No More Learning

_ But, above all human blessing,
Take a warlike loyal brother,
Never prince had such another;
Conduct, courage, truth expressing,
All heroic worth possessing. [_Here the Heroes' dance is performed. _

_Chor. of all. _ But above all, &c. [_Ritor. _

_Whilst a Symphony is playing, a very large, and a very glorious
Machine descends; the figure of it oval, all the clouds shining with
gold, abundance of Angels and Cherubins flying about them, and
playing in them; in the midst of it sits_ APOLLO _on a throne of
gold; he comes from the machine to_ ALBION.

_Phoeb. _ From Jove's imperial court,
Where all the gods resort,
In awful counsel met,
Surprising news I bear;
Albion the great
Must change his seat,
For he is adopted there.

_Venus. _ What stars above shall we displace?
Where shall he fill a room divine?

_Nept. _ Descended from the sea-gods' race,
Let him by my Orion shine.

_Phoeb. _ No, not by that tempestuous sign;
Betwixt the Balance and the Maid,
The just,
August,
And peaceful shade,
Shall shine in heaven with beams displayed,
While great Albanius is on earth obeyed.

_Venus. _ Albanius, lord of land and main,
Shall with fraternal virtues reign;
And add his own,
To fill the throne;
Adored and feared, and loved no less;
In war victorious, mild in peace,
The joy of man, and Jove's increase.

_Acac. _ O thou! who mountest the æthereal throne,
Be kind and happy to thy own;
Now Albion is come,
The people of the sky
Run gazing, and cry,--Make room,
Make room, make room,
Make room for our new deity!

_Here_ ALBION _mounts the machine, which moves upward slowly. _

_A full chorus of all that_ ACACIA _sung. _

_Ven. _ Behold what triumphs are prepared to grace
Thy glorious race,
Where love and honour claim an equal place;
Already they are fixed by fate,
And only ripening ages wait.

_The Scene changes to a Walk of very high trees; at the end of the
Walk is a view of that part of Windsor, which faces Eton; in the
midst of it is a row of small trees, which lead to the Castle-Hill.
In the first scene, part of the Town and part of the Hill. In the
next, the Terrace Walk, the King's lodgings, and the upper part of
St George's chapel, then the keep; and, lastly, that part of the
Castle beyond the keep. _

_In the air is a vision of the Honours of the Garter; the Knights in
procession, and the King under a canopy; beyond this, the upper end
of St George's hall. _

FAME _rises out of the middle of the Stage, standing on a Globe, on
which is the Arms of England: the Globe rests on a Pedestal; on the
front of the Pedestal in drawn a Man with a long, lean, pale face,
with fiends' wings, and snakes twisted round his body; he is
encompassed by several fanatical rebellious heads, who suck poison
from him, which runs out of a tap in his side. _[11]

_Fame. _ Renown, assume thy trumpet!
From pole to pole resounding
Great Albion's name;
Great Albion's name shall be
The theme of Fame, shall be great Albion's name,
Great Albion's name, great Albion's name.
Record the garter's glory;
A badge for heroes, and for kings to bear;
For kings to bear!
And swell the immortal story,
With songs of Gods, and fit for Gods to hear;
And swell the immortal story,
With songs of Gods, and fit for Gods to hear;
For Gods to hear.

_A full Chorus of all the Voices and Instruments; trumpets and
hautboys make Ritornello's of all_ FAME _sings; and twenty-four
Dancers, all the time in a chorus, and dance to the end of the
Opera. _


Footnotes:
1. The reader must recollect the orders of the Rump parliament to
general Monk, to destroy the gates and portcullises of the city of
London; which commission, by the bye, he actually executed, with
all the forms of contempt, although, in a day or two after, he took
up his quarters in the city, apologized for what had passed, and
declared against the parliament.

2. Dr. Titus Oates, the principal witness to the Popish Plot, was
accused of unnatural and infamous crimes. He was certainly a most
ineffably impudent, perjured villain.

3. The Chacon is supposed by Sir John Hawkins to be of Moorish or
Saracenic origin. "The characteristic of the Chacone is a bass, or
ground, consisting of four measures, wherein three crotchets make
the bar, and the repetition thereof with variations in the several
parts, from the beginning to the end of the air, which in respect
of its length, has no limit but the discretion of the composer. The
whole of the twelfth sonata of the second opera of Corelli is a
Chacone. " _Hist. of Music_, vol. iv. p. 388. There is also, I am
informed, a very celebrated Chacon composed by Jomelli.

4. By the _White Boys_ or _Property Boys_, are meant the adherents of
the Duke of Monmouth, who affected great zeal for liberty and
property, and assumed white badges, as marks of the innocence of
their intentions. When the Duke came to the famous Parliament held
at Oxford, "he was met by about 100 Batchellors all in white,
except black velvet caps, with white wands in their hands, who
divided themselves, and marched as a guard to his person. " _Account
of the Life of the Duke of Monmouth_, p. 107. In the Duke's tour
through the west of England, he was met at Exeter, by "a brave
company of brisk stout young men, all cloathed in linen waistcoats
and drawers, _white and harmless,_ having not so much as a stick in
their hands; they were in number about 900 or 1000. " _ibid. _ p.
103. See the notes on Absalom and Achitophel. The saints, on the
other hand, mean the ancient republican zealots and fanatics, who,
though they would willingly have joined in the destruction of
Charles, did not wish that Monmouth should succeed him, but aimed
at the restoration of the commonwealth. Hence the following dispute
betwixt Tyranny and Democracy.

5. The atrocious and blasphemous sentiment in the text was actually
used by the fanatics who murdered Sharpe, the archbishop of St
Andrews. When they unexpectedly met him during their search for
another person, they exclaimed, that "the Lord had delivered him
into their hands. "

6. It is easy to believe, that, whatever was the, nature of the
schemes nourished by Monmouth, Russel, and Essex, they could have
no concern with the low and sanguinary cabal of Ramsay, Walcot, and
Rumbold, who were all of them old republican officers and
commonwealth's men. The flight of Shaftesbury, whose bustling and
politic brain had rendered him the sole channel of communication
betwixt these parties, as well as the means of uniting them in one
common design, threw loose all connection between them; so that
each, after his retreat, seems to have acted independantly of, and
often in contradiction to the other.

7. The reader may judge, whether some distant and obscure allusion to
the trimming politics of Halifax, to whom the Duke of York, our
author's patron, was hostile, may not be here insinuated. During
the stormy session of his two last parliaments, Charles was much
guided by his temporising and camelion-like policy.

8. That is by fire. See next note.

9. The allegory of the one-eyed Archer, and the fire arising betwixt
him and Albion, will be made evident by the following extracts from
Sprat's history of the Conspiracy. In enumerating the persons
engaged in the Rye-house plot, he mentions "Richard Rumbold,
maltster, an old army officer, a desperate and bloody Ravaillac. "
After agitating several schemes for assassinating Charles, the
Rye-house was fixed upon as a spot which the king must necessarily
pass in his journey trom Newmarket, and which, being a solitary
moated house, in the actual occupation of Rumbold, afforded the
conspirators facility of previous concealment and subsequent
defence. "All other propositions, as subject to far more casualties
and hazards, soon gave place to that of the Rye, in Herefordshire,
a house then inhabited by the foresaid Richard Rumbold, who
proposed that to be the seat of the action, offering himself to
command the party, that was to do the work. Him, therefore, as the
most daring captain, and by reason of a blemish in one of his eyes,
they were afterwards wont, in common discourse, to call Hannibal;
often drinking healths to _Hannibal and his boys_, meaning Rumbold
and his _hellish crew_.

"Immediately upon the coaches coming within the gates and hedges
about the house, the conspirators were to divide into several
parties; some before, in the habit of labourers, were to overthrow
a cart in the narrowest passage, so as to prevent all possibility
of escape: others were to fight the guards, Walcot chusing that
part upon a punctilio of honour; others were to shoot at the
coachman, postillion, and horses; others to aim only at his
Majesty's coach, which party was to be under the particular
direction of Rumbold himself; the villain declaring beforehand,
that, upon that occasion, he would make use of a very good
blunderbuss, which was in West's possession, and blasphemously
adding, that Ferguson should first consecrate it. " . . . "But whilst
they were thus wholly intent on this barbarous work, and proceeded
securely in its contrivance without any the least doubt of a
prosperous success, behold! on a sudden, God miraculously
disappointed all their hopes and designs, by the terrible
conflagration unexpectedly breaking out at Newmarket. In which
extraordinary event there was one remarkable passage, that is not
so generally taken notice of, as, for the glory of God, and the
confusion of his Majesty's enemies, it ought to be.

"For, after that the approaching fury of the flames had driven the
king out of his own palace, his Majesty, at first, removed into
another quarter of the town, remote from the fire, and, as yet,
free from any annoyance of smoke and ashes. There his Majesty,
finding he might be tolerably well accommodated, had resolved to
stay, and continue his recreations as before, till the day first
named for his journey back to London. But his Majesty had no sooner
made that resolution, when the wind, as conducted by an invisible
power from above, presently changed about, and blew the smoke and
cinders directly on his new lodging, making them in a moment as
untenable as the other. Upon this, his Majesty being put to a new
shift, and not finding the like conveniency elsewhere, immediately
declared, he would speedily return to Whitehall, as he did; which
happening to be several days before the assassins expected him, or
their preparations for the Rye were in readiness, it may justly
give occasion to all the world to acknowledge, what one of the very
conspirators could not but do, _that it was a providential
fire. _"--Pages 51_ et seq. _

The proprietor of the Rye-house (for Rumbold was but a tenant)
shocked at the intended purpose, for which it was to have been
used, is said to have fired it with his own hand. This is the
subject of a poem, called the Loyal Incendiary, or the generous
_Boute-feu_.

10. The total ruin of those, who were directly involved in the
Rye-house, was little to be regretted, had it not involved the fate
of those who were pursuing reform, by means more manly and
constitutional,--the fate of Russel, Essex, and Sidney.

Rumbold, "the one-eyed archer," fled to Holland, and came to
Scotland with Argyle, on his ill-concerted expedition. He was
singled out and pursued, after the dispersion of his companions in
a skirmish. He defended himself with desperate resolution against
two armed peasants, till a third, coming behind him with a
pitch-fork, turned off his head-piece, when he was cut down and
made prisoner, exclaiming, "Cruel countryman, to use me thus, while
my face was to mine enemy. " He suffered the doom of a traitor at
Edinburgh, and maintained on the scaffold, with inflexible
firmness, the principles in which he had lived. He could never
believe, he said, that the many of human kind came into the world
bridled and saddled, and the few with whips and spurs to ride them.
"His rooted ingrained opinion, says Fountainhall, was for a
republic against monarchy, to pull down which he thought a duty,
and no sin. " At his death, he declared, that were every hair of his
head a man, he would venture them all in the good old cause.

11. "I must not," says Langbaine, "take the pains to acquaint my
reader, that by the man on the pedestal, &c. is meant the late Lord
Shaftesbury. I shall not pretend to pass my censure, whether he
deserved this usage from our author or no, but leave it to the
judgments of statesmen and politicians. " Shaftesbury having been
overturned in a carriage, received some internal injury which
required a constant discharge by an issue in his side. Hence he was
ridiculed under the name of _Tapski_. In a mock account of an
apparition, stated to have appeared to Lady Gray, it says, "Bid
Lord Shaftesbury have a care to his spigot--if he is tapt, all the
plot will run out. " _Ralph's History_, vol. i. p. 562. from a
pamphlet in Lord Somers' collection. There are various allusions to
this circumstance in the lampoons of the time. A satire called "The
Hypocrite," written by Carryl, concludes thus:

His body thus and soul together vie.
In vice's empire for the sovereignty;
In ulcers shut this does abound in sin,
Lazar without and Lucifer within.
The silver pipe is no sufficient drain
For the corruption of this little man;
Who, though he ulcers have in every part,
Is no where so corrupt as in his heart.

At length, in prosecution of this coarse and unhandsome jest, a
sort of vessel with a turn-cock was constructed for holding wine,
which was called a Shaftesbury, and used in the taverns of the
royal party.




EPILOGUE


After our Æsop's fable shown to-day,
I come to give the moral of the play.
Feigned Zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace;
But the last heat, Plain Dealing won the race:
Plain Dealing for a jewel has been known;
But ne'er till now the jewel of a crown.
When heaven made man, to show the work divine,
Truth was his image, stamped upon the coin:
And when a king is to a God refined,
On all he says and does he stamps his mind:
This proves a soul without alloy, and pure;
Kings, like their gold, should every touch endure.
To dare in fields is valour; but how few
Dare be so throughly valiant,--to be true!
The name of great, let other kings affect:
He's great indeed, the prince that is direct.
His subjects know him now, and trust him more
Than all their kings, and all their laws before.
What safety could their public acts afford?
Those he can break; but cannot break his word.
So great a trust to him alone was due;
Well have they trusted whom so well they knew.
The saint, who walked on waves, securely trod,
While he believed the beck'ning of his God;
But when his faith no longer bore him out,
Began to sink, as he began to doubt.
Let us our native character maintain;
'Tis of our growth, to be sincerely plain.
To excel in truth we loyally may strive,
Set privilege against prerogative:
He plights his faith, and we believe him just;
His honour is to promise, ours to trust.
Thus Britain's basis on a word is laid,
As by a word the world itself was made[1].


Footnote:
1. From this Epilogue we learn, what is confirmed by many proofs
elsewhere, that the attribute for which James desired to be
distinguished and praised, was that of openness of purpose, and
stern undeviating inflexibility of conduct. He scorned to disguise
his designs, either upon the religion or the constitution of his
country. He forgot that it was only the temporising concessions of
his brother which secured his way to the throne, when his
exclusion, or a civil war, seemed the only alternatives. His
brother was the reed, which bent before the whirlwind, and
recovered its erect posture when it had passed away; and James, the
inflexible oak, which the first tempest rooted up for ever.


* * * * *


DON SEBASTIAN.


A

TRAGEDY.


_--Nec tarda senectus
Debilitat vires animi, mutatque vigorem. _
VIRG.




DON SEBASTIAN.


The following tragedy is founded upon the adventures supposed to have
befallen Sebastian, king of Portugal, after the fatal battle of
Alcazar. The reader may be briefly reminded of the memorable
expedition of that gallant monarch to Africa, to signalize, against
the Moors, his chivalry as a warrior, and his faith as a Christian.
The ostensible pretext of invasion was the cause of Muly Mahomet, son
of Abdalla, emperor of Morocco; upon whose death, his brother, Muly
Moluch, had seized the crown, and driven his nephew into exile. The
armies joined battle near Alcazar. The Portuguese, far inferior in
number to the Moors, displayed the most desperate valour, and had
nearly won the day, when Muly Moluch, who, though almost dying, was
present on the field in a litter, fired with shame and indignation,
threw himself on horseback, rallied his troops, renewed the combat,
and, being carried back to his litter, immediately expired, with his
finger placed on his lips, to impress on the chiefs, who surrounded
him, the necessity of concealing his death. The Moors, rallied by
their sovereign's dying exertion, surrounded, and totally routed, the
army of Sebastian. Mahomet, the competitor for the throne of Morocco,
was drowned in passing a river in his flight, and Sebastian, as his
body was never found, probably perished in the same manner. But where
the region of historical certainty ends, that of romantic tradition
commences. The Portuguese, to whom the memory of their warlike
sovereign was deservedly dear, grasped at the feeble hope which the
uncertainty of his fate afforded, and long, with vain fondness,
expected the return of Sebastian, to free them from the yoke of Spain.
This mysterious termination of a hero's career, as it gave rise to
various political intrigues, (for several persons assumed the name and
character of Sebastian,) early afforded a subject for exercising the
fancy of the dramatist and romance writer. "The Battle of Alcazar[1]"
is known to the collectors of old plays; a ballad on the same subject
is reprinted in Evans's collection; and our author mentions a French
novel on the adventures of Don Sebastian, to which Langbaine also
refers.

The situation of Dryden, after the Revolution, was so delicate as to
require great caution and attention, both in his choice of a subject,
and his mode of treating it. His distressed circumstances and lessened
income compelled him to come before the public as an author; while the
odium attached to the proselyte of a hated religion, and the partizan
of a depressed faction, was likely, upon the slightest pretext, to
transfer itself from the person of the poet to the labours on which
his support depended. He was, therefore, not only obliged to chuse a
theme, which had no offence in it, and to treat it in a manner which
could not admit of misconstruction, but also so to exert the full
force of his talents, as, by the conspicuous pre-eminence of his
genius, to bribe prejudice and silence calumny. An observing reader
will accordingly discover, throughout the following tragedy, symptoms
of minute finishing, and marks of accurate attention, which, in our
author's better days, he deigned not to bestow upon productions, to
which his name alone was then sufficient to give weight and privilege.
His choice of a subject was singularly happy: the name of Sebastian
awaked historical recollections and associations, favourable to the
character of his hero; while the dark uncertainty of his fate removed
all possibility of shocking the audience by glaring offence against
the majesty of historical truth. The subject has, therefore, all the
advantages of a historical play, without the detects, which either a
rigid coincidence with history, or a violent contradiction of known
truth, seldom fail to bring along with them. Dryden appears from his
preface to have been fully sensible of this; and he has not lost the
advantage of a happy subject by treating it with the carelessness he
sometimes allowed himself to indulge.

The characters in "Don Sebastian" are contrasted with singular ability
and judgment. Sebastian, high-spirited and fiery; the soul of royal
and military honour; the soldier and the king; almost embodies the
idea which the reader forms at the first mention of his name. Dorax,
to whom he is so admirable a contrast, is one of those characters whom
the strong hand of adversity has wrested from their natural bias; and
perhaps no equally vivid picture can be found, of a subject so awfully
interesting. Born with a strong tendency to all that was honourable
and virtuous, the very excess of his virtues became vice, when his own
ill fate, and Sebastian's injustice, had driven him into exile. By
comparing, as Dryden has requested, the character of Dorax, in the
fifth act, with that he maintains in the former part of the play, the
difference may be traced betwixt his natural virtues, and the vices
engrafted on them by headlong passion and embittering calamity. There
is no inconsistence in the change which takes place after his scene
with Sebastian; as was objected by those, whom the poet justly terms,
"the more ignorant sort of creatures. " It is the same picture in a new
light; the same ocean in tempest and in calm; the same traveller, whom
sunshine has induced to abandon his cloak, which the storm only forced
him to wrap more closely around him. The principal failing of Dorax is
the excess of pride, which renders each supposed wound to his honour
more venomously acute; yet he is not devoid of gentler affections,
though even in indulging these the hardness of his character is
conspicuous. He loves Violante, but that is a far subordinate feeling
to his affection for Sebastian. Indeed, his love appears so inferior
to his loyal devotion to his king, that, unless to gratify the taste
of the age, I see little reason for its being introduced at all. It is
obvious he was much more jealous of the regard of his sovereign, than
of his mistress; he never mentions Violante till the scene of
explanation with Sebastian; and he appears hardly to have retained a
more painful recollection of his disappointment in that particular,
than of the general neglect and disgrace he had sustained at the court
of Lisbon. The last stage of a virtuous heart, corroded into evil by
wounded pride, has been never more forcibly displayed than in the
character of Dorax. When once induced to take the fatal step which
degraded him in his own eyes, all his good affections seem to be
converted into poison. The religion, which displays itself in the
fifth act in his arguments against suicide, had, in his efforts to
justify his apostacy, or at least to render it a matter of no moment,
been exchanged for sentiments approaching, perhaps to atheism,
certainly to total scepticism. His passion for Violante is changed
into contempt and hatred for her sex, which he expresses in the
coarsest terms. His feelings of generosity, and even of humanity, are
drowned in the gloomy and stern misanthropy, which has its source in
the self-discontent that endeavours to wreak itself upon others. This
may be illustrated by his unfeeling behaviour, while Alvarez and
Antonio, well known to him in former days, approach, and draw the
deadly lot, which ratifies their fate. No yielding of compassion, no
recollection of former friendship, has power to alter the cold and
sardonic sarcasm with which he sketches their characters, and marks
their deportment in that awful moment. Finally, the zealous attachment
of Alonzo for his king, which, in its original expression, partakes of
absolute devotion, is changed, by the circumstances of Dorax, into an
irritated and frantic jealousy, which he mistakes for hatred; and
which, in pursuing the destruction of its object, is almost more
inveterate than hatred itself. Nothing has survived of the original
Alonzo at the opening of the piece, except the gigantic passion which
has caused his ruin. This character is drawn on a large scale, and in
a heroic proportion; but it is so true to nature, that many readers
must have lamented, even within the circle of domestic acquaintance,
instances of feelings hardened, and virtues perverted, where a high
spirit has sustained severe and unjust neglect and disgrace. The whole
demeanour of this exquisite character suits the original sketch. From
"the long stride and sullen port," by which Benducar distinguishes him
at a distance, to the sullen stubbornness with which he obeys, or the
haughty contempt with which he resists, the commands of the peremptory
tyrant under whom he had taken service, all announce the untamed pride
which had robbed Dorax of virtue, and which yet, when Benducar would
seduce him into a conspiracy, and in his conduct towards Sebastian,
assumes the port and dignity of virtue herself. In all his conduct and
bearing, there is that mixed feeling and impulse, which constitutes
the real spring of human action. The true motive of Alonzo in saving
Sebastian, is not purely that of honourable hatred, which he proposes
to himself; for to himself every man endeavours to appear consistent,
and readily find arguments to prove to himself that he is so. Neither
is his conduct to be ascribed altogether to the gentler feelings of
loyal and friendly affection, relenting at the sight of his
sovereign's ruin, and impending death. It is the result of a mixture
of these opposite sensations, clashing against each other like two
rivers at their conflux, yet urging their united course down the same
channel. Actuated by a mixture of these feelings, Dorax meets
Sebastian; and the art of the poet is displayed in that admirable
scene, by suggesting a natural motive to justify to the injured
subject himself the change of the course of his feelings. As his
jealousy of Sebastian's favour, and resentment of his unjust neglect,
was chiefly founded on the avowed preference which the king had given
to Henriquez, the opportune mention of his rival's death, by removing
the cause of that jealousy, gives the renegade an apology to his own
pride, for throwing himself at the feet of that very sovereign, whom a
moment before he was determined to force to combat. They are little
acquainted with human passions, at least have only witnessed their
operations among men of common minds, who doubt, that at the height of
their very spring-tide, they are often most susceptible of sudden
changes; revolutions, which seem to those who have not remarked how
nearly the most opposite feelings are allied and united, the most
extravagant and unaccountable. Muly Moluch is an admirable specimen of
that very frequent theatrical character,--a stage tyrant. He is fierce
and boisterous enough to be sufficiently terrible and odious, and that
without much rant, considering he is an infidel Soldan, who, from the
ancient deportment of Mahomed and Termagaunt, as they appeared in the
old Mysteries, might claim a prescriptive right to tear a passion to
tatters. Besides, the Moorish emperor has fine glances of savage
generosity, and that free, unconstrained, and almost noble openness,
the only good quality, perhaps, which a consciousness of unbounded
power may encourage in a mind so firm as not to be totally depraved by
it. The character of Muly Moluch, like that of Morat, in
"Aureng-Zebe," to which it bears a strong resemblance, was admirably
represented by Kynaston; who had, says Cibber, "a fierce lion-like
majesty in his port and utterance, that gave the spectator a kind of
trembling admiration. " It is enough to say of Benducar, that the cool,
fawning, intriguing, and unprincipled statesman, is fully developed in
his whole conduct; and of Alvarez, that the little he has to say and
do, is so said and done, as not to disgrace his common-place character
of the possessor of the secret on which the plot depends; for it may
be casually observed, that the depositary of such a clew to the
catastrophe, though of the last importance to the plot, is seldom
himself of any interest whatever. The haughty and high-spirited
Almeyda is designed by the author as the counterpart of Sebastian. She
breaks out with the same violence, I had almost said fury, and
frequently discovers a sort of kindred sentiment, intended to prepare
the reader for the unfortunate discovery, that she is the sister of
the Portuguese monarch.
Of the diction, Dr Johnson has said, with meagre commendation, that it
has "some sentiments which leave a strong impression," and "others of
excellence, universally acknowledged. " This, even when the admiration
of the scene betwixt Dorax and Sebastian has been sanctioned by that
great critic, seems scanty applause for the _chef d'oeuvre_ of
Dryden's dramatic works. The reader will be disposed to look for more
unqualified praise, when such a poet was induced, by every pressing
consideration, to combine, in one effort, the powers of his mighty
genius, and the fruits of his long theatrical experience: Accordingly,
Shakespeare laid aside, it will be perhaps difficult to point out a
play containing more animatory incident, impassioned language, and
beautiful description, than "Don Sebastian. " Of the former, the scene
betwixt Dorax and the king, had it been the only one ever Dryden
wrote, would have been sufficient to insure his immortality. There is
not,--no, perhaps, not even in Shakespeare,--an instance where the
chord, which the poet designed should vibrate, is more happily struck;
strains there are of a higher mood, but not more correctly true; in
evidence of which, we have known those, whom distresses of a gentler
nature were unable to move, feel their stubborn feelings roused and
melted by the injured pride and deep repentance of Dorax. The burst of
anguish with which he answers the stern taunt of Sebastian, is one of
those rare, but natural instances, in which high-toned passion assumes
a figurative language, because all that is familiar seems inadequate
to express its feelings:

_Dor. _ Thou hast dared
To tell me, what I durst not tell myself:
I durst not think that I was spurned, and live;
And live to hear it boasted to my face.
All my long avarice of honour lost,
Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age!
Has honour's fountain then sucked back the stream?
He has; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass,
And gather pebbles from the naked ford.
Give me my love, my honour; give them back--
Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it!

But I will not dwell on the beauties of this scene. If any one is
incapable of relishing it, he may safely conclude, that nature has not
merely denied him that rare gift, poetical taste, but common powers of
comprehending the ordinary feelings of humanity. The love scene,
betwixt Sebastian and Almeyda, is more purely conceived, and expressed
with more reference to sentiment, than is common with our author. The
description which Dorax gives of Sebastian, before his appearance,
coming from a mortal enemy, at least from one whose altered love was
as envenomed as hatred, is a grand preparation for the appearance of
the hero. In many of the slighter descriptive passages, we recognize
the poet by those minute touches, which a mind susceptible of poetic
feeling is alone capable of bringing out. The approach of the emperor,
while the conspirators are caballing, is announced by Orchan, with
these picturesque circumstances:

I see the blaze of torches from afar,
And hear the trampling of thick-beating feet--
This way they move. --

The following account, given by the slave sent to observe what passed
in the castle of Dorax, believed to be dead, or dying, is equally
striking:

_Haly. _ Two hours I warily have watched his palace:
All doors are shut, no servant peeps abroad;
Some officers, with striding haste, past in;
While others outward went on quick dispatch.
Sometimes hushed silence seemed to reign within;
Then cries confused, and a joint clamour followed;
Then lights went gliding by, from room to room,
And shot like thwarting meteors cross the house.
Not daring further to inquire, I came
With speed to bring you this imperfect news.

The description of the midnight insurrection of the rabble is not less
impressive:

_Ham. _ What you wish:
The streets are thicker in this noon of night,
Than at the mid-day sun: A drouzy horror
Sits on their eyes, like fear, not well awake:
All crowd in heaps, as, at a night alarm,
The bees drive out upon each others backs,
T'imboss their hives in clusters; all ask news:
Their busy captain runs the weary round
To whisper orders; and, commanding silence,
Makes not noise cease, but deafens it to murmurs.

These illustrations are designedly selected from the parts of the
lower characters, because they at once evince the diligence and
success with which Dryden has laboured even the subordinate points of
this tragedy.

"Don Sebastian" has been weighed, with reference to its tragic merits,
against "Love for Love;" and one or other is universally allowed to be
the first of Dryden's dramatic performances. To the youth of both
sexes the latter presents the most pleasing subject of emotion; but to
those whom age has rendered incredulous upon the romantic effects of
love, and who do not fear to look into the recesses of the human
heart, when agitated by darker and more stubborn passions, "Don
Sebastian" offers a far superior source of gratification.

To point out the blemishes of so beautiful a tragedy, is a painful,
though a necessary, task. The style, here and there, exhibits marks of
a reviving taste for those frantic bursts of passion, which our author
has himself termed the "Dalilahs of the theatre. " The first speech of
Sebastian has been often noticed as an extravagant rant, more worthy
of Maximin, or Almanzor, than of a character drawn by our author in
his advanced years, and chastened taste:

I beg no pity for this mouldering clay;
For if you give it burial, there it takes
Possession of your earth:
If burnt and scatter'd in the air, the winds,
That strew my dust, diffuse my royalty,
And spread me o'er your clime; for where one atom
Of mine shall light, know, there Sebastian reigns.

The reader's discernment will discover some similar extravagancies in
the language of Almeyda and the Emperor.

It is a separate objection, that the manners of the age and country
are not adhered to. Sebastian, by disposition a crusading
knight-errant, devoted to religion and chivalry, becomes, in the hands
of Dryden, merely a gallant soldier and high-spirited prince, such as
existed in the poet's own days. But, what is worse, the manners of
Mahometans are shockingly violated. Who ever heard of human
sacrifices, or of any sacrifices, being offered up to Mahomet[2]; and
when were his followers able to use the classical and learned
allusions which occur throughout the dialogue! On this last topic
Addison makes the following observations, in the "Guardian," No. 110.

"I have now Mr Dryden's "Don Sebastian" before me, in which I find
frequent allusions to ancient poetry, and the old mythology of the
heathens. It is not very natural to suppose a king of Portugal would
be borrowing thoughts out of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," when he talked
even to those of his own court; but to allude to these Roman fables,
when he talks to an emperor of Barbary, seems very extraordinary.
But observe how he defies him out of the classics in the following
lines:

Why didst not thou engage me man to man,
And try the virtue of that Gorgon face,
To stare me into statue?

"Almeyda, at the same time, is more book-learned than Don Sebastian.
She plays an Hydra upon the Emperor, that is full as good as the
Gorgon:

O that I had the fruitful heads of Hydra,
That one might bourgeon where another fell!
Still would I give thee work, still, still, thou tyrant,
And hiss thee with the last.

"She afterwards, in allusion to Hercules, bids him 'lay down the
lion's skin, and take the distaff;' and, in the following speech,
utters her passion still more learnedly:

No; were we joined, even though it were in death,
Our bodies burning in one funeral pile,
The prodigy of Thebes would be renewed,
And my divided flame should break from thine.

"The emperor of Barbary shews himself acquainted with the Roman
poets as well as either of his prisoners, and answers the foregoing
speech in the same classic strain:

Serpent, I will engender poison with thee:
Our offspring, like the seed of dragon's teeth,
Shall issue armed, and fight themselves to death.

"Ovid seems to have been Muley-Moloch's favourite author; witness
the lines that follow:

She, still inexorable, still imperious,
And loud, as if, like Bacchus, born in thunder.

"I shall conclude my remarks on his part with that poetical
complaint of his being in love; and leave my reader to consider, how
prettily it would sound in the mouth of an emperor of Morocco:

The god of love once more has shot his fires
Into my soul, and my whole heart receives him.

"Muley Zeydan is as ingenious a man as his brother Muley Moloch; as
where he hints at the story of Castor and Pollux:

May we ne'er meet;
For, like the twins of Leda, when I mount,
He gallops down the skies.

"As for the Mufti, we will suppose that he was bred up a scholar,
and not only versed in the law of Mahomet, but acquainted with all
kinds of polite learning. For this reason he is not at all surprised
when Dorax calls him a Phæton in one place, and in another tells him
he is like Archimedes.

"The Mufti afterwards mentions Ximenes, Albornoz, and cardinal
Wolsey, by name. The poet seems to think, he may make every person,
in his play, know as much as himself, and talk as well as he could
have done on the same occasion. At least, I believe, every reader
will agree with me, that the above-mentioned sentiments, to which I
might have added several others, would have been better suited to
the court of Augustus than that of Muley Moloch. I grant they are
beautiful in themselves, and much more so in that noble language,
which was peculiar to this great poet. I only observe, that they are
improper for the persons who make use of them. "

The catastrophe of the tragedy may be also censured, not only on the
grounds objected to that of "OEdipus," but because it does not
naturally flow from the preceding events, and opens, in the fifth act,
a new set of persons, and a train of circumstances, unconnected with
the preceding action. In the concluding scene, it was remarked, by the
critics, that there is a want of pure taste in the lovers dwelling
more upon the pleasures than the horrors of their incestuous
connection.

Of the lighter scenes, which were intended for comic, Dr Johnson has
said, "they are such as that age did not probably commend, and as the
present would not endure. " Dryden has remarked, with self-complacency,
the art with which they are made to depend upon the serious business.
This has not, however, the merit of novelty; being not unlike the
connection between the tragic and comic scenes of the "Spanish Friar. "
The persons introduced have also some resemblance; though the gaiety
of Antonio is far more gross than that of Lorenzo, and Morayma is a
very poor copy of Elvira. It is rather surprising, that when a gay
libertine was to be introduced, Dryden did not avail himself of a real
character, the English Stukely; a wild gallant, who, after spending a
noble fortune, became the leader of a band of Italian Condottieri,
engaged in the service of Sebastian, and actually fell in the battle
of Alcazar. Collier complains, and with very good reason, that, in the
character of the Mufti, Dryden has seized an opportunity to deride and
calumniate the priesthood of every religion; an opportunity which, I
am sorry to say, he seldom fails to use with unjustifiable inveteracy.
The rabble scenes were probably given, as our author himself says of
that in Cleomenes, "to gratify the more barbarous part of the
audience. " Indeed, to judge from the practice of the drama at this
time, the representation of a riot upon the stage seems to have had
the same charms for the popular part of the English audience, which
its reality always possesses in the streets.

Notwithstanding the excellence of this tragedy, it appears to have
been endured, rather than applauded, at its first representation;
although, being judiciously curtailed, it soon became a great
favourite with the public[3]; and, omitting the comic scenes, may be
again brought forward with advantage, when the public shall be tired
of children and of show. The tragedy of "Don Sebastian" was acted and
printed in 1690.


Footnotes:
1. "The Battle of Alcazar, with Captain Stukely's death, acted by the
Lord High Admiral's servants, 1594," 4to. Baker thinks Dryden might
have taken the hint of "Don Sebastian" from this old play.
Shakespeare drew from it some of the bouncing rants of Pistol, as,
"Feed, and be fat; my fair Callipolis," &c.

2. In a Zambra dance, introduced in the "Conquest of Granada," our
author had previously introduced the Moors bowing to the image of
Jupiter; a gross solecism, hardly more pardonable, as Langbaine
remarks, than the introduction of a pistol in the hand of
Demetrius, a successor of Alexander the Great, which Dryden has
justly censured.

3. Langbaine says, it was acted "with great applause;" but this must
refer to its reception after the first night; for the author's own
expressions, that "the audience endured it with much patience, and
were weary with much good nature and silence," exclude the idea of
a brilliant reception on the first representation. See the
beginning of the Preface.




TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

PHILIP,

EARL OF LEICESTER, &c. [1]


Far be it from me, my most noble lord, to think, that any thing which
my meanness can produce, should be worthy to be offered to your
patronage; or that aught which I can say of you should recommend you
farther to the esteem of good men in this present age, or to the
veneration which will certainly be paid you by posterity. On the other
side, I must acknowledge it a great presumption in me, to make you
this address; and so much the greater, because by the common suffrage
even of contrary parties, you have been always regarded as one of the
first persons of the age, and yet not one writer has dared to tell you
so; whether we have been all conscious to ourselves that it was a
needless labour to give this notice to mankind, as all men are ashamed
to tell stale news; or that we were justly diffident of our own
performances, as even Cicero is observed to be in awe when he writes
to Atticus; where, knowing himself over-matched in good sense, and
truth of knowledge, he drops the gaudy train of words, and is no
longer the vain-glorious orator. From whatever reason it may be, I am
the first bold offender of this kind: I have broken down the fence,
and ventured into the holy grove. How I may be punished for my profane
attempt, I know not; but I wish it may not be of ill omen to your
lordship: and that a crowd of bad writers do not rush into the quiet
of your recesses after me. Every man in all changes of government,
which have been, or may possibly arrive, will agree, that I could not
have offered my incense, where it could be so well deserved. For you,
my lord, are secure in your own merit; and all parties, as they rise
uppermost, are sure to court you in their turns; it is a tribute which
has ever been paid your virtue. The leading men still bring their
bullion to your mint, to receive the stamp of their intrinsic value,
that they may afterwards hope to pass with human kind. They rise and
fall in the variety of revolutions, and are sometimes great, and
therefore wise in men's opinions, who must court them for their
interest. But the reputation of their parts most commonly follows
their success; few of them are wise, but as they are in power; because
indeed, they have no sphere of their own, but, like the moon in the
Copernican system of the world, are whirled about by the motion of a
greater planet. This it is to be ever busy; neither to give rest to
their fellow-creatures, nor, which is more wretchedly ridiculous, to
themselves; though, truly, the latter is a kind of justice, and giving
mankind a due revenge, that they will not permit their own hearts to
be at quiet, who disturb the repose of all beside them. Ambitious
meteors! how willing they are to set themselves upon the wing, and
taking every occasion of drawing upward to the sun, not considering
that they have no more time allowed them for their mounting, than the
short revolution of a day; and that when the light goes from them,
they are of necessity to fall. How much happier is he, (and who he is
I need not say, for there is but one phoenix in an age) who, centering
on himself, remains immoveable, and smiles at the madness of the dance
about him? he possesses the midst, which is the portion of safety and
content. He will not be higher, because he needs it not; but by the
prudence of that choice, he puts it out of fortune's power to throw
him down. It is confest, that if he had not so been born, he might
have been too high for happiness; but not endeavouring to ascend, he
secures the native height of his station from envy, and cannot descend
from what he is, because he depends not on another. What a glorious
character was this once in Rome! I should say, in Athens; when, in the
disturbances of a state as mad as ours, the wise Pomponius transported
all the remaining wisdom and virtue of his country into the sanctuary
of peace and learning. But I would ask the world, (for you, my lord,
are too nearly concerned to judge this cause) whether there may not
yet be found a character of a noble Englishman, equally shining with
that illustrious Roman? Whether I need to name a second Atticus? or
whether the world has not already prevented me, and fixed it there,
without my naming? Not a second, with a _longo sed proximus
intervallo_; not a young Marcellus, flattered by a poet into the
resemblance of the first, with a _frons læta parum, et dejecto lumina
vultu_, and the rest that follows, _si qua fata aspera rumpas, tu
Marcellus eris_; but a person of the same stamp and magnitude, who
owes nothing to the former, besides the word Roman, and the
superstition of reverence, devolving on him by the precedency of
eighteen hundred years; one who walks by him with equal paces, and
shares the eyes of beholders with him; one who had been first, had he
first lived; and, in spite of doating veneration, is still his equal:
both of them born of noble families, in unhappy ages of change and
tumult; both of them retiring from affairs of state; yet not leaving
the commonwealth, till it had left itself; but never returning to
public business, when they had once quitted it, though courted by the
heads of either party. But who would trust the quiet of their lives
with the extravagancies of their countrymen, when they are just in the
giddiness of their turning; when the ground was tottering under them
at every moment; and none could guess whether the next heave of the
earthquake would settle them on the first foundation, or swallow it?
Both of them knew mankind exactly well, for both of them began that
study in themselves, and there they found the best part of human
composition; the worst they learned by long experience of the folly,
ignorance, and immorality of most beside them. Their philosophy, on
both sides, was not wholly speculative, for that is barren, and
produces nothing but vain ideas of things which cannot possibly be
known, or, if they could, yet would only terminate in the
understanding; but it was a noble, vigorous and practical philosophy,
which exerted itself in all the offices of pity, to those who were
unfortunate, and deserved not so to be. The friend was always more
considered by them than the cause; and an Octavius, or an Antony in
distress, were relieved by them, as well as a Brutus or a Cassius; for
the lowermost party, to a noble mind, is ever the fittest object of
good-will. The eldest of them, I will suppose, for his honour, to have
been of the academic sect, neither dogmatist nor stoick; if he were
not, I am sure he ought, in common justice, to yield the precedency to
his younger brother. For stiffness of opinion is the effect of pride,
and not of philosophy; it is a miserable presumption of that knowledge
which human nature is too narrow to contain; and the ruggedness of a
stoick is only a silly affectation of being a god,--to wind himself up
by pullies to an insensibility of suffering, and, at the same time, to
give the lie to his own experience, by saying he suffers not, what he
knows he feels. True philosophy is certainly of a more pliant nature,
and more accommodated to human use; _Homo sum, humani à me nihil
alienum puto. _ A wise man will never attempt an impossibility; and
such it is to strain himself beyond the nature of his being, either to
become a deity, by being above suffering, or to debase himself into a
stock or stone, by pretending not to feel it. To find in ourselves the
weaknesses and imperfections of our wretched kind, is surely the most
reasonable step we can make towards the compassion of our
fellow-creatures. I could give examples of this kind in the second
Atticus. In every turn of state, without meddling on either side, he
has always been favourable and assisting to opprest merit. The praises
which were given by a great poet to the late queen-mother, on her
rebuilding Somerset Palace, one part of which was fronting to the mean
houses on the other side of the water, are as justly his:

For the distrest and the afflicted lie
Most in his thoughts, and always in his eye[2].

Neither has he so far forgotten a poor inhabitant of his suburbs,
whose best prospect is on the garden of Leicester House, but that more
than once he has been offering him his patronage, to reconcile him to
a world, of which his misfortunes have made him weary[3]. There is
another Sidney still remaining, though there can never be another
Spenser to deserve the favour. But one Sidney gave his patronage to
the applications of a poet; the other offered it unasked. Thus,
whether as a second Atticus, or a second Sir Philip Sidney, the latter
in all respects will not have the worse of the comparison; and if he
will take up with the second place, the world will not so far flatter
his modesty, as to seat him there, unless it be out of a deference of
manners, that he may place himself where he pleases at his own table.

I may therefore safely conclude, that he, who, by the consent of all
men, bears so eminent a character, will out of his inborn nobleness
forgive the presumption of this address. It is an unfinished picture,
I confess, but the lines and features are so like, that it cannot be
mistaken for any other; and without writing any name under it, every
beholder must cry out, at first sight,--this was designed for Atticus;
but the bad artist has cast too much of him into shades. But I have
this excuse, that even the greatest masters commonly fall short of the
best faces. They may flatter an indifferent beauty; but the
excellencies of nature can have no right done to them; for there both
the pencil and pen are overcome by the dignity of the subject; as our
admirable Waller has expressed it,

The heroe's race transcends the poet's thought.

There are few in any age who can bear the load of a dedication; for
where praise is undeserved, it is satire; though satire on folly is
now no longer a scandal to any one person, where a whole age is dipt
together. Yet I had rather undertake a multitude one way, than a
single Atticus the other; for it is easier to descend than it is to
climb. I should have gone ashamed out of the world, if I had not at
least attempted this address, which I have long thought owing: and if
I had never attempted, I might have been vain enough to think I might
have succeeded in it. Now I have made the experiment, and have failed
through my unworthiness, I may rest satisfied, that either the
adventure is not to be atchieved, or that it is reserved for some
other hand.

Be pleased, therefore, since the family of the Attici is and ought to
be above the common forms of concluding letters, that I may take my
leave in the words of Cicero to the first of them: _Me, O Pomponi,
valdè pænitet vivere: tantùm te oro, ut quoniam me ipse semper amàsti,
ut eodem amore sis; ego nimirum idem sum. Inimici mei mea mihi non
meipsum ademerunt. Cura, Attice, ut valeas. _

Dabam. Cal.
Jan. 1690.


Footnotes:
1. In order to escape as far as possible the odium, which after the
Revolution was attached to Dryden's politics and religion, he seems
occasionally to have sought for patrons amongst those Nobles of
opposite principles, whom moderation, or love of literature,
rendered superior to the suggestions of party rancour; or, as he
himself has expressed it in the Dedication of "Amphitryon," who,
though of a contrary opinion themselves, blamed him not for
adhering to a lost cause, and judging for himself what he could not
chuse but judge. Philip Sidney, the third earl of Leicester, had
taken an active part against the king in the civil wars, had been
named one of his judges, though he never look his seat among the
regicides, and had been one of Cromwell's Council of State. He was
brother of the famous Algernon Sidney, and although retired from
party strife, during the violent contests betwixt the Whigs and
Tories in 1682-3, there can be no doubt which way his inclinations
leaned. He died 6th March, 1696-7, aged more than eighty years. Mr
Malone has strongly censured the strain of this Dedication, because
it represents Leicester as abstracted from parties and public
affairs, notwithstanding his active share in the civil wars. Yet
Dryden was not obliged to draw the portrait of his patron from his
conduct thirty years before; and if Leicester's character was to be
taken from the latter part of his life, surely the praise of
moderation is due to him, who, during the factious contests of
Charles II's. reign, in which his own brother made so conspicuous a
figure, maintained the neutrality of Pomponius Atticus.

2. When Henrietta Maria, widow of Charles I. and queen-dowager of
England, visited her son after the Restoration, she chose
Somerset-House for her residence, and added all the buildings
fronting the river. Cowley, whom she had long patronised, composed
a poem on the "Queen's repairing Somerset-House," to which our
author refers. Mr Malone's accuracy has detected a slight
alteration in the verses, as quoted by Dryden, and as written by
Cowley:

If any prouder virtuoso's sense
At that part of my prospect take offence,
By which the meaner cabanes are descried
Of my imperial river's humbler side;
If they call that a blemish, let them know,
God and my godlike mistress think not so;
For the distressed and the afflicted lie
Most in _their care_, and always in _their_ eye.

3. Our poet's house was in Gerard-Street, looking upon the gardens of
Leicester-House.




THE

PREFACE.


Whether it happened through a long disuse of writing, that I forgot
the usual compass of a play, or that, by crowding it with characters
and incidents, I put a necessity upon myself of lengthening the main
action, I know not; but the first day's audience sufficiently
convinced me of my error, and that the poem was insupportably too
long. It is an ill ambition of us poets, to please an audience with
more than they can bear; and supposing that we wrote as well as vainly
we imagine ourselves to write, yet we ought to consider, that no man
can bear to be long tickled. There is a nauseousness in a city-feast,
when we are to sit four hours after we are cloyed. I am therefore, in
the first place, to acknowledge, with all manner of gratitude, their
civility, who were pleased to endure it with so much patience; to be
weary with so much good-nature and silence; and not to explode an
entertainment which was designed to please them, or discourage an
author, whose misfortunes have once more brought him, against his
will, upon the stage. While I continue in these bad circumstances,
(and, truly, I see very little probability of coming out) I must be
obliged to write; and if I may still hope for the same kind usage, I
shall the less repent of that hard necessity. I write not this out of
any expectation to be pitied, for I have enemies enow to wish me yet
in a worse condition; but give me leave to say, that if I can please
by writing, as I shall endeavour it, the town may be somewhat obliged
to my misfortunes for a part of their diversion. Having been longer
acquainted with the stage than any poet now living, and having
observed how difficult it was to please; that the humours of comedy
were almost spent; that love and honour (the mistaken topics of
tragedy) were quite worn out; that the theatres could not support
their charges; that the audience forsook them; that young men, without
learning, set up for judges, and that they talked loudest, who
understood the least; all these discouragements had not only weaned me
from the stage, but had also given me a loathing of it. But enough of
this: the difficulties continue; they increase; and I am still
condemned to dig in those exhausted mines.

Whatever fault I next commit, rest assured it shall not be that of too
much length: Above twelve hundred lines have been cut off from this
tragedy since it was first delivered to the actors. They were indeed
so judiciously lopped by Mr Betterton, to whose care and excellent
action I am equally obliged, that the connection of the story was not
lost; but, on the other side, it was impossible to prevent some part
of the action from being precipitated, and coming on without that due
preparation which is required to all great events: as, in particular,
that of raising the mobile, in the beginning of the fourth act, which
a man of Benducar's cool character could not naturally attempt,
without taking all those precautions, which he foresaw would be
necessary to render his design successful. On this consideration, I
have replaced those lines through the whole poem, and thereby restored
it to that clearness of conception, and (if I may dare to say it) that
lustre and masculine vigour, in which it was first written. It is
obvious to every understanding reader, that the most poetical parts,
which are descriptions, images, similitudes, and moral sentences, are
those which of necessity were to be pared away, when the body was
swollen into too large a bulk for the representation of the stage. But
there is a vast difference betwixt a public entertainment on the
theatre, and a private reading in the closet: In the first, we are
confined to time; and though we talk not by the hour-glass, yet the
watch often drawn out of the pocket warns the actors that their
audience is weary; in the last, every reader is judge of his own
convenience; he can take up the book and lay it down at his pleasure,
and find out those beauties of propriety in thought and writing, which
escaped him in the tumult and hurry of representing. And I dare boldly
promise for this play, that in the roughness of the numbers and
cadences, (which I assure was not casual, but so designed) you will
see somewhat more masterly arising to your view, than in most, if not
any, of my former tragedies. There is a more noble daring in the
figures, and more suitable to the loftiness of the subject; and,
besides this, some newnesses of English, translated from the beauties
of modern tongues, as well as from the elegancies of the Latin; and
here and there some old words are sprinkled, which, for their
significance and sound, deserved not to be antiquated; such as we
often find in Sallust amongst the Roman authors, and in Milton's
"Paradise" amongst ours; though perhaps the latter, instead of
sprinkling, has dealt them with too free a hand, even sometimes to the
obscuring of his sense.

As for the story, or plot, of the tragedy, it is purely fiction; for I
take it up where the history has laid it down. We are assured by all
writers of those times, that Sebastian, a young prince of great
courage and expectation, undertook that war, partly upon a religious
account, partly at the solicitation of Muley Mahomet, who had been
driven out of his dominions by Abdelmelech, or, as others call him,
Muley Moluch, his nigh kinsman, who descended from the same family of
Xeriffs, whose fathers, Hamet and Mahomet, had conquered that empire
with joint forces, and shared it betwixt them after their victory;
that the body of Don Sebastian was never found in the field of battle,
which gave occasion for many to believe, that he was not slain[1];
that some years after, when the Spaniards, with a pretended title, by
force of arms, had usurped the crown of Portugal from the house of
Braganza, a certain person, who called himself Don Sebastian, and had
all the marks of his body and features of his face, appeared at
Venice, where he was owned by some of his countrymen; but being seized
by the Spaniards, was first imprisoned, then sent to the gallies, and
at last put to death in private. It is most certain, that the
Portuguese expected his return for almost an age together after that
battle, which is at least a proof of their extreme love to his memory;
and the usage they had from their new conquerors, might possibly make
them so extravagant in their hopes and wishes for their old master[2].

This ground-work the history afforded me, and I desire no better to
build a play upon; for where the event of a great action is left
doubtful, there the poet is left master. He may raise what he pleases
on that foundation, provided he makes it of a piece, and according to
the rule of probability. From hence I was only obliged, that Sebastian
should return to Portugal no more; but at the same time I had him at
my own disposal, whether to bestow him in Afric, or in any other
corner of the world, or to have closed the tragedy with his death; and
the last of these was certainly the most easy, but for the same reason
the least artful; because, as I have somewhere said, the poison and
the dagger are still at hand to butcher a hero, when a poet wants the
brains to save him. It being therefore only necessary, according to
the laws of the drama, that Sebastian should no more be seen upon the
throne, I leave it for the world to judge, whether or no I have
disposed of him according to art, or have bungled up the conclusion of
his adventure. In the drawing of his character, I forgot not piety,
which any one may observe to be one principal ingredient of it, even
so far as to be a habit in him; though I shew him once to be
transported from it by the violence of a sudden passion, to endeavour
a self-murder. This being presupposed, that he was religious, the
horror of his incest, though innocently committed, was the best reason
which the stage could give for hindering his return. It is true, I
have no right to blast his memory with such a crime; but declaring it
to be fiction, I desire my audience to think it no longer true, than
while they are seeing it represented; for that once ended, he may be a
saint, for aught I know, and we have reason to presume he is. On this
supposition, it was unreasonable to have killed him; for the learned
Mr Rymer has well observed, that in all punishments we are to regulate
ourselves by poetical justice; and according to those measures, an
involuntary sin deserves not death; from whence it follows, that to
divorce himself from the beloved object, to retire into a desert, and
deprive himself of a throne, was the utmost punishment which a poet
could inflict, as it was also the utmost reparation which Sebastian
could make. For what relates to Almeyda, her part is wholly
fictitious. I know it is the surname of a noble family in Portugal,
which was very instrumental in the restoration of Don John de
Braganza, father to the most illustrious and most pious princess, our
queen-dowager. The French author of a novel, called "Don Sebastian,"
has given that name to an African lady of his own invention, and makes
her sister to Muley Mahomet; but I have wholly changed the accidents,
and borrowed nothing but the supposition, that she was beloved by the
king of Portugal. Though, if I had taken the whole story, and wrought
it up into a play, I might have done it exactly according to the
practice of almost all the ancients, who were never accused of being
plagiaries for building their tragedies on known fables. Thus,
Augustus Cæsar wrote an "Ajax," which was not the less his own,
because Euripides had written a play before him on that subject. Thus,
of late years, Corneille writ an "OEdipus" after Sophocles; and I have
designed one after him, which I wrote with Mr Lee; yet neither the
French poet stole from the Greek, nor we from the Frenchman. It is the
contrivance, the new turn, and new characters, which alter the
property, and make it ours. The _materia poetica_ is as common to all
writers, as the _materia medica_ to all physicians. Thus, in our
Chronicles, Daniel's history is still his own, though Matthew Paris,
Stow, and Hollingshed writ before him; otherwise we must have been
content with their dull relations, if a better pen had not been
allowed to come after them, and writ his own account after a new and
better manner.

I must further declare freely, that I have not exactly kept to the
three mechanic rules of unity. I knew them, and had them in my eye,
but followed them only at a distance; for the genius of the English
cannot bear too regular a play: we are given to variety, even to a
debauchery of pleasure. My scenes are therefore sometimes broken,
because my underplot required them so to be, though the general scene
remains,--of the same castle; and I have taken the time of two days,
because the variety of accidents, which are here represented, could
not naturally be supposed to arrive in one: but to gain a greater
beauty, it is lawful for a poet to supersede a less.

I must likewise own, that I have somewhat deviated from the known
history, in the death of Muley Moluch, who, by all relations, died of
a fever in the battle, before his army had wholly won the field; but
if I have allowed him another day of life, it was because I stood in
need of so shining a character of brutality as I have given him; which
is indeed the same with that of the present emperor Muley-Ishmael, as
some of our English officers, who have been in his court, have
credibly informed me.

I have been listening--what objections had been made against the
conduct of the play; but found them all so trivial, that if I should
name them, a true critic would imagine that I played booty, and only
raised up phantoms for myself to conquer. Some are pleased to say--the
writing is dull; but, _ætatem habet, de se loquatur. _ Others, that the
double poison is unnatural: let the common received opinion, and
Ausonius his famous epigram, answer that[3]. Lastly, a more ignorant
sort of creatures than either of the former maintain, that the
character of Dorax is not only unnatural, but inconsistent with
itself: let them read the play, and think again; and if yet they are
not satisfied, cast their eyes on that chapter of the wise Montaigne,
which is intitled, _De l'Inconstance des Actions humaines_. A longer
reply is what those cavillers deserve not; but I will give them and
their fellows to understand, that the earl of Dorset was pleased to
read the tragedy twice over before it was acted, and did me the favour
to send me word, that I had written beyond any of my former plays, and
that he was displeased any thing should be cut away. If I have not
reason to prefer his single judgment to a whole faction, let the world
be judge; for the opposition is the same with that of Lucan's hero
against an army; _concurrere bellum, atque virum_.

I think I may modestly conclude, that whatever errors there may be,
either in the design, or writing of this play, they are not those
which have been objected to it. I think also, that I am not yet
arrived to the age of doting; and that I have given so much
application to this poem, that I could not probably let it run into
many gross absurdities; which may caution my enemies from too rash a
censure, and may also encourage my friends, who are many more than I
could reasonably have expected, to believe their kindness has not been
very undeservedly bestowed on me. This is not a play that was huddled
up in haste; and, to shew it was not, I will own, that, besides the
general moral of it, which is given in the four last lines, there is
also another moral, couched under every one of the principal parts and
characters, which a judicious critic will observe, though I point not
to it in this preface. And there may be also some secret beauties in
the decorum of parts, and uniformity of design, which my puny judges
will not easily find out: let them consider in the last scene of the
fourth act, whether I have not preserved the rule of decency, in
giving all the advantage to the royal character, and in making Dorax
first submit. Perhaps too they may have thought, that it was through
indigence of characters that I have given the same to Sebastian and
Almeyda, and consequently made them alike in all things but their sex.
But let them look a little deeper into the matter, and they will find,
that this identity of character in the greatness of their souls was
intended for a preparation of the final discovery, and that the
likeness of their nature was a fair hint to the proximity of their
blood.

To avoid the imputation of too much vanity, (for all writers, and
especially poets, will have some,) I will give but one other instance,
in relation to the uniformity of the design. I have observed, that the
English will not bear a thorough tragedy; but are pleased, that it
should be lightened with underparts of mirth. It had been easy for me
to have given my audience a better course of comedy, I mean a more
diverting, than that of Antonio and Morayma; but I dare appeal, even
to my enemies, if I, or any man, could have invented one, which had
been more of a piece, and more depending on the serious part of the
design. For what could be more uniform, than to draw from out of the
members of a captive court, the subject of a comical entertainment? To
prepare this episode, you see Dorax giving the character of Antonio,
in the beginning of the play, upon his first sight of him at the
lottery; and to make the dependence, Antonio is engaged, in the fourth
act, for the deliverance of Almeyda; which is also prepared, by his
being first made a slave to the captain of the rabble.