_ Save you, gentlemen; and you, my
_quondam_
master: You are
welcome all, as I may say.
welcome all, as I may say.
Dryden - Complete
_ No matter for that; I knew not he was there.
_Limb. _ Would I could believe thee!
_Wood. _ You have both our words for it.
_Trick. _ Why should you persuade him against his will?
_Limb. _ Since you won't persuade me, I care not much; here are the
jewels in my possession, and I'll fetch out the settlement
immediately.
_Wood. _ [_Shewing the Box. _] Look you, sir, I'll spare your pains;
four hundred a-year will serve to comfort a poor cast mistress.
_Limb. _ I thought what would come of your devil's _pater nosters_!
_Brain. _ Restore it to him for pity, Woodall.
_Trick. _ I make him my trustee; he shall not restore it.
_Limb. _ Here are jewels, that cost me above two thousand pounds; a
queen might wear them. Behold this orient necklace, Pug! 'tis pity any
neck should touch it, after thine, that pretty neck! but oh, 'tis the
falsest neck that e'er was hanged in pearl.
_Wood. _ 'Twould become your bounty to give it her at parting.
_Limb. _ Never the sooner for your asking. But oh, that word parting!
can I bear it? if she could find in her heart but so much grace, as to
acknowledge what a traitress she has been, I think, in my conscience I
could forgive her.
_Trick. _ I'll not wrong my innocence so much, nor this gentleman's;
but, since you have accused us falsely, four hundred a-year betwixt us
two will make us some part of reparation.
_Wood. _ I answer you not, but with my leg, madam.
_Pleas. _ [_Aside. _] This mads me; but I cannot help it.
_Limb. _ What, wilt thou kill me, Pug, with thy unkindness, when thou
knowest I cannot live without thee? It goes to my heart, that this
wicked fellow--
_Wood. _ How's that, sir?
_Limb. _ Under the rose, good Mr Woodall; but, I speak it with all
submission, in the bitterness of my spirit, that you, or any man,
should have the disposing of my four hundred a-year _gratis_;
therefore dear Pug, a word in private, with your permission, good Mr
Woodall.
_Trick. _ Alas, I know, by experience, I may safely trust my person
with you. [_Exeunt_ LIMB. _and_ TRICK.
_Enter_ ALDO.
_Pleas. _ O, father Aldo, we have wanted you! Here has been made the
rarest discovery!
_Brain. _ With the most comical catastrophe!
_Wood. _ Happily arrived, i'faith, my old sub-fornicator; I have been
taken up on suspicion here with Mrs Tricksy.
_Aldo. _ To be taken, to be seen! Before George, that's a point next
the worst, son Woodall.
_Wood. _ Truth is, I wanted thy assistance, old Methusalem; but, my
comfort is, I fell greatly.
_Aldo. _ Well, young Phæton, that's somewhat yet, if you made a blaze
at your departure.
_Enter_ GILES, _Mrs_ BRAINSICK, _and_ JUDITH.
_Giles. _ By your leave, gentlemen, I have followed an old master of
mine these two long hours, and had a fair course at him up the street;
here he entered, I'm sure.
_Aldo. _ Whoop holyday! our trusty and well-beloved Giles, most
welcome! Now for some news of my ungracious son.
_Wood. _ [_Aside. _] Giles here! O rogue, rogue! Now, would I were safe
stowed over head and ears in the chest again.
_Aldo. _ Look you now, son Woodall, I told you I was not mistaken; my
rascal's in town, with a vengeance to him.
_Giles. _ Why, this is he, sir; I thought you had known him.
_Aldo. _ Known whom?
_Giles. _ Your son here, my young master.
_Aldo. _ Do I dote? or art thou drunk, Giles?
_Giles. _ Nay, I am sober enough, I'm sure; I have been kept fasting
almost these two days.
_Aldo. _ Before George, 'tis so! I read it in that leering look: What a
Tartar have I caught!
_Brain. _ Woodall his son!
_Pleas. _ What, young father Aldo!
_Aldo. _ [_Aside. _] Now cannot I for shame hold up my head, to think
what this young rogue is privy to!
_Mrs Brain. _ The most dumb interview I ever saw!
_Brain. _ What, have you beheld the Gorgon's head on either side?
_Aldo. _ Oh, my sins! my sins! and he keeps my book of conscience too!
He can display them, with a witness! Oh, treacherous young devil!
_Wood. _ [_Aside. _] Well, the squib's run to the end of the line, and
now for the cracker: I must bear up.
_Aldo. _ I must set a face of authority on the matter, for my
credit. --Pray, who am I? do you know me, sir?
_Wood. _ Yes, I think I should partly know you, sir: You may remember
some private passages betwixt us.
_Aldo. _ [_Aside. _] I thought as much; he has me already! --But pray,
sir, why this ceremony amongst friends? Put on, put on; and let us
hear what news from France. Have you heard lately from my son? does he
continue still the most hopeful and esteemed young gentleman in Paris?
does he manage his allowance with the same discretion? and, lastly,
has he still the same respect and duty for his good old father?
_Wood. _ Faith, sir, I have been too long from my catechism, to answer
so many questions; but, suppose there be no news of your _quondam_
son, you may comfort up your heart for such a loss; father Aldo has a
numerous progeny about the town, heaven bless them.
_Aldo. _ It is very well, sir; I find you have been searching for your
relations, then, in Whetstone's Park[14]!
_Wood. _ No, sir; I made some scruple of going to the foresaid place,
for fear of meeting my own father there.
_Aldo. _ Before George, I could find in my heart to disinherit thee.
_Pleas. _ Sure you cannot be so unnatural.
_Wood. _ I am sure I am no bastard; witness one good quality I have. If
any of your children have a stronger tang of the father in them, I am
content to be disowned.
_Aldo. _ Well, from this time forward, I pronounce thee--no son of
mine.
_Wood. _ Then you desire I should proceed to justify I am lawfully
begotten? The evidence is ready, sir; and, if you please, I shall
relate, before this honourable assembly, those excellent lessons of
morality you gave me at our first acquaintance. As, in the first
place--
_Aldo. _ Hold, hold; I charge thee hold, on thy obedience. I forgive
thee heartily: I have proof enough thou art my son; but tame thee that
can, thou art a mad one.
_Pleas. _ Why this is as it should be.
_Aldo. _ [_To him. _] Not a word of any passages betwixt us; it is
enough we know each other; hereafter we will banish all pomp and
ceremony, and live familiarly together. I'll be Pylades, and thou mad
Orestes, and we will divide the estate betwixt us, and have fresh
wenches, and _ballum rankum_ every night.
_Wood. _ A match, i'faith: and let the world pass.
_Aldo. _ But hold a little; I had forgot one point: I hope you are not
married, nor engaged?
_Wood. _ To nothing but my pleasures, I.
_Aldo. _ A mingle of profit would do well though. Come, here is a girl;
look well upon her; it is a mettled toad, I can tell you that: She
will make notable work betwixt two sheets, in a lawful way.
_Wood. _ What, my old enemy, Mrs Pleasance!
_Mrs Brain. _ Marry Mrs Saintly's daughter!
_Aldo. _ The truth is, she has past for her daughter, by my
appointment; but she has as good blood running in her veins, as the
best of you. Her father, Mr Palms, on his death-bed, left her to my
care and disposal, besides a fortune of twelve hundred a year; a
pretty convenience, by my faith.
_Wood. _ Beyond my hopes, if she consent.
_Aldo. _ I have taken some care of her education, and placed her here
with Mrs Saintly, as her daughter, to avoid her being blown upon by
fops, and younger brothers. So now, son, I hope I have matched your
concealment with my discovery; there is hit for hit, ere I cross the
cudgels.
_Pleas. _ You will not take them up, sir?
_Wood. _ I dare not against you, madam: I am sure you will worst me at
all weapons. All I can say is, I do not now begin to love you.
_Aldo. _ Let me speak for thee: Thou shalt be used, little Pleasance,
like a sovereign princess: Thou shalt not touch a bit of butchers'
meat in a twelve-month; and thou shall be treated--
_Pleas. _ Not with _ballum rankum_ every night, I hope!
_Aldo. _ Well, thou art a wag; no more of that. Thou shall want neither
man's meat, nor woman's meat, as far as his provision will hold out.
_Pleas. _ But I fear he is so horribly given to go a house-warming
abroad, that the least part of the provision will come to my share at
home.
_Wood. _ You will find me so much employment in my own family, that I
shall have little need to look out for journey-work.
_Aldo. _ Before George, he shall do thee reason, ere thou sleepest.
_Pleas. _ No; he shall have an honourable truce for one day at least;
for it is not fair to put a fresh enemy upon him.
_Mrs Brain. _ [_To_ PLEAS. ] I beseech you, madam, discover nothing
betwixt him and me.
_Pleas. _ [_To her. _] I am contented to cancel the old score; but take
heed of bringing me an after-reckoning.
_Enter_ GERVASE, _leading_ SAINTLY.
_Gerv.
_ Save you, gentlemen; and you, my _quondam_ master: You are
welcome all, as I may say.
_Aldo. _ How now, sirrah? what is the matter?
_Gerv. _ Give good words, while you live, sir; your landlord, and Mr
Saintly, if you please.
_Wood. _ Oh, I understand the business; he is married to the widow.
_Saint. _ Verily the good work is accomplished.
_Brain. _ But, why Mr Saintly?
_Gerv. _ When a man is married to his betters, it is but decency to
take her name. A pretty house, a pretty situation, and prettily
furnished! I have been unlawfully labouring at hard duty; but a parson
has soldered up the matter: Thank your worship, Mr Woodall--How? Giles
here!
_Wood. _ This business is out, and I am now Aldo. My father has
forgiven me, and we are friends.
_Gerv. _ When will Giles, with his honesty, come to this?
_Wood. _ Nay, do not insult too much, good Mr Saintly: Thou wert but my
deputy; thou knowest the widow intended it to me.
_Gerv. _ But I am satisfied she performed it with me, sir. Well, there
is much good will in these precise old women; they are the most
zealous bed-fellows! Look, an' she does not blush now! you see there
is grace in her.
_Wood. _ Mr Limberham, where are you? Come, cheer up, man! How go
matters on your side of the country? Cry him, Gervase.
_Gerv. _ Mr Limberham, Mr Limberham, make your appearance in the court,
and save your recognizance.
_Enter_ LIMBERHAM _and_ TRICKSY.
_Wood. _ Sir, I should now make a speech to you in my own defence; but
the short of all is this: If you can forgive what is past, your hand,
and I'll endeavour to make up the breach betwixt you and your
mistress: If not, I am ready to give you the satisfaction of a
gentleman.
_Limb. _ Sir, I am a peaceable man, and a good Christian, though I say
it, and desire no satisfaction from any man. Pug and I are partly
agreed upon the point already; and therefore lay thy hand upon thy
heart, Pug, and, if thou canst, from the bottom of thy soul, defy
mankind, naming no body, I'll forgive thy past enormities; and, to
give good example to all Christian keepers, will take thee to be my
wedded wife; and thy four hundred a-year shall be settled upon thee,
for separate maintenance.
_Trick. _ Why, now I can consent with honour.
_Aldo. _ This is the first business that was ever made up without me.
_Wood. _ Give you joy, Mr Bridegroom.
_Limb. _ You may spare your breath, sir, if you please; I desire none
from you. It is true, I am satisfied of her virtue, in spite of
slander; but, to silence calumny, I shall civilly desire you
henceforth, not to make a chapel-of-ease of Pug's closet.
_Pleas. _ [_Aside. _] I'll take care of false worship, I'll warrant him.
He shall have no more to do with Bel and the Dragon.
_Brain. _ Come hither, wedlock, and let me seal my lasting love upon
thy lips. Saintly has been seduced, and so has Tricksy; but thou alone
art kind and constant. Hitherto I have not valued modesty, according
to its merit; but hereafter, Memphis shall not boast a monument more
firm than my affection.
_Wood. _ A most excellent reformation, and at a most seasonable time!
The moral of it is pleasant, if well considered. Now, let us to
dinner. --Mrs Saintly, lead the way, as becomes you, in your own house.
[_The rest going off. _
_Pleas. _ Your hand, sweet moiety.
_Wood. _ And heart too, my comfortable importance.
Mistress and wife, by turns, I have possessed:
He, who enjoys them both in one, is blessed.
Footnotes:
1. The Mahommedan doctrine of predestination is well known. They
reconcile themselves to all dispensations, by saying, "They are
written on the forehead" of him, to whose lot they have fallen.
2. The custom of drinking _supernaculum_, consisted in turning down
the cup upon the thumb-nail of the drinker after his pledge, when,
if duly quaffed off, no drop of liquor ought to appear upon his
nail.
With that she set it to her nose,
And off at once the rumkin goes;
No drops beside her muzzle falling,
Until that she had supped it all in:
Then turning't topsey on her thumb,
Says--look, here's _supernaculum. _
_Cotton's Virgil travestie. _
This custom seems to have been derived from the Germans, who held,
that if a drop appeared on the thumb, it presaged grief and
misfortune to the person whose health was drunk.
3. This piece of dirty gallantry seems to have been fashionable:
Come, Phyllis, thy finger, to begin the go round;
How the glass in thy hand with charms does abound!
You and the wine to each other lend arms,
And I find that my love
Does for either improve,
For that does redouble, as you double your charms.
4. Dapper, a silly character in Jonson's Alchemist, tricked by an
astrologer, who persuades him the queen of fairies is his aunt.
5. The mask, introduced in the first act of the Maid's Tragedy, ends
with the following dialogue betwixt Cinthia and Night:
_Cinthia_ Whip up thy team,
The day breaks here, and yon sun-flaring beam
Shot from the south. Say, which way wilt thou go?
_Night. _ I'll vanish into mists.
_Cinthia. _ I into day.
6. In spring 1677, whilst the treaty of Nimeguen was under discussion,
the French took the three important frontier towns, Valenciennes,
St Omer, and Cambray. The Spaniards seemed, with the most passive
infatuation, to have left the defence of Flanders to the Prince of
Orange and the Dutch.
7. Alluding to the imaginary history of Pine, a merchant's clerk, who,
being wrecked on a desert island in the South Seas, bestowed on it
his own name, and peopled it by the assistance of his master's
daughter and her two maid servants, who had escaped from the wreck
by his aid.
8. Sulli, the famous composer.
9. It would seem that about this time the French were adopting their
present mode of pronunciation, so capriciously distinct from the
orthography.
10. "Queen Dido, or the wandering Prince of Troy," an old ballad,
printed in the "Reliques of Ancient Poetry," in which the ghost of
queen Dido thus addresses the perfidious Æneas:
Therefore prepare thy flitting soul,
To wander with me in the air;
When deadly grief shall make it howl,
Because of me thou took'st no care.
Delay not time, thy glass is run,
Thy date is past, thy life is done.
11. _Pricking_, in hare-hunting, is tracking the foot of the game by
the eye, when the scent is lost. ]
12. The facetious Tom Brown, in his 2d dialogue on Mr Bayes' changing
his religion, introduces our poet saying,
"Likewise he (Cleveland) having the misfortune to call that
domestic animal a cock,
The Baron Tell-clock of the night,
I could never, igad, as I came home from the tavern, meet a
watchman or so, but I presently asked him, 'Baron Tell-clock of the
night, pr'ythee how goes the time? "
13. Artemidorus, the sophist of Cnidos, was the soothsayer who
prophesied the death of Cæsar. Shakespeare has introduced him in
his tragedy of "Julius Cæsar. "
14. A common rendezvous of the rakes and bullies of the time; "For
when they expected the most polished hero in Nemours, I gave them a
ruffian reeking from Whetstone's Park. " Dedication to Lee's
"Princess of Cleves. " In his translation of Ovid's "Love Elegies,"
Lib. II, Eleg. XIX. Dryden mentions, "an easy Whetstone whore. "
EPILOGUE.
SPOKEN BY LIMBERHAM.
I beg a boon, that, ere you all disband,
Some one would take my bargain off my hand:
To keep a punk is but a common evil;
To find her false, and marry,--that's the devil.
Well, I ne'er acted part in all my life,
But still I was fobbed off with some such wife.
I find the trick; these poets take no pity
Of one that is a member of the city.
We cheat you lawfully, and in our trades;
You cheat us basely with your common jades.
Now I am married, I must sit down by it;
But let me keep my dear-bought spouse in quiet.
Let none of you damned Woodalls of the pit,
Put in for shares to mend our breed in wit;
We know your bastards from our flesh and blood,
Not one in ten of yours e'er comes to good.
In all the boys, their fathers' virtues shine,
But all the female fry turn Pugs--like mine.
When these grow up, Lord, with what rampant gadders
Our counters will be thronged, and roads with padders!
This town two bargains has, not worth one farthing,--
A Smithfield horse, and wife of Covent-Garden[1].
Footnote:
1. Alluding to an old proverb, that whoso goes to Westminster for a
wife, to St Paul's for a man, and to Smithfield for a horse, may
meet with a whore, a knave, and a jade. Falstaff, on being informed
that Bardolph is gone to Smithfield to buy him a horse, observes,
"I bought him in Paul's, and he'll buy me a horse in Smithfield; an
I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were manned, horsed, and
wived. " _Second Part of Henry IV. _ Act I. Scene II.
* * * * *
OEDIPUS.
A
TRAGEDY.
_Hi proprium decus et partum indignantur honorem,
Ni teneant--_
VIRG.
_Vos exemplaria Græca
Nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ. _
HORAT.
OEDIPUS.
The dreadful subject of this piece has been celebrated by several
ancient and modern dramatists. Of seven tragedies of Sophocles which
have reached our times, two are founded on the history of OEdipus. The
first of these, called "OEdipus Tyrannus," has been extolled by every
critic since the days of Aristotle, for the unparalleled art with
which the story is managed. The dreadful secret, the existence of
which is announced by the pestilence, and by the wrath of the offended
deities, seems each moment on the verge of being explained, yet, till
the last act, the reader is still held in horrible suspense. Every
circumstance, resorted to for the purpose of evincing the falsehood of
the oracle, tends gradually to confirm the guilt of OEdipus, and to
accelerate the catastrophe; while his own supposed consciousness of
innocence, at once interests us in his favour, and precipitates the
horrible discovery. Dryden, who arranged the whole plan of the
following tragedy, although assisted by Lee in the execution, was
fully aware of the merit of the "OEdipus Tyrannus;" and, with the
addition of the under-plot of Adrastus and Eurydice, has traced out
the events of the drama, in close imitation of Sophocles. The Grecian
bard, however, in concurrence with the history or tradition of Greece,
has made OEdipus survive the discovery of his unintentional guilt, and
reserved him, in blindness and banishment, for the subject of his
second tragedy of "OEdipus Coloneus. " This may have been well judged,
considering that the audience were intimately acquainted with the
important scenes which were to follow among the descendants of
OEdipus, with the first and second wars against Thebes, and her final
conquest by the ancestors of those Athenians, before whom the play was
rehearsed, led on by their demi-god Theseus. They were also prepared
to receive, with reverence and faith, the belief on which the whole
interest turns, that if OEdipus should be restored to Thebes, the
vengeance of the gods against the devoted city might be averted; and
to applaud his determination to remain on Athenian ground, that the
predestined curse might descend on his unnatural sons and ungrateful
country. But while the modern reader admires the lofty tone of poetry
and high strain of morality which pervades "OEdipus Coloneus," it must
appear more natural to his feelings, that the life of the hero,
stained with unintentional incest and parricide, should be terminated,
as in Dryden's play, upon the discovery of his complicated guilt and
wretchedness. Yet there is something awful in the idea of the monarch,
blind and exiled, innocent in intention, though so horribly criminal
in fact, devoted, as it were, to the infernal deities, and sacred from
human power and violence by the very excess of his guilt and misery.
The account of the death of OEdipus Coloneus reaches the highest tone
of sublimity. While the lightning flashes around him, he expresses the
feeling, that his hour is come; and the reader anticipates, that, like
Malefort in the "Unnatural Combat," he is to perish by a thunder-bolt.
Yet, for the awful catastrophe, which we are artfully led to expect,
is substituted a mysterious termination, still more awful. OEdipus
arrays himself in splendid apparel, and dismisses his daughters and
the attending Athenians. Theseus alone remains with him. The storm
subsides, and the attendants return to the place, but OEdipus is there
no longer--he had not perished by water, by sword, nor by fire--no one
but Theseus knew the manner of his death. With an impressive hint,
that it was as strange and wonderful as his life had been dismally
eventful, the poet drops a curtain over the fate of his hero. This
last sublime scene Dryden has not ventured to imitate; and the rants
of Lee are a poor substitute for the calm and determined despair of
the "OEdipus Coloneus. "
Seneca, perhaps to check the seeds of vice in Nero, his pupil, to whom
incest and blood were afterwards so familiar[1], composed the Latin
tragedy on the subject of OEdipus, which is alluded to by Dryden in
the following preface. The cold declamatory rhetorical stile of that
philosopher was adapted precisely to counteract the effect, which a
tale of terror produces on the feelings and imagination. His taste
exerted itself in filling up and garnishing the more trifling
passages, which Sophocles had passed over as unworthy of notice, and
in adjusting incidents laid in the heroic age of Grecian simplicity,
according to the taste and customs of the court of Nero[2]. Yet though
devoid of dramatic effect, of fancy, and of genius, the OEdipus of
Seneca displays the masculine eloquence and high moral sentiment of
its author; and if it does not interest us in the scene of fiction, it
often compels us to turn our thoughts inward, and to study our own
hearts.
The OEdipe of Corneille is in all respects unworthy of its great
author. The poet considering, as he states in his introduction, that
the subject of OEdipus tearing out his eyes was too horrible to be
presented before ladies, qualifies its terrors by the introduction of
a love intrigue betwixt Theseus and Dirce. The unhappy propensity of
the French poets to introduce long discussions upon _la belle
passion_, addressed merely to the understanding, without respect to
feeling or propriety, is nowhere more ridiculously displayed than in
"OEdipe. " The play opens with the following polite speech of Theseus
to Dirce:
_N'ecoutez plus, madame, une pitie cruelle,
Qui d'un fidel amant vous ferait un rebelle:
La gloire d'obeir n'a rien que me soit doux,
Lorsque vous m'ordonnez de m'eloigner de vous.
Quelque ravage affreux qu'etale ici la peste,
L'absence aux vrais amans est encore plus funeste;
Et d'un si grand peril l'image s'offre en vain,
Quand ce peril douteux epargne un mal certain. _
Act premiere, Scene premiere.
It is hardly possible more prettily to jingle upon the _peril
douteux_, and the _mal certain_; but this is rather an awkward way of
introducing the account of the pestilence, with which all the other
dramatists have opened their scene. OEdipus, however, is at once
sensible of the cause which detained Theseus at his melancholy court,
amidst the horrors of the plague:
_Je l'avais bien juge qu'_ un interet d'amour
_Fermait ici vos yeux aux perils de ma cour. _
_OEdipo conjectere opus est_--it would have been difficult for any
other person to have divined such a motive. The conduct of the drama
is exactly suitable to its commencement; the fate of OEdipus and of
Thebes, the ravages of the pestilence, and the avenging of the death
of Laius, are all secondary and subordinate considerations to the
loves of Theseus and Dirce, as flat and uninteresting a pair as ever
spoke _platitudes_ in French hexameters. So much is this the
engrossing subject of the drama, that OEdipus, at the very moment when
Tiresias is supposed to be engaged in raising the ghost of Laius,
occupies himself in a long scene of scolding about love and duty with
Dirce; and it is not till he is almost bullied by her off the stage,
that he suddenly recollects, as an apology for his retreat,
_Mais il faut aller voir ce qu'a fait Tiresias. _
Considering, however, the declamatory nature of the French dialogue,
and the peremptory rule of their drama, that love, or rather
gallantry, must be the moving principle of every performance, it is
more astonishing that Corneille should have chosen so masculine and
agitating a subject, than that he should have failed in treating it
with propriety or success.
In the following tragedy, Dryden has avowedly adopted the Greek model;
qualified, however, by the under plot of Adrastus and Eurydice, which
contributes little either to the effect or merit of the play. Creon,
in his ambition and his deformity, is a poor copy of Richard III. ,
without his abilities; his plots and treasons are baffled by the
single appearance of OEdipus; and as for the loves and woes of
Eurydice, and the prince of Argos, they are lost in the horrors of the
principal story, like the moonlight amid the glare of a conflagration.
In other respects, the conduct of the piece closely follows the
"OEdipus Tyrannus," and, in some respects, even improves on that
excellent model. The Tiresias of Sophocles, for example, upon his
first introduction, denounces OEdipus as the slayer of Laius, braves
his resentment, and prophesies his miserable catastrophe. In Dryden's
play, the first anathema of the prophet is levelled only against the
unknown murderer; and it is not till the powers of hell have been
invoked, that even the eye of the prophet can penetrate the horrible
veil, and fix the guilt decisively upon OEdipus. By this means, the
striking quarrel betwixt the monarch and Tiresias is, with great art,
postponed to the third act; and the interest, of course, is more
gradually heightened than in the Grecian tragedy.
The first and third acts, which were wholly written by Dryden,
maintain a decided superiority over the rest of the piece. Yet there
are many excellent passages scattered through Lee's scenes; and as the
whole was probably corrected by Dryden, the tragedy has the appearance
of general consistence and uniformity. There are several scenes, in
which Dryden seems to have indulged his newly adopted desire of
imitating the stile of Shakespeare. Such are, in particular, the scene
of OEdipus walking in his sleep, which bears marks of Dryden's pen;
and such, also, is the incantation in the third act. Seneca and
Corneille have thrown this last scene into narrative. Yet, by the
present large size of our stages, and the complete management of light
and shade, the incantation might be represented with striking effect;
an advantage which, I fear, has been gained by the sacrifice of
others, much more essential to the drama, considered as a dignified
and rational amusement. The incantation itself is nobly written, and
the ghost of Laius can only be paralleled in Shakespeare.
The language of OEdipus is, in general, nervous, pure, and elegant;
and the dialogue, though in so high a tone of passion, is natural and
affecting. Some of Lee's extravagancies are lamentable exceptions to
this observation. This may be instanced in the passage, where Jocasta
threatens to fire Olympus, destroy the heavenly furniture, and smoke
the deities _like bees out of their ambrosial hives_; and such is the
still more noted wish of OEdipus;
Through all the inmost chambers of the sky,
May there not be a glimpse, one starry spark,
But gods meet gods, and jostle in the dark!
These blemishes, however, are entitled to some indulgence from the
reader, when they occur in a work of real genius. Those, who do not
strive at excellence, will seldom fall into absurdity; as he, who is
contented to walk, is little liable to stumble.
Notwithstanding the admirable disposition of the parts of this play,
the gradual increase of the interest, and the strong impassioned
language of the dialogue, the disagreeable nature of the plot forms an
objection to its success upon a British stage. Distress, which turns
upon the involutions of unnatural or incestuous passion, carries with
it something too disgusting for the sympathy of a refined age;
whereas, in a simple state of society, the feelings require a more
powerful stimulus; as we see the vulgar crowd round an object of real
horror, with the same pleasure we reap from seeing it represented on a
theatre. Besides, in ancient times, in those of the Roman empire at
least, such abominations really occurred, as sanctioned the story of
OEdipus. But the change of manners has introduced not only greater
purity of moral feeling, but a sensibility, which retreats with
abhorrence even from a fiction turning upon such circumstances. Hence,
Garrick, who well knew the taste of an English audience, renounced his
intention of reviving the excellent old play of "King and no King;"
and hence Massinger's still more awful tragedy of "The Unnatural
Combat," has been justly deemed unfit for a modern stage. Independent
of this disgusting circumstance, it may be questioned Whether the
horror of this tragedy is not too powerful for furnishing mere
amusement? It is said in the "Companion to the Playhouse," that when
the piece was performing at Dublin, a musician, in the orchestra, was
so powerfully affected by the madness of OEdipus, as to become himself
actually delirious: and though this may be exaggerated, it is certain,
that, when the play was revived about thirty years ago, the audience
were unable to support it to an end; the boxes being all emptied
before the third act was concluded. Among all our English plays, there
is none more determinedly bloody than "OEdipus," in its progress and
conclusion.
_Limb. _ Would I could believe thee!
_Wood. _ You have both our words for it.
_Trick. _ Why should you persuade him against his will?
_Limb. _ Since you won't persuade me, I care not much; here are the
jewels in my possession, and I'll fetch out the settlement
immediately.
_Wood. _ [_Shewing the Box. _] Look you, sir, I'll spare your pains;
four hundred a-year will serve to comfort a poor cast mistress.
_Limb. _ I thought what would come of your devil's _pater nosters_!
_Brain. _ Restore it to him for pity, Woodall.
_Trick. _ I make him my trustee; he shall not restore it.
_Limb. _ Here are jewels, that cost me above two thousand pounds; a
queen might wear them. Behold this orient necklace, Pug! 'tis pity any
neck should touch it, after thine, that pretty neck! but oh, 'tis the
falsest neck that e'er was hanged in pearl.
_Wood. _ 'Twould become your bounty to give it her at parting.
_Limb. _ Never the sooner for your asking. But oh, that word parting!
can I bear it? if she could find in her heart but so much grace, as to
acknowledge what a traitress she has been, I think, in my conscience I
could forgive her.
_Trick. _ I'll not wrong my innocence so much, nor this gentleman's;
but, since you have accused us falsely, four hundred a-year betwixt us
two will make us some part of reparation.
_Wood. _ I answer you not, but with my leg, madam.
_Pleas. _ [_Aside. _] This mads me; but I cannot help it.
_Limb. _ What, wilt thou kill me, Pug, with thy unkindness, when thou
knowest I cannot live without thee? It goes to my heart, that this
wicked fellow--
_Wood. _ How's that, sir?
_Limb. _ Under the rose, good Mr Woodall; but, I speak it with all
submission, in the bitterness of my spirit, that you, or any man,
should have the disposing of my four hundred a-year _gratis_;
therefore dear Pug, a word in private, with your permission, good Mr
Woodall.
_Trick. _ Alas, I know, by experience, I may safely trust my person
with you. [_Exeunt_ LIMB. _and_ TRICK.
_Enter_ ALDO.
_Pleas. _ O, father Aldo, we have wanted you! Here has been made the
rarest discovery!
_Brain. _ With the most comical catastrophe!
_Wood. _ Happily arrived, i'faith, my old sub-fornicator; I have been
taken up on suspicion here with Mrs Tricksy.
_Aldo. _ To be taken, to be seen! Before George, that's a point next
the worst, son Woodall.
_Wood. _ Truth is, I wanted thy assistance, old Methusalem; but, my
comfort is, I fell greatly.
_Aldo. _ Well, young Phæton, that's somewhat yet, if you made a blaze
at your departure.
_Enter_ GILES, _Mrs_ BRAINSICK, _and_ JUDITH.
_Giles. _ By your leave, gentlemen, I have followed an old master of
mine these two long hours, and had a fair course at him up the street;
here he entered, I'm sure.
_Aldo. _ Whoop holyday! our trusty and well-beloved Giles, most
welcome! Now for some news of my ungracious son.
_Wood. _ [_Aside. _] Giles here! O rogue, rogue! Now, would I were safe
stowed over head and ears in the chest again.
_Aldo. _ Look you now, son Woodall, I told you I was not mistaken; my
rascal's in town, with a vengeance to him.
_Giles. _ Why, this is he, sir; I thought you had known him.
_Aldo. _ Known whom?
_Giles. _ Your son here, my young master.
_Aldo. _ Do I dote? or art thou drunk, Giles?
_Giles. _ Nay, I am sober enough, I'm sure; I have been kept fasting
almost these two days.
_Aldo. _ Before George, 'tis so! I read it in that leering look: What a
Tartar have I caught!
_Brain. _ Woodall his son!
_Pleas. _ What, young father Aldo!
_Aldo. _ [_Aside. _] Now cannot I for shame hold up my head, to think
what this young rogue is privy to!
_Mrs Brain. _ The most dumb interview I ever saw!
_Brain. _ What, have you beheld the Gorgon's head on either side?
_Aldo. _ Oh, my sins! my sins! and he keeps my book of conscience too!
He can display them, with a witness! Oh, treacherous young devil!
_Wood. _ [_Aside. _] Well, the squib's run to the end of the line, and
now for the cracker: I must bear up.
_Aldo. _ I must set a face of authority on the matter, for my
credit. --Pray, who am I? do you know me, sir?
_Wood. _ Yes, I think I should partly know you, sir: You may remember
some private passages betwixt us.
_Aldo. _ [_Aside. _] I thought as much; he has me already! --But pray,
sir, why this ceremony amongst friends? Put on, put on; and let us
hear what news from France. Have you heard lately from my son? does he
continue still the most hopeful and esteemed young gentleman in Paris?
does he manage his allowance with the same discretion? and, lastly,
has he still the same respect and duty for his good old father?
_Wood. _ Faith, sir, I have been too long from my catechism, to answer
so many questions; but, suppose there be no news of your _quondam_
son, you may comfort up your heart for such a loss; father Aldo has a
numerous progeny about the town, heaven bless them.
_Aldo. _ It is very well, sir; I find you have been searching for your
relations, then, in Whetstone's Park[14]!
_Wood. _ No, sir; I made some scruple of going to the foresaid place,
for fear of meeting my own father there.
_Aldo. _ Before George, I could find in my heart to disinherit thee.
_Pleas. _ Sure you cannot be so unnatural.
_Wood. _ I am sure I am no bastard; witness one good quality I have. If
any of your children have a stronger tang of the father in them, I am
content to be disowned.
_Aldo. _ Well, from this time forward, I pronounce thee--no son of
mine.
_Wood. _ Then you desire I should proceed to justify I am lawfully
begotten? The evidence is ready, sir; and, if you please, I shall
relate, before this honourable assembly, those excellent lessons of
morality you gave me at our first acquaintance. As, in the first
place--
_Aldo. _ Hold, hold; I charge thee hold, on thy obedience. I forgive
thee heartily: I have proof enough thou art my son; but tame thee that
can, thou art a mad one.
_Pleas. _ Why this is as it should be.
_Aldo. _ [_To him. _] Not a word of any passages betwixt us; it is
enough we know each other; hereafter we will banish all pomp and
ceremony, and live familiarly together. I'll be Pylades, and thou mad
Orestes, and we will divide the estate betwixt us, and have fresh
wenches, and _ballum rankum_ every night.
_Wood. _ A match, i'faith: and let the world pass.
_Aldo. _ But hold a little; I had forgot one point: I hope you are not
married, nor engaged?
_Wood. _ To nothing but my pleasures, I.
_Aldo. _ A mingle of profit would do well though. Come, here is a girl;
look well upon her; it is a mettled toad, I can tell you that: She
will make notable work betwixt two sheets, in a lawful way.
_Wood. _ What, my old enemy, Mrs Pleasance!
_Mrs Brain. _ Marry Mrs Saintly's daughter!
_Aldo. _ The truth is, she has past for her daughter, by my
appointment; but she has as good blood running in her veins, as the
best of you. Her father, Mr Palms, on his death-bed, left her to my
care and disposal, besides a fortune of twelve hundred a year; a
pretty convenience, by my faith.
_Wood. _ Beyond my hopes, if she consent.
_Aldo. _ I have taken some care of her education, and placed her here
with Mrs Saintly, as her daughter, to avoid her being blown upon by
fops, and younger brothers. So now, son, I hope I have matched your
concealment with my discovery; there is hit for hit, ere I cross the
cudgels.
_Pleas. _ You will not take them up, sir?
_Wood. _ I dare not against you, madam: I am sure you will worst me at
all weapons. All I can say is, I do not now begin to love you.
_Aldo. _ Let me speak for thee: Thou shalt be used, little Pleasance,
like a sovereign princess: Thou shalt not touch a bit of butchers'
meat in a twelve-month; and thou shall be treated--
_Pleas. _ Not with _ballum rankum_ every night, I hope!
_Aldo. _ Well, thou art a wag; no more of that. Thou shall want neither
man's meat, nor woman's meat, as far as his provision will hold out.
_Pleas. _ But I fear he is so horribly given to go a house-warming
abroad, that the least part of the provision will come to my share at
home.
_Wood. _ You will find me so much employment in my own family, that I
shall have little need to look out for journey-work.
_Aldo. _ Before George, he shall do thee reason, ere thou sleepest.
_Pleas. _ No; he shall have an honourable truce for one day at least;
for it is not fair to put a fresh enemy upon him.
_Mrs Brain. _ [_To_ PLEAS. ] I beseech you, madam, discover nothing
betwixt him and me.
_Pleas. _ [_To her. _] I am contented to cancel the old score; but take
heed of bringing me an after-reckoning.
_Enter_ GERVASE, _leading_ SAINTLY.
_Gerv.
_ Save you, gentlemen; and you, my _quondam_ master: You are
welcome all, as I may say.
_Aldo. _ How now, sirrah? what is the matter?
_Gerv. _ Give good words, while you live, sir; your landlord, and Mr
Saintly, if you please.
_Wood. _ Oh, I understand the business; he is married to the widow.
_Saint. _ Verily the good work is accomplished.
_Brain. _ But, why Mr Saintly?
_Gerv. _ When a man is married to his betters, it is but decency to
take her name. A pretty house, a pretty situation, and prettily
furnished! I have been unlawfully labouring at hard duty; but a parson
has soldered up the matter: Thank your worship, Mr Woodall--How? Giles
here!
_Wood. _ This business is out, and I am now Aldo. My father has
forgiven me, and we are friends.
_Gerv. _ When will Giles, with his honesty, come to this?
_Wood. _ Nay, do not insult too much, good Mr Saintly: Thou wert but my
deputy; thou knowest the widow intended it to me.
_Gerv. _ But I am satisfied she performed it with me, sir. Well, there
is much good will in these precise old women; they are the most
zealous bed-fellows! Look, an' she does not blush now! you see there
is grace in her.
_Wood. _ Mr Limberham, where are you? Come, cheer up, man! How go
matters on your side of the country? Cry him, Gervase.
_Gerv. _ Mr Limberham, Mr Limberham, make your appearance in the court,
and save your recognizance.
_Enter_ LIMBERHAM _and_ TRICKSY.
_Wood. _ Sir, I should now make a speech to you in my own defence; but
the short of all is this: If you can forgive what is past, your hand,
and I'll endeavour to make up the breach betwixt you and your
mistress: If not, I am ready to give you the satisfaction of a
gentleman.
_Limb. _ Sir, I am a peaceable man, and a good Christian, though I say
it, and desire no satisfaction from any man. Pug and I are partly
agreed upon the point already; and therefore lay thy hand upon thy
heart, Pug, and, if thou canst, from the bottom of thy soul, defy
mankind, naming no body, I'll forgive thy past enormities; and, to
give good example to all Christian keepers, will take thee to be my
wedded wife; and thy four hundred a-year shall be settled upon thee,
for separate maintenance.
_Trick. _ Why, now I can consent with honour.
_Aldo. _ This is the first business that was ever made up without me.
_Wood. _ Give you joy, Mr Bridegroom.
_Limb. _ You may spare your breath, sir, if you please; I desire none
from you. It is true, I am satisfied of her virtue, in spite of
slander; but, to silence calumny, I shall civilly desire you
henceforth, not to make a chapel-of-ease of Pug's closet.
_Pleas. _ [_Aside. _] I'll take care of false worship, I'll warrant him.
He shall have no more to do with Bel and the Dragon.
_Brain. _ Come hither, wedlock, and let me seal my lasting love upon
thy lips. Saintly has been seduced, and so has Tricksy; but thou alone
art kind and constant. Hitherto I have not valued modesty, according
to its merit; but hereafter, Memphis shall not boast a monument more
firm than my affection.
_Wood. _ A most excellent reformation, and at a most seasonable time!
The moral of it is pleasant, if well considered. Now, let us to
dinner. --Mrs Saintly, lead the way, as becomes you, in your own house.
[_The rest going off. _
_Pleas. _ Your hand, sweet moiety.
_Wood. _ And heart too, my comfortable importance.
Mistress and wife, by turns, I have possessed:
He, who enjoys them both in one, is blessed.
Footnotes:
1. The Mahommedan doctrine of predestination is well known. They
reconcile themselves to all dispensations, by saying, "They are
written on the forehead" of him, to whose lot they have fallen.
2. The custom of drinking _supernaculum_, consisted in turning down
the cup upon the thumb-nail of the drinker after his pledge, when,
if duly quaffed off, no drop of liquor ought to appear upon his
nail.
With that she set it to her nose,
And off at once the rumkin goes;
No drops beside her muzzle falling,
Until that she had supped it all in:
Then turning't topsey on her thumb,
Says--look, here's _supernaculum. _
_Cotton's Virgil travestie. _
This custom seems to have been derived from the Germans, who held,
that if a drop appeared on the thumb, it presaged grief and
misfortune to the person whose health was drunk.
3. This piece of dirty gallantry seems to have been fashionable:
Come, Phyllis, thy finger, to begin the go round;
How the glass in thy hand with charms does abound!
You and the wine to each other lend arms,
And I find that my love
Does for either improve,
For that does redouble, as you double your charms.
4. Dapper, a silly character in Jonson's Alchemist, tricked by an
astrologer, who persuades him the queen of fairies is his aunt.
5. The mask, introduced in the first act of the Maid's Tragedy, ends
with the following dialogue betwixt Cinthia and Night:
_Cinthia_ Whip up thy team,
The day breaks here, and yon sun-flaring beam
Shot from the south. Say, which way wilt thou go?
_Night. _ I'll vanish into mists.
_Cinthia. _ I into day.
6. In spring 1677, whilst the treaty of Nimeguen was under discussion,
the French took the three important frontier towns, Valenciennes,
St Omer, and Cambray. The Spaniards seemed, with the most passive
infatuation, to have left the defence of Flanders to the Prince of
Orange and the Dutch.
7. Alluding to the imaginary history of Pine, a merchant's clerk, who,
being wrecked on a desert island in the South Seas, bestowed on it
his own name, and peopled it by the assistance of his master's
daughter and her two maid servants, who had escaped from the wreck
by his aid.
8. Sulli, the famous composer.
9. It would seem that about this time the French were adopting their
present mode of pronunciation, so capriciously distinct from the
orthography.
10. "Queen Dido, or the wandering Prince of Troy," an old ballad,
printed in the "Reliques of Ancient Poetry," in which the ghost of
queen Dido thus addresses the perfidious Æneas:
Therefore prepare thy flitting soul,
To wander with me in the air;
When deadly grief shall make it howl,
Because of me thou took'st no care.
Delay not time, thy glass is run,
Thy date is past, thy life is done.
11. _Pricking_, in hare-hunting, is tracking the foot of the game by
the eye, when the scent is lost. ]
12. The facetious Tom Brown, in his 2d dialogue on Mr Bayes' changing
his religion, introduces our poet saying,
"Likewise he (Cleveland) having the misfortune to call that
domestic animal a cock,
The Baron Tell-clock of the night,
I could never, igad, as I came home from the tavern, meet a
watchman or so, but I presently asked him, 'Baron Tell-clock of the
night, pr'ythee how goes the time? "
13. Artemidorus, the sophist of Cnidos, was the soothsayer who
prophesied the death of Cæsar. Shakespeare has introduced him in
his tragedy of "Julius Cæsar. "
14. A common rendezvous of the rakes and bullies of the time; "For
when they expected the most polished hero in Nemours, I gave them a
ruffian reeking from Whetstone's Park. " Dedication to Lee's
"Princess of Cleves. " In his translation of Ovid's "Love Elegies,"
Lib. II, Eleg. XIX. Dryden mentions, "an easy Whetstone whore. "
EPILOGUE.
SPOKEN BY LIMBERHAM.
I beg a boon, that, ere you all disband,
Some one would take my bargain off my hand:
To keep a punk is but a common evil;
To find her false, and marry,--that's the devil.
Well, I ne'er acted part in all my life,
But still I was fobbed off with some such wife.
I find the trick; these poets take no pity
Of one that is a member of the city.
We cheat you lawfully, and in our trades;
You cheat us basely with your common jades.
Now I am married, I must sit down by it;
But let me keep my dear-bought spouse in quiet.
Let none of you damned Woodalls of the pit,
Put in for shares to mend our breed in wit;
We know your bastards from our flesh and blood,
Not one in ten of yours e'er comes to good.
In all the boys, their fathers' virtues shine,
But all the female fry turn Pugs--like mine.
When these grow up, Lord, with what rampant gadders
Our counters will be thronged, and roads with padders!
This town two bargains has, not worth one farthing,--
A Smithfield horse, and wife of Covent-Garden[1].
Footnote:
1. Alluding to an old proverb, that whoso goes to Westminster for a
wife, to St Paul's for a man, and to Smithfield for a horse, may
meet with a whore, a knave, and a jade. Falstaff, on being informed
that Bardolph is gone to Smithfield to buy him a horse, observes,
"I bought him in Paul's, and he'll buy me a horse in Smithfield; an
I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were manned, horsed, and
wived. " _Second Part of Henry IV. _ Act I. Scene II.
* * * * *
OEDIPUS.
A
TRAGEDY.
_Hi proprium decus et partum indignantur honorem,
Ni teneant--_
VIRG.
_Vos exemplaria Græca
Nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ. _
HORAT.
OEDIPUS.
The dreadful subject of this piece has been celebrated by several
ancient and modern dramatists. Of seven tragedies of Sophocles which
have reached our times, two are founded on the history of OEdipus. The
first of these, called "OEdipus Tyrannus," has been extolled by every
critic since the days of Aristotle, for the unparalleled art with
which the story is managed. The dreadful secret, the existence of
which is announced by the pestilence, and by the wrath of the offended
deities, seems each moment on the verge of being explained, yet, till
the last act, the reader is still held in horrible suspense. Every
circumstance, resorted to for the purpose of evincing the falsehood of
the oracle, tends gradually to confirm the guilt of OEdipus, and to
accelerate the catastrophe; while his own supposed consciousness of
innocence, at once interests us in his favour, and precipitates the
horrible discovery. Dryden, who arranged the whole plan of the
following tragedy, although assisted by Lee in the execution, was
fully aware of the merit of the "OEdipus Tyrannus;" and, with the
addition of the under-plot of Adrastus and Eurydice, has traced out
the events of the drama, in close imitation of Sophocles. The Grecian
bard, however, in concurrence with the history or tradition of Greece,
has made OEdipus survive the discovery of his unintentional guilt, and
reserved him, in blindness and banishment, for the subject of his
second tragedy of "OEdipus Coloneus. " This may have been well judged,
considering that the audience were intimately acquainted with the
important scenes which were to follow among the descendants of
OEdipus, with the first and second wars against Thebes, and her final
conquest by the ancestors of those Athenians, before whom the play was
rehearsed, led on by their demi-god Theseus. They were also prepared
to receive, with reverence and faith, the belief on which the whole
interest turns, that if OEdipus should be restored to Thebes, the
vengeance of the gods against the devoted city might be averted; and
to applaud his determination to remain on Athenian ground, that the
predestined curse might descend on his unnatural sons and ungrateful
country. But while the modern reader admires the lofty tone of poetry
and high strain of morality which pervades "OEdipus Coloneus," it must
appear more natural to his feelings, that the life of the hero,
stained with unintentional incest and parricide, should be terminated,
as in Dryden's play, upon the discovery of his complicated guilt and
wretchedness. Yet there is something awful in the idea of the monarch,
blind and exiled, innocent in intention, though so horribly criminal
in fact, devoted, as it were, to the infernal deities, and sacred from
human power and violence by the very excess of his guilt and misery.
The account of the death of OEdipus Coloneus reaches the highest tone
of sublimity. While the lightning flashes around him, he expresses the
feeling, that his hour is come; and the reader anticipates, that, like
Malefort in the "Unnatural Combat," he is to perish by a thunder-bolt.
Yet, for the awful catastrophe, which we are artfully led to expect,
is substituted a mysterious termination, still more awful. OEdipus
arrays himself in splendid apparel, and dismisses his daughters and
the attending Athenians. Theseus alone remains with him. The storm
subsides, and the attendants return to the place, but OEdipus is there
no longer--he had not perished by water, by sword, nor by fire--no one
but Theseus knew the manner of his death. With an impressive hint,
that it was as strange and wonderful as his life had been dismally
eventful, the poet drops a curtain over the fate of his hero. This
last sublime scene Dryden has not ventured to imitate; and the rants
of Lee are a poor substitute for the calm and determined despair of
the "OEdipus Coloneus. "
Seneca, perhaps to check the seeds of vice in Nero, his pupil, to whom
incest and blood were afterwards so familiar[1], composed the Latin
tragedy on the subject of OEdipus, which is alluded to by Dryden in
the following preface. The cold declamatory rhetorical stile of that
philosopher was adapted precisely to counteract the effect, which a
tale of terror produces on the feelings and imagination. His taste
exerted itself in filling up and garnishing the more trifling
passages, which Sophocles had passed over as unworthy of notice, and
in adjusting incidents laid in the heroic age of Grecian simplicity,
according to the taste and customs of the court of Nero[2]. Yet though
devoid of dramatic effect, of fancy, and of genius, the OEdipus of
Seneca displays the masculine eloquence and high moral sentiment of
its author; and if it does not interest us in the scene of fiction, it
often compels us to turn our thoughts inward, and to study our own
hearts.
The OEdipe of Corneille is in all respects unworthy of its great
author. The poet considering, as he states in his introduction, that
the subject of OEdipus tearing out his eyes was too horrible to be
presented before ladies, qualifies its terrors by the introduction of
a love intrigue betwixt Theseus and Dirce. The unhappy propensity of
the French poets to introduce long discussions upon _la belle
passion_, addressed merely to the understanding, without respect to
feeling or propriety, is nowhere more ridiculously displayed than in
"OEdipe. " The play opens with the following polite speech of Theseus
to Dirce:
_N'ecoutez plus, madame, une pitie cruelle,
Qui d'un fidel amant vous ferait un rebelle:
La gloire d'obeir n'a rien que me soit doux,
Lorsque vous m'ordonnez de m'eloigner de vous.
Quelque ravage affreux qu'etale ici la peste,
L'absence aux vrais amans est encore plus funeste;
Et d'un si grand peril l'image s'offre en vain,
Quand ce peril douteux epargne un mal certain. _
Act premiere, Scene premiere.
It is hardly possible more prettily to jingle upon the _peril
douteux_, and the _mal certain_; but this is rather an awkward way of
introducing the account of the pestilence, with which all the other
dramatists have opened their scene. OEdipus, however, is at once
sensible of the cause which detained Theseus at his melancholy court,
amidst the horrors of the plague:
_Je l'avais bien juge qu'_ un interet d'amour
_Fermait ici vos yeux aux perils de ma cour. _
_OEdipo conjectere opus est_--it would have been difficult for any
other person to have divined such a motive. The conduct of the drama
is exactly suitable to its commencement; the fate of OEdipus and of
Thebes, the ravages of the pestilence, and the avenging of the death
of Laius, are all secondary and subordinate considerations to the
loves of Theseus and Dirce, as flat and uninteresting a pair as ever
spoke _platitudes_ in French hexameters. So much is this the
engrossing subject of the drama, that OEdipus, at the very moment when
Tiresias is supposed to be engaged in raising the ghost of Laius,
occupies himself in a long scene of scolding about love and duty with
Dirce; and it is not till he is almost bullied by her off the stage,
that he suddenly recollects, as an apology for his retreat,
_Mais il faut aller voir ce qu'a fait Tiresias. _
Considering, however, the declamatory nature of the French dialogue,
and the peremptory rule of their drama, that love, or rather
gallantry, must be the moving principle of every performance, it is
more astonishing that Corneille should have chosen so masculine and
agitating a subject, than that he should have failed in treating it
with propriety or success.
In the following tragedy, Dryden has avowedly adopted the Greek model;
qualified, however, by the under plot of Adrastus and Eurydice, which
contributes little either to the effect or merit of the play. Creon,
in his ambition and his deformity, is a poor copy of Richard III. ,
without his abilities; his plots and treasons are baffled by the
single appearance of OEdipus; and as for the loves and woes of
Eurydice, and the prince of Argos, they are lost in the horrors of the
principal story, like the moonlight amid the glare of a conflagration.
In other respects, the conduct of the piece closely follows the
"OEdipus Tyrannus," and, in some respects, even improves on that
excellent model. The Tiresias of Sophocles, for example, upon his
first introduction, denounces OEdipus as the slayer of Laius, braves
his resentment, and prophesies his miserable catastrophe. In Dryden's
play, the first anathema of the prophet is levelled only against the
unknown murderer; and it is not till the powers of hell have been
invoked, that even the eye of the prophet can penetrate the horrible
veil, and fix the guilt decisively upon OEdipus. By this means, the
striking quarrel betwixt the monarch and Tiresias is, with great art,
postponed to the third act; and the interest, of course, is more
gradually heightened than in the Grecian tragedy.
The first and third acts, which were wholly written by Dryden,
maintain a decided superiority over the rest of the piece. Yet there
are many excellent passages scattered through Lee's scenes; and as the
whole was probably corrected by Dryden, the tragedy has the appearance
of general consistence and uniformity. There are several scenes, in
which Dryden seems to have indulged his newly adopted desire of
imitating the stile of Shakespeare. Such are, in particular, the scene
of OEdipus walking in his sleep, which bears marks of Dryden's pen;
and such, also, is the incantation in the third act. Seneca and
Corneille have thrown this last scene into narrative. Yet, by the
present large size of our stages, and the complete management of light
and shade, the incantation might be represented with striking effect;
an advantage which, I fear, has been gained by the sacrifice of
others, much more essential to the drama, considered as a dignified
and rational amusement. The incantation itself is nobly written, and
the ghost of Laius can only be paralleled in Shakespeare.
The language of OEdipus is, in general, nervous, pure, and elegant;
and the dialogue, though in so high a tone of passion, is natural and
affecting. Some of Lee's extravagancies are lamentable exceptions to
this observation. This may be instanced in the passage, where Jocasta
threatens to fire Olympus, destroy the heavenly furniture, and smoke
the deities _like bees out of their ambrosial hives_; and such is the
still more noted wish of OEdipus;
Through all the inmost chambers of the sky,
May there not be a glimpse, one starry spark,
But gods meet gods, and jostle in the dark!
These blemishes, however, are entitled to some indulgence from the
reader, when they occur in a work of real genius. Those, who do not
strive at excellence, will seldom fall into absurdity; as he, who is
contented to walk, is little liable to stumble.
Notwithstanding the admirable disposition of the parts of this play,
the gradual increase of the interest, and the strong impassioned
language of the dialogue, the disagreeable nature of the plot forms an
objection to its success upon a British stage. Distress, which turns
upon the involutions of unnatural or incestuous passion, carries with
it something too disgusting for the sympathy of a refined age;
whereas, in a simple state of society, the feelings require a more
powerful stimulus; as we see the vulgar crowd round an object of real
horror, with the same pleasure we reap from seeing it represented on a
theatre. Besides, in ancient times, in those of the Roman empire at
least, such abominations really occurred, as sanctioned the story of
OEdipus. But the change of manners has introduced not only greater
purity of moral feeling, but a sensibility, which retreats with
abhorrence even from a fiction turning upon such circumstances. Hence,
Garrick, who well knew the taste of an English audience, renounced his
intention of reviving the excellent old play of "King and no King;"
and hence Massinger's still more awful tragedy of "The Unnatural
Combat," has been justly deemed unfit for a modern stage. Independent
of this disgusting circumstance, it may be questioned Whether the
horror of this tragedy is not too powerful for furnishing mere
amusement? It is said in the "Companion to the Playhouse," that when
the piece was performing at Dublin, a musician, in the orchestra, was
so powerfully affected by the madness of OEdipus, as to become himself
actually delirious: and though this may be exaggerated, it is certain,
that, when the play was revived about thirty years ago, the audience
were unable to support it to an end; the boxes being all emptied
before the third act was concluded. Among all our English plays, there
is none more determinedly bloody than "OEdipus," in its progress and
conclusion.
