_ So quickly
vanished!
Dryden - Complete
_ What sport will be, when we return at evening,
To laugh her out of countenance for her dreams!
_Troil. _ I have not quenched my eyes with dewy sleep this night;
But fiery fumes mount upward to my brains,
And, when I breathe, methinks my nostrils hiss!
I shall turn basilisk, and with my sight
Do my hands' work on Diomede this day.
_Hect. _ To arms, to arms! the vanguards are engaged
Let us not leave one man to guard the walls;
Both old and young, the coward and the brave,
Be summoned all, our utmost fate to try,
And as one body move, whose soul am I. [_Exeunt. _
SCENE II--_The Camp. _
_Alarm within. Enter_ AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, MENELAUS, _Soldiers. _
_Agam. _ Thus far the promise of the day is fair.
Æneas rather loses ground than gains.
I saw him over-laboured, taking breath,
And leaning on his spear, behold our trenches,
Like a fierce lion looking up to toils,
Which yet he durst not leap.
_Ulys. _ And therefore distant death does all the work;
The flights of whistling darts make brown the sky,
Whose clashing points strike fire, and gild the dusk;
Those, that reach home, from neither host are vain,
So thick the prease; so lusty are their arms,
That death seemed never sent with better will.
Nor was with less concernment entertained.
_Enter_ NESTOR.
_Agam. _ Now, Nestor, what's the news?
_Nest. _ I have descried
A cloud of dust, that mounts in pillars upwards,
Expanding as it travels to our camp;
And from the midst I heard a bursting shout,
That rent the heaven; as if all Troy were swarmed.
And on the wing this way.
_Menel. _ Let them come, let them come.
_Agam. _ Where's great Achilles?
_Ulys. _ Think not on Achilles,
Till Hector drag him from his tent to fight;
Which sure he will, for I have laid the train.
_Nest. _ But young Patroclus leads his Myrmidons,
And in their front, even in the face of Hector,
Resolves to dare the Trojans.
_Agam. _ Haste, Ulysses, bid Ajax issue forth and second him.
_Ulys. _ Oh noble general, let it not be so.
Oppose not rage, while rage is in its force,
But give it way awhile, and let it waste.
The rising deluge is not stopt with dams;
Those it o'erbears, and drowns the hopes of harvest;
But, wisely managed, its divided strength
Is sluiced in channels, and securely drained.
First, let small parties dally with their fury;
But when their force is spent and unsupplied,
The residue with mounds may be restrained,
And dry-shod we may pass the naked ford.
_Enter_ THERSITES.
_Thers. _ Ho, ho, ho!
_Menel. _ Why dost thou laugh, unseasonable fool?
_Thers. _ Why, thou fool in season, cannot a man laugh, but thou
thinkest he makes horns at thee? Thou prince of the herd, what hast
thou to do with laughing? 'Tis the prerogative of a man, to laugh.
Thou risibility without reason, thou subject of laughter, thou fool
royal!
_Ulys. _ But tell us the occasion of thy mirth?
_Thers. _ Now a man asks me, I care not if I answer to my own
kind. --Why, the enemies are broken into our trenches; fools like
Menelaus fall by thousands yet not a human soul departs on either
side. Troilus and Ajax have almost beaten one another's heads off, but
are both immortal for want of brains. Patroclus has killed Sarpedon,
and Hector Patroclus, so there is a towardly springing fop gone off;
he might have made a prince one day, but now he's nipt in the very bud
and promise of a most prodigious coxcomb.
_Agam. _ Bear off Patroclus' body to Achilles;
Revenge will arm him now, and bring us aid.
The alarm sounds near, and shouts are driven upon us,
As of a crowd confused in their retreat.
_Ulys. _ Open your ranks, and make these madmen way,
Then close again to charge upon their backs,
And quite consume the relics of the war. [_Exeunt all but_ THERSITES.
_Thers. _ What shoals of fools one battle sweeps away! How it purges
families of younger brothers, highways of robbers, and cities of
cuckold-makers! There is nothing like a pitched battle for these brisk
addle-heads! Your physician is a pretty fellow, but his fees make him
tedious, he rides not fast enough; the fools grow upon him, and their
horse bodies are poison proof. Your pestilence is a quicker remedy,
but it has not the grace to make distinction; it huddles up honest men
and rogues together. But your battle has discretion; it picks out all
the forward fools, and sowses them together into immortality. [_Shouts
and alarms within_] Plague upon these drums and trumpets! these sharp
sauces of the war, to get fools an appetite to fighting! What do I
among them? I shall be mistaken for some valiant ass, and die a martyr
in a wrong religion. [_Here Grecians fly over the stage pursued by
Trojans; one Trojan turns back upon_
THERSITES _who is flying too. _
_Troj. _ Turn, slave, and fight.
_Thers. _ [_turning. _] What art thou?
_Troj. _ A bastard son of Priam's.
_Thers. _ I am a bastard too, I love bastards, I am bastard in body,
bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. A
bear will not fasten upon a bear; why should one bastard offend
another! Let us part fair, like true sons of whores, and have the fear
of our mothers before our eyes.
_Troj. _ The devil take thee, coward. [_Exit Troj. _
_Thers. _ Now, would I were either invisible or invulnerable! These
gods have a fine time on it; they can see and make mischief, and never
feel it. [_Clattering of swords at both doors; he runs each
way, and meets the noise. _
A pox clatter you! I am compassed in. Now would I were that blockhead
Ajax for a minute. Some sturdy Trojan will poach me up with a long
pole! and then the rogues may kill one another at free cost, and have
nobody left to laugh at them. Now destruction! now destruction!
_Enter_ HECTOR _and_ TROILUS _driving in the Greeks. _
_Hect. _ to _Thers. _ Speak what part thou fightest on!
_Thers. _ I fight not at all; I am for neither side.
_Hect. _ Thou art a Greek; art thou a match for Hector?
Art thou of blood and honour?
_Thers. _ No, I am a rascal, a scurvy railing knave, a very filthy
rogue.
_Hect. _ I do believe thee; live.
_Thers. _ God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but the devil break
thy neck for frighting me. [_Aside. _
_Troil. _ (_returning. _) What prisoner have you there?
_Hect. _ A gleaning of the war; a rogue, he says.
_Troil. _ Dispatch him, and away. [_Going to kill him. _
_Thers. _ Hold, hold! --what, is it no more but dispatch a man and away!
I am in no such haste: I will not die for Greece; I hate Greece, and
by my good will would never have been born there; I was mistaken into
that country, and betrayed by my parents to be born there. And
besides, I have a mortal enemy among the Grecians, one Diomede, a
damned villain, and cannot die with a safe conscience till I have
first murdered him.
_Troil. _ Shew me that Diomede, and thou shalt live.
_Thers. _ Come along with me, and I will conduct thee to Calchas's
tent, where I believe he is now, making war with the priest's
daughter.
_Hect. _ Here we must part, our destinies divide us;
Brother and friend, farewell.
_Troil. _ When shall we meet?
_Hect. _ When the gods please; if not, we once must part.
Look; on yon hill their squandered troops unite.
_Troil. _ If I mistake not, 'tis their last reserve:
The storm's blown o'er, and those but after-drops.
_Hect. _ I wish our men be not too far engaged;
For few we are and spent, as having born
The burthen of the day: But, hap what can,
They shall be charged; Achilles must be there,
And him I seek, or death.
Divide our troops, and take the fresher half.
_Troil. _ O brother!
_Hect. _ No dispute of ceremony:
These are enow for me, in faith enow.
Their bodies shall not flag while I can lead;
Nor wearied limbs confess mortality,
Before those ants, that blacken all yon hill,
Are crept into the earth. Farewell. [_Exit_ HECT.
_Troil. _ Farewell. --Come, Greek.
_Thers. _ Now these rival rogues will clapperclaw one another, and I
shall have the sport of it. [_Exit_ TROIL. _with_ THERS.
_Enter_ ACHILLES _and Myrmidons. _
_Achill. _ Which way went Hector?
_Myrmid. _ Up yon sandy hill;
You may discern them by their smoking track:
A wavering body working with bent hams
Against the rising, spent with painful march,
And by loose footing cast on heaps together.
_Achil. _ O thou art gone, thou sweetest, best of friends!
Why did I let thee tempt the shock of war,
Ere yet the tender nerves had strung thy limbs,
And knotted into strength! Yet, though too late,
I will, I will revenge thee, my Patroclus!
Nor shall thy ghost thy murderers long attend,
But thou shalt hear him calling Charon back,
Ere thou art wafted to the farther shore. --
Make haste, my soldiers; give me this day's pains
For my dead friend: strike every hand with mine,
Till Hector breathless on the ground we lay!
Revenge is honour, the securest way. [_Exit with Myrm. _
_Enter_ THERSITES, TROILUS, _Trojans. _
_Thers. _ That's Calchas's tent.
_Troil. _ Then, that one spot of earth contains more falsehood,
Than all the sun sees in his race beside.
That I should trust the daughter of a priest!
Priesthood, that makes a merchandise of heaven!
Priesthood, that sells even to their prayers and blessings
And forces us to pay for our own cozenage!
_Thers. _ Nay, cheats heaven too with entrails and with offals;
Gives it the garbage of a sacrifice,
And keeps the best for private luxury.
_Troil. _ Thou hast deserved thy life for cursing priests.
Let me embrace thee; thou art beautiful:
That back, that nose, those eyes are beautiful:
Live; thou art honest, for thou hat'st a priest.
_Thers. _ [_Aside. _] Farewell, Trojan; if I escape with life, as I
hope, and thou art knocked on the head, as I hope too, I shall be the
first that ever escaped the revenge of a priest after cursing him; and
thou wilt not be the last, I prophesy, that a priest will bring to
ruin. [_Exit_ THER.
_Troil. _ Methinks, my soul is roused to her last work;
Has much to do, and little time to spare.
She starts within me, like a traveller,
Who sluggishly outslept his morning hour,
And mends his pace to reach his inn betimes.
[_Noise within,_ Follow, follow!
A noise of arms! the traitor may be there;
Or else, perhaps, that conscious scene of love,
The tent, may hold him; yet I dare not search,
For oh, I fear to find him in that place. [_Exit_ TROILUS.
_Enter_ CALCHAS _and_ CRESSIDA.
_Cres. _ Where is he? I'll be justified, or die.
_Calch.
_ So quickly vanished! he was here but now.
He must be gone to search for Diomede;
For Diomede told me, here they were to fight.
_Cres. _ Alas!
_Calch. _ You must prevent, and not complain.
_Cres. _ If Troilus die, I have no share in life.
_Calch. _ If Diomede sink beneath the sword of Troilus
We lose not only a protector here,
But are debarred all future means of flight.
_Cres. _ What then remains?
_Calch. _ To interpose betimes
Betwixt their swords; or, if that cannot be,
To intercede for him, who shall be vanquished.
Fate leaves no middle course. [_Exit_ CALCHAS.
_Clashing within. _
_Cres. _ Ah me! I hear them,
And fear 'tis past prevention.
_Enter_ DIOMEDE, _retiring before_ TROILUS, _and falling as he
enters. _
_Troil. _ Now beg thy life, or die.
_Diom. _ No; use thy fortune:
I loath the life, which thou canst give, or take.
_Troil. _ Scorn'st thou my mercy, villain! --Take thy wish. --
_Cres. _ Hold, hold your hand, my lord, and hear me speak.
[TROILUS _turns back; in which time_ DIOMEDE _rises,
Trojans and Greeks enter, and rank themselves on
both sides of their Captains. _
_Troil. _ Did I not hear the voice of perjured Cressida?
Com'st thou to give the last stab to my heart?
As if the proofs of all thy former falsehood
Were not enough convincing, com'st thou now
To beg my rival's life?
Whom, oh, if any spark of truth remained,
Thou couldst not thus, even to my face, prefer.
_Cres. _ What shall I say! --that you suspect me false,
Has struck me dumb! but let him live, my Troilus;
By all our loves, by all our past endearments,
I do adjure thee, spare him.
_Troil. _ Hell and death!
_Cres. _ If ever I had power to bend your mind,
Believe me still your faithful Cressida;
And though my innocence appear like guilt,
Because I make his forfeit life my suit,
'Tis but for this, that my return to you
Would be cut off for ever by his death;
My father, treated like a slave, and scorned;
Myself in hated bonds a captive held.
_Troil. _ Could I believe thee, could I think thee true,
In triumph would I bear thee back to Troy,
Though Greece could rally all her shattered troops,
And stand embattled to oppose my way.
But, oh, thou syren, I will stop my ears
To thy enchanting notes; the winds shall bear
Upon their wings thy words, more light than they.
_Cres. _ Alas! I but dissembled love to him.
If ever he had any proof, beyond
What modesty might give--
_Diom. _ No! witness this. -- [_The Ring shewn. _
There, take her, Trojan, thou deserv'st her best;
You good, kind-natured, well-believing fools,
Are treasures to a woman.
I was a jealous, hard, vexatious lover,
And doubted even this pledge,--till full possession;
But she was honourable to her word,
And I have no just reason to complain.
_Cres. _ O unexampled, frontless impudence!
_Troil. _ Hell, show me such another tortured wretch as Troilus!
_Diom. _ Nay, grieve not; I resign her freely up;
I'm satisfied; and dare engage for Cressida,
That, if you have a promise of her person,
She shall be willing to come out of debt.
_Cres. _ [_Kneeling. _]
My only lord, by all those holy vows,
Which, if there be a Power above, are binding,
Or, if there be a hell below, are fearful,
May every imprecation, which your rage
Can wish on me, take place, if I am false!
_Diom. _ Nay, since you're so concerned to be believed,
I'm sorry I have pressed my charge so far:
Be what you would be thought; I can be grateful.
_Troil. _ Grateful! Oh torment! now hell's bluest flames
Receive her quick, with all her crimes upon her!
Let her sink spotted down! let the dark host
Make room, and point, and hiss her as she goes!
Let the most branded ghosts of all her sex
Rejoice, and cry,--"Here comes a blacker fiend! "
Let her--
_Cres. _ Enough, my lord; you've said enough.
This faithless, perjured, hated Cressida,
Shall be no more the subject of your curses:
Some few hours hence, and grief had done your work;
But then your eyes had missed the satisfaction,
Which thus I give you,--thus--
[_She stabs herself; they both run to her. _
_Diom. _ Help! save her, help!
_Cres. _ Stand off, and touch me not, thou traitor Diomede;--
But you, my only Troilus, come near:
Trust me, the wound, which I have given this breast,
Is far less painful than the wound you gave it.
Oh, can you yet believe, that I am true?
_Troil. _ This were too much, even if thou hadst been false!
But oh, thou purest, whitest innocence,--
For such I know thee now, too late I know it! --
May all my curses, and ten thousand more,
Heavier than they, fall back upon my head;
Pelion and Ossa, from the giants' graves
Be torn by some avenging deity,
And hurled at me, a bolder wretch than they,
Who durst invade the skies!
_Cres. _ Hear him not, heavens;
But hear me bless him with my latest breath!
And, since I question not your hard decree,
That doomed my days unfortunate and few,
Add all to him you take away from me;
And I die happy, that he thinks me true. [_Dies. _
_Troil. _ She's gone for ever, and she blest me dying!
Could she have cursed me worse! she died for me,
And, like a woman, I lament for her.
Distraction pulls me several ways at once:
Here pity calls me to weep out my eyes,
Despair then turns me back upon myself,
And bids me seek no more, but finish here.
[_Points his Sword to his Breast. _
Ha, smilest thou, traitor! thou instruct'st me best,
And turn'st my just revenge to punish thee.
_Diom. _ Thy worst, for mine has been beforehand with thee;
I triumph in thy vain credulity,
Which levels thy despairing state to mine;
But yet thy folly, to believe a foe,
Makes thine the sharper and more shameful loss.
_Troil. _ By my few moments of remaining life,
I did not hope for any future joy;
But thou hast given me pleasure ere I die,
To punish such a villain. --Fight apart; [_To his Soldiers. _
For heaven and hell have marked him out for me,
And I should grudge even his least drop of blood
To any other hand. [TROILUS _and_ DIOMEDE _fight, and both Parties
engage at the same time. The Trojans make
the Greeks retire, and_ TROILUS _makes_ DIOMEDE
_give ground, and hurts him. Trumpets
sound. _ ACHILLES _enters with his Myrmidons,
on the backs of the Trojans, who fight in a
ring, encompassed round. _ TROILUS, _singling_
DIOMEDE, _gets him down, and kills him; and_
ACHILLES _kills_ TROILUS _upon him. All the
Trojans die upon the place,_ TROILUS _last. _
_Enter_ AGAMEMNON, MENELAUS, ULYSSES, NESTOR, AJAX, _and
Attendants. _
_Achil. _ Our toils are done, and those aspiring walls,
The work of gods, and almost mating heaven,
Must crumble into rubbish on the plain.
_Agam. _ When mighty Hector fell beneath thy sword,
Their old foundations shook; their nodding towers
Threatened from high the amazed inhabitants;
And guardian-gods, for fear, forsook their fanes.
_Achil. _ Patroclus, now be quiet; Hector's dead;
And, as a second offering to thy ghost,
Lies Troilus high upon a heap of slain;
And noble Diomede beneath, whose death
This hand of mine revenged.
_Ajax. _ Revenged it basely:
For Troilus fell by multitudes opprest,
And so fell Hector; but 'tis vain to talk.
_Ulys. _ Hail, Agamemnon! truly victor now!
While secret envy, and while open pride,
Among thy factious nobles discord threw;
While public good was urged for private ends,
And those thought patriots, who disturbed it most;
Then, like the headstrong horses of the sun,
That light, which should have cheered the world, consumed it:
Now peaceful order has resumed the reins,
Old Time looks young, and Nature seems renewed.
Then, since from home-bred factions ruin springs,
Let subjects learn obedience to their kings. [_Exeunt. _
EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY THERSITES.
These cruel critics put me into passion;
For, in their lowering looks I read damnation:
You expect a satire, and I seldom fail;
When I'm first beaten, 'tis my part to rail.
You British fools, of the old Trojan stock,
That stand so thick, one cannot miss the flock,
Poets have cause to dread a keeping pit,
When women's cullies come to judge of wit.
As we strew rat's-bane when we vermin fear,
'Twere worth our cost to scatter fool-bane here;
And, after all our judging fops were served,
Dull poets, too, should have a dose reserved;
Such reprobates, as, past all sense of shaming,
Write on, and ne'er are satisfied with damning:
Next, those, to whom the stage does not belong,
Such whose vocation only is--to song;
At most to prologue, when, for want of time,
Poets take in for journey-work in rhime.
But I want curses for those mighty shoals
Of scribbling Chloris's, and Phyllis' fools:
Those oafs should be restrained, during their lives,
From pen and ink, as madmen are from knives.
I could rail on, but 'twere a task as vain,
As preaching truth at Rome, or wit in Spain:
Yet, to huff out our play was worth my trying;
John Lilburn 'scaped his judges by defying:[1]
If guilty, yet I'm sure o' the church's blessing,
By suffering for the plot, without confessing.
Footnote:
1. Lilburn, the most turbulent, but the boldest and most upright of
men, had the merit of defying and resisting the tyranny of the
king, of the parliament, and of the protector. He was convicted in
the star-chamber, but liberated by the parliament; he was tried on
the parliamentary statute for treasons in 1651, and before
Cromwell's high court of justice in 1654; and notwithstanding an
audacious defence,--which to some has been more perilous than a
feeble cause,--he was, in both cases, triumphantly acquitted.
* * * * *
THE
SPANISH FRIAR;
OR,
THE DOUBLE DISCOVERY.
_Ut melius possis fallere, sume togam. _
--MART.
_--Alterna revisens
Lasit, et in solido rursus fortuna locavit. _
--VIRG.
THE SPANISH FRIAR.
The Spanish Friar, or the Double Discovery, is one of the best and
most popular of our poet's dramatic efforts. The plot is, as Johnson
remarks, particularly happy, for the coincidence and coalition of the
tragic and comic plots. The grounds for this eminent critic's encomium
will be found to lie more deep than appears at first sight. It was,
indeed, a sufficiently obvious connection, to make the gay Lorenzo an
officer of the conquering army, and attached to the person of
Torrismond. This expedient could hardly have escaped the invention of
the most vulgar playwright, that ever dovetailed tragedy and comedy
together. The felicity of Dryden's plot, therefore, does not consist
in the ingenuity of his original conception, but in the minutely
artificial strokes, by which the reader is perpetually reminded of the
dependence of the one part of the play on the other. These are so
frequent, and appear so very natural, that the comic plot, instead of
diverting our attention from the tragic business, recals it to our
mind by constant and unaffected allusion. No great event happens in
the higher region of the camp or court, that has not some indirect
influence upon the intrigues of Lorenzo and Elvira; and the part which
the gallant is called upon to act in the revolution that winds up the
tragic interest, while it is highly in character, serves to bring the
catastrophe of both parts of the play under the eye of the spectator,
at one and the same time. Thus much seemed necessary to explain the
felicity of combination, upon which Dryden justly valued himself, and
which Johnson sanctioned by his high commendation. But, although
artfully conjoined, the different departments of this tragi-comedy are
separate subjects of critical remark.
The comic part of the Spanish Friar, as it gives the first title to
the play, seems to claim our first attention. Indeed, some precedence
is due to it in another point of view; for, though the tragic scenes
may be matched in All for Love, Don Sebastian, and else where, the
Spanish Friar contains by far the most happy of Dryden's comic
effusions. It has, comparatively speaking, this high claim to
commendation, that, although the intrigue is licentious, according to
the invariable licence of the age, the language is, in general, free
from the extreme and disgusting coarseness, which our author too
frequently mistook for wit, or was contented to substitute in its
stead. The liveliness and even brilliancy of the dialogue, shows that
Dryden, from the stores of his imagination, could, when he pleased,
command that essential requisite of comedy; and that, if he has seldom
succeeded, it was only because he mistook the road, or felt difficulty
in travelling it. The character of Dominic is of that broadly
ludicrous nature, which was proper to the old comedy. It would be
difficult to show an ordinary conception more fully brought out. He
is, like Falstaff, a compound of sensuality and talent, finely varied
by the professional traits with which it suited the author's purpose
to adorn his character. Such an addition was, it is true, more comic
than liberal; but Dryden, whose constant dislike to the clerical order
glances out in many of his performances, was not likely to be
scrupulous, when called upon to pourtray one of their members in his
very worst colours. To counterbalance the Friar's scandalous
propensities of every sort, and to render him an object of laughter,
rather than abhorrence, the author has gifted this reprobate churchman
with a large portion of wit; by means of which, and by a ready
presence of mind, always indicative of energy, he preserves an
ascendence over the other characters, and escapes detection and
disgrace, until poetical justice, and the conclusion of the play,
called for his punishment. We have a natural indulgence for an amusing
libertine; and, I believe, that, as most readers commiserate the
disgrace of Falstaff, a few may be found to wish that Dominic's
penance had been of a nature more decent and more theatrical than the
poet has assigned him[1]. From the dedication, as well as the
prologue, it appears that Dryden, however contrary to his sentiments
at a future period, was, at present, among those who held up to
contempt and execration the character of the Roman catholic
priesthood. By one anonymous lampoon, this is ascribed to a temporary
desertion of the court party, in resentment for the loss, or
discontinuance of his pension. This allowance, during the pressure
upon the Exchequer, was, at least, irregularly paid, of which Dryden
repeatedly complains, and particularly in a letter to the Earl of
Rochester. But the hardship was owing entirely to the poverty of the
public purse; and, when the anonymous libeller affirms, that Dryden's
pension was withdrawn, on account of his share in the Essay on Satire,
he only shows that his veracity is on a level with his poverty[2]. The
truth seems to be, that Dryden partook in some degree of the general
ferment which the discovery of the Popish Plot had excited; and we may
easily suppose him to have done so without any impeachment to his
monarchial tenets, since North himself admits, that at the first
opening of the plot, the chiefs of the loyal party joined in the cry.
Indeed, that mysterious transaction had been investigated by none more
warmly than by Danby, the king's favourite minister, and a high
favourer of the prerogative. Even when writing Absalom and Achitophel,
our author by no means avows an absolute disbelief of the whole plot,
while condemning the extraordinary exaggerations, by which it had been
rendered the means of much bloodshed and persecution[3]. It seems,
therefore, fair to believe, that, without either betraying or
disguising his own principles, he chose, as a popular subject for the
drama, an attack upon an obnoxious priesthood, whom he, in common with
all the nation, believed to have been engaged in the darkest intrigues
against the king and government. I am afraid that this task was the
more pleasing, from that prejudice against the clergy, of all
countries and religions, which, as already noticed, our author
displays, in common with other wits of that licentious age[4]. The
character of the Spanish Friar was not, however, forgotten, when
Dryden became a convert to the Roman Catholic persuasion; and, in many
instances, as well as in that just quoted, it was assumed as the means
of fixing upon him a charge of inconsistency in politics, and
versatility in religion[5].
The tragic part of the "Spanish Friar" has uncommon merit. The opening
of the Drama, and the picture of a besieged town in the last
extremity, is deeply impressive, while the description of the noise of
the night attack, and the gradual manner in which the intelligence of
its success is communicated, arrests the attention, and prepares
expectation for the appearance of the hero, with all the splendour
which ought to attend the principal character in tragedy. The
subsequent progress of the plot is liable to a capital objection, from
the facility with which the queen, amiable and virtuous, as we are
bound to suppose her, consents to the murder of the old dethroned
monarch. We question if the operation of any motive, however powerful,
could have been pleaded with propriety, in apology for a breach of
theatrical decorum, so gross, and so unnatural. But, in fact, the
queen is only actuated by a sort of reflected ambition, a desire to
secure to her lover a crown, which she thought in danger; but which,
according to her own statement, she only valued on his account. This
is surely too remote and indirect a motive, to urge a female to so
horrid a crime. There is also something vilely cold-hearted, in her
attempt to turn the guilt and consequences of her own crime upon
Bertran, who, whatever faults he might have to others, was to the
queen no otherwise obnoxious, than because the victim of her own
inconstancy. The gallant, virtuous, and enthusiastic character of
Torrismond, must be allowed, in some measure, to counterbalance that
of his mistress, however unhappily he has placed his affections. But
the real excellence of these scenes consists less in peculiarity of
character, than in the vivacity and power of the language, which,
seldom sinking into vulgarity, or rising into bombast, maintains the
mixture of force and dignity, best adapted to the expression of tragic
passion. Upon the whole, as the comic part of this play is our
author's master-piece in comedy, the tragic plot may be ranked with
his very best efforts of that kind, whether in "Don Sebastian," or
"All for Love. "
The "Spanish Friar" appears to have been brought out shortly after Mr
Thynne's murder, which is alluded to in the Prologue, probably early
in 1681-2. The whimsical caricature, which it presented to the public,
in Father Dominic, was received with rapture by the prejudiced
spectators, who thought nothing could be exaggerated in the character
of a Roman Catholic priest. Yet, the satire was still more severe in
the first edition, and afterwards considerably softened[6]. It was, as
Dryden himself calls it, a Protestant play; and certainly, as Jeremy
Collier somewhere says, was rare Protestant diversion, and much for
the credit of the Reformation. Accordingly, the "Spanish Friar" was
the only play prohibited by James II. after his accession; an
interdict, which may be easily believed no way disagreeable to the
author, now a convert to the Roman church. It is very remarkable,
that, after the Revolution, it was the first play represented by order
of queen Mary, and honoured with her presence; a choice, of which she
had abundant reason to repent, as the serious part of the piece gave
as much scope for malicious application against herself, as the comic
against the religion of her father[7].
Footnotes:
1. Collier remarks the injustice of punishing the agent of Lorenzo's
vice, while he was himself brought off with flying colours. He
observes, "'Tis not the fault which is corrected, but the priest.
The author's discipline is seldom without a bias. He commonly gives
the laity the pleasure of an ill action, and the clergy the
punishment. " _View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the Stage_,
p. 100.
2. To satire next thy talent was addressed,
Fell foul on all thy friends among the rest;
Nay, even thy royal patron was not spared,
But an obscene, a sauntering wretch declared.
Thy loyal libel we can still produce,
Beyond example, and beyond excuse.
O strange return, to a forgiving king,
(But the warmed viper wears the greatest sting,)
For pension lost, and justly without doubt;
When servants snarl we ought to kick them out.
They that disdain their benefactor's bread.
To laugh her out of countenance for her dreams!
_Troil. _ I have not quenched my eyes with dewy sleep this night;
But fiery fumes mount upward to my brains,
And, when I breathe, methinks my nostrils hiss!
I shall turn basilisk, and with my sight
Do my hands' work on Diomede this day.
_Hect. _ To arms, to arms! the vanguards are engaged
Let us not leave one man to guard the walls;
Both old and young, the coward and the brave,
Be summoned all, our utmost fate to try,
And as one body move, whose soul am I. [_Exeunt. _
SCENE II--_The Camp. _
_Alarm within. Enter_ AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, MENELAUS, _Soldiers. _
_Agam. _ Thus far the promise of the day is fair.
Æneas rather loses ground than gains.
I saw him over-laboured, taking breath,
And leaning on his spear, behold our trenches,
Like a fierce lion looking up to toils,
Which yet he durst not leap.
_Ulys. _ And therefore distant death does all the work;
The flights of whistling darts make brown the sky,
Whose clashing points strike fire, and gild the dusk;
Those, that reach home, from neither host are vain,
So thick the prease; so lusty are their arms,
That death seemed never sent with better will.
Nor was with less concernment entertained.
_Enter_ NESTOR.
_Agam. _ Now, Nestor, what's the news?
_Nest. _ I have descried
A cloud of dust, that mounts in pillars upwards,
Expanding as it travels to our camp;
And from the midst I heard a bursting shout,
That rent the heaven; as if all Troy were swarmed.
And on the wing this way.
_Menel. _ Let them come, let them come.
_Agam. _ Where's great Achilles?
_Ulys. _ Think not on Achilles,
Till Hector drag him from his tent to fight;
Which sure he will, for I have laid the train.
_Nest. _ But young Patroclus leads his Myrmidons,
And in their front, even in the face of Hector,
Resolves to dare the Trojans.
_Agam. _ Haste, Ulysses, bid Ajax issue forth and second him.
_Ulys. _ Oh noble general, let it not be so.
Oppose not rage, while rage is in its force,
But give it way awhile, and let it waste.
The rising deluge is not stopt with dams;
Those it o'erbears, and drowns the hopes of harvest;
But, wisely managed, its divided strength
Is sluiced in channels, and securely drained.
First, let small parties dally with their fury;
But when their force is spent and unsupplied,
The residue with mounds may be restrained,
And dry-shod we may pass the naked ford.
_Enter_ THERSITES.
_Thers. _ Ho, ho, ho!
_Menel. _ Why dost thou laugh, unseasonable fool?
_Thers. _ Why, thou fool in season, cannot a man laugh, but thou
thinkest he makes horns at thee? Thou prince of the herd, what hast
thou to do with laughing? 'Tis the prerogative of a man, to laugh.
Thou risibility without reason, thou subject of laughter, thou fool
royal!
_Ulys. _ But tell us the occasion of thy mirth?
_Thers. _ Now a man asks me, I care not if I answer to my own
kind. --Why, the enemies are broken into our trenches; fools like
Menelaus fall by thousands yet not a human soul departs on either
side. Troilus and Ajax have almost beaten one another's heads off, but
are both immortal for want of brains. Patroclus has killed Sarpedon,
and Hector Patroclus, so there is a towardly springing fop gone off;
he might have made a prince one day, but now he's nipt in the very bud
and promise of a most prodigious coxcomb.
_Agam. _ Bear off Patroclus' body to Achilles;
Revenge will arm him now, and bring us aid.
The alarm sounds near, and shouts are driven upon us,
As of a crowd confused in their retreat.
_Ulys. _ Open your ranks, and make these madmen way,
Then close again to charge upon their backs,
And quite consume the relics of the war. [_Exeunt all but_ THERSITES.
_Thers. _ What shoals of fools one battle sweeps away! How it purges
families of younger brothers, highways of robbers, and cities of
cuckold-makers! There is nothing like a pitched battle for these brisk
addle-heads! Your physician is a pretty fellow, but his fees make him
tedious, he rides not fast enough; the fools grow upon him, and their
horse bodies are poison proof. Your pestilence is a quicker remedy,
but it has not the grace to make distinction; it huddles up honest men
and rogues together. But your battle has discretion; it picks out all
the forward fools, and sowses them together into immortality. [_Shouts
and alarms within_] Plague upon these drums and trumpets! these sharp
sauces of the war, to get fools an appetite to fighting! What do I
among them? I shall be mistaken for some valiant ass, and die a martyr
in a wrong religion. [_Here Grecians fly over the stage pursued by
Trojans; one Trojan turns back upon_
THERSITES _who is flying too. _
_Troj. _ Turn, slave, and fight.
_Thers. _ [_turning. _] What art thou?
_Troj. _ A bastard son of Priam's.
_Thers. _ I am a bastard too, I love bastards, I am bastard in body,
bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. A
bear will not fasten upon a bear; why should one bastard offend
another! Let us part fair, like true sons of whores, and have the fear
of our mothers before our eyes.
_Troj. _ The devil take thee, coward. [_Exit Troj. _
_Thers. _ Now, would I were either invisible or invulnerable! These
gods have a fine time on it; they can see and make mischief, and never
feel it. [_Clattering of swords at both doors; he runs each
way, and meets the noise. _
A pox clatter you! I am compassed in. Now would I were that blockhead
Ajax for a minute. Some sturdy Trojan will poach me up with a long
pole! and then the rogues may kill one another at free cost, and have
nobody left to laugh at them. Now destruction! now destruction!
_Enter_ HECTOR _and_ TROILUS _driving in the Greeks. _
_Hect. _ to _Thers. _ Speak what part thou fightest on!
_Thers. _ I fight not at all; I am for neither side.
_Hect. _ Thou art a Greek; art thou a match for Hector?
Art thou of blood and honour?
_Thers. _ No, I am a rascal, a scurvy railing knave, a very filthy
rogue.
_Hect. _ I do believe thee; live.
_Thers. _ God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but the devil break
thy neck for frighting me. [_Aside. _
_Troil. _ (_returning. _) What prisoner have you there?
_Hect. _ A gleaning of the war; a rogue, he says.
_Troil. _ Dispatch him, and away. [_Going to kill him. _
_Thers. _ Hold, hold! --what, is it no more but dispatch a man and away!
I am in no such haste: I will not die for Greece; I hate Greece, and
by my good will would never have been born there; I was mistaken into
that country, and betrayed by my parents to be born there. And
besides, I have a mortal enemy among the Grecians, one Diomede, a
damned villain, and cannot die with a safe conscience till I have
first murdered him.
_Troil. _ Shew me that Diomede, and thou shalt live.
_Thers. _ Come along with me, and I will conduct thee to Calchas's
tent, where I believe he is now, making war with the priest's
daughter.
_Hect. _ Here we must part, our destinies divide us;
Brother and friend, farewell.
_Troil. _ When shall we meet?
_Hect. _ When the gods please; if not, we once must part.
Look; on yon hill their squandered troops unite.
_Troil. _ If I mistake not, 'tis their last reserve:
The storm's blown o'er, and those but after-drops.
_Hect. _ I wish our men be not too far engaged;
For few we are and spent, as having born
The burthen of the day: But, hap what can,
They shall be charged; Achilles must be there,
And him I seek, or death.
Divide our troops, and take the fresher half.
_Troil. _ O brother!
_Hect. _ No dispute of ceremony:
These are enow for me, in faith enow.
Their bodies shall not flag while I can lead;
Nor wearied limbs confess mortality,
Before those ants, that blacken all yon hill,
Are crept into the earth. Farewell. [_Exit_ HECT.
_Troil. _ Farewell. --Come, Greek.
_Thers. _ Now these rival rogues will clapperclaw one another, and I
shall have the sport of it. [_Exit_ TROIL. _with_ THERS.
_Enter_ ACHILLES _and Myrmidons. _
_Achill. _ Which way went Hector?
_Myrmid. _ Up yon sandy hill;
You may discern them by their smoking track:
A wavering body working with bent hams
Against the rising, spent with painful march,
And by loose footing cast on heaps together.
_Achil. _ O thou art gone, thou sweetest, best of friends!
Why did I let thee tempt the shock of war,
Ere yet the tender nerves had strung thy limbs,
And knotted into strength! Yet, though too late,
I will, I will revenge thee, my Patroclus!
Nor shall thy ghost thy murderers long attend,
But thou shalt hear him calling Charon back,
Ere thou art wafted to the farther shore. --
Make haste, my soldiers; give me this day's pains
For my dead friend: strike every hand with mine,
Till Hector breathless on the ground we lay!
Revenge is honour, the securest way. [_Exit with Myrm. _
_Enter_ THERSITES, TROILUS, _Trojans. _
_Thers. _ That's Calchas's tent.
_Troil. _ Then, that one spot of earth contains more falsehood,
Than all the sun sees in his race beside.
That I should trust the daughter of a priest!
Priesthood, that makes a merchandise of heaven!
Priesthood, that sells even to their prayers and blessings
And forces us to pay for our own cozenage!
_Thers. _ Nay, cheats heaven too with entrails and with offals;
Gives it the garbage of a sacrifice,
And keeps the best for private luxury.
_Troil. _ Thou hast deserved thy life for cursing priests.
Let me embrace thee; thou art beautiful:
That back, that nose, those eyes are beautiful:
Live; thou art honest, for thou hat'st a priest.
_Thers. _ [_Aside. _] Farewell, Trojan; if I escape with life, as I
hope, and thou art knocked on the head, as I hope too, I shall be the
first that ever escaped the revenge of a priest after cursing him; and
thou wilt not be the last, I prophesy, that a priest will bring to
ruin. [_Exit_ THER.
_Troil. _ Methinks, my soul is roused to her last work;
Has much to do, and little time to spare.
She starts within me, like a traveller,
Who sluggishly outslept his morning hour,
And mends his pace to reach his inn betimes.
[_Noise within,_ Follow, follow!
A noise of arms! the traitor may be there;
Or else, perhaps, that conscious scene of love,
The tent, may hold him; yet I dare not search,
For oh, I fear to find him in that place. [_Exit_ TROILUS.
_Enter_ CALCHAS _and_ CRESSIDA.
_Cres. _ Where is he? I'll be justified, or die.
_Calch.
_ So quickly vanished! he was here but now.
He must be gone to search for Diomede;
For Diomede told me, here they were to fight.
_Cres. _ Alas!
_Calch. _ You must prevent, and not complain.
_Cres. _ If Troilus die, I have no share in life.
_Calch. _ If Diomede sink beneath the sword of Troilus
We lose not only a protector here,
But are debarred all future means of flight.
_Cres. _ What then remains?
_Calch. _ To interpose betimes
Betwixt their swords; or, if that cannot be,
To intercede for him, who shall be vanquished.
Fate leaves no middle course. [_Exit_ CALCHAS.
_Clashing within. _
_Cres. _ Ah me! I hear them,
And fear 'tis past prevention.
_Enter_ DIOMEDE, _retiring before_ TROILUS, _and falling as he
enters. _
_Troil. _ Now beg thy life, or die.
_Diom. _ No; use thy fortune:
I loath the life, which thou canst give, or take.
_Troil. _ Scorn'st thou my mercy, villain! --Take thy wish. --
_Cres. _ Hold, hold your hand, my lord, and hear me speak.
[TROILUS _turns back; in which time_ DIOMEDE _rises,
Trojans and Greeks enter, and rank themselves on
both sides of their Captains. _
_Troil. _ Did I not hear the voice of perjured Cressida?
Com'st thou to give the last stab to my heart?
As if the proofs of all thy former falsehood
Were not enough convincing, com'st thou now
To beg my rival's life?
Whom, oh, if any spark of truth remained,
Thou couldst not thus, even to my face, prefer.
_Cres. _ What shall I say! --that you suspect me false,
Has struck me dumb! but let him live, my Troilus;
By all our loves, by all our past endearments,
I do adjure thee, spare him.
_Troil. _ Hell and death!
_Cres. _ If ever I had power to bend your mind,
Believe me still your faithful Cressida;
And though my innocence appear like guilt,
Because I make his forfeit life my suit,
'Tis but for this, that my return to you
Would be cut off for ever by his death;
My father, treated like a slave, and scorned;
Myself in hated bonds a captive held.
_Troil. _ Could I believe thee, could I think thee true,
In triumph would I bear thee back to Troy,
Though Greece could rally all her shattered troops,
And stand embattled to oppose my way.
But, oh, thou syren, I will stop my ears
To thy enchanting notes; the winds shall bear
Upon their wings thy words, more light than they.
_Cres. _ Alas! I but dissembled love to him.
If ever he had any proof, beyond
What modesty might give--
_Diom. _ No! witness this. -- [_The Ring shewn. _
There, take her, Trojan, thou deserv'st her best;
You good, kind-natured, well-believing fools,
Are treasures to a woman.
I was a jealous, hard, vexatious lover,
And doubted even this pledge,--till full possession;
But she was honourable to her word,
And I have no just reason to complain.
_Cres. _ O unexampled, frontless impudence!
_Troil. _ Hell, show me such another tortured wretch as Troilus!
_Diom. _ Nay, grieve not; I resign her freely up;
I'm satisfied; and dare engage for Cressida,
That, if you have a promise of her person,
She shall be willing to come out of debt.
_Cres. _ [_Kneeling. _]
My only lord, by all those holy vows,
Which, if there be a Power above, are binding,
Or, if there be a hell below, are fearful,
May every imprecation, which your rage
Can wish on me, take place, if I am false!
_Diom. _ Nay, since you're so concerned to be believed,
I'm sorry I have pressed my charge so far:
Be what you would be thought; I can be grateful.
_Troil. _ Grateful! Oh torment! now hell's bluest flames
Receive her quick, with all her crimes upon her!
Let her sink spotted down! let the dark host
Make room, and point, and hiss her as she goes!
Let the most branded ghosts of all her sex
Rejoice, and cry,--"Here comes a blacker fiend! "
Let her--
_Cres. _ Enough, my lord; you've said enough.
This faithless, perjured, hated Cressida,
Shall be no more the subject of your curses:
Some few hours hence, and grief had done your work;
But then your eyes had missed the satisfaction,
Which thus I give you,--thus--
[_She stabs herself; they both run to her. _
_Diom. _ Help! save her, help!
_Cres. _ Stand off, and touch me not, thou traitor Diomede;--
But you, my only Troilus, come near:
Trust me, the wound, which I have given this breast,
Is far less painful than the wound you gave it.
Oh, can you yet believe, that I am true?
_Troil. _ This were too much, even if thou hadst been false!
But oh, thou purest, whitest innocence,--
For such I know thee now, too late I know it! --
May all my curses, and ten thousand more,
Heavier than they, fall back upon my head;
Pelion and Ossa, from the giants' graves
Be torn by some avenging deity,
And hurled at me, a bolder wretch than they,
Who durst invade the skies!
_Cres. _ Hear him not, heavens;
But hear me bless him with my latest breath!
And, since I question not your hard decree,
That doomed my days unfortunate and few,
Add all to him you take away from me;
And I die happy, that he thinks me true. [_Dies. _
_Troil. _ She's gone for ever, and she blest me dying!
Could she have cursed me worse! she died for me,
And, like a woman, I lament for her.
Distraction pulls me several ways at once:
Here pity calls me to weep out my eyes,
Despair then turns me back upon myself,
And bids me seek no more, but finish here.
[_Points his Sword to his Breast. _
Ha, smilest thou, traitor! thou instruct'st me best,
And turn'st my just revenge to punish thee.
_Diom. _ Thy worst, for mine has been beforehand with thee;
I triumph in thy vain credulity,
Which levels thy despairing state to mine;
But yet thy folly, to believe a foe,
Makes thine the sharper and more shameful loss.
_Troil. _ By my few moments of remaining life,
I did not hope for any future joy;
But thou hast given me pleasure ere I die,
To punish such a villain. --Fight apart; [_To his Soldiers. _
For heaven and hell have marked him out for me,
And I should grudge even his least drop of blood
To any other hand. [TROILUS _and_ DIOMEDE _fight, and both Parties
engage at the same time. The Trojans make
the Greeks retire, and_ TROILUS _makes_ DIOMEDE
_give ground, and hurts him. Trumpets
sound. _ ACHILLES _enters with his Myrmidons,
on the backs of the Trojans, who fight in a
ring, encompassed round. _ TROILUS, _singling_
DIOMEDE, _gets him down, and kills him; and_
ACHILLES _kills_ TROILUS _upon him. All the
Trojans die upon the place,_ TROILUS _last. _
_Enter_ AGAMEMNON, MENELAUS, ULYSSES, NESTOR, AJAX, _and
Attendants. _
_Achil. _ Our toils are done, and those aspiring walls,
The work of gods, and almost mating heaven,
Must crumble into rubbish on the plain.
_Agam. _ When mighty Hector fell beneath thy sword,
Their old foundations shook; their nodding towers
Threatened from high the amazed inhabitants;
And guardian-gods, for fear, forsook their fanes.
_Achil. _ Patroclus, now be quiet; Hector's dead;
And, as a second offering to thy ghost,
Lies Troilus high upon a heap of slain;
And noble Diomede beneath, whose death
This hand of mine revenged.
_Ajax. _ Revenged it basely:
For Troilus fell by multitudes opprest,
And so fell Hector; but 'tis vain to talk.
_Ulys. _ Hail, Agamemnon! truly victor now!
While secret envy, and while open pride,
Among thy factious nobles discord threw;
While public good was urged for private ends,
And those thought patriots, who disturbed it most;
Then, like the headstrong horses of the sun,
That light, which should have cheered the world, consumed it:
Now peaceful order has resumed the reins,
Old Time looks young, and Nature seems renewed.
Then, since from home-bred factions ruin springs,
Let subjects learn obedience to their kings. [_Exeunt. _
EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY THERSITES.
These cruel critics put me into passion;
For, in their lowering looks I read damnation:
You expect a satire, and I seldom fail;
When I'm first beaten, 'tis my part to rail.
You British fools, of the old Trojan stock,
That stand so thick, one cannot miss the flock,
Poets have cause to dread a keeping pit,
When women's cullies come to judge of wit.
As we strew rat's-bane when we vermin fear,
'Twere worth our cost to scatter fool-bane here;
And, after all our judging fops were served,
Dull poets, too, should have a dose reserved;
Such reprobates, as, past all sense of shaming,
Write on, and ne'er are satisfied with damning:
Next, those, to whom the stage does not belong,
Such whose vocation only is--to song;
At most to prologue, when, for want of time,
Poets take in for journey-work in rhime.
But I want curses for those mighty shoals
Of scribbling Chloris's, and Phyllis' fools:
Those oafs should be restrained, during their lives,
From pen and ink, as madmen are from knives.
I could rail on, but 'twere a task as vain,
As preaching truth at Rome, or wit in Spain:
Yet, to huff out our play was worth my trying;
John Lilburn 'scaped his judges by defying:[1]
If guilty, yet I'm sure o' the church's blessing,
By suffering for the plot, without confessing.
Footnote:
1. Lilburn, the most turbulent, but the boldest and most upright of
men, had the merit of defying and resisting the tyranny of the
king, of the parliament, and of the protector. He was convicted in
the star-chamber, but liberated by the parliament; he was tried on
the parliamentary statute for treasons in 1651, and before
Cromwell's high court of justice in 1654; and notwithstanding an
audacious defence,--which to some has been more perilous than a
feeble cause,--he was, in both cases, triumphantly acquitted.
* * * * *
THE
SPANISH FRIAR;
OR,
THE DOUBLE DISCOVERY.
_Ut melius possis fallere, sume togam. _
--MART.
_--Alterna revisens
Lasit, et in solido rursus fortuna locavit. _
--VIRG.
THE SPANISH FRIAR.
The Spanish Friar, or the Double Discovery, is one of the best and
most popular of our poet's dramatic efforts. The plot is, as Johnson
remarks, particularly happy, for the coincidence and coalition of the
tragic and comic plots. The grounds for this eminent critic's encomium
will be found to lie more deep than appears at first sight. It was,
indeed, a sufficiently obvious connection, to make the gay Lorenzo an
officer of the conquering army, and attached to the person of
Torrismond. This expedient could hardly have escaped the invention of
the most vulgar playwright, that ever dovetailed tragedy and comedy
together. The felicity of Dryden's plot, therefore, does not consist
in the ingenuity of his original conception, but in the minutely
artificial strokes, by which the reader is perpetually reminded of the
dependence of the one part of the play on the other. These are so
frequent, and appear so very natural, that the comic plot, instead of
diverting our attention from the tragic business, recals it to our
mind by constant and unaffected allusion. No great event happens in
the higher region of the camp or court, that has not some indirect
influence upon the intrigues of Lorenzo and Elvira; and the part which
the gallant is called upon to act in the revolution that winds up the
tragic interest, while it is highly in character, serves to bring the
catastrophe of both parts of the play under the eye of the spectator,
at one and the same time. Thus much seemed necessary to explain the
felicity of combination, upon which Dryden justly valued himself, and
which Johnson sanctioned by his high commendation. But, although
artfully conjoined, the different departments of this tragi-comedy are
separate subjects of critical remark.
The comic part of the Spanish Friar, as it gives the first title to
the play, seems to claim our first attention. Indeed, some precedence
is due to it in another point of view; for, though the tragic scenes
may be matched in All for Love, Don Sebastian, and else where, the
Spanish Friar contains by far the most happy of Dryden's comic
effusions. It has, comparatively speaking, this high claim to
commendation, that, although the intrigue is licentious, according to
the invariable licence of the age, the language is, in general, free
from the extreme and disgusting coarseness, which our author too
frequently mistook for wit, or was contented to substitute in its
stead. The liveliness and even brilliancy of the dialogue, shows that
Dryden, from the stores of his imagination, could, when he pleased,
command that essential requisite of comedy; and that, if he has seldom
succeeded, it was only because he mistook the road, or felt difficulty
in travelling it. The character of Dominic is of that broadly
ludicrous nature, which was proper to the old comedy. It would be
difficult to show an ordinary conception more fully brought out. He
is, like Falstaff, a compound of sensuality and talent, finely varied
by the professional traits with which it suited the author's purpose
to adorn his character. Such an addition was, it is true, more comic
than liberal; but Dryden, whose constant dislike to the clerical order
glances out in many of his performances, was not likely to be
scrupulous, when called upon to pourtray one of their members in his
very worst colours. To counterbalance the Friar's scandalous
propensities of every sort, and to render him an object of laughter,
rather than abhorrence, the author has gifted this reprobate churchman
with a large portion of wit; by means of which, and by a ready
presence of mind, always indicative of energy, he preserves an
ascendence over the other characters, and escapes detection and
disgrace, until poetical justice, and the conclusion of the play,
called for his punishment. We have a natural indulgence for an amusing
libertine; and, I believe, that, as most readers commiserate the
disgrace of Falstaff, a few may be found to wish that Dominic's
penance had been of a nature more decent and more theatrical than the
poet has assigned him[1]. From the dedication, as well as the
prologue, it appears that Dryden, however contrary to his sentiments
at a future period, was, at present, among those who held up to
contempt and execration the character of the Roman catholic
priesthood. By one anonymous lampoon, this is ascribed to a temporary
desertion of the court party, in resentment for the loss, or
discontinuance of his pension. This allowance, during the pressure
upon the Exchequer, was, at least, irregularly paid, of which Dryden
repeatedly complains, and particularly in a letter to the Earl of
Rochester. But the hardship was owing entirely to the poverty of the
public purse; and, when the anonymous libeller affirms, that Dryden's
pension was withdrawn, on account of his share in the Essay on Satire,
he only shows that his veracity is on a level with his poverty[2]. The
truth seems to be, that Dryden partook in some degree of the general
ferment which the discovery of the Popish Plot had excited; and we may
easily suppose him to have done so without any impeachment to his
monarchial tenets, since North himself admits, that at the first
opening of the plot, the chiefs of the loyal party joined in the cry.
Indeed, that mysterious transaction had been investigated by none more
warmly than by Danby, the king's favourite minister, and a high
favourer of the prerogative. Even when writing Absalom and Achitophel,
our author by no means avows an absolute disbelief of the whole plot,
while condemning the extraordinary exaggerations, by which it had been
rendered the means of much bloodshed and persecution[3]. It seems,
therefore, fair to believe, that, without either betraying or
disguising his own principles, he chose, as a popular subject for the
drama, an attack upon an obnoxious priesthood, whom he, in common with
all the nation, believed to have been engaged in the darkest intrigues
against the king and government. I am afraid that this task was the
more pleasing, from that prejudice against the clergy, of all
countries and religions, which, as already noticed, our author
displays, in common with other wits of that licentious age[4]. The
character of the Spanish Friar was not, however, forgotten, when
Dryden became a convert to the Roman Catholic persuasion; and, in many
instances, as well as in that just quoted, it was assumed as the means
of fixing upon him a charge of inconsistency in politics, and
versatility in religion[5].
The tragic part of the "Spanish Friar" has uncommon merit. The opening
of the Drama, and the picture of a besieged town in the last
extremity, is deeply impressive, while the description of the noise of
the night attack, and the gradual manner in which the intelligence of
its success is communicated, arrests the attention, and prepares
expectation for the appearance of the hero, with all the splendour
which ought to attend the principal character in tragedy. The
subsequent progress of the plot is liable to a capital objection, from
the facility with which the queen, amiable and virtuous, as we are
bound to suppose her, consents to the murder of the old dethroned
monarch. We question if the operation of any motive, however powerful,
could have been pleaded with propriety, in apology for a breach of
theatrical decorum, so gross, and so unnatural. But, in fact, the
queen is only actuated by a sort of reflected ambition, a desire to
secure to her lover a crown, which she thought in danger; but which,
according to her own statement, she only valued on his account. This
is surely too remote and indirect a motive, to urge a female to so
horrid a crime. There is also something vilely cold-hearted, in her
attempt to turn the guilt and consequences of her own crime upon
Bertran, who, whatever faults he might have to others, was to the
queen no otherwise obnoxious, than because the victim of her own
inconstancy. The gallant, virtuous, and enthusiastic character of
Torrismond, must be allowed, in some measure, to counterbalance that
of his mistress, however unhappily he has placed his affections. But
the real excellence of these scenes consists less in peculiarity of
character, than in the vivacity and power of the language, which,
seldom sinking into vulgarity, or rising into bombast, maintains the
mixture of force and dignity, best adapted to the expression of tragic
passion. Upon the whole, as the comic part of this play is our
author's master-piece in comedy, the tragic plot may be ranked with
his very best efforts of that kind, whether in "Don Sebastian," or
"All for Love. "
The "Spanish Friar" appears to have been brought out shortly after Mr
Thynne's murder, which is alluded to in the Prologue, probably early
in 1681-2. The whimsical caricature, which it presented to the public,
in Father Dominic, was received with rapture by the prejudiced
spectators, who thought nothing could be exaggerated in the character
of a Roman Catholic priest. Yet, the satire was still more severe in
the first edition, and afterwards considerably softened[6]. It was, as
Dryden himself calls it, a Protestant play; and certainly, as Jeremy
Collier somewhere says, was rare Protestant diversion, and much for
the credit of the Reformation. Accordingly, the "Spanish Friar" was
the only play prohibited by James II. after his accession; an
interdict, which may be easily believed no way disagreeable to the
author, now a convert to the Roman church. It is very remarkable,
that, after the Revolution, it was the first play represented by order
of queen Mary, and honoured with her presence; a choice, of which she
had abundant reason to repent, as the serious part of the piece gave
as much scope for malicious application against herself, as the comic
against the religion of her father[7].
Footnotes:
1. Collier remarks the injustice of punishing the agent of Lorenzo's
vice, while he was himself brought off with flying colours. He
observes, "'Tis not the fault which is corrected, but the priest.
The author's discipline is seldom without a bias. He commonly gives
the laity the pleasure of an ill action, and the clergy the
punishment. " _View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the Stage_,
p. 100.
2. To satire next thy talent was addressed,
Fell foul on all thy friends among the rest;
Nay, even thy royal patron was not spared,
But an obscene, a sauntering wretch declared.
Thy loyal libel we can still produce,
Beyond example, and beyond excuse.
O strange return, to a forgiving king,
(But the warmed viper wears the greatest sting,)
For pension lost, and justly without doubt;
When servants snarl we ought to kick them out.
They that disdain their benefactor's bread.
