. On the whole, it seems probable, that Dryden survived the performance of the play; as it is presumable that "The Secular Masque," being intended to solemnise the supposed termination of the century, was brought out as soon as possible in the new year.
[63] The savage amusement of bear-baiting was much in fashion in England during the seventeenth century. Tom Dove, although equipped with a name not very expressive of his properties, seems to have been a bear of great celebrity. Dryden honours him by another notice in the second Prologue on the Union of the Companies:
[64] Quack Maurus is the noted Sir Richard Blackmore, who, if he was not witty himself, was the cause of more wit in others than most who have favoured the world with their writings. In his Satire against Wit, he had proposed a sort of mint, in which the works of the witty should be purified and re-coined:
In the first edition of the Poem, this lumbering attack upon Dryden concluded with a compliment:
But Blackmore, when our author had retaliated upon him in the Preface to the Fables, "finding," says Dr Johnson, "the censure resented, and the civility disregarded, ungenerously omitted the softer part. Such variations discover a writer who consults his passions more than his virtue, and it may be reasonably supposed that Dryden attributes his enmity to its true cause,"—his attack upon Blackmore's fanatic patrons in the city. He had also assailed our author in the Preface to his "Prince Arthur;" which, after a general and bitter complaint of the profligacy of the stage, contains these personal remarks levelled against Dryden. "And there are, among these writers, some who think they might have arisen to the highest dignities in other professions, had they employed their wit in those ways. 'Tis a mighty dishonour and reproach to any man, that is capable of being useful to the world in any liberal or virtuous profession, to lavish out his life and wit in propagating vice and corruption of manners, and in battering from the stage the strongest entrenchments and best works of religion and virtue. Whoever makes this his choice, when the other was in his power, may he go off the stage unpitied, complaining of neglect and poverty, the just punishment of his irreligion and folly." This reproach, which touched some very tender points, was not to be tolerated or forgot by Dryden.
[65] Blackmore was a commoner of Edmund Hall, Oxford, where he remained thirteen years, and took the degree of Master of Arts on 3d June, 1676; but he did not take his medical degrees there, and appears not to have studied physic regularly, as he was for some time a school-master; when, according to Col. Coddrington,
Sir Richard Blackmore had his medical diploma from Padua, in Italy; a learned and eminent University, which, like some in my own country, is supposed not to be over scrupulous in conferring honours of this nature.
[66] "Prince Arthur," a heroic poem, in ten books, published in 1695, was written, the author assures us in his Preface, "by such catches and starts, and in such occasional uncertain hours, as his profession afforded, and for the greatest part in coffee-houses, or in passing up and down the streets."
[67] Who was the first of these well-judging monarchs, is hard to say. Blackmore may have had some sort of royal licence for the practice of physic during the reign of Charles or James; but he was not made physician to the Household till the reign of King William, who conferred on him, at the same time, the honour of knighthood; for which that monarch's taste is thus commemorated by Pope:
Blackmore's dulness, or solidity of temper, rendered him absolutely impenetrable to the shafts of ridicule, which were aimed at him from all quarters; and, consoling himself with the excellence of his intentions, he wrote on till the catalogue of his works gave room for Swift's burlesque inscription, to be placed under his picture:
[68] The meteoric appearances, called by sailors in the Mediterranean the Lights of St Elmo, and by the ancients, Castor and Pollux. Their appearance is supposed to presage the safety of the vessel, and the termination of the storm.
[69] "Nay, I dare boldly say, one man might with more safety have killed another, than a rascal deer: but if a stag had been known to have miscarried, and the author fled, a proclamation, with a description of the party, had been presently penned by the Attorney-general, and the penalty of his Majesty's high displeasure (by which was understood the Star-Chamber) threatened against all that did abet, comfort, or relieve him. Thus satirical, or, if you please, tragical, was this sylvan prince against deer-killers, and indulgent to men-slayers. But, lest this expression should be thought too poetical for an historian, I shall leave him dressed to posterity in the colours I saw him in the next progress after his inauguration; which was as green as the grass he trod on, with a feather in his cap, and a horn, instead of a sword, by his side: how suitable to his age, calling, or complexion, I leave others to judge from his pictures; he owning a countenance not in the least semblable to any my eyes ever met with, besides an host, dwelling in Amt-hill, formerly a shepherd, and so metaphorically of the same profession."—Osborne's Traditional Memorials, § 17.
[70] "I have sent the kyng," says Thomas Randolph, in a letter to the infamous Archibald Douglas, "two hunting men, very good and skillful, with one footman, that can whoop, hollow, and cry, that all the trees in Falkland will quake for fear. Pray the king's majesty to be merciful to the poor bucks." Murdin's State Papers, vol. ii. p. 558.
[71] The archbishop of York, in a remarkable letter to Lord Cranbourne, expresses his wish for "more moderation in the lawful exercise of hunting, both that poor men's corn may be less spoiled, and other his Majesty's subjects more spared." To this Lord Cranbourne answers, courtier-like, that, as it was a praise in the good Emperor Trajan, to be disposed to such manlike and active recreations, so it ought to be a joy to the English to behold a prince, of so able a constitution, promising long life and a numerous progeny. Lodge's Illustrations of English History, vol. iii. pp. 251, 263
[72] "There is no news we hear, but a reasonable pretty jest is spoken that happened at Royston.—There was one of the king's special hounds, called Jowler, missing one day; the king was much displeased that he was wanted, notwithstanding went a hunting. The next day, when they were in the field, Jowler came in among the rest of the hounds; the king was told of him, and was very glad, and, looking on him, spied a paper about his neck, and in the paper was written—'Good Mr Jowler,—We pray you speak to the king, for he hears you every day, and so doth he not us; that it will please his Majesty to go back to London, for else the country will be undone. All our provision is spent already, and we are not able to entertain him longer.' It was taken for a jest, and so passed over, for his Majesty intends to lye there yet a fortnight." Lodge's Illustrations, vol. iii. p. 245. There is also in the Nugæ Antiquæ, a most singular letter of the king's, praying God to thank the master of the horse, for providing him such fair well shaped horse, and such a fine pretty kennel of young hounds. Vol. i. p. 394.
[73] See the Nugæ Antiquæ. In vol. i. p. 349. of Mr Park's excellent edition, Sir John Harrington gives the following extraordinary account of one of King James's revels with Christian IV. of Denmark.—"One day a great feast was held, and, after dinner, the representation of Solomon his Temple, and the coming of the queen of Sheba, was made (or, as I may better say) was meant to have been made, before their majesties, by device of the earl of Salisbury and others. But, alas! as all earthly things do fail to poor mortals in enjoyment, so did prove our presentment hereof. The ladie, who did play the queen's part, did carry most precious gifts to both their majesties; but, forgetting the steps arising to the canopy, overset her caskets into his Danish majesties lap, and fell at his feet, though I rather think it was in his face. Much was the hurry and confusion; clothes and napkins were at hand to make all clean. His majesty then got up, and would dance with the queen of Sheba, but he fell down and humbled himself before her, and was carried to an inner chamber, and laid upon a bed of state, which was not a little defiled with the presents of the queen, which had been bestowed on his garments; such as wine, cream, jelly, beverage, cakes, spices, and other good matters. The entertainment and show went forward, and most of the presenters went backward, or fell down: wine did so occupy their upper chambers. Now did appear, in rich dresses, Hope, Faith, and Charity: Hope did essay to speak, but wine rendered her endeavours so feeble, that she withdrew, and hoped the king would excuse her brevity: Faith was then left all alone, for I am certain she was not joined with good works, and left the court in a staggering condition: Charity came to the king's feet, and seemed to cover the multitude of sins her sisters had committed; in some sort she made obeisance, and brought gifts, but said she would return home again, as there was no gift which heaven had not already given his majesty. She then returned to Hope and Faith, who were both sick, and spewing in the lower hall. Next came Victory, in bright armour, and presented a rich sword to the king, who did not accept it, but put it by with his hand, and by a strange medley of versification, did endeavour to make suit to the king. But Victory did not triumph long; for, after much lamentable utterance, she was led away like a silly captive, and laid to sleep on the outer steps of the anti-chamber. Now did Peace make entry, and strove to get foremost to the king; but I grieve to tell how great wrath she did discover unto those of her attendants, and, much contrary to her semblance, most rudely made war with her olive-branch, and laid on the pates of those who did oppose her coming. I have much marvelled at these strange pageantries; and they do bring to my remembrance what past of this sort in our queen's days, of which I was sometime a humble presenter and assistant, but I ne'er did see such lack of good order, discretion, and sobriety, as I have now done. I have passed much time in seeing the royal sports of hunting and hawking, where the manners were such as made me devise the beasts were pursuing the sober creation, and not man, in quest of exercise and food. I will now, in good sooth, declare to you, who will not blab, that the gun-powder fright is got out of all our heads, and we are going on hereabouts as if the devil was contriving every man should blow up himself by wild riot, excess, and devastation of time and temperance."—Ibid. Letter from Sir John Harrington to Mr Secretary Barlow, 1606.
[74] The first edition, and some others, have Good; but I prefer God, as the more poetical reading.
[75] There seems here to be a secret allusion to the exile of the beautiful queen of James II., so much admired by the Tory poets of the time.
[76] The facetious Joe Haines, who is mentioned at the end of the epilogue, assigned another motive for this assault: "The clergy and the actors are both moral menders by profession," said the wag; "and you know two of a trade can never agree."—Cibber's Apology.
[77] The rigour of the republicans against female frailty, was of a piece with their general hypocrisy. It was, however, carried much farther in Scotland, where open adultery was declared by statute a capital crime. That act is still unrepealed, and may remind the reader of a verse I have somewhere read:
[78] The infamous Oates fared, at the Revolution, not so well as he wished, though much better than he deserved. James II. by the extreme cruelty of the punishment, which Jefferies doomed, and he suffered to be inflicted, contrived to excite the public commiseration even in favour of this miscreant, whose forsworn tongue had occasioned more murders than the dagger of the most sanguinary bravo. After the Revolution he obtained a pardon, or rather remission of his inhuman sentence, to be imprisoned during life, and pilloried five times every year. He was also admitted to the comforts of a pension of L.400 a-year. But, although he bestirred himself to obtain a reversal of his judgement for perjury, and wrote an abusive pamphlet, entitled, a "Picture of the late King James," and dedicated to King William, that cool-headed monarch, and his sagacious council, would never restore him to a capacity of bearing evidence. The Earl of Danby, now Duke of Leeds, who had experienced the danger of his swearing capacity, would consent to the reversal in no other sense, than that, having been condemned to be scourged from Newgate to Tyburn, he should now be scourged back from Tyburn to Newgate. Dryden, therefore, without fear of offence, might venture a stroke of satire at this once formidable person.
[79] The allusion seems to be partly to Bryan Haines, the Tory evidence against Shaftesbury and College, a fellow almost as infamous as Oates; but chiefly, by way of equivoque, to the wicked wag Jee Haines, the comedian, who, amongst other pranks, chose, during the reign of James II., to become Roman Catholic. Whether he took this step from any serious prospect of advantage, or to throw ridicule on the new converts, is somewhat dubious; at least his apostacy was not founded upon conviction for, after the Revolution, he abjured the errors of Popery, spoke a penitentiary prologue, and reconciled himself to the church and theatre of England.
THE END OF THE EIGHTH VOLUME.
Edinburgh:
Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.
Transcriber notes:
Please note, the large curly braces that appear in the book are included here, but the tripple small braces replace missing large braces for those devices that cannot display the large ones. If working well then both types of braces will appear in the verses.
P.36. 'wont' changed to 'won't'.
P.65. 'Farewel' changed to 'farewell'.
P.208. 'pased' changed to 'passed'.
P.223. 'encreased' changed to 'increased'.
P.242. 'Hippotus' changed to 'Hippotas'.
P.259. 'houshold' changed to 'household'.
P.293. Found the word 'contemn' in 18th century dictionary—the word is similar to contempt, no need to change.
P.335. '1673-4' was actually '1693-4', changed.
P.419. 'o o' is probably 'too', changed.
P.452. Added missing footnote anchor.
Fixed various punctuation.
Replaced Paed. with Phæd as in list of characters on P.14.