No More Learning

_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. The entrance of the unfortunate king, with his eyes torn
from their sockets, is too disgusting for representation[3]. Of all
the persons of the drama, scarce one survives the fifth act. OEdipus
dashes out his brains, Jocasta stabs herself, their children are
strangled, Creon kills Eurydice, Adrastus kills Creon, and the
insurgents kill Adrastus; when we add to this, that the conspirators
are hanged, the reader will perceive, that the play, which began with
a pestilence, concludes with a massacre,

And darkness is the burier of the dead.

Another objection to OEdipus has been derived from the doctrine of
fatalism, inculcated by the story. There is something of cant in
talking much upon the influence of a theatre on public morals; yet, I
fear, though the most moral plays are incapable of doing much good,
the turn of others may make a mischievous impression, by embodying in
verse, and rendering apt for the memory, maxims of an impious or
profligate tendency. In this point of view, there is, at least, no
edification in beholding the horrible crimes unto which OEdipus is
unwillingly plunged, and in witnessing the dreadful punishment he
sustains, though innocent of all moral or intentional guilt, Corneille
has endeavoured to counterbalance the obvious conclusion, by a long
tirade upon free-will, which I have subjoined, as it contains some
striking ideas. [4] But the doctrine, which it expresses, is
contradictory of the whole tenor of the story; and the correct
deduction is much more justly summed up by Seneca, in the stoical
maxim of necessity:

_Fatis agimur, cedite Fatis;
Non solicitæ possunt curæ,
Mutare rati stamina fusi;
Quicquid patimur mortale genus,
Quicquid facimus venit ex alto;
Servatque sua decreta colus,
Lachesis dura revoluta manu. _

Some degree of poetical justice might have been preserved, and a
valuable moral inculcated, had the conduct of OEdipus, in his combat
with Laius, been represented as atrocious, or, at least,
unwarrantable; as the sequel would then have been a warning, how
impossible it is to calculate the consequences or extent of a single
act of guilt. But, after all, Dryden perhaps extracts the true moral,
while stating our insufficiency to estimate the distribution of good
and evil in human life, in a passage, which, in excellent poetry,
expresses more sound truth, than a whole shelf of philosophers:

The Gods are just--
But how can finite measure infinite?
Reason! alas, it does not know itself!
Yet man, vain man, would, with this, short-lined plummet,
Fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice.
Whatever is, is in its causes just,
Since all things are by fate. But purblind man
Sees but a part o'the chain; the nearest links;
His eyes not carrying to that equal beam,
That poises all above. --

The prologue states, that the play, if damned, may be recorded as the
"first buried since the Woollen Act. " This enables us to fix the date
of the performance. By the 30th Charles II. cap. 3. all persons were
appointed to be buried in woollen after 1st August, 1678. The play
must therefore have been represented early in the season 1678-9. It
was not printed until 1679.


Footnotes:
1. Nero is said to have represented the character of OEdipus, amongst
others of the same horrible cast. --_Suetonius,_ Lib. VI. Cap. 21.

2. Thus Seneca is justly ridiculed by Dacier, for sending Laius forth
with a numerous party of guards, to avoid the indecorum of a king
going abroad too slenderly attended. The guards lose their way
within a league of their master's capital; and, by this awkward
contrivance, their absence is accounted for, when he is met by
OEdipus.

3. Voltaire, however, held a different opinion. He thought a powerful
effect might be produced by the exhibition of the blind king,
indistinctly seen in the back ground, amid the shrieks of Jocasta,
and the exclamations of the Thebans; provided the actor was capable
of powerful gesture, and of expressing much passion, with little
declamation.

4. _Quoi! la necessite des vertus et des vices
D'un astre imperieux doit suivre les caprices?
Et Delphes malgré nous conduit nos actions
Au plus bizarre effet de ses predictions?
L'ame est donc toute esclave; une loi soveraine
Vers le bien ou le mal incessamment l'entraine;
Et nous recevons ni crainte ni desir,
De cette liberté qui n'a rien a choisir;
Attachés sans relache á cet ordre sublime,
Vertueux sans merite, et vicieux sans crime;
Qu'on massare les rois, qu'on brise les autels,
C'est la faute des dieux, et non pas des mortels;
De toute la vertu sur la terre epandue
Tout le prix ces dieux, toute la gloire est due;
Ils agissent en nous, quand nous pensons agir,
Alons qu'on delibere, on ne fait qu'obeir;
Et notre volonté n'aime, hait, cherche, evite,
Que suivant que d'en haut leur bras la precipite!
D'un tel aveuglement daignez me dispenser
Le ciel juste a punir, juste a recompenser,
Pour rendre aux actions leur peine ou leur salaire,
Doit nous offrir son aide et puis nous laisser faire. _




PREFACE.


Though it be dangerous to raise too great an expectation, especially
in works of this nature, where we are to please an insatiable
audience, yet it is reasonable to prepossess them in favour of an
author; and therefore, both the prologue and epilogue informed you,
that OEdipus was the most celebrated piece of all antiquity; that
Sophocles, not only the greatest wit, but one of the greatest men in
Athens, made it for the stage at the public cost; and that it had the
reputation of being his masterpiece, not only among the seven of his
which are still remaining, but of the greater number which are
perished. Aristotle has more than once admired it, in his Book of
Poetry; Horace has mentioned it: Lucullus, Julius Cæsar, and other
noble Romans, have written on the same subject, though their poems are
wholly lost; but Seneca's is still preserved. In our own age,
Corneille has attempted it, and, it appears by his preface, with great
success. But a judicious reader will easily observe, how much the copy
is inferior to the original. He tells you himself, that he owes a
great part of his success, to the happy episode of Theseus and Dirce;
which is the same thing, as if we should acknowledge, that we were
indebted for our good fortune to the under-plot of Adrastus, Eurydice,
and Creon. The truth is, he miserably failed in the character of his
hero: If he desired that OEdipus should be pitied, he should have made
him a better man. He forgot, that Sophocles had taken care to show
him, in his first entrance, a just, a merciful, a successful, a
religious prince, and, in short, a father of his country. Instead of
these, he has drawn him suspicious, designing, more anxious of keeping
the Theban crown, than solicitous for the safety of his people;
hectored by Theseus, condemned by Dirce, and scarce maintaining a
second part in his own tragedy. This was an error in the first
concoction; and therefore never to be mended in the second or the
third. He introduced a greater hero than OEdipus himself; for when
Theseus was once there, that companion of Hercules must yield to none.
The poet was obliged to furnish him with business, to make him an
equipage suitable to his dignity; and, by following him too close, to
lose his other king of Brentford in the crowd. Seneca, on the other
side, as if there were no such thing as nature to be minded in a play,
is always running after pompous expression, pointed sentences, and
philosophical notions, more proper for the study than the stage: the
Frenchman followed a wrong scent; and the Roman was absolutely at cold
hunting. All we could gather out of Corneille was, that an episode
must be, but not his way: and Seneca supplied us with no new hint, but
only a relation which he makes of his Tiresias raising the ghost of
Laius; which is here performed in view of the audience,--the rites and
ceremonies, so far his, as he agreed with antiquity, and the religion
of the Greeks. But he himself was beholden to Homer's Tiresias, in the
"Odysses," for some of them; and the rest have been collected from
Heliodore's "Ethiopiques," and Lucan's Erictho[1]. Sophocles, indeed,
is admirable everywhere; and therefore we have followed him as close
as possibly we could. But the Athenian theatre, (whether more perfect
than ours, is not now disputed,) had a perfection differing from ours.
You see there in every act a single scene, (or two at most,) which
manage the business of the play; and after that succeeds the chorus,
which commonly takes up more time in singing, than there has been
employed in speaking. The principal person appears almost constantly
through the play; but the inferior parts seldom above once in the
whole tragedy. The conduct of our stage is much more difficult, where
we are obliged never to lose any considerable character, which we have
once presented. Custom likewise has obtained, that we must form an
under-plot of second persons, which must be depending on the first;
and their by-walks must be like those in a labyrinth, which all of
them lead into the great parterre; or like so many several lodging
chambers, which have their outlets into the same gallery. Perhaps,
after all, if we could think so, the ancient method, as it is the
easiest, is also the most natural, and the best. For variety, as it is
managed, is too often subject to breed distraction; and while we would
please too many ways, for want of art in the conduct, we please in
none[2]. But we have given you more already than was necessary for a
preface; and, for aught we know, may gain no more by our instructions,
than that politic nation is like to do, who have taught their enemies
to fight so long, that at last they are in a condition to invade
them[3].


Footnotes:
1. Heliodorus, bishop of Trica, wrote a romance in Greek, called the
"Ethiopiques," containing the amours of Theagenes and Chariclea. He
was so fond of this production, that, the option being proposed to
him by a synod, he rather chose to resign his bishopric than
destroy his work. There occurs a scene of incantation in this
romance. The story of Lucan's witch occurs in the sixth book of the
Pharsalia.

Dryden has judiciously imitated Seneca, in representing necromancy
as the last resort of Tiresias, after all milder modes of augury
had failed.

2. It had been much to be wished, that our author had preferred his
own better judgment, and the simplicity of the Greek plot, to
compliance with this foolish custom.

3. This seems to allude to the French, who, after having repeatedly
reduced the Dutch to extremity, were about this period defeated by
the Prince of Orange, in the battle of Mons. See the next note.




PROLOGUE.


When Athens all the Grecian slate did guide,
And Greece gave laws to all the world beside;
Then Sophocles with Socrates did sit,
Supreme in wisdom one, and one in wit:
And wit from wisdom differed not in those,
But as 'twas sung in verse, or said in prose.
Then, OEdipus, on crowded theatres,
Drew all admiring eyes and list'ning ears:
The pleased spectator shouted every line,
The noblest, manliest, and the best design!
And every critic of each learned age,
By this just model has reformed the stage.
Now, should it fail, (as heaven avert our fear! )
Damn it in silence, lest the world should hear.
For were it known this poem did not please,
You might set up for perfect savages:
Your neighbours would not look on you as men,
But think the nation all turned Picts again.
Faith, as you manage matters, 'tis not fit
You should suspect yourselves of too much wit:
Drive not the jest too far, but spare this piece;
And, for this once, be not more wise than Greece.
See twice! do not pell-mell to damning fall,
Like true-born Britons, who ne'er think at all:
Pray be advised; and though at Mons[1] you won,
On pointed cannon do not always run.
With some respect to ancient wit proceed;
You take the four first councils for your creed.
But, when you lay tradition wholly by,
And on the private spirit alone rely,
You turn fanatics in your poetry.
If, notwithstanding all that we can say,
You needs will have your penn'orths of the play,
And come resolved to damn, because you pay,
Record it, in memorial of the fact,
The first play buried since the woollen act.


Footnote:
1. On the 17th of August, 1678, the Prince of Orange, afterwards
William III. marched to the attack of the French army, which
blockaded Mons, and lay secured by the most formidable
entrenchments. Notwithstanding a powerful and well-served
artillery, the duke of Luxemburgh was forced to abandon his
trenches, and retire with great loss. The English and Scottish
regiments, under the gallant earl of Ossory, had their full share
in the glory of the day. It is strongly suspected, that the Prince
of Orange, when he undertook this perilous atchievement, knew that
a peace had been signed betwixt France and the States, though the
intelligence was not made public till next day. Carleton says, that
the troops, when drawn up for the attack, supposed the purpose was
to fire a _feu-de-joie_ for the conclusion of the war. The
enterprize, therefore, though successful, was needless as well as
desperate, and merited Dryden's oblique censure.




DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.


OEDIPUS, _King of Thebes. _
ADRASTUS, _Prince of Argos. _
CREON, _Brother to_ JOCASTA.
TIRESIAS, _a blind Prophet. _
HÆMON, _Captain of the Guard. _
ALCANDER, }
DIOCLES, } _Lords of_ CREON'S _faction. _
PYRACMON, }
PHORBAS, _an old Shepherd. _
DYMAS, _the Messenger returned from Delphos. _
ÆGEON, _the Corinthian Embassador. _
_Ghost of_ LAIUS, _the late King of Thebes. _

JOCASTA, _Queen of Thebes. _
EURYDICE, _her Daughter, by_ LAIUS, _her first husband. _
MANTO, _Daughter of_ TIRESIAS.

_Priests, Citizens, Attendants,_ &c.

SCENE--_Thebes. _




OEDIPUS.


ACT I.

SCENE I. --_The Curtain rises to a plaintive Tune, representing the
present condition of Thebes; dead Bodies appear at a distance in the
Streets; some faintly go over the Stage, others drop. _

_Enter_ ALCANDER, DIOCLES, _and_ PYRACMON.

_Alc. _ Methinks we stand on ruins; nature shakes
About us; and the universal frame
So loose, that it but wants another push,
To leap from off its hinges.

_Dioc. _ No sun to cheer us; but a bloody globe,
That rolls above, a bald and beamless fire,
His face o'er-grown with scurf: The sun's sick, too;
Shortly he'll be an earth.

_Pyr. _ Therefore the seasons
Lie all confused; and, by the heavens neglected,
Forget themselves: Blind winter meets the summer
In his mid-way, and, seeing not his livery,
Has driven him headlong back; and the raw damps,
With flaggy wings, fly heavily about,
Scattering their pestilential colds and rheums
Through all the lazy air.

_Alc. _ Hence murrains followed
On bleating flocks, and on the lowing herds:
At last, the malady
Grew more domestic, and the faithful dog
Died at his master's feet[1].

_Dioc. _ And next, his master:
For all those plagues, which earth and air had brooded,
First on inferior creatures tried their force,
And last they seized on man.

_Pyr. _ And then a thousand deaths at once advanced,
And every dart took place; all was so sudden,
That scarce a first man fell; one but began
To wonder, and straight fell a wonder too;
A third, who stooped to raise his dying friend,
Dropt in the pious act. --Heard you that groan? [_Groan within. _

_Dioc. _ A troop of ghosts took flight together there.
Now death's grown riotous, and will play no more
For single stakes, but families and tribes.
How are we sure we breathe not now our last,
And that, next minute,
Our bodies, cast into some common pit,
Shall not be built upon, and overlaid
By half a people?

_Alc. _ There's a chain of causes
Linked to effects; invincible necessity,
That whate'er is, could not but so have been;
That's my security.

_To them, enter_ CREON.

_Cre. _ So had it need, when all our streets lie covered
With dead and dying men;
And earth exposes bodies on the pavements,
More than she hides in graves.
Betwixt the bride and bridegroom have I seen
The nuptial torch do common offices
Of marriage and of death.

_Dioc. _ Now OEdipus
(If he return from war, our other plague)
Will scarce find half he left, to grace his triumphs.

_Pyr. _ A feeble pæan will be sung before him.

_Alc. _ He would do well to bring the wives and children
Of conquered Argians, to renew his Thebes.

_Cre. _ May funerals meet him at the city gates,
With their detested omen!

_Dioc. _ Of his children.

_Cre. _ Nay, though she be my sister, of his wife.

_Alc. _ O that our Thebes might once again behold
A monarch, Theban born!

_Dioc. _ We might have had one.

_Pyr. _ Yes, had the people pleased.

_Cre. _ Come, you are my friends:
The queen my sister, after Laius' death,
Feared to lie single; and supplied his place
With a young successor.