_ Aye, that was when the nurseries self was noble,
And only virtue made it, not the market,
That titles were not vented at the drum
Or common outcry: Goodness gave the greatness,
And greatness worship: Every house became
An academy of honour, and those parts
We see departed in the practice now
Quite from the institution.
And only virtue made it, not the market,
That titles were not vented at the drum
Or common outcry: Goodness gave the greatness,
And greatness worship: Every house became
An academy of honour, and those parts
We see departed in the practice now
Quite from the institution.
Dryden - Complete
--for that's justice:
But then to drag me after:--for, to die,
And yet in death to conquer, is my wish.
_Clean. _ Then have your wish: The gods at last are kind,
And have provided you a sword that's worthy
To match your own: 'Tis an Egyptian's too.
_Cleom. _ Is there that hidden treasure in thy country?
The gods be praised, for such a foe I want.
_Clean. _ Not such a foe, but such a friend am I.
I would fall first, for fear I should survive you,
And pull you after to make sure in death,
To be your undivided friend for ever.
_Cleom. _ Then enter we into each other's breasts,
'Tis a sharp passage, yet a kind one too.
But, to prevent the blind mistake of swords,
Lest one drop first, and leave his friend behind,
Both thrust at once, and home, and at our hearts:
Let neither stand on guard, but let our bosoms
Lie open to each other in our death,
As in our life they were.
_Clean. _ I seal it thus. [_Kiss and embrace. _
_Panth. _ And where's my part? You shut me out, like churls,
While you devour the feast of death betwixt you.
_Cleom. _ Cheer up thy soul, and thou shalt die, Pantheus,
But in thy turn; there's death enough for all.
But, as I am thy master, wait my leisure,
And honestly compose my limbs to rest,
Then serve thyself. --Now, are you ready, friend?
_Clean. _ I am.
_Cleom. _ Then this to our next happy meeting.
[_They both push together, then stagger backwards, and fall
together in each other's Arms. _
_Clean. _ Speak, have I served you to your wish, my friend?
_Cleom. _ Yes, friend----thou hast----I have thee in my heart----
Say----art thou sped?
_Clean. _ I am,--'tis my last breath.
_Cleom. _ And mine----then both are happy. [_Both die. _
_Panth. _ So, this was well performed, and soon dispatched;
Both sound asleep already,
And farewell both for one short moment.
[_Trumpets sound Victory within. _
Those are the foes; our little band is lost
For want of these defenders. I must hasten,
Lest I be forced to live, and led in triumph,
Defrauded of my fate. I've earned it well,
And finished all my task: This is my place,
Just at my master's feet. --Guard him, ye gods,
And save his sacred corpse from public shame.
[_He falls on his Sword, and lies at the foot of_
CLEOMENES. --_Dies. _
_Enter_ SOSIBIUS, CASSANDRA, _and Egyptians_.
_Sosib. _ 'Twas what my heart foreboded: There he lies,
Extended by the man whom best he loved!
A better friend than son.
_Cas. _ What's he, or thou? or Ptolemy? or Egypt?
Or all the world, to Cleomenes lost?
_Sosib. _ Then I suspected right. If my revenge
Can ease my sorrow, this the king shall know,
That thou may'st reap the due reward of treason,
And violated love.
_Cas. _ Thy worst, old dotard.
I wish to die; but if my mind should change,
So well I know my power, that thou art lost.
_Sosib. _ The king's arrival shall decide our fate. --
Mean time, to show how much I honour virtue,
Take up that hero's body, bear it high,
Like the procession of a deity:
Let his armed figure on his tomb be set,
And we, like slaves, lie grovelling at his feet,
Whose glories growing till his latest breath,
Excelled all others, and his own in death. [_Exeunt. _
EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.
This day, the Poet, bloodily inclined,
Has made me die, full sore against my mind!
Some of you naughty men, I fear, will cry,
Poor rogue! would I might teach thee how to die!
Thanks for your love; but I sincerely say,
I never mean to die, your wicked way.
Well, since it is decreed all flesh must go,
(And I am flesh,--at least for aught you know)
I first declare, I die with pious mind,
In perfect charity with all mankind.
Next for my will:----I have, in my dispose,
Some certain moveables would please you beaux;
As, first, my youth; for, as I have been told,
Some of you modish sparks are devilish old.
My chastity I need not leave among ye;
For, to suspect old fops, were much to wrong ye.
You swear you're sinners; but for all your haste,
Your misses shake their heads, and find you chaste.
I give my courage to those bold commanders,
Who stay with us, and dare not go for Flanders.
I leave my truth (to make his plot more clear)
To Mr Fuller, when he next shall swear[45].
I give my judgment, craving all your mercies,
To those that leave good plays, for damned dull farces.
My small devotion let the gallants share,
That come to ogle us at evening prayer.
I give my person----let me well consider,----
Faith e'en to him that is the fairest bidder;
To some rich hunks, if any be so bold
To say those dreadful words, _To have and hold_.
But stay--to give, and be bequeathing still,
When I'm so poor, is just like Wickham's will:
Like that notorious cheat, vast sums I give,
Only that you may keep me while I live[46].
Buy a good bargain, gallants, while you may;
I'll cost you but your half-a-crown a day.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 41: Ægiatis was the first wife of Cleomenes. The reader
will find an account of the modest custom of Sparta here alluded to,
with a curious advantage taken of it by a stranger, in "Les Voyages
D'Antenor. "]
[Footnote 42: It is surprising that Dryden has not here availed himself
of the beautiful and affectionate apostrophe of Cleomenes, when he saw
his brother Eucleidas overpowered in the battle of Sellasia: "Thou art
lost, dear brother! lost for ever, thou brave example to our Spartan
youth, and theme of our matrons' songs! "]
[Footnote 43: This very appropriate simile is taken literally from
Plutarch. See the prefixed Life of Cleomenes, p. 239. ]
[Footnote 44: This sentiment was used, and absolutely acted upon, by
the famous Hewet, in very similar circumstances to those of Cleomenes.
"Being taken with a suppression of urine," says Smollet, "he resolved,
in imitation of Pomponius Atticus, to take himself off by abstinence;
and this resolution he executed like an ancient Roman. He saw company
to the last, cracked his jokes, conversed freely, and entertained his
guests with music. On the third day of his fast, he found himself
entirely freed of his complaint, but refused taking sustenance. He
said, the most disagreeable part of the voyage was past; and he should
be a cursed fool indeed to put about ship, when he was just entering
the harbour. In these sentiments he persisted, without any marks of
affectation; and thus finished his course with such ease and serenity,
as would have done honour to the firmest Stoic of antiquity. "--_Note
upon the Expedition of Humphrey Clinker. _]
[Footnote 45: William Fuller was an informer, who pretended, about this
time, to make discovery of a formidable plot, by the Jacobites, against
the government. But his luck was not so great as that of his prototype,
Titus Oates; for the House of Commons finding him unable to produce the
witnesses, to whom he referred for support of his tale, on the 24th
February 1691, declared him "a notorious impostor, a cheat, and a false
accuser, having scandalized their Majesties, and their government,
abused this house, and falsely accused several persons of honour and
quality. " Fuller was prosecuted by the Attorney General for this
offence, and punished by the pillory; notwithstanding which he did not
profit by Mrs Bracegirdle's legacy, so as to make "his next plot more
clear;" for, in 1702, he was sentenced to the same painful elevation,
for publishing an impudent forgery, concerning the birth of the Prince
of Wales, son to James II. --See State Trials, vol. VI. p. 442; and the
Journals of the House of Commons, for February 1691. ]
[Footnote 46: Of Wickham I can learn nothing; but the nature of his
imposture is easily to be gathered from the text. ]
LOVE TRIUMPHANT:
OR
NATURE WILL PREVAIL.
A
TRAGI-COMEDY.
----_Quod optanti Divûm promittere nemo
Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultrò. _ VIRG.
LOVE TRIUMPHANT.
This piece, which concluded our author's labours as a dramatic poet,
was unsuccessful when represented, and affords very little pleasure
when perused. If we except "Amboyna," our author never produced a play,
where the tragic part had less interest, or the comic less humour.
For the faults of "Amboyna," Dryden pleaded the barren nature of the
subject, chosen not with a view to dramatic effect, but to attain a
political purpose, and the hurry of writing upon a temporary theme.
But that he should have failed, in a play avowedly intended to crown
his dramatic labours, where the story was of his own device, and the
composition at his own leisure, can only be imputed to that occasional
flatness, or cessation of the divine influence, as an ancient would
have expressed it, from which men of the highest poetic genius are not
exempted. In despite of all cold reasoning upon this subject, the fact
is irresistible, that our capacity of exerting mental talents, is not
more absolute than that which we possess over our bodily powers. We are
in each case limited by a thousand external and internal circumstances,
which occasion the greatest and most involuntary inequalities, between
our happier and our inferior efforts, of mental abilities or of
corporeal strength. It can only be to the temporary failure of the
poetic inspiration, which, like the wind of heaven, bloweth where it
listeth, and neither to want of labour, nor to impaired talents, that
we are to attribute the inferiority of "Love Triumphant," to almost all
Dryden's other compositions.
The plot is unhappily chosen. For, as we have had already occasion to
notice, stories turning, or appearing to turn, upon incestuous passion,
have seldom been successful upon the modern stage[47]. Davies, in his
"Dramatic Miscellanies," attributes Garrick's renouncing his intention
of reviving the admirable old play of "King and no King," to the ardent
passion which Arbaces conceives for his supposed sister; and which that
excellent judge suspected would not be tolerated in our age. "Phædra
and Hippolitus," though most powerfully supported, both by actors and
admirers, failed for the same reason; and, according to Davies, even
the various excellencies of "Don Sebastian" were unable to expiate
the disgust, excited by the unpleasing discovery of his relation
to Almeyda. While "Love Triumphant" labours under this capital and
disagreeable defect, little ingenuity can be discovered in the story,
abstracted from that consideration. The king of Castile suffers his
sole and only offspring to remain in the court of a rival and hostile
monarch, and even to head armies against him, supposing himself the son
of his enemy. The virtuous Queen of Arragon cultivates and encourages
a passion, having all the moral guilt of an incestuous attachment,
between her own daughter and her supposed son. The tyrant Veramond is
the only person who acts upon rational principles through the piece. He
refuses the liberty of a rival king to the petulant demand of Alphonso;
and not very unreasonably proposes to separate his son and daughter,
before worse consequences arose from their infamous and impudently
avowed passion. But by this very natural conduct, he gains the hatred
of his wife, his children, and his subjects:
_Miranda canit, sed non credenda, poeta. _
After so many and such violent stretches of probability, the author
does not deign to wind up the plot, otherwise than by a sudden change
in the temper and resolutions of Veramond, a conclusion which he
himself admits in general to be grossly inartificial, and which in the
present case is peculiarly infelicitous. The ruling passion of Veramond
seems to be a hatred of his rival Ramirez, and a sort of instinctive
antipathy to Alphonso, even when he believes him to be his own son,
just arrived from conquest in his behalf. This hatred and aversion
was not likely to be abated, by the objects of them turning out to be
father and son; nor much soothed, by the circumstance of their making
him prisoner in his own metropolis. Yet, in this situation, moved by a
few soft speeches from Celidea, who had taken a fancy to the intended
husband of her sister, the tyrant of Arragon alters his whole family
arrangements, and habits of mind; and takes his hated foes into his
family and bosom, merely that the play may be concluded. The author
of these inconsistencies can hardly escape the censure of Aristotle,
against which he has pleaded in the preface.
With regard to the poetry of "Love Triumphant," it is somewhat
remarkable, that, in the most laboured scenes of this last effort of
his tragic muse, Dryden has had recourse to his discarded mistress,
Rhyme. As this could hardly arise from an alteration of his final
opinion, it may have been owing to a consciousness, that there was
some deficiency in the piece, which the harmony of numbers might veil,
though it could not supply. The turn of the dialogue, also, is quite in
our poet's early manner. The lovers, in the first scene of the second
act, burning with a horrible passion, which they felt it death to
conceal, and infamy and mortal sin to avow, communicate their feelings
to each other in alternate couplets, like two contending Arcadians.
Their horror evaporates in antithesis, and their passion in quaint
prettinesses. Witness the speech of Alphonso:
_Alph. _ Oh raging, impious, and yet hopeless fire!
Not daring to possess what I desire;
Condemn'd to suffer what I cannot bear;
Tortur'd with love, and furious with despair.
Of all the pains which wretched mortals prove,
The fewest remedies belong to love:
But ours has none; for if we should enjoy,
Our fatal cure must both of us destroy.
Oh dear Victoria, cause of all my pain!
Oh dear Victoria, whom I would not gain!
Victoria, for whose sake I would survive:
Victoria, for whose sake I dare not live.
If the tragic part of "Love Triumphant" have little merit, the comic
has even less. The absurdity of the two gallants disguising themselves,
in hopes to pass for the deceased Conde upon a mistress, who had
borne him two children, is too gross for a puppet-show, or pantomime;
and there is nothing in the dialogue to attone for the flatness, and
extravagance of the plot. It may, however, be remarked, that Sancho,
a tawdry and conceited coxcomb, the son of a Jewish usurer, and
favoured by the father of his mistress, only for his wealth, has some
resemblance in manners and genealogy to a much more pleasant character,
that of Isaac in the "Duenna. "
It is impossible to dismiss a performance of Dryden, without some
tribute of praise. The verse, where it is employed, possesses, as
usual, all the dignity which numbers can give to language; and the
Song upon Jealousy, as well as that in the character of a Girl, have
superior merit.
The play was received as ill as might be; so at least we are informed
by a curious letter, preserved by Mr Malone, dated 22d March 1693-4,
in which the writer, after chuckling over the failure of the "Double
Dealer," and the absolute damnation of "Love Triumphant," concludes,
that the success of Southerne's "Fatal Marriage" will encourage the
minor poets, "and vex huffing Dryden, and Congreve, to madness[48]. "
Dryden himself, it may be noticed, says nothing in the preface
concerning the reception of the piece: all authorities, however, state
it to have been unfavourable; and thus, as Dr Johnson has remarked,
this great poet opened and closed his theatrical career with bad
success; a fact, which may secure the inexperienced author from
despondence, and teach him who has gained reputation, how little he
ought to presume on its stability.
"Love Triumphant" was first acted and published in 1693-4.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 47: See Introduction to Oedipus, vol. VI. p. 121. ]
[Footnote 48: "The second play is Mr Dryden's, called "Love Triumphant,
or Nature will prevail. " It is a tragi-comedy; but, in my opinion, one
of the worst he ever writ, if not the very worst: the comical part
descends beneath the style and show of a Bartholomew-Fair droll. It was
damned by the universal cry of the town, _nemine contradicente_ but the
conceited poet. He says in his prologue, that this is the last the town
must expect from him; he had done himself a kindness, had he taken his
leave before. "]
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
JAMES,
EARL OF SALISBURY, &c. [49]
MY LORD,
This poem, being the last which I intend for the theatre, ought to
have the same provision made for it, which old men make for their
youngest child, which is commonly a favourite. They, who were born
before it, carry away the patrimony by right of eldership; this is
to make its fortune in the world, and since I can do little for it,
natural affection calls upon me to put it out, at least, into the best
service which I can procure for it; and, as it is the usual practice
of our decayed gentry to look about them for some illustrious family,
and their endeavour to fix their young darling, where he may be both
well educated and supported;[50] I have herein also followed the custom
of the world, and am satisfied in my judgment, that I could not have
made a more worthy choice. It is true, I am not vain enough to think
that anything of mine can in any measure be worthy of your lordship's
patronage; and yet I should be ashamed to leave the stage, without some
acknowledgment of your former favours, which I have more than once
experienced. Besides the honour of my wife's relation to your noble
house,[51] to which my sons may plead some title, though I cannot;
you have been pleased to take a particular notice of me, even in this
lowness of my fortunes, to which I have voluntarily reduced myself;
and of which I have no reason to be ashamed. This condescension,
my lord, is not only becoming of your antient family, but of your
personal character in the world; and, if I value myself the more for
your indulgence to me, and your opinion of me, it is because any thing
which you like, ought to be considered as something in itself; and
therefore I must not undervalue my present labours, because I have
presumed to make you my patron. A man may be just to himself, though he
ought not to be partial; and I dare affirm, that the several manners
which I have given to the persons of this drama, are truly drawn from
nature, all perfectly distinguished from each other; that the fable is
not injudiciously contrived; that the turns of fortune are not managed
unartfully; and that the last revolution is happily enough invented.
Aristotle, I acknowledge, has declared, that the catastrophe which is
made from the change of will, is not of the first order of beauty; but
it may reasonably be alledged, in defence of this play, as well as of
the "Cinna," (which I take to be the very best of Corneille's,) that
the philosopher, who made the rule, copied all the laws, which he gave
for the theatre, from the authorities and examples of the Greek poets,
which he had read; and from their poverty of invention, he could get
nothing but mean conclusions of wretched tales: where the mind of the
chief actor was, for the most part, changed without art or preparation;
only because the poet could not otherwise end his play. Had it been
possible for Aristotle to have seen the "Cinna," I am confident he
would have altered his opinion; and concluded, that a simple change of
will might be managed with so much judgment, as to render it the most
agreeable, as well as the most surprising part of the whole fable;
let Dacier, and all the rest of the modern critics, who are too much
bigotted to the ancients, contend ever so much to the contrary. I was
afraid that I had been the inventor of a new sort of designing, when,
in my third act, I make a discovery of my Alphonso's true parentage.
If it were so, what wonder had it been, that dramatic poetry, though a
limited art, yet might be capable of receiving some innovations for
the better? But afterwards I casually found, that Menander and Terence,
in the "Heautontimoroumenos," had been before me; and made the same
kind of discovery in the same act. As for the mechanic unities;--that
of time is much within the compass of an astrological day, which begins
at twelve, and ends at the same hour the day following: that of place
is not observed so justly by me, as by the ancients; for their scene
was always one, and almost constantly in some public place. Some of
the late French poets, and, amongst the English, my most ingenious
friend, Mr Congreve, have observed this rule strictly; though the place
was not altogether so public as a street. I have followed the example
of Corneille, and stretched the latitude to a street and palace, not
far distant from each other in the same city. They, who will not
allow this liberty to a poet, make it a very ridiculous thing for an
audience to suppose themselves, sometimes to be in a field, sometimes
in a garden, and at other times in a chamber. There are not, indeed,
so many absurdities in their supposition, as in ours; but it is an
original absurdity for the audience to suppose themselves to be in
any other place, than in the very theatre in which they sit; which is
neither chamber, nor garden, nor yet a public place of any business,
but that of the representation. For my action it is evidently double;
and in that I have the most of the ancients for my examples. Yet I
dare not defend this way by reason, much less by their authority;
for their actions, though double, were of the same species; that is
to say, in their comedies, two amours; and their persons were better
linked in interests than mine. Yet even this is a fault which I should
often practise, if I were to write again, because it is agreeable to
the English genius. We love variety more than any other nation; and
so long as the audience will not be pleased without it, the poet is
obliged to humour them. On condition they were cured of this public
vice, I could be content to change my method, and gladly give them a
more reasonable pleasure. This digression, my lord, is not altogether
the purpose of an epistle dedicatory; yet it is expected, that somewhat
should be said, even here, in relation to criticism; at least in
vindication of my address, that you may not be desired to patronize a
poem, which is wholly unworthy of your protection. Though, after all, I
doubt not but some will liken me to the lover in a modern comedy, who
was combing his peruke,[52] and setting his cravat before his mistress;
and being asked by her, when he intended to begin his court, replied,
"He had been doing it all this while. " Yet thus it happens, my lord,
that self will come into all addresses of this nature, though it is
the most unmannerly word of the world in civil conversation, and the
most ungrateful to all hearers. For which reason, I, who have nothing
to boast of, but my misfortunes, ought to be the first to banish it;
especially since I have so large a field before me, as your inborn
goodness, your evenness of temper, your humility in so ample a share of
fortune as you possess, your humanity to all men, and your kindness to
your friends; besides your natural and acquired endowments, and your
brotherly love to your relations. _Notus in fratres animo paterno_, was
the great commendation which Horace gave to one of his patrons; and it
is that praise which particularly crowns your other virtues. But here,
my lord, I am obliged, in common prudence to stop short, and to cast
under a veil some other of your praises, as the chemists use to shadow
the secret of their great elixir, lest, if it were made public, the
world should make a bad use of it. [53] To enjoy our own quiet, without
disturbing that of others, is the practice of every moral man; and, for
the rest, to live chearfully and splendidly, as it is becoming your
illustrious birth, so it is likewise to thank God for his benefits in
the best manner. It is unnecessary to wish you more worldly happiness
or content of mind, than you enjoy; but the continuance of both to
yourself, and your posterity, is earnestly desired by all who have the
honour to be known to you, and more particularly by,
MY LORD,
Your lordship's
most obedient and
most humbly devoted servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 49: James, the fourth Earl of Salisbury, was strongly
attached to the religion and cause of his former master, James II. ,
a reason, doubtless, for Dryden inscribing to him his last dramatic
offspring. There was also a connection betwixt our poet's lady and the
Earl, which is alluded to in the dedication. The Earl succeeded to the
title in 1683. ]
[Footnote 50: It was an ancient custom derived from the days of
chivalry, but which long survived them, that, as formerly the future
knight had to go through a preliminary course of education, as page and
squire to some person of rank and valour; so the pages of the quality,
so late as the Revolution, were the sons of gentlemen, and in no way
derogated from their birth by accepting that menial situation. This is
often alluded to in the old plays. In the "New Inn" for example, when
Lovel asks of the Host his son for a page, we have an account of the
decay of the institution from its original purposes and respectability.
_Lovel. _ Call you that desperate, which by a line
Of institution from our ancestors
Hath been derived down to us, and received
In a succession, for the noblest way
Of breeding up our youth in letters, arms,
Fair mien, discourses, civil exercise,
And all the blazon of a gentleman?
Where can he learn to vault, to ride, to fence,
To move his body gracefuller? to speak
His language purer? or tune his mind
And manners more to the harmony of nature,
Than in these nurseries of nobility? ----
_Host.
_ Aye, that was when the nurseries self was noble,
And only virtue made it, not the market,
That titles were not vented at the drum
Or common outcry: Goodness gave the greatness,
And greatness worship: Every house became
An academy of honour, and those parts
We see departed in the practice now
Quite from the institution.
_Lovel. _ Why do you say so,
Or think so enviously? do they not still
Learn there the centaur's skill, the art of Thrace,
To ride? or Pollux' mystery, to fence?
The Pyrrhick gesture, both to dance and spring
In armour? to be active for the wars?
To study figures, numbers, and proportions,
May yield them great in counsel? and the arts,
Grave Nestor and the wise Ulysses practised,
To make their English sweet upon their tongue,
As reverend Chaucer says?
_Host. _ Sir, you mistake. --
To play Sir Pandarus my copy hath it,
And carry messages to Madam Cresside;
Instead of backing the brave steed o' mornings,
To mount the chamber-maid, and, for a leap
O' the vaulting horse, to ply the vaulting house;
For exercise of arms, a bale of dice,
Or two or three packs of cards, to shew the cheat,
And nimbleness of hand; mistake a cloak
From my lord's back, and pawn it; ease his pockets
Of a superfluous watch; or geld a jewel
Of an odd stone or so; twinge two or three buttons
From off my lady's gown. These are the arts,
Or seven liberal deadly sciences
Of pagery, or rather paganism,
As the tides run; to which if he apply him,
He may perhaps take a degree at Tyburn
A year the earlier; come to read a lecture
Upon Aquinas at St Thomas a watering's,
And so go forth a laureat in hemp circle.
_New Inn. _ Act I. Scene 3d. ]
[Footnote 51: The second earl of Salisbury married an aunt of Lady
Elizabeth Dryden; his son, lord Cranbourne, was grandfather of James,
the fourth earl; and therein consisted the relationship between
Dryden's sons, and the family of his patron, to which it is somewhat
difficult, in modern days, to give an exact name. ]
[Footnote 52: This attitude and employment, however inconsistent
with our modern ideas of good breeding, seems to have been an air
frequently assumed by the beaus of the seventeenth century. In a play
by Killigrew, called the "Parson's Wedding," we have this direction:
"Enter Jack Constant, Will Sad, Jolly, and a footman: they comb their
heads, and talk. " Our author alludes to the same fashion, in the
Prologue to the "Conquest of Grenada," Part II.
Straight every man who thinks himself a wit,
Perks up, and, managing his comb with grace,
With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face.
The same custom is alluded to by Congreve, and is supposed to have
remained fashionable during Queen Anne's time. ]
[Footnote 53: Mr Malone conjectures, with great probability, that this
virtue, which would not bear the light, must have been lord Salisbury's
secret attachment to the exiled monarch. ]
PROLOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.
As when some treasurer lays down the stick,
Warrants are signed for ready money thick,
And many desperate debentures paid,
Which never had been, had his lordship staid:
So now, this poet, who forsakes the stage,
Intends to gratify the present age.
One warrant shall be signed for every man;
All shall be wits that will, and beaux that can:
Provided still, this warrant be not shown,
And you be wits but to yourselves alone;[54]
Provided too, you rail at one another,
For there's no one wit, will allow a brother;
Provided also, that you spare this story,
Damn all the plays that e'er shall come before ye.
If one by chance prove good in half a score,
Let that one pay for all, and damn it more.
For if a good one 'scape among the crew, }
And you continue judging as you do, }
Every bad play will hope for damning too. }
You might damn this, if it were worth your pains; }
Here's nothing you will like; no fustian scenes, }
And nothing too of--you know what he means. }
No double _entendres_, which you sparks allow,
To make the ladies look they know not how;
Simply as 'twere, and knowing both together,
Seeming to fan their faces in cold weather.
But here's a story, which no books relate,
Coin'd from our own old poet's addle-pate.
The fable has a moral too, if sought; }
But let that go; for, upon second thought, }
He fears but few come hither to be taught. }
Yet if you will be profited, you may;
And he would bribe you too, to like his play.
He dies, at least to us, and to the stage,
And what he has, he leaves this noble age.
He leaves you, first, all plays of his inditing,
The whole estate, which he has got by writing.
The beaux may think this nothing but vain praise; }
They'll find it something, the testator says; }
For half their love is made from scraps of plays. }
To his worst foes, he leaves his honesty,
That they may thrive upon't as much as he.
He leaves his manners to the roaring boys,
Who come in drunk, and fill the house with noise.
He leaves to the dire critics of his wit,
His silence and contempt of all they writ.
To Shakespear's critic, he bequeaths the curse,
To find his faults; and yet himself make worse;[55]
A precious reader, in poetic schools,
Who by his own examples damns his rules.
Last, for the fair, he wishes you may be,
From your dull critics, the lampooners, free.
Though he pretends no legacy to leave you,
An old man may at least good wishes give you.
Your beauty names the play; and may it prove
To each, an omen of triumphant love!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 54: This seems to be an allusion to the pretended dukedom of
Marine, in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Noble Gentleman," which had been
revived in 1688, by Tom D'urfey, under the title of the "Three Dukes of
Dunstable. "
_Gent. _ Hark you, sir, the king doth know you are a duke.
_Mar. _ No! does he?
_Gent. _ Yes, and is content you shall be; but with this caution,
That none know't but yourself; for, if you do,
He'll take't away by act of parliament.
_Mar_. There is my hand, and, whilst I live or breathe,
No living wight shall know I am a duke,]
[Footnote 55: I do not know if any individual is here levelled
at. Shakespeare has had his critics in all ages, who, like the
inexpert tinker, have generally made two holes in patching one. In
the end of the seventeenth century, his plays were usually acted
in a sophisticated state, as altered by Tate, D'Avenant, Crowne,
Ravenscroft, and others. The last, in the preface to his alteration
of "Titus Andronicus," has the impudence to say, "That if the reader
will compare the old play with his copy, he will find that none in all
that author's works ever received greater alterations or additions, the
language not only refined, but many scenes entirely new, besides most
of the principal characters heightened, and the plot much increased. "]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
VERAMOND, _King of Arragon_.
ALPHONSO, _his supposed Son_.
GARCIA, _King of Navarre_.
RAMIREZ, _King of Castile_.
SANCHO, }
CARLOS, } _Two Colonels_.
LOPEZ, _an old Courtier_.
XIMENA, _Queen of Arragon_.
VICTORIA, _eldest daughter to the King and Queen_,
CELIDEA, _her Sister_.
DALINDA, _Daughter to_ LOPEZ.
_A Nurse with two Children. _
SCENE,--_Saragossa in Spain_.
LOVE TRIUMPHANT;
OR,
NATURE WILL PREVAIL.
ACT I.
SCENE I. --_A Presence-chamber. _
_At the drawing up of the Curtain_, VERAMOND, _King of Arragon,
appears_; XIMENA, _the Queen, by him_; VICTORIA, _their eldest
Daughter, on the right Hand; and_ CELIDEA, _their younger
Daughter, on the left; Courtiers stand attending in File on each
Side of the stage; The Men on the one Hand, the Ladies on the
other. Amongst the Men_, DON LOPEZ; _amongst the Women_, DALINDA,
_his Daughter_.
_Vera. _ Now the long wars betwixt Castile and Arragon
Are ended in the ruin of our foes;
And fierce Ramirez, the Castilian king,
Who tugged for empire with our warlike son,
In single combat taken, adds his laurels
To the young victor's brow: our tender maids,
And trembling children, shall with scorn behold
The haughty captive, who had made his vaunts,
To lay their dwellings level; and with salt
To sow the place, where Saragossa stood.
_Xim. _ Processions, prayers, and public thanks to heaven,
Were fit to be decreed.
_Vera. _ Your sex is ever foremost in devotion.
But for our brave confederate, young Navarre,
He shall receive the prize reserved within
My breast; and such a one,
His youth and valour have right well deserved.
_Xim. _ I hear he comes along with our Alphonso,
And, next our son, did best.
_Vera. _ Perhaps as well;
Alphonso's action was indeed more glorious,
To buckle with a king in single fight,
And take him prisoner; but his fiery temper
Still hurries him to daring rash attempts.
_Xim. _ Alphonso is impetuous, but he's noble;
He will not take one atom from Navarre
Of what's his right, nor needs he.
_Vera. _ If he should----
_Xim. _ You take too bad impressions of your son.
_Vera. _ No more, Ximena, for I hear their trumpets
Proclaim their entry; and our own their welcome.
[_Trumpets from each side of the Stage. _
_Enter_ ALPHONSO _and_ GARCIA, _hand in hand. After them, the
Prisoner, King_ RAMIREZ, _alone; then the two Colonels_, SANCHO
_and_ CARLOS; _after them, other Officers of the Army_. VERAMOND
_advances to meet them; the Queen and the two Princesses follow
him_. ALPHONSO _first kneels to his Father and Mother, and
immediately runs to salute his Sister_ VICTORIA _tenderly; then
slightly salutes_ CELIDEA, _and returns to_ VICTORIA. _In the mean
time_ VERAMOND _embraces Don_ GARCIA, _who afterwards kisses the
Queen's hand_.
_Vera. _ The triumphs of this day, auspicious prince,
Proclaim themselves your gift, to us and Arragon;
From you they are derived; to you return;
For what we are, you make us.
_Gar. _ May heaven and your brave son, and, above all,
Your own prevailing genius, guard your age
From such another day of doubtful fate!
But if it come, then Garcia will be proud
To be again the foil of great Alphonso.
_Vera. _ It might, and well it had become my son,
[_Looking about for_ ALPHONSO.
To speak your words; but you are still before him,
As in the fight you were.
_Xim. _ Turn to your father, and present your duty;
[_Pulling_ ALPHONSO _by the sleeve_.
He thinks himself neglected, and observes ye.
[_Here_ GARCIA, _after bowing to the King and Queen, goes to the
two Princesses, and salutes them. After a little dumb courtship,
he leads out_ VICTORIA _and_ CELIDEA; _the Ladies follow_;
ALPHONSO _observes it with discontent, and then turns to his
Father_.
_Alph. _ I saw you, sir, engaged in ceremonies,
And therefore thought I might defer this office,
To give you time for decent thanks to Garcia.
_Vera. _ You rather went where more affection called you.
_Alph. _ I may have been too slack in outward shew;
But when your service, and my honour called,
None was more forward in the fighting part.
_Vera. _ The rugged business of the war is over;
Softness and sweetness, and a gentle air,
Would make a mixture, that would temper well
That inborn fierceness of your boiling mind.
_Alph. _ I stand corrected, sir; and let me tell you now,
That sweetness, which so well you have advised,
Fortune has put in your own hand to practise
Upon this royal soldier; till we fought, [_Showing_ RAMIREZ.
Your equal, now your prisoner of the war;
And once, (alas, that still it is not so! )
The partner of your thoughts, and bosom friend.
_Xim. _ [_Aside. _] Heaven, that inspired thee with this pious thought,
Add virtue and persuasion to thy words,
And bend my stubborn lord!
_Vera. _ Say, have you more to speak on his behalf?
_Alph. _ Much more; his fair behaviour in the war,
Not plundering towns, nor burning villages;
His bravery of mind, his dauntless courage,
When, hand to hand, he made me stoop beneath
His weighty blows, and often forced to doubt
The fortune of my youth against his age.
_Vera. _ Proceed, proceed; for this is but to say,
That thou wert almost worsted in the combat.
_Alph. _ I have already said much more than needs,
To move a noble mind;
Such as my father's is, or ought to be.
_Vera. _ Come, let me hear my duty from my son.
_Alph. _ If more be wanting on so plain a theme,
Think on the slippery state of human things,
The strange vicissitudes, and sudden turns
Of war, and fate recoiling on the proud,
To crush a merciless and cruel victor.
Think, there are bounds of fortune set above,
Periods of time, and progress of success,
Which none can stop before the appointed limits,
And none can push beyond.
_Xim. _ He reasons justly, sir.
_Alph. _ Ramirez is an honourable foe;
Use him like what he is, and make him yours.
_Ver. _ By heaven, I think,
That, when you coped with him in single fight,
You had so much ado to conquer then,
You fear to engage him in a second combat.
_Alph. _ The world knows how I fought:
But old men have prerogative of tongue,
And kings of power, and parents that of nature.
Your pardon, royal sir.
_Vera. _ I give it you;
Your battle now is paid at the full price.
[XIMENA _whispers_ ALPHONSO _for a moment_.
_Alph. _ Fear not, I curb myself. [_To_ XIMENA.
_Ram. _ [_To_ VERA. ] Your son has mentioned honourable terms;
Propose them, Veramond, and for his sake,
So much his valour and rare courtesy
Have wrought upon my soul, I will accept them.
_Vera. _ Who gave you leave
To speak of terms, or even to speak at all?
_Ram. _ And who should give me liberty of speaking,
But heaven, who gave me speech?
_Vera. _ How dares my captive
Assume this boldness to his conqueror?
_Ram. _ You have not conquered me; you could not, Veramond.
'Tis to Alphonso's arms that I am prisoner.
_Vera. _ Under my auspices Alphonso fought;
He led my forces.
_Ram. _ Yes, and made them too
By his example; else they ne'er had conquered.
_Vera. _ A bargain! a plain compact! a confederacy,
Betwixt my son and thee, to give me part
Of what my better stars make all my own.
_Alph. _ Sir, I must speak----
_Vera. _ Dare not, I charge thee, dare not!
_Alph. _ Not vindicate my honour?
By heaven I will, to all the world, to you:
My honour is my own, and not derived
From this frail body, and this earth you gave me;
But that etherial spark, which heaven inspired,
And kindled in my new-created soul.
You tell me, I have bargained with Ramirez,
To make his ransom cheap.
_Vera. _ To make it nothing,
To rob thy father of his victory,
And, at my cost, oblige my mortal foe.
Fool, dost thou know the value of a kingdom?
_Alph. _ I think I do, because I won a kingdom.
_Vera. _ And knowest not how to keep it.
_Ram. _ What claim have you? What right to my Castile?
_Vera. _ The right of conquest; for, when kings make war,
No law betwixt two sovereigns can decide,
But that of arms, where fortune is the judge,
Soldiers the lawyers, and the bar the field
_Alph. _ But with what conscience can you keep that crown,
To which you claim no title but the sword?
_Vera. _ Then ask that question of thyself, when thou
Thyself art king. I will retain my conquest;
And if thou art so mean, so poor of soul,
As to refuse thy sword in keeping it,
Then Garcia's aid,--
Whose share of honour in that glorious day
Was more than thine,--during my life, shall guard it,
And, at my death, shall heir it.
_Alph. _ Don Garcia is indeed a valiant prince;
But this large courtesy, this over-praise
You give his worth, in any other mouth,
Were villainy to me.
_Xim. _ That was too much, Alphonso; shew the reverence
That sons should bear to fathers.
But then to drag me after:--for, to die,
And yet in death to conquer, is my wish.
_Clean. _ Then have your wish: The gods at last are kind,
And have provided you a sword that's worthy
To match your own: 'Tis an Egyptian's too.
_Cleom. _ Is there that hidden treasure in thy country?
The gods be praised, for such a foe I want.
_Clean. _ Not such a foe, but such a friend am I.
I would fall first, for fear I should survive you,
And pull you after to make sure in death,
To be your undivided friend for ever.
_Cleom. _ Then enter we into each other's breasts,
'Tis a sharp passage, yet a kind one too.
But, to prevent the blind mistake of swords,
Lest one drop first, and leave his friend behind,
Both thrust at once, and home, and at our hearts:
Let neither stand on guard, but let our bosoms
Lie open to each other in our death,
As in our life they were.
_Clean. _ I seal it thus. [_Kiss and embrace. _
_Panth. _ And where's my part? You shut me out, like churls,
While you devour the feast of death betwixt you.
_Cleom. _ Cheer up thy soul, and thou shalt die, Pantheus,
But in thy turn; there's death enough for all.
But, as I am thy master, wait my leisure,
And honestly compose my limbs to rest,
Then serve thyself. --Now, are you ready, friend?
_Clean. _ I am.
_Cleom. _ Then this to our next happy meeting.
[_They both push together, then stagger backwards, and fall
together in each other's Arms. _
_Clean. _ Speak, have I served you to your wish, my friend?
_Cleom. _ Yes, friend----thou hast----I have thee in my heart----
Say----art thou sped?
_Clean. _ I am,--'tis my last breath.
_Cleom. _ And mine----then both are happy. [_Both die. _
_Panth. _ So, this was well performed, and soon dispatched;
Both sound asleep already,
And farewell both for one short moment.
[_Trumpets sound Victory within. _
Those are the foes; our little band is lost
For want of these defenders. I must hasten,
Lest I be forced to live, and led in triumph,
Defrauded of my fate. I've earned it well,
And finished all my task: This is my place,
Just at my master's feet. --Guard him, ye gods,
And save his sacred corpse from public shame.
[_He falls on his Sword, and lies at the foot of_
CLEOMENES. --_Dies. _
_Enter_ SOSIBIUS, CASSANDRA, _and Egyptians_.
_Sosib. _ 'Twas what my heart foreboded: There he lies,
Extended by the man whom best he loved!
A better friend than son.
_Cas. _ What's he, or thou? or Ptolemy? or Egypt?
Or all the world, to Cleomenes lost?
_Sosib. _ Then I suspected right. If my revenge
Can ease my sorrow, this the king shall know,
That thou may'st reap the due reward of treason,
And violated love.
_Cas. _ Thy worst, old dotard.
I wish to die; but if my mind should change,
So well I know my power, that thou art lost.
_Sosib. _ The king's arrival shall decide our fate. --
Mean time, to show how much I honour virtue,
Take up that hero's body, bear it high,
Like the procession of a deity:
Let his armed figure on his tomb be set,
And we, like slaves, lie grovelling at his feet,
Whose glories growing till his latest breath,
Excelled all others, and his own in death. [_Exeunt. _
EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.
This day, the Poet, bloodily inclined,
Has made me die, full sore against my mind!
Some of you naughty men, I fear, will cry,
Poor rogue! would I might teach thee how to die!
Thanks for your love; but I sincerely say,
I never mean to die, your wicked way.
Well, since it is decreed all flesh must go,
(And I am flesh,--at least for aught you know)
I first declare, I die with pious mind,
In perfect charity with all mankind.
Next for my will:----I have, in my dispose,
Some certain moveables would please you beaux;
As, first, my youth; for, as I have been told,
Some of you modish sparks are devilish old.
My chastity I need not leave among ye;
For, to suspect old fops, were much to wrong ye.
You swear you're sinners; but for all your haste,
Your misses shake their heads, and find you chaste.
I give my courage to those bold commanders,
Who stay with us, and dare not go for Flanders.
I leave my truth (to make his plot more clear)
To Mr Fuller, when he next shall swear[45].
I give my judgment, craving all your mercies,
To those that leave good plays, for damned dull farces.
My small devotion let the gallants share,
That come to ogle us at evening prayer.
I give my person----let me well consider,----
Faith e'en to him that is the fairest bidder;
To some rich hunks, if any be so bold
To say those dreadful words, _To have and hold_.
But stay--to give, and be bequeathing still,
When I'm so poor, is just like Wickham's will:
Like that notorious cheat, vast sums I give,
Only that you may keep me while I live[46].
Buy a good bargain, gallants, while you may;
I'll cost you but your half-a-crown a day.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 41: Ægiatis was the first wife of Cleomenes. The reader
will find an account of the modest custom of Sparta here alluded to,
with a curious advantage taken of it by a stranger, in "Les Voyages
D'Antenor. "]
[Footnote 42: It is surprising that Dryden has not here availed himself
of the beautiful and affectionate apostrophe of Cleomenes, when he saw
his brother Eucleidas overpowered in the battle of Sellasia: "Thou art
lost, dear brother! lost for ever, thou brave example to our Spartan
youth, and theme of our matrons' songs! "]
[Footnote 43: This very appropriate simile is taken literally from
Plutarch. See the prefixed Life of Cleomenes, p. 239. ]
[Footnote 44: This sentiment was used, and absolutely acted upon, by
the famous Hewet, in very similar circumstances to those of Cleomenes.
"Being taken with a suppression of urine," says Smollet, "he resolved,
in imitation of Pomponius Atticus, to take himself off by abstinence;
and this resolution he executed like an ancient Roman. He saw company
to the last, cracked his jokes, conversed freely, and entertained his
guests with music. On the third day of his fast, he found himself
entirely freed of his complaint, but refused taking sustenance. He
said, the most disagreeable part of the voyage was past; and he should
be a cursed fool indeed to put about ship, when he was just entering
the harbour. In these sentiments he persisted, without any marks of
affectation; and thus finished his course with such ease and serenity,
as would have done honour to the firmest Stoic of antiquity. "--_Note
upon the Expedition of Humphrey Clinker. _]
[Footnote 45: William Fuller was an informer, who pretended, about this
time, to make discovery of a formidable plot, by the Jacobites, against
the government. But his luck was not so great as that of his prototype,
Titus Oates; for the House of Commons finding him unable to produce the
witnesses, to whom he referred for support of his tale, on the 24th
February 1691, declared him "a notorious impostor, a cheat, and a false
accuser, having scandalized their Majesties, and their government,
abused this house, and falsely accused several persons of honour and
quality. " Fuller was prosecuted by the Attorney General for this
offence, and punished by the pillory; notwithstanding which he did not
profit by Mrs Bracegirdle's legacy, so as to make "his next plot more
clear;" for, in 1702, he was sentenced to the same painful elevation,
for publishing an impudent forgery, concerning the birth of the Prince
of Wales, son to James II. --See State Trials, vol. VI. p. 442; and the
Journals of the House of Commons, for February 1691. ]
[Footnote 46: Of Wickham I can learn nothing; but the nature of his
imposture is easily to be gathered from the text. ]
LOVE TRIUMPHANT:
OR
NATURE WILL PREVAIL.
A
TRAGI-COMEDY.
----_Quod optanti Divûm promittere nemo
Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultrò. _ VIRG.
LOVE TRIUMPHANT.
This piece, which concluded our author's labours as a dramatic poet,
was unsuccessful when represented, and affords very little pleasure
when perused. If we except "Amboyna," our author never produced a play,
where the tragic part had less interest, or the comic less humour.
For the faults of "Amboyna," Dryden pleaded the barren nature of the
subject, chosen not with a view to dramatic effect, but to attain a
political purpose, and the hurry of writing upon a temporary theme.
But that he should have failed, in a play avowedly intended to crown
his dramatic labours, where the story was of his own device, and the
composition at his own leisure, can only be imputed to that occasional
flatness, or cessation of the divine influence, as an ancient would
have expressed it, from which men of the highest poetic genius are not
exempted. In despite of all cold reasoning upon this subject, the fact
is irresistible, that our capacity of exerting mental talents, is not
more absolute than that which we possess over our bodily powers. We are
in each case limited by a thousand external and internal circumstances,
which occasion the greatest and most involuntary inequalities, between
our happier and our inferior efforts, of mental abilities or of
corporeal strength. It can only be to the temporary failure of the
poetic inspiration, which, like the wind of heaven, bloweth where it
listeth, and neither to want of labour, nor to impaired talents, that
we are to attribute the inferiority of "Love Triumphant," to almost all
Dryden's other compositions.
The plot is unhappily chosen. For, as we have had already occasion to
notice, stories turning, or appearing to turn, upon incestuous passion,
have seldom been successful upon the modern stage[47]. Davies, in his
"Dramatic Miscellanies," attributes Garrick's renouncing his intention
of reviving the admirable old play of "King and no King," to the ardent
passion which Arbaces conceives for his supposed sister; and which that
excellent judge suspected would not be tolerated in our age. "Phædra
and Hippolitus," though most powerfully supported, both by actors and
admirers, failed for the same reason; and, according to Davies, even
the various excellencies of "Don Sebastian" were unable to expiate
the disgust, excited by the unpleasing discovery of his relation
to Almeyda. While "Love Triumphant" labours under this capital and
disagreeable defect, little ingenuity can be discovered in the story,
abstracted from that consideration. The king of Castile suffers his
sole and only offspring to remain in the court of a rival and hostile
monarch, and even to head armies against him, supposing himself the son
of his enemy. The virtuous Queen of Arragon cultivates and encourages
a passion, having all the moral guilt of an incestuous attachment,
between her own daughter and her supposed son. The tyrant Veramond is
the only person who acts upon rational principles through the piece. He
refuses the liberty of a rival king to the petulant demand of Alphonso;
and not very unreasonably proposes to separate his son and daughter,
before worse consequences arose from their infamous and impudently
avowed passion. But by this very natural conduct, he gains the hatred
of his wife, his children, and his subjects:
_Miranda canit, sed non credenda, poeta. _
After so many and such violent stretches of probability, the author
does not deign to wind up the plot, otherwise than by a sudden change
in the temper and resolutions of Veramond, a conclusion which he
himself admits in general to be grossly inartificial, and which in the
present case is peculiarly infelicitous. The ruling passion of Veramond
seems to be a hatred of his rival Ramirez, and a sort of instinctive
antipathy to Alphonso, even when he believes him to be his own son,
just arrived from conquest in his behalf. This hatred and aversion
was not likely to be abated, by the objects of them turning out to be
father and son; nor much soothed, by the circumstance of their making
him prisoner in his own metropolis. Yet, in this situation, moved by a
few soft speeches from Celidea, who had taken a fancy to the intended
husband of her sister, the tyrant of Arragon alters his whole family
arrangements, and habits of mind; and takes his hated foes into his
family and bosom, merely that the play may be concluded. The author
of these inconsistencies can hardly escape the censure of Aristotle,
against which he has pleaded in the preface.
With regard to the poetry of "Love Triumphant," it is somewhat
remarkable, that, in the most laboured scenes of this last effort of
his tragic muse, Dryden has had recourse to his discarded mistress,
Rhyme. As this could hardly arise from an alteration of his final
opinion, it may have been owing to a consciousness, that there was
some deficiency in the piece, which the harmony of numbers might veil,
though it could not supply. The turn of the dialogue, also, is quite in
our poet's early manner. The lovers, in the first scene of the second
act, burning with a horrible passion, which they felt it death to
conceal, and infamy and mortal sin to avow, communicate their feelings
to each other in alternate couplets, like two contending Arcadians.
Their horror evaporates in antithesis, and their passion in quaint
prettinesses. Witness the speech of Alphonso:
_Alph. _ Oh raging, impious, and yet hopeless fire!
Not daring to possess what I desire;
Condemn'd to suffer what I cannot bear;
Tortur'd with love, and furious with despair.
Of all the pains which wretched mortals prove,
The fewest remedies belong to love:
But ours has none; for if we should enjoy,
Our fatal cure must both of us destroy.
Oh dear Victoria, cause of all my pain!
Oh dear Victoria, whom I would not gain!
Victoria, for whose sake I would survive:
Victoria, for whose sake I dare not live.
If the tragic part of "Love Triumphant" have little merit, the comic
has even less. The absurdity of the two gallants disguising themselves,
in hopes to pass for the deceased Conde upon a mistress, who had
borne him two children, is too gross for a puppet-show, or pantomime;
and there is nothing in the dialogue to attone for the flatness, and
extravagance of the plot. It may, however, be remarked, that Sancho,
a tawdry and conceited coxcomb, the son of a Jewish usurer, and
favoured by the father of his mistress, only for his wealth, has some
resemblance in manners and genealogy to a much more pleasant character,
that of Isaac in the "Duenna. "
It is impossible to dismiss a performance of Dryden, without some
tribute of praise. The verse, where it is employed, possesses, as
usual, all the dignity which numbers can give to language; and the
Song upon Jealousy, as well as that in the character of a Girl, have
superior merit.
The play was received as ill as might be; so at least we are informed
by a curious letter, preserved by Mr Malone, dated 22d March 1693-4,
in which the writer, after chuckling over the failure of the "Double
Dealer," and the absolute damnation of "Love Triumphant," concludes,
that the success of Southerne's "Fatal Marriage" will encourage the
minor poets, "and vex huffing Dryden, and Congreve, to madness[48]. "
Dryden himself, it may be noticed, says nothing in the preface
concerning the reception of the piece: all authorities, however, state
it to have been unfavourable; and thus, as Dr Johnson has remarked,
this great poet opened and closed his theatrical career with bad
success; a fact, which may secure the inexperienced author from
despondence, and teach him who has gained reputation, how little he
ought to presume on its stability.
"Love Triumphant" was first acted and published in 1693-4.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 47: See Introduction to Oedipus, vol. VI. p. 121. ]
[Footnote 48: "The second play is Mr Dryden's, called "Love Triumphant,
or Nature will prevail. " It is a tragi-comedy; but, in my opinion, one
of the worst he ever writ, if not the very worst: the comical part
descends beneath the style and show of a Bartholomew-Fair droll. It was
damned by the universal cry of the town, _nemine contradicente_ but the
conceited poet. He says in his prologue, that this is the last the town
must expect from him; he had done himself a kindness, had he taken his
leave before. "]
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
JAMES,
EARL OF SALISBURY, &c. [49]
MY LORD,
This poem, being the last which I intend for the theatre, ought to
have the same provision made for it, which old men make for their
youngest child, which is commonly a favourite. They, who were born
before it, carry away the patrimony by right of eldership; this is
to make its fortune in the world, and since I can do little for it,
natural affection calls upon me to put it out, at least, into the best
service which I can procure for it; and, as it is the usual practice
of our decayed gentry to look about them for some illustrious family,
and their endeavour to fix their young darling, where he may be both
well educated and supported;[50] I have herein also followed the custom
of the world, and am satisfied in my judgment, that I could not have
made a more worthy choice. It is true, I am not vain enough to think
that anything of mine can in any measure be worthy of your lordship's
patronage; and yet I should be ashamed to leave the stage, without some
acknowledgment of your former favours, which I have more than once
experienced. Besides the honour of my wife's relation to your noble
house,[51] to which my sons may plead some title, though I cannot;
you have been pleased to take a particular notice of me, even in this
lowness of my fortunes, to which I have voluntarily reduced myself;
and of which I have no reason to be ashamed. This condescension,
my lord, is not only becoming of your antient family, but of your
personal character in the world; and, if I value myself the more for
your indulgence to me, and your opinion of me, it is because any thing
which you like, ought to be considered as something in itself; and
therefore I must not undervalue my present labours, because I have
presumed to make you my patron. A man may be just to himself, though he
ought not to be partial; and I dare affirm, that the several manners
which I have given to the persons of this drama, are truly drawn from
nature, all perfectly distinguished from each other; that the fable is
not injudiciously contrived; that the turns of fortune are not managed
unartfully; and that the last revolution is happily enough invented.
Aristotle, I acknowledge, has declared, that the catastrophe which is
made from the change of will, is not of the first order of beauty; but
it may reasonably be alledged, in defence of this play, as well as of
the "Cinna," (which I take to be the very best of Corneille's,) that
the philosopher, who made the rule, copied all the laws, which he gave
for the theatre, from the authorities and examples of the Greek poets,
which he had read; and from their poverty of invention, he could get
nothing but mean conclusions of wretched tales: where the mind of the
chief actor was, for the most part, changed without art or preparation;
only because the poet could not otherwise end his play. Had it been
possible for Aristotle to have seen the "Cinna," I am confident he
would have altered his opinion; and concluded, that a simple change of
will might be managed with so much judgment, as to render it the most
agreeable, as well as the most surprising part of the whole fable;
let Dacier, and all the rest of the modern critics, who are too much
bigotted to the ancients, contend ever so much to the contrary. I was
afraid that I had been the inventor of a new sort of designing, when,
in my third act, I make a discovery of my Alphonso's true parentage.
If it were so, what wonder had it been, that dramatic poetry, though a
limited art, yet might be capable of receiving some innovations for
the better? But afterwards I casually found, that Menander and Terence,
in the "Heautontimoroumenos," had been before me; and made the same
kind of discovery in the same act. As for the mechanic unities;--that
of time is much within the compass of an astrological day, which begins
at twelve, and ends at the same hour the day following: that of place
is not observed so justly by me, as by the ancients; for their scene
was always one, and almost constantly in some public place. Some of
the late French poets, and, amongst the English, my most ingenious
friend, Mr Congreve, have observed this rule strictly; though the place
was not altogether so public as a street. I have followed the example
of Corneille, and stretched the latitude to a street and palace, not
far distant from each other in the same city. They, who will not
allow this liberty to a poet, make it a very ridiculous thing for an
audience to suppose themselves, sometimes to be in a field, sometimes
in a garden, and at other times in a chamber. There are not, indeed,
so many absurdities in their supposition, as in ours; but it is an
original absurdity for the audience to suppose themselves to be in
any other place, than in the very theatre in which they sit; which is
neither chamber, nor garden, nor yet a public place of any business,
but that of the representation. For my action it is evidently double;
and in that I have the most of the ancients for my examples. Yet I
dare not defend this way by reason, much less by their authority;
for their actions, though double, were of the same species; that is
to say, in their comedies, two amours; and their persons were better
linked in interests than mine. Yet even this is a fault which I should
often practise, if I were to write again, because it is agreeable to
the English genius. We love variety more than any other nation; and
so long as the audience will not be pleased without it, the poet is
obliged to humour them. On condition they were cured of this public
vice, I could be content to change my method, and gladly give them a
more reasonable pleasure. This digression, my lord, is not altogether
the purpose of an epistle dedicatory; yet it is expected, that somewhat
should be said, even here, in relation to criticism; at least in
vindication of my address, that you may not be desired to patronize a
poem, which is wholly unworthy of your protection. Though, after all, I
doubt not but some will liken me to the lover in a modern comedy, who
was combing his peruke,[52] and setting his cravat before his mistress;
and being asked by her, when he intended to begin his court, replied,
"He had been doing it all this while. " Yet thus it happens, my lord,
that self will come into all addresses of this nature, though it is
the most unmannerly word of the world in civil conversation, and the
most ungrateful to all hearers. For which reason, I, who have nothing
to boast of, but my misfortunes, ought to be the first to banish it;
especially since I have so large a field before me, as your inborn
goodness, your evenness of temper, your humility in so ample a share of
fortune as you possess, your humanity to all men, and your kindness to
your friends; besides your natural and acquired endowments, and your
brotherly love to your relations. _Notus in fratres animo paterno_, was
the great commendation which Horace gave to one of his patrons; and it
is that praise which particularly crowns your other virtues. But here,
my lord, I am obliged, in common prudence to stop short, and to cast
under a veil some other of your praises, as the chemists use to shadow
the secret of their great elixir, lest, if it were made public, the
world should make a bad use of it. [53] To enjoy our own quiet, without
disturbing that of others, is the practice of every moral man; and, for
the rest, to live chearfully and splendidly, as it is becoming your
illustrious birth, so it is likewise to thank God for his benefits in
the best manner. It is unnecessary to wish you more worldly happiness
or content of mind, than you enjoy; but the continuance of both to
yourself, and your posterity, is earnestly desired by all who have the
honour to be known to you, and more particularly by,
MY LORD,
Your lordship's
most obedient and
most humbly devoted servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 49: James, the fourth Earl of Salisbury, was strongly
attached to the religion and cause of his former master, James II. ,
a reason, doubtless, for Dryden inscribing to him his last dramatic
offspring. There was also a connection betwixt our poet's lady and the
Earl, which is alluded to in the dedication. The Earl succeeded to the
title in 1683. ]
[Footnote 50: It was an ancient custom derived from the days of
chivalry, but which long survived them, that, as formerly the future
knight had to go through a preliminary course of education, as page and
squire to some person of rank and valour; so the pages of the quality,
so late as the Revolution, were the sons of gentlemen, and in no way
derogated from their birth by accepting that menial situation. This is
often alluded to in the old plays. In the "New Inn" for example, when
Lovel asks of the Host his son for a page, we have an account of the
decay of the institution from its original purposes and respectability.
_Lovel. _ Call you that desperate, which by a line
Of institution from our ancestors
Hath been derived down to us, and received
In a succession, for the noblest way
Of breeding up our youth in letters, arms,
Fair mien, discourses, civil exercise,
And all the blazon of a gentleman?
Where can he learn to vault, to ride, to fence,
To move his body gracefuller? to speak
His language purer? or tune his mind
And manners more to the harmony of nature,
Than in these nurseries of nobility? ----
_Host.
_ Aye, that was when the nurseries self was noble,
And only virtue made it, not the market,
That titles were not vented at the drum
Or common outcry: Goodness gave the greatness,
And greatness worship: Every house became
An academy of honour, and those parts
We see departed in the practice now
Quite from the institution.
_Lovel. _ Why do you say so,
Or think so enviously? do they not still
Learn there the centaur's skill, the art of Thrace,
To ride? or Pollux' mystery, to fence?
The Pyrrhick gesture, both to dance and spring
In armour? to be active for the wars?
To study figures, numbers, and proportions,
May yield them great in counsel? and the arts,
Grave Nestor and the wise Ulysses practised,
To make their English sweet upon their tongue,
As reverend Chaucer says?
_Host. _ Sir, you mistake. --
To play Sir Pandarus my copy hath it,
And carry messages to Madam Cresside;
Instead of backing the brave steed o' mornings,
To mount the chamber-maid, and, for a leap
O' the vaulting horse, to ply the vaulting house;
For exercise of arms, a bale of dice,
Or two or three packs of cards, to shew the cheat,
And nimbleness of hand; mistake a cloak
From my lord's back, and pawn it; ease his pockets
Of a superfluous watch; or geld a jewel
Of an odd stone or so; twinge two or three buttons
From off my lady's gown. These are the arts,
Or seven liberal deadly sciences
Of pagery, or rather paganism,
As the tides run; to which if he apply him,
He may perhaps take a degree at Tyburn
A year the earlier; come to read a lecture
Upon Aquinas at St Thomas a watering's,
And so go forth a laureat in hemp circle.
_New Inn. _ Act I. Scene 3d. ]
[Footnote 51: The second earl of Salisbury married an aunt of Lady
Elizabeth Dryden; his son, lord Cranbourne, was grandfather of James,
the fourth earl; and therein consisted the relationship between
Dryden's sons, and the family of his patron, to which it is somewhat
difficult, in modern days, to give an exact name. ]
[Footnote 52: This attitude and employment, however inconsistent
with our modern ideas of good breeding, seems to have been an air
frequently assumed by the beaus of the seventeenth century. In a play
by Killigrew, called the "Parson's Wedding," we have this direction:
"Enter Jack Constant, Will Sad, Jolly, and a footman: they comb their
heads, and talk. " Our author alludes to the same fashion, in the
Prologue to the "Conquest of Grenada," Part II.
Straight every man who thinks himself a wit,
Perks up, and, managing his comb with grace,
With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face.
The same custom is alluded to by Congreve, and is supposed to have
remained fashionable during Queen Anne's time. ]
[Footnote 53: Mr Malone conjectures, with great probability, that this
virtue, which would not bear the light, must have been lord Salisbury's
secret attachment to the exiled monarch. ]
PROLOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.
As when some treasurer lays down the stick,
Warrants are signed for ready money thick,
And many desperate debentures paid,
Which never had been, had his lordship staid:
So now, this poet, who forsakes the stage,
Intends to gratify the present age.
One warrant shall be signed for every man;
All shall be wits that will, and beaux that can:
Provided still, this warrant be not shown,
And you be wits but to yourselves alone;[54]
Provided too, you rail at one another,
For there's no one wit, will allow a brother;
Provided also, that you spare this story,
Damn all the plays that e'er shall come before ye.
If one by chance prove good in half a score,
Let that one pay for all, and damn it more.
For if a good one 'scape among the crew, }
And you continue judging as you do, }
Every bad play will hope for damning too. }
You might damn this, if it were worth your pains; }
Here's nothing you will like; no fustian scenes, }
And nothing too of--you know what he means. }
No double _entendres_, which you sparks allow,
To make the ladies look they know not how;
Simply as 'twere, and knowing both together,
Seeming to fan their faces in cold weather.
But here's a story, which no books relate,
Coin'd from our own old poet's addle-pate.
The fable has a moral too, if sought; }
But let that go; for, upon second thought, }
He fears but few come hither to be taught. }
Yet if you will be profited, you may;
And he would bribe you too, to like his play.
He dies, at least to us, and to the stage,
And what he has, he leaves this noble age.
He leaves you, first, all plays of his inditing,
The whole estate, which he has got by writing.
The beaux may think this nothing but vain praise; }
They'll find it something, the testator says; }
For half their love is made from scraps of plays. }
To his worst foes, he leaves his honesty,
That they may thrive upon't as much as he.
He leaves his manners to the roaring boys,
Who come in drunk, and fill the house with noise.
He leaves to the dire critics of his wit,
His silence and contempt of all they writ.
To Shakespear's critic, he bequeaths the curse,
To find his faults; and yet himself make worse;[55]
A precious reader, in poetic schools,
Who by his own examples damns his rules.
Last, for the fair, he wishes you may be,
From your dull critics, the lampooners, free.
Though he pretends no legacy to leave you,
An old man may at least good wishes give you.
Your beauty names the play; and may it prove
To each, an omen of triumphant love!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 54: This seems to be an allusion to the pretended dukedom of
Marine, in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Noble Gentleman," which had been
revived in 1688, by Tom D'urfey, under the title of the "Three Dukes of
Dunstable. "
_Gent. _ Hark you, sir, the king doth know you are a duke.
_Mar. _ No! does he?
_Gent. _ Yes, and is content you shall be; but with this caution,
That none know't but yourself; for, if you do,
He'll take't away by act of parliament.
_Mar_. There is my hand, and, whilst I live or breathe,
No living wight shall know I am a duke,]
[Footnote 55: I do not know if any individual is here levelled
at. Shakespeare has had his critics in all ages, who, like the
inexpert tinker, have generally made two holes in patching one. In
the end of the seventeenth century, his plays were usually acted
in a sophisticated state, as altered by Tate, D'Avenant, Crowne,
Ravenscroft, and others. The last, in the preface to his alteration
of "Titus Andronicus," has the impudence to say, "That if the reader
will compare the old play with his copy, he will find that none in all
that author's works ever received greater alterations or additions, the
language not only refined, but many scenes entirely new, besides most
of the principal characters heightened, and the plot much increased. "]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
VERAMOND, _King of Arragon_.
ALPHONSO, _his supposed Son_.
GARCIA, _King of Navarre_.
RAMIREZ, _King of Castile_.
SANCHO, }
CARLOS, } _Two Colonels_.
LOPEZ, _an old Courtier_.
XIMENA, _Queen of Arragon_.
VICTORIA, _eldest daughter to the King and Queen_,
CELIDEA, _her Sister_.
DALINDA, _Daughter to_ LOPEZ.
_A Nurse with two Children. _
SCENE,--_Saragossa in Spain_.
LOVE TRIUMPHANT;
OR,
NATURE WILL PREVAIL.
ACT I.
SCENE I. --_A Presence-chamber. _
_At the drawing up of the Curtain_, VERAMOND, _King of Arragon,
appears_; XIMENA, _the Queen, by him_; VICTORIA, _their eldest
Daughter, on the right Hand; and_ CELIDEA, _their younger
Daughter, on the left; Courtiers stand attending in File on each
Side of the stage; The Men on the one Hand, the Ladies on the
other. Amongst the Men_, DON LOPEZ; _amongst the Women_, DALINDA,
_his Daughter_.
_Vera. _ Now the long wars betwixt Castile and Arragon
Are ended in the ruin of our foes;
And fierce Ramirez, the Castilian king,
Who tugged for empire with our warlike son,
In single combat taken, adds his laurels
To the young victor's brow: our tender maids,
And trembling children, shall with scorn behold
The haughty captive, who had made his vaunts,
To lay their dwellings level; and with salt
To sow the place, where Saragossa stood.
_Xim. _ Processions, prayers, and public thanks to heaven,
Were fit to be decreed.
_Vera. _ Your sex is ever foremost in devotion.
But for our brave confederate, young Navarre,
He shall receive the prize reserved within
My breast; and such a one,
His youth and valour have right well deserved.
_Xim. _ I hear he comes along with our Alphonso,
And, next our son, did best.
_Vera. _ Perhaps as well;
Alphonso's action was indeed more glorious,
To buckle with a king in single fight,
And take him prisoner; but his fiery temper
Still hurries him to daring rash attempts.
_Xim. _ Alphonso is impetuous, but he's noble;
He will not take one atom from Navarre
Of what's his right, nor needs he.
_Vera. _ If he should----
_Xim. _ You take too bad impressions of your son.
_Vera. _ No more, Ximena, for I hear their trumpets
Proclaim their entry; and our own their welcome.
[_Trumpets from each side of the Stage. _
_Enter_ ALPHONSO _and_ GARCIA, _hand in hand. After them, the
Prisoner, King_ RAMIREZ, _alone; then the two Colonels_, SANCHO
_and_ CARLOS; _after them, other Officers of the Army_. VERAMOND
_advances to meet them; the Queen and the two Princesses follow
him_. ALPHONSO _first kneels to his Father and Mother, and
immediately runs to salute his Sister_ VICTORIA _tenderly; then
slightly salutes_ CELIDEA, _and returns to_ VICTORIA. _In the mean
time_ VERAMOND _embraces Don_ GARCIA, _who afterwards kisses the
Queen's hand_.
_Vera. _ The triumphs of this day, auspicious prince,
Proclaim themselves your gift, to us and Arragon;
From you they are derived; to you return;
For what we are, you make us.
_Gar. _ May heaven and your brave son, and, above all,
Your own prevailing genius, guard your age
From such another day of doubtful fate!
But if it come, then Garcia will be proud
To be again the foil of great Alphonso.
_Vera. _ It might, and well it had become my son,
[_Looking about for_ ALPHONSO.
To speak your words; but you are still before him,
As in the fight you were.
_Xim. _ Turn to your father, and present your duty;
[_Pulling_ ALPHONSO _by the sleeve_.
He thinks himself neglected, and observes ye.
[_Here_ GARCIA, _after bowing to the King and Queen, goes to the
two Princesses, and salutes them. After a little dumb courtship,
he leads out_ VICTORIA _and_ CELIDEA; _the Ladies follow_;
ALPHONSO _observes it with discontent, and then turns to his
Father_.
_Alph. _ I saw you, sir, engaged in ceremonies,
And therefore thought I might defer this office,
To give you time for decent thanks to Garcia.
_Vera. _ You rather went where more affection called you.
_Alph. _ I may have been too slack in outward shew;
But when your service, and my honour called,
None was more forward in the fighting part.
_Vera. _ The rugged business of the war is over;
Softness and sweetness, and a gentle air,
Would make a mixture, that would temper well
That inborn fierceness of your boiling mind.
_Alph. _ I stand corrected, sir; and let me tell you now,
That sweetness, which so well you have advised,
Fortune has put in your own hand to practise
Upon this royal soldier; till we fought, [_Showing_ RAMIREZ.
Your equal, now your prisoner of the war;
And once, (alas, that still it is not so! )
The partner of your thoughts, and bosom friend.
_Xim. _ [_Aside. _] Heaven, that inspired thee with this pious thought,
Add virtue and persuasion to thy words,
And bend my stubborn lord!
_Vera. _ Say, have you more to speak on his behalf?
_Alph. _ Much more; his fair behaviour in the war,
Not plundering towns, nor burning villages;
His bravery of mind, his dauntless courage,
When, hand to hand, he made me stoop beneath
His weighty blows, and often forced to doubt
The fortune of my youth against his age.
_Vera. _ Proceed, proceed; for this is but to say,
That thou wert almost worsted in the combat.
_Alph. _ I have already said much more than needs,
To move a noble mind;
Such as my father's is, or ought to be.
_Vera. _ Come, let me hear my duty from my son.
_Alph. _ If more be wanting on so plain a theme,
Think on the slippery state of human things,
The strange vicissitudes, and sudden turns
Of war, and fate recoiling on the proud,
To crush a merciless and cruel victor.
Think, there are bounds of fortune set above,
Periods of time, and progress of success,
Which none can stop before the appointed limits,
And none can push beyond.
_Xim. _ He reasons justly, sir.
_Alph. _ Ramirez is an honourable foe;
Use him like what he is, and make him yours.
_Ver. _ By heaven, I think,
That, when you coped with him in single fight,
You had so much ado to conquer then,
You fear to engage him in a second combat.
_Alph. _ The world knows how I fought:
But old men have prerogative of tongue,
And kings of power, and parents that of nature.
Your pardon, royal sir.
_Vera. _ I give it you;
Your battle now is paid at the full price.
[XIMENA _whispers_ ALPHONSO _for a moment_.
_Alph. _ Fear not, I curb myself. [_To_ XIMENA.
_Ram. _ [_To_ VERA. ] Your son has mentioned honourable terms;
Propose them, Veramond, and for his sake,
So much his valour and rare courtesy
Have wrought upon my soul, I will accept them.
_Vera. _ Who gave you leave
To speak of terms, or even to speak at all?
_Ram. _ And who should give me liberty of speaking,
But heaven, who gave me speech?
_Vera. _ How dares my captive
Assume this boldness to his conqueror?
_Ram. _ You have not conquered me; you could not, Veramond.
'Tis to Alphonso's arms that I am prisoner.
_Vera. _ Under my auspices Alphonso fought;
He led my forces.
_Ram. _ Yes, and made them too
By his example; else they ne'er had conquered.
_Vera. _ A bargain! a plain compact! a confederacy,
Betwixt my son and thee, to give me part
Of what my better stars make all my own.
_Alph. _ Sir, I must speak----
_Vera. _ Dare not, I charge thee, dare not!
_Alph. _ Not vindicate my honour?
By heaven I will, to all the world, to you:
My honour is my own, and not derived
From this frail body, and this earth you gave me;
But that etherial spark, which heaven inspired,
And kindled in my new-created soul.
You tell me, I have bargained with Ramirez,
To make his ransom cheap.
_Vera. _ To make it nothing,
To rob thy father of his victory,
And, at my cost, oblige my mortal foe.
Fool, dost thou know the value of a kingdom?
_Alph. _ I think I do, because I won a kingdom.
_Vera. _ And knowest not how to keep it.
_Ram. _ What claim have you? What right to my Castile?
_Vera. _ The right of conquest; for, when kings make war,
No law betwixt two sovereigns can decide,
But that of arms, where fortune is the judge,
Soldiers the lawyers, and the bar the field
_Alph. _ But with what conscience can you keep that crown,
To which you claim no title but the sword?
_Vera. _ Then ask that question of thyself, when thou
Thyself art king. I will retain my conquest;
And if thou art so mean, so poor of soul,
As to refuse thy sword in keeping it,
Then Garcia's aid,--
Whose share of honour in that glorious day
Was more than thine,--during my life, shall guard it,
And, at my death, shall heir it.
_Alph. _ Don Garcia is indeed a valiant prince;
But this large courtesy, this over-praise
You give his worth, in any other mouth,
Were villainy to me.
_Xim. _ That was too much, Alphonso; shew the reverence
That sons should bear to fathers.
