_ I almost
question
if I will receive
My life from thee: 'Tis like a cure from witches;
'Twill leave a sin behind it.
My life from thee: 'Tis like a cure from witches;
'Twill leave a sin behind it.
Dryden - Complete
_ Away, I'll hear no more.
--Now who comes the next?
[_Exeunt the English with a Guard. _
_Fisc. _ Towerson's page, a ship-boy, and a woman.
_Har. _ Call them in. [_Exit a Messenger. _
_Van Her. _ We shall have easy work with them.
_Fisc. _ Not so easy as you imagine, they have endured the beverage
already; all masters of their pain, no one confessing.
_Har. _ The devil's in these English! those brave boys would prove
stout topers if they lived.
_Enter Page, a Boy, and a Woman, led as from torture. _
Come hither, ye perverse imps; they say you have endured the water
torment, we will try what fire will do with you: You, sirrah, confess;
were not you knowing of Towerson's plot, against this fort and island?
_Page. _ I have told your hangman no, twelve times within this hour,
when I was at the last gasp; and that is a time, I think, when a man
should not dissemble.
_Har. _ A man! mark you that now; you English boys have learnt a trick
of late, of growing men betimes; and doing men's work, too, before you
come to twenty.
_Van Her. _ Sirrah, I will try if you are a salamander and can live in
the fire.
_Page. _ Sure you think my father got me of some Dutchwoman, and that I
am but of a half-strain courage; but you shall find that I am all over
English as well in fire as water.
_Boy. _ Well, of all religions, I do not like your Dutch.
_Fisc. _ No? and why, young stripling?
_Boy. _ Because your penance comes before confession.
_Har. _ Do you mock us, sirrah? To the fire with him.
_Boy. _ Do so; all you shall get by it is this; before I answered no;
now I'll be sullen and will talk no more.
_Har. _ Best cutting off these little rogues betime; if they grow men,
they will have the spirit of revenge in them.
_Page. _ Yes, as your children have that of rebellion. Oh that I could
but live to be governor here, to make your fat guts pledge me in that
beverage I drunk, you Sir John Falstaff of Amsterdam!
_Boy. _ I have a little brother in England, that I intend to appear to
when you have killed me; and if he does not promise me the death of
ten Dutchmen in the next war, I'll haunt him instead of you.
_Har. _ What say you, woman? Have compassion of yourself, and confess;
you are of a softer sex.
_Wom. _ But of a courage full as manly; there is no sex in souls; would
you have English wives shew less of bravery than their children do? To
lie by an Englishman's side, is enough to give a woman resolution.
_Fisc. _ Here is a hen of the game too, but we shall tame you in the
fire.
_Wom. _ My innocence shall there be tried like gold, till it come out
the purer. When you have burnt me all into one wound, cram gunpowder
into it, and blow me up, I'll not confess one word to shame my
country.
_Har. _ I think we have got here the mother of the Maccabees; away with
them all three. [_Exeunt the English guarded. _] I'll take the pains
myself to see these tortured.
[_Exeunt_ HARMAN, VAN HERRING, _and the two
Dutchmen with the English: Manet_ FISCAL.
_Enter_ JULIA _to the_ FISCAL.
_Jul. _ Oh you have ruined me! you have undone me, in the person of my
husband!
_Fisc. _ If he will needs forfeit his life to the laws, by joining with
the English in a plot, it is not in me to save him; but, dearest
Julia, be satisfied, you shall not want a husband.
_Jul. _ Do you think I'll ever come into a bed with him, who robbed me
of my dear sweet man?
_Fisc. _ Dry up your tears; I am in earnest; I will marry you; i'faith
I will; it is your destiny.
_Jul. _ Nay if it be my destiny--but I vow I'll never be yours but upon
one condition.
_Fisc. _ Name your desire, and take it.
_Jul. _ Then save poor Beamont's life.
_Fisc. _ This is the most unkind request you could have made; it shews
you love him better: therefore, in prudence, I should haste his death.
_Jul. _ Come, I'll not be denied; you shall give me his life, or I'll
not love you; by this kiss you shall, child.
_Fisc. _ Pray ask some other thing.
_Jul. _ I have your word for this, and if you break it, how shall I
trust you for your marrying me?
_Fisc. _ Well, I will do it to oblige you. But to prevent her new
designs with him, I'll see him shipped away for England strait.
[_Aside. _
_Jul. _ I may build upon your promise, then?
_Fisc. _ Most firmly: I hear company.
_Enter_ HARMAN, VAN HERRING, _and the two Dutchmen, with_ TOWERSON
_prisoner. _
_Har. _ Now, captain Towerson, you have had the privilege to be
examined last; this on the score of my old friendship with you, though
you have ill deserved it. But here you stand accused of no less crimes
than robbery first, then murder, and last, treason: What can you say
to clear yourself?
_Tow. _ You're interested in all, and therefore partial:
I have considered on it, and will not plead,
Because I know you have no right to judge me;
For the last treaty betwixt our king and you
Expressly said, that causes criminal
Were first to be examined, and then judged,
Not here, but by the Council of Defence;
To whom I make appeal.
_Fisc. _ This court conceives that it has power to judge you, derived
from the most high and mighty states, who in this island are supreme,
and that as well in criminal as civil causes.
_1 Dutch. _ You are not to question the authority of the court, which
is to judge you.
_Tow. _ Sir, by your favour, I both must, and will:
I'll not so far betray my nation's right;
We are not here your subjects, but your partners:
And that supremacy of power, you claim,
Extends but to the natives, not to us:
Dare you, who in the British seas strike sail,
Nay more, whose lives and freedom are our alms,
Presume to sit and judge your benefactors?
Your base new upstart commonwealth should blush,
To doom the subjects of an English king,
The meanest of whose merchants would disdain
The narrow life, and the domestic baseness,
Of one of those you call your Mighty States.
_Fisc. _ You spend your breath in railing; speak to the purpose.
_Har. _ Hold yet: Because you shall not call us cruel,
Or plead I would be judge in my own cause,
I shall accept of that appeal you make,
Concerning my son's death; provided first,
You clear yourself from what concerns the public;
For that relating to our general safety,
The judgment of it cannot be deferred,
But with our common danger.
_Tow. _ Let me first
Be bold to question you: What circumstance
Can make this, your pretended plot, seem likely?
The natives, first, you tortured; their confession,
Extorted so, can prove no crime in us.
Consider, next, the strength of this your castle;
Its garrison above two hundred men,
Besides as many of your city burghers,
All ready on the least alarm, or summons,
To reinforce the others; for ten English,
And merchants they, not soldiers, with the aid
Of ten Japanners, all of them unarmed,
Except five swords, and not so many muskets,--
The attempt had only been for fools or madmen.
_Fisc. _ We cannot help your want of wit; proceed.
_Tow. _ Grant then we had been desperate enough
To hazard this; we must at least forecast,
How to secure possession when we had it.
We had no ship nor pinnace in the harbour,
Nor could have aid from any factory:
The nearest to us forty leagues from hence,
And they but few in number: You, besides
This fort, have yet three castles in this isle,
Amply provided for, and eight tall ships
Riding at anchor near; consider this,
And think what all the world will judge of it.
_Har. _ Nothing but falsehood is to be expected
From such a tongue, whose heart is fouled with treason.
Give him the beverage.
_Fisc. _ 'Tis ready, sir.
_Har. _ Hold; I have some reluctance to proceed
To that extremity: He was my friend,
And I would have him frankly to confess:
Push open that prison door, and set before him
The image of his pains in other men.
_The_ SCENE _opens, and discovers the English tortured, and the
Dutch tormenting them. _
_Fisc. _ Now, sir, how does the object like you?
_Tow. _ Are you men or devils! D'Alva, whom you
Condemn for cruelty, did ne'er the like;
He knew original villany was in your blood.
Your fathers all are damned for their rebellion;
When they rebelled, they were well used to this.
These tortures ne'er were hatched in human breasts;
But as your country lies confined on hell,
Just on its marches, your black neighbours taught ye;
And just such pains as you invent on earth,
Hell has reserved for you.
_Har. _ Are you yet moved?
_Tow. _ But not as you would have me.
I could weep tears of blood to view this usage;
But you, as if not made of the same mould,
See, with dry eyes, the miseries of men,
As they were creatures of another kind,
Not Christians, nor allies, nor partners with you,
But as if beasts, transfixed on theatres,
To make you cruel sport.
_Har. _ These are but vulgar objects; bring his friend,
Let him behold his tortures; shut that door. [_The Scene closed. _
_Enter_ BEAMONT, _led with matches tied to his hands. _
_Tow. _ [_Embracing him. _]
Oh my dear friend, now I am truly wretched!
Even in that part which is most sensible,
My friendship:
How have we lived to see the English name
The scorn of these, the vilest of mankind!
_Beam. _ Courage, my friend, and rather praise we heaven,
That it has chose two, such as you and me,
Who will not shame our country with our pains,
But stand, like marble statues, in their fires,
Scorched and defaced, perhaps, not melted down.
So let them burn this tenement of earth;
They can but burn me naked to my soul;
That's of a nobler frame, and will stand firm,
Upright, and unconsumed.
_Fisc. _ Confess; if you have kindness, save your friend.
_Tow. _ Yes, by my death I would, not my confession:
He is so brave, he would not so be saved;
But would renounce a friendship built on shame.
_Har. _ Bring more candles, and burn him from the wrists up to the
elbows.
_Beam. _ Do; I'll enjoy the flames like Scævola;
And, when one's roasted, give the other hand.
_Tow. _ Let me embrace you while you are a man.
Now you must lose that form; be parched and rivelled,
Like a dried mummy, or dead malefactor,
Exposed in chains, and blown about by winds.
_Beam. _ Yet this I can endure.
Go on, and weary out two elements;
Vex fire and water with the experiments
Of pains far worse than death.
_Tow. _ Oh, let me take my turn!
You will have double pleasure; I'm ashamed
To be the only Englishman untortured.
_Van. Her. _ You soon should have your wish, but that we know
In him you suffer more.
_Har. _ Fill me a brim-full glass:
Now, captain, here's to all your countrymen;
I wish your whole East India company
Were in this room, that we might use them thus.
_Fisc. _ They should have fires of cloves and cinnamon;
We would cut down whole groves to honour them,
And be at cost to burn them nobly.
_Beam. _ Barbarous villains! now you show yourselves
_Har. _ Boy, take that candle thence, and bring it hither;
I am exalted, and would light my pipe
Just where the wick is fed with English fat.
_Van Her. _ So would I; oh, the tobacco tastes divinely after it.
_Tow. _ We have friends in England, who would weep to see
This acted on a theatre, which here
You make your pastime.
_Beam. _ Oh, that this flesh were turned a cake of ice,
That I might in an instant melt away,
And become nothing, to escape this torment!
There is not cold enough in all the north
To quench my burning blood. [FISCAL _whispers_ HARMAN.
_Har. _ Do with Beamont as you please, so Towerson die.
_Fisc. _ You'll not confess yet, captain?
_Tow. _ Hangman, no;
I would have don't before, if e'er I would:
To do it when my friend has suffered this,
Were to be less than he.
_Fisc. _ Free him. [_They free_ BEAMONT.
Beamont, I have not sworn you should not suffer.
But that you should not die; thank Julia for it.
But on your life do not delay this hour
To post from hence! so to your next plantation;
I cannot suffer a loved rival near me.
_Beam.
_ I almost question if I will receive
My life from thee: 'Tis like a cure from witches;
'Twill leave a sin behind it.
_Fisc. _ Nay, I'm not lavish of my courtesy;
I can on easy terms resume my gift.
_Har. _ Captain, you're a dead man; I'll spare your torture for your
quality; prepare for execution instantly.
_Tow. _ I am prepared.
_Fisc. _ You die in charity, I hope?
_Tow. _ I can forgive even thee:
My innocence I need not name, you know it.
One farewell kiss of my dear Isabinda,
And all my business here on earth is done.
_Har. _ Call her; she's at the door. [_Exit_ FISC.
_Tow. _ [_To_ BEAM. _embracing. _]
A long and last farewell! I take my death
With the more cheerfulness, because thou liv'st
Behind me: Tell my friends, I died so as
Became a Christian and a man; give to my brave
Employers of the East India company,
The last remembrance of my faithful service;
Tell them, I seal that service with my blood;
And, dying, wish to all their factories,
And all the famous merchants of our isle,
That wealth their generous industry deserves;
But dare not hope it with Dutch partnership.
Last, there's my heart, I give it in this kiss: [_Kisses him. _
Do not answer me; friendship's a tender thing,
And it would ill become me now to weep.
_Beam. _ Adieu! if I would speak, I cannot-- [_Exit. _
_Enter_ ISABINDA.
_Isab. _ Is it permitted me to see your eyes
Once more, before eternal night shall close them?
_Tow. _ I summoned all I had of man to see you;
'Twas well the time allowed for it was short;
I could not bear it long: 'Tis dangerous,
And would divide my love 'twixt heaven and you.
I therefore part in haste; think I am going
A sudden journey, and have not the leisure
To take a ceremonious long farewell.
_Isab. _ Do you still love me?
_Tow. _ Do not suppose I do;
'Tis for your ease, since you must stay behind me,
To think I was unkind; you'll grieve the less.
_Har. _ Though I suspect you joined in my son's murder,
Yet, since it is not proved, you have your life.
_Isab. _ I thank you for't, I'll make the noblest use
Of your sad gift; that is, to die unforced:
I'll make a present of my life to Towerson,
To let you see, though worthless of his love,
I would not live without him.
_Tow. _ I charge you, love my memory, but live.
_Har. _ She shall be strictly guarded from that violence
She means against herself.
_Isab. _ Vain men! there are so many paths to death,
You cannot stop them all: o'er the green turf,
Where my love's laid, there will I mourning sit,
And draw no air but from the damps that rise
Out of that hallowed earth; and for my diet,
I mean my eyes alone shall feed my mouth.
Thus will I live, till he in pity rise,
And the pale shade take me in his cold arms,
And lay me kindly by him in his grave.
_Enter_ COLLINS, _and then_ PEREZ, JULIA _following him. _
_Har. _ No more; your time's now come, you must away.
_Col. _ Now, devils, you have done your worst with tortures; death's a
privation of pain, but they were a continual dying.
_Jul. _ Farewell, my dearest! I may have many husbands,
But never one like thee.
_Per. _ As you love my soul, take hence that woman. --
My English friends, I'm not ashamed of death,
While I have you for partners; I know you innocent,
And so am I, of this pretended plot;
But I am guilty of a greater crime;
For, being married in another country,
The governor's persuasions, and my love
To that ill woman, made me leave the first,
And make this fatal choice.
I'm justly punished; for her sake I die:
The Fiscal, to enjoy her, has accused me.
There is another cause;
By his procurement I should have killed--
_Fisc. _ Away with him, and stop his mouth. [_He is led off. _
_Tow. _ I leave thee, life, with no regret at parting;
Full of whatever thou could'st give, I rise
From thy neglected feast, and go to sleep:
Yet, on this brink of death, my eyes are opened,
And heaven has bid me prophecy to you,
The unjust contrivers of this tragic scene:--
_An age is coming, when an English monarch
With blood shall pay that blood which you have shed:
To save your cities from victorious arms,
You shall invite the waves to hide your earth[1],
And, trembling, to the, tops of houses fly,
While deluges invade your lower rooms:
Then, as with waters you have swelled our bodies,
With damps of waters shall your heads be swoln:
Till, at the last, your sapped foundations fall,
And universal ruin swallows all. _
[_He is led out with the English; the Dutch
remain. _
_Van. Her. _ Ay, ay, we'll venture both ourselves and children for such
another pull.
_1 Dutch. _ Let him prophecy when his head's off.
_2 Dutch. _ There's ne'er a Nostradamus of them all shall fright us
from our gain.
_Fisc. _ Now for a smooth apology, and then a fawning letter to the
king of England; and our work's done.
_Har. _ 'Tis done as I would wish it:
Now, brethren, at my proper cost and charges,
Three days you are my guests; in which good time
We will divide their greatest wealth by lots,
While wantonly we raffle for the rest:
Then, in full rummers, and with joyful hearts,
We'll drink confusion to all English starts. [_Exeunt. _
Footnote:
1. During the French invasion of 1672, the Dutch were obliged to adopt
the desperate defence of cutting their dykes, and inundating the
country.
EPILOGUE
A poet once the Spartans led to fight,
And made them conquer in the muse's right;
So would our poet lead you on this day,
Showing your tortured fathers in his play.
To one well-born the affront is worse, and more,
When he's abused, and baffled by a boor:
With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do,
They've both ill-nature and ill-manners too.
Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation,
For they were bred ere manners were in fashion;
And their new commonwealth has set them free,
Only from honour and civility.
Venetians do not more uncouthly ride[1],
Than did their lubber state mankind bestride;
Their sway became them with as ill a mien,
As their own paunches swell above their chin:
Yet is their empire no true growth, but humour,
And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour[2].
As Cato did his Afric fruits display,
So we before your eyes their Indies lay:
All loyal English will, like him, conclude,
Let Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdued[3]!
Footnotes:
1. The situation of Venice renders it impossible to bring horses into
the town; accordingly, the Venetians are proverbially bad riders.
2. The poet alludes to the king's evil, and to the joint war of France
and England against Holland.
3. Allusions to Cato,--who presented to the Roman Senate the rich figs
of Africa, and reminded them it was but three days sail to the
country which produced such excellent fruit,--were fashionable
during the Dutch war. The Lord Chancellor Shaftesbury had set the
example, by applying to Holland the favourite maxim of the Roman
philosopher, _Delenda est Carthago. _ When that versatile statesman
afterwards fled to Holland, he petitioned to be created a burgess
of Amsterdam, to ensure him against being delivered up to England.
The magistrates conferred on him the freedom desired, with the
memorable words, "_Ab nostra Carthagine nondum deleta, salutem
accipe. _"
* * * * *
THE
STATE OF INNOCENCE,
AND
FALL OF MAN.
AN
OPERA.
--_Utinam modò dicere possem
Carmina digna deâ: Certe est dea carmine digna. _
OVID. MET.
THE STATE OF INNOCENCE, &c.
The "Paradise Lost" of Milton is a work so extraordinary in conception
and execution, that it required a lapse of many years to reconcile the
herd of readers, and of critics, to what was almost too sublime for
ordinary understandings. The poets, in particular, seemed to have
gazed on its excellencies, like the inferior animals on Dryden's
immortal Hind; and, incapable of fully estimating a merit, which, in
some degree, they could not help feeling, many were their absurd
experiments to lower it to the standard of their own comprehension.
One author, deeming the "Paradise Lost" deficient in harmony, was
pleased painfully to turn it into rhyme; and more than one, conceiving
the subject too serious to be treated in verse of any kind, employed
their leisure in humbling it into prose. The names of these
well-judging and considerate persons are preserved by Mr Todd in his
edition of Milton's Poetical Works.
But we must not confound with these effusions of gratuitous folly an
alteration, or imitation, planned and executed by John Dryden;
although we may be at a loss to guess the motives by which he was
guided in hazarding such an attempt. His reverence for Milton and his
high estimation of his poetry, had already called forth the well-known
verses, in which he attributes to him the joint excellencies of the
two most celebrated poets of antiquity; and if other proofs of his
veneration were wanting, they may be found in the preface to this very
production. Had the subject been of a nature which admitted its being
actually represented, we might conceive, that Dryden, who was under
engagements to the theatre, with which it was not always easy to
comply, might have been desirous to shorten his own labour, by
adopting the story sentiments, and language of a poem, which he so
highly esteemed and which might probably have been new to the
generality of his audience. But the _costume_ of our first parents,
had there been no other objection, must have excluded the "State of
Innocence" from the stage, and accordingly it was certainly never
intended for representation. The probable motive, therefore, of this
alteration, was the wish, so common to genius, to exert itself upon a
subject in which another had already attained brilliant success, or,
as Dryden has termed a similar attempt, the desire to shoot in the bow
of Ulysses. Some circumstances in the history of Milton's immortal
poem may have suggested to Dryden the precise form of the present
attempt. It is reported by Voltaire, and seems at length to be
admitted, that the original idea of the "Paradise Lost" was supplied
by an Italian Mystery, or religious play, which Milton witnessed when
abroad[1]; and it is certain, that he intended at first to mould his
poem into a dramatic form[2]. It seems, therefore, likely, that
Dryden, conscious of his own powers, and enthusiastically admiring
those of Milton, was induced to make an experiment upon the forsaken
plan of the blind bard, which, with his usual rapidity of conception
and execution, he completed in the short space of one month. The
spurious copies which got abroad, and perhaps the desire of testifying
his respect for his beautiful patroness, the Duchess of York, form his
own apology for the publication. It is reported by Mr Aubrey that the
step was not taken without Dryden's reverence to Milton being
testified by a personal application for his permission. The aged poet,
conscious that the might of his versification could receive no
addition even from the flowing numbers of Dryden, is stated to have
answered with indifference--"Ay, you may _tag_ my verses, if you
will. "
The structure and diction of this opera, as it is somewhat improperly
termed, being rather a dramatic poem, strongly indicate the taste of
Charles the Second's reign, for what was ingenious, acute, and
polished, in preference to the simplicity of the true sublime. The
judgment of that age, as has been already noticed, is always to be
referred rather to the head than to the heart; and a poem, written to
please mere critics, requires an introduction and display of art, to
the exclusion of natural beauty. --This explains the extravagant
panegyric of Lee on Dryden's play:
--Milton did the wealthy mine disclose,
And rudely cast what you could well dispose;
He roughly drew, on an old-fashioned ground,
A chaos; for no perfect world was found,
Till through the heap your mighty genius shined:
He was the golden ore, which you refined.
He first beheld the beauteous rustic maid,
And to a place of strength the prize conveyed:
You took her thence; to Court this virgin brought,
Dressed her with gems, new-weaved her hard-spun thought,
And softest language sweetest manners taught;
Till from a comet she a star did rise,
Not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes.
Doubtless there were several critics of that period, who held the
heretical opinion above expressed by Lee. And the imitation was such
as to warrant that conclusion, considering the school in which it was
formed. The scene of the consultation in Pandemonium, and of the
soliloquy of Satan on his arrival in the newly-created universe, would
possess great merit, did they not unfortunately remind us of the
majestic simplicity of Milton. But there is often a sort of Ovidian
point in the diction which seems misplaced. Thus, Asmodeus tells us,
that the devils, ascending from the lake of fire,
Shake off their slumber _first_, and _next_ their fear.
And, with Dryden's usual hate to the poor Dutchmen, the council of
Pandemonium are termed,
_Most High and Mighty_ Lords, who better fell
From heaven, to rise _States General_ of hell.
There is one inconvenience, which, as this poem was intended for
perusal only, the author, one would have thought, might have easily
avoided. This arises from the stage directions, which supply the place
of the terrific and beautiful descriptions of Milton. What idea,
except burlesque, can we form of the expulsion of the fallen angels
from heaven, literally represented by their tumbling down upon the
stage? or what feelings of terror can be excited by the idea of an
opera hell, composed of pasteboard and flaming rosin? If these follies
were not actually to be produced before our eyes, it could serve no
good purpose to excite the image of them in our imaginations. They are
circumstances by which we feel, that scenic deception must be rendered
ridiculous; and ought to be avoided, even in a drama intended for
perusal only, since they cannot be mentioned without exciting
ludicrous combinations. --Even in describing the primitive state of our
first parents, Dryden has displayed some of the false and corrupted
taste of the court of Charles. Eve does not consent to her union with
Adam without coquettish apprehensions of his infidelity, which
circumstances rendered rather improbable; and even in the state of
innocence, she avows the love of sway and of self, which, in a loose
age, is thought the principal attribute of her daughters. It may be
remembered that the Adam of Milton, when first experiencing the powers
of slumber, thought,
I then was passing to my former state
Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve.
The Eve of Dryden expresses the same apprehensions of annihilation
upon a very different occasion. These passages form a contrast highly
favourable to the simplicity and chastity of Milton's taste. The
school logic, employed by Adam and the angels in the first scene of
the fourth act, however misplaced, may be paralleled if not justified,
by similar instances in the "Paradise Lost. "
On the other hand, the "State of Innocence" contains many passages of
varied and happy expression peculiar to our great poet; and the speech
of Lucfier in Paradise (Act third, scene first), approaches in
sublimity to his prototype in Milton, Indeed, altered as this poem was
from the original, in order to accommodate it to the taste of a
frivolous age, it still retained too much fancy to escape the raillery
of the men of wit and fashion, more disposed to "laugh at
extravagance, than to sympathise with feelings of grandeur. " The
"Companion to the Theatre" mentions an objection started by the more
nice and delicate critics, against the anachronism and absurdity of
Lucifer conversing about the world, its form and vicissitudes, at a
time previous to its creation, or, at least, to the possibility of his
knowing any thing of it. But to this objection, which applies to the
"Paradise Lost" also, it is sufficient to reply, that the measure of
intelligence, competent to supernatural beings, being altogether
unknown to us, leaves the poet at liberty to accommodate its extent to
the purposes in which he employs them, without which poetic license,
it would be in vain to introduce them. Dryden, moved by this, and
similar objections, has prefixed to the drama, "An Apology for Heroic
Poetry," and the use of what is technically called "the machinery"
employed in it.
Upon the whole, it may be justly questioned, whether Dryden shewed his
judgment in the choice of a subject which compelled an immediate
parallel betwixt Milton and himself, upon a subject so exclusively
favourable to the powers of the former. Indeed, according to Dennis,
notwithstanding Dryden's admiration of Milton, he evinced sufficiently
by this undertaking, what he himself confessed twenty years
afterwards, that he was not sensible of half the extent of his
excellence. In the "Town and Country Mouse," Mr Bayes is made to term
Milton "a rough unhewen fellow;" and Dryden himself, even in the
dedication to the Translation from Juvenal, a work of his advanced
life, alleges, that, though he found in that poet a true sublimity,
and lofty thoughts, clothed with admirable Grecisms, he did not find
the elegant turn of words and expression proper to the Italian poets
and to Spenser. In the same treatise, he undertakes to excuse, but not
to justify Milton, for his choice of blank verse, affirming that he
possessed neither grace nor facility in rhyming. A consciousness of
the harmony of his own numbers, and a predilection for that kind of
verse, in which he excelled, seemed to have encouraged him to think he
could improve the "Paradise Lost. " Baker observes but too truly, that
the "State of Innocence" recals the idea reprobated by Marvell in his
address to Milton:
Or if a work so infinite be spanned,
Jealous I was, lest some less skilful hand,
Such as disquiet always what is well,
And by ill-imitating would excel,
Might hence presume the whole creation's day
To change in scenes, and shew it in a play.
The "State of Innocence" seems to have been undertaken by Dryden
during a cessation of his theatrical labours, and was first published
in 1674, shortly after the death of Milton, which took place on the
8th of November in the same year.
Footnotes:
1. The Adamo of Andreini; for an account of which, see Todd's Milton,
Vol. I. the elegant Hayley's Conjectures on the Origin of Paradise
Lost, and Walker's Memoir on Italian Tragedy. The Drama of Andreini
opens with a grand chorus of angels, who sing to this purpose:
Let the rainbow be the fiddle-stick to the fiddle of heaven,
Let the spheres be the strings, and the stars the musical notes;
Let the new-born breezes make the pauses and sharps,
And let time be careful to beat the measure.
2. See a sketch of his plan in Johnson's Life of Milton, and in the
authorities above quoted.
TO
HER ROYAL HIGHNESS,
THE
DUCHESS[1].
MADAM,
Ambition is so far from being a vice in poets, that it is almost
impossible for them to succeed without it. Imagination must be raised,
by a desire of fame, to a desire of pleasing; and they whom, in all
ages, poets have endeavoured most to please, have been the beautiful
and the great. Beauty is their deity, to which they sacrifice, and
greatness is their guardian angel, which protects them. Both these,
are so eminently joined in the person of your royal highness, that it
were not easy for any but a poet to determine which of them outshines
the other. But I confess, madam, I am already biassed in my choice. I
can easily resign to others the praise of your illustrious family, and
that glory which you derive from a long-continued race of princes,
famous for their actions both in peace and war: I can give up, to the
historians of your country, the names of so many generals and heroes
which crowd their annals, and to our own the hopes of those which you
are to produce for the British chronicle. I can yield, without envy,
to the nation of poets, the family of Este, to which Ariosto and Tasso
have owed their patronage, and to which the world has owed their
poems. But I could not, without extreme reluctance, resign the theme
of your beauty to another hand. Give me leave, madam, to acquaint the
world, that I am jealous of this subject; and let it be no dishonour
to you, that, after having raised the admiration of mankind, you have
inspired one man to give it voice. But, with whatsoever vanity this
new honour of being your poet has filled my mind, I confess myself too
weak for the inspiration: the priest was always unequal to the oracle:
the god within him was too mighty for his breast: he laboured with the
sacred revelation, and there was more of the mystery left behind, than
the divinity itself could enable him to express. I can but discover a
part of your excellencies to the world; and that, too, according to
the measure of my own weakness. Like those who have surveyed the moon
by glasses, I can only tell of a new and shining world above us, but
not relate the riches and glories of the place. 'Tis therefore that I
have already waved the subject of your greatness, to resign myself to
the contemplation of what is more peculiarly yours. Greatness is
indeed communicated to some few of both sexes; but beauty is confined
to a more narrow compass: 'tis only in your sex, 'tis not shared by
many, and its supreme perfection is in you alone. And here, madam, I
am proud that I cannot flatter; you have reconciled the differing
judgments of mankind; for all men are equal in their judgment of what
is eminently best. The prize of beauty was disputed only till you were
seen; but now all pretenders have withdrawn their claims: there is no
competition but for the second place; even the fairest of our island,
which is famed for beauties, not daring to commit their cause against
you to the suffrage of those, who most partially adore them. Fortune
has, indeed, but rendered justice to so much excellence, in setting it
so high to public view; or, rather, Providence has done justice to
itself, in placing the most perfect workmanship of heaven, where it
may be admired by all beholders. Had the sun and stars been seated
lower, their glory had not been communicated to all at once, and the
Creator had wanted so much of his praise, as he had made your
condition more obscure: but he has placed you so near a crown, that
you add a lustre to it by your beauty. You are joined to a prince, who
only could deserve you; whose conduct, courage, and success in war;
whose fidelity to his royal brother, whose love for his country, whose
constancy to his friends, whose bounty to his servants, whose justice
to merit, whose inviolable truth, and whose magnanimity in all his
actions, seem to have been rewarded by heaven by the gift of you. You
are never seen but you are blest; and I am sure you bless all those
who see you. We think not the day is long enough when we behold you;
and you are so much the business of our souls, that while you are in
sight, we can neither look nor think on any else. There are no eyes
for other beauties; you only are present, and the rest of your sex are
but the unregarded parts that fill your triumph. Our sight is so
intent on the object of its admiration, that our tongues have not
leisure even to praise you: for language seems too low a thing to
express your excellence; and our souls are speaking so much within,
that they despise all foreign conversation. Every man, even the
dullest, is thinking more than the most eloquent can teach him how to
utter. Thus, madam, in the midst of crowds, you reign in solitude; and
are adored with the deepest veneration, that of silence. 'Tis true,
you are above all mortal wishes; no man desires impossibilities,
because they are beyond the reach of nature. To hope to be a god, is
folly exalted into madness; but, by the laws of our creation, we are
obliged to adore him, and are permitted to love him too at human
distance. 'Tis the nature of perfection to be attractive, but the
excellency of the object refines the nature of the love. It strikes an
impression of awful reverence; 'tis indeed that love which is more
properly a zeal than passion. 'Tis the rapture which anchorites find
in prayer, when a beam of the divinity shines upon them; that which
makes them despise all worldly objects; and yet 'tis all but
contemplation. They are seldom visited from above, but a single vision
so transports them, that it makes up the happiness of their lives.
Mortality cannot bear it often: it finds them in the eagerness and
height of their devotion; they are speechless for the time that it
continues, and prostrate and dead when it departs. That ecstacy had
need be strong, which, without any end, but that of admiration has
power enough to destroy all other passions. You render mankind
insensible to other beauties, and have destroyed the empire of love in
a court which was the seat of his dominion. You have subverted (may I
dare to accuse you of it? ) even our fundamental laws; and reign
absolute over the hearts of a stubborn and free-born people, tenacious
almost to madness of their liberty. The brightest and most victorious
of our ladies make daily complaints of revolted subjects, if they may
be said to be revolted, whose servitude is not accepted; for your
royal highness is too great, and too just a monarch, either to want or
to receive the homage of rebellious fugitives. Yet, if some few among
the multitude continue stedfast to their first pretensions, 'tis an
obedience so lukewarm and languishing, that it merits not the name of
passion; their addresses are so faint, and their vows so hollow to
their sovereigns, that they seem only to maintain their faith out of a
sense of honour: they are ashamed to desist, and yet grow careless to
obtain. Like despairing combatants, they strive against you as if they
had beheld unveiled the magical shield of your Ariosto, which dazzled
the beholders with too much brightness. They can no longer hold up
their arms; they have read their destiny in your eyes:
_Splende lo scudo, a guisa di piropo;
E luce altra non é tanto lucente:
Cader in terra a lo splendor fu d'vopo,
Con gli occhi abbacinati, e senza mente. _
And yet, madam, if I could find in myself the power to leave this
argument of your incomparable beauty, I might turn to one which would
equally oppress me with its greatness; for your conjugal virtues have
deserved to be set as an example, to a less degenerate, less tainted
age. They approach so near to singularity in ours, that I can scarcely
make a panegyric to your royal highness, without a satire on many
others. But your person is a paradise, and your soul a cherubim
within, to guard it. If the excellence of the outside invite the
beholders, the majesty of your mind deters them from too bold
approaches, and turns their admiration into religion. Moral
perfections are raised higher by you in the softer sex; as if men were
of too coarse a mould for heaven to work on, and that the image of
divinity could not be cast to likeness in so harsh a metal. Your
person is so admirable, that it can scarce receive addition, when it
shall be glorified: and your soul, which shines through it, finds it
of a substance so near her own, that she will be pleased to pass an
age within it, and to be confined to such a palace.
[_Exeunt the English with a Guard. _
_Fisc. _ Towerson's page, a ship-boy, and a woman.
_Har. _ Call them in. [_Exit a Messenger. _
_Van Her. _ We shall have easy work with them.
_Fisc. _ Not so easy as you imagine, they have endured the beverage
already; all masters of their pain, no one confessing.
_Har. _ The devil's in these English! those brave boys would prove
stout topers if they lived.
_Enter Page, a Boy, and a Woman, led as from torture. _
Come hither, ye perverse imps; they say you have endured the water
torment, we will try what fire will do with you: You, sirrah, confess;
were not you knowing of Towerson's plot, against this fort and island?
_Page. _ I have told your hangman no, twelve times within this hour,
when I was at the last gasp; and that is a time, I think, when a man
should not dissemble.
_Har. _ A man! mark you that now; you English boys have learnt a trick
of late, of growing men betimes; and doing men's work, too, before you
come to twenty.
_Van Her. _ Sirrah, I will try if you are a salamander and can live in
the fire.
_Page. _ Sure you think my father got me of some Dutchwoman, and that I
am but of a half-strain courage; but you shall find that I am all over
English as well in fire as water.
_Boy. _ Well, of all religions, I do not like your Dutch.
_Fisc. _ No? and why, young stripling?
_Boy. _ Because your penance comes before confession.
_Har. _ Do you mock us, sirrah? To the fire with him.
_Boy. _ Do so; all you shall get by it is this; before I answered no;
now I'll be sullen and will talk no more.
_Har. _ Best cutting off these little rogues betime; if they grow men,
they will have the spirit of revenge in them.
_Page. _ Yes, as your children have that of rebellion. Oh that I could
but live to be governor here, to make your fat guts pledge me in that
beverage I drunk, you Sir John Falstaff of Amsterdam!
_Boy. _ I have a little brother in England, that I intend to appear to
when you have killed me; and if he does not promise me the death of
ten Dutchmen in the next war, I'll haunt him instead of you.
_Har. _ What say you, woman? Have compassion of yourself, and confess;
you are of a softer sex.
_Wom. _ But of a courage full as manly; there is no sex in souls; would
you have English wives shew less of bravery than their children do? To
lie by an Englishman's side, is enough to give a woman resolution.
_Fisc. _ Here is a hen of the game too, but we shall tame you in the
fire.
_Wom. _ My innocence shall there be tried like gold, till it come out
the purer. When you have burnt me all into one wound, cram gunpowder
into it, and blow me up, I'll not confess one word to shame my
country.
_Har. _ I think we have got here the mother of the Maccabees; away with
them all three. [_Exeunt the English guarded. _] I'll take the pains
myself to see these tortured.
[_Exeunt_ HARMAN, VAN HERRING, _and the two
Dutchmen with the English: Manet_ FISCAL.
_Enter_ JULIA _to the_ FISCAL.
_Jul. _ Oh you have ruined me! you have undone me, in the person of my
husband!
_Fisc. _ If he will needs forfeit his life to the laws, by joining with
the English in a plot, it is not in me to save him; but, dearest
Julia, be satisfied, you shall not want a husband.
_Jul. _ Do you think I'll ever come into a bed with him, who robbed me
of my dear sweet man?
_Fisc. _ Dry up your tears; I am in earnest; I will marry you; i'faith
I will; it is your destiny.
_Jul. _ Nay if it be my destiny--but I vow I'll never be yours but upon
one condition.
_Fisc. _ Name your desire, and take it.
_Jul. _ Then save poor Beamont's life.
_Fisc. _ This is the most unkind request you could have made; it shews
you love him better: therefore, in prudence, I should haste his death.
_Jul. _ Come, I'll not be denied; you shall give me his life, or I'll
not love you; by this kiss you shall, child.
_Fisc. _ Pray ask some other thing.
_Jul. _ I have your word for this, and if you break it, how shall I
trust you for your marrying me?
_Fisc. _ Well, I will do it to oblige you. But to prevent her new
designs with him, I'll see him shipped away for England strait.
[_Aside. _
_Jul. _ I may build upon your promise, then?
_Fisc. _ Most firmly: I hear company.
_Enter_ HARMAN, VAN HERRING, _and the two Dutchmen, with_ TOWERSON
_prisoner. _
_Har. _ Now, captain Towerson, you have had the privilege to be
examined last; this on the score of my old friendship with you, though
you have ill deserved it. But here you stand accused of no less crimes
than robbery first, then murder, and last, treason: What can you say
to clear yourself?
_Tow. _ You're interested in all, and therefore partial:
I have considered on it, and will not plead,
Because I know you have no right to judge me;
For the last treaty betwixt our king and you
Expressly said, that causes criminal
Were first to be examined, and then judged,
Not here, but by the Council of Defence;
To whom I make appeal.
_Fisc. _ This court conceives that it has power to judge you, derived
from the most high and mighty states, who in this island are supreme,
and that as well in criminal as civil causes.
_1 Dutch. _ You are not to question the authority of the court, which
is to judge you.
_Tow. _ Sir, by your favour, I both must, and will:
I'll not so far betray my nation's right;
We are not here your subjects, but your partners:
And that supremacy of power, you claim,
Extends but to the natives, not to us:
Dare you, who in the British seas strike sail,
Nay more, whose lives and freedom are our alms,
Presume to sit and judge your benefactors?
Your base new upstart commonwealth should blush,
To doom the subjects of an English king,
The meanest of whose merchants would disdain
The narrow life, and the domestic baseness,
Of one of those you call your Mighty States.
_Fisc. _ You spend your breath in railing; speak to the purpose.
_Har. _ Hold yet: Because you shall not call us cruel,
Or plead I would be judge in my own cause,
I shall accept of that appeal you make,
Concerning my son's death; provided first,
You clear yourself from what concerns the public;
For that relating to our general safety,
The judgment of it cannot be deferred,
But with our common danger.
_Tow. _ Let me first
Be bold to question you: What circumstance
Can make this, your pretended plot, seem likely?
The natives, first, you tortured; their confession,
Extorted so, can prove no crime in us.
Consider, next, the strength of this your castle;
Its garrison above two hundred men,
Besides as many of your city burghers,
All ready on the least alarm, or summons,
To reinforce the others; for ten English,
And merchants they, not soldiers, with the aid
Of ten Japanners, all of them unarmed,
Except five swords, and not so many muskets,--
The attempt had only been for fools or madmen.
_Fisc. _ We cannot help your want of wit; proceed.
_Tow. _ Grant then we had been desperate enough
To hazard this; we must at least forecast,
How to secure possession when we had it.
We had no ship nor pinnace in the harbour,
Nor could have aid from any factory:
The nearest to us forty leagues from hence,
And they but few in number: You, besides
This fort, have yet three castles in this isle,
Amply provided for, and eight tall ships
Riding at anchor near; consider this,
And think what all the world will judge of it.
_Har. _ Nothing but falsehood is to be expected
From such a tongue, whose heart is fouled with treason.
Give him the beverage.
_Fisc. _ 'Tis ready, sir.
_Har. _ Hold; I have some reluctance to proceed
To that extremity: He was my friend,
And I would have him frankly to confess:
Push open that prison door, and set before him
The image of his pains in other men.
_The_ SCENE _opens, and discovers the English tortured, and the
Dutch tormenting them. _
_Fisc. _ Now, sir, how does the object like you?
_Tow. _ Are you men or devils! D'Alva, whom you
Condemn for cruelty, did ne'er the like;
He knew original villany was in your blood.
Your fathers all are damned for their rebellion;
When they rebelled, they were well used to this.
These tortures ne'er were hatched in human breasts;
But as your country lies confined on hell,
Just on its marches, your black neighbours taught ye;
And just such pains as you invent on earth,
Hell has reserved for you.
_Har. _ Are you yet moved?
_Tow. _ But not as you would have me.
I could weep tears of blood to view this usage;
But you, as if not made of the same mould,
See, with dry eyes, the miseries of men,
As they were creatures of another kind,
Not Christians, nor allies, nor partners with you,
But as if beasts, transfixed on theatres,
To make you cruel sport.
_Har. _ These are but vulgar objects; bring his friend,
Let him behold his tortures; shut that door. [_The Scene closed. _
_Enter_ BEAMONT, _led with matches tied to his hands. _
_Tow. _ [_Embracing him. _]
Oh my dear friend, now I am truly wretched!
Even in that part which is most sensible,
My friendship:
How have we lived to see the English name
The scorn of these, the vilest of mankind!
_Beam. _ Courage, my friend, and rather praise we heaven,
That it has chose two, such as you and me,
Who will not shame our country with our pains,
But stand, like marble statues, in their fires,
Scorched and defaced, perhaps, not melted down.
So let them burn this tenement of earth;
They can but burn me naked to my soul;
That's of a nobler frame, and will stand firm,
Upright, and unconsumed.
_Fisc. _ Confess; if you have kindness, save your friend.
_Tow. _ Yes, by my death I would, not my confession:
He is so brave, he would not so be saved;
But would renounce a friendship built on shame.
_Har. _ Bring more candles, and burn him from the wrists up to the
elbows.
_Beam. _ Do; I'll enjoy the flames like Scævola;
And, when one's roasted, give the other hand.
_Tow. _ Let me embrace you while you are a man.
Now you must lose that form; be parched and rivelled,
Like a dried mummy, or dead malefactor,
Exposed in chains, and blown about by winds.
_Beam. _ Yet this I can endure.
Go on, and weary out two elements;
Vex fire and water with the experiments
Of pains far worse than death.
_Tow. _ Oh, let me take my turn!
You will have double pleasure; I'm ashamed
To be the only Englishman untortured.
_Van. Her. _ You soon should have your wish, but that we know
In him you suffer more.
_Har. _ Fill me a brim-full glass:
Now, captain, here's to all your countrymen;
I wish your whole East India company
Were in this room, that we might use them thus.
_Fisc. _ They should have fires of cloves and cinnamon;
We would cut down whole groves to honour them,
And be at cost to burn them nobly.
_Beam. _ Barbarous villains! now you show yourselves
_Har. _ Boy, take that candle thence, and bring it hither;
I am exalted, and would light my pipe
Just where the wick is fed with English fat.
_Van Her. _ So would I; oh, the tobacco tastes divinely after it.
_Tow. _ We have friends in England, who would weep to see
This acted on a theatre, which here
You make your pastime.
_Beam. _ Oh, that this flesh were turned a cake of ice,
That I might in an instant melt away,
And become nothing, to escape this torment!
There is not cold enough in all the north
To quench my burning blood. [FISCAL _whispers_ HARMAN.
_Har. _ Do with Beamont as you please, so Towerson die.
_Fisc. _ You'll not confess yet, captain?
_Tow. _ Hangman, no;
I would have don't before, if e'er I would:
To do it when my friend has suffered this,
Were to be less than he.
_Fisc. _ Free him. [_They free_ BEAMONT.
Beamont, I have not sworn you should not suffer.
But that you should not die; thank Julia for it.
But on your life do not delay this hour
To post from hence! so to your next plantation;
I cannot suffer a loved rival near me.
_Beam.
_ I almost question if I will receive
My life from thee: 'Tis like a cure from witches;
'Twill leave a sin behind it.
_Fisc. _ Nay, I'm not lavish of my courtesy;
I can on easy terms resume my gift.
_Har. _ Captain, you're a dead man; I'll spare your torture for your
quality; prepare for execution instantly.
_Tow. _ I am prepared.
_Fisc. _ You die in charity, I hope?
_Tow. _ I can forgive even thee:
My innocence I need not name, you know it.
One farewell kiss of my dear Isabinda,
And all my business here on earth is done.
_Har. _ Call her; she's at the door. [_Exit_ FISC.
_Tow. _ [_To_ BEAM. _embracing. _]
A long and last farewell! I take my death
With the more cheerfulness, because thou liv'st
Behind me: Tell my friends, I died so as
Became a Christian and a man; give to my brave
Employers of the East India company,
The last remembrance of my faithful service;
Tell them, I seal that service with my blood;
And, dying, wish to all their factories,
And all the famous merchants of our isle,
That wealth their generous industry deserves;
But dare not hope it with Dutch partnership.
Last, there's my heart, I give it in this kiss: [_Kisses him. _
Do not answer me; friendship's a tender thing,
And it would ill become me now to weep.
_Beam. _ Adieu! if I would speak, I cannot-- [_Exit. _
_Enter_ ISABINDA.
_Isab. _ Is it permitted me to see your eyes
Once more, before eternal night shall close them?
_Tow. _ I summoned all I had of man to see you;
'Twas well the time allowed for it was short;
I could not bear it long: 'Tis dangerous,
And would divide my love 'twixt heaven and you.
I therefore part in haste; think I am going
A sudden journey, and have not the leisure
To take a ceremonious long farewell.
_Isab. _ Do you still love me?
_Tow. _ Do not suppose I do;
'Tis for your ease, since you must stay behind me,
To think I was unkind; you'll grieve the less.
_Har. _ Though I suspect you joined in my son's murder,
Yet, since it is not proved, you have your life.
_Isab. _ I thank you for't, I'll make the noblest use
Of your sad gift; that is, to die unforced:
I'll make a present of my life to Towerson,
To let you see, though worthless of his love,
I would not live without him.
_Tow. _ I charge you, love my memory, but live.
_Har. _ She shall be strictly guarded from that violence
She means against herself.
_Isab. _ Vain men! there are so many paths to death,
You cannot stop them all: o'er the green turf,
Where my love's laid, there will I mourning sit,
And draw no air but from the damps that rise
Out of that hallowed earth; and for my diet,
I mean my eyes alone shall feed my mouth.
Thus will I live, till he in pity rise,
And the pale shade take me in his cold arms,
And lay me kindly by him in his grave.
_Enter_ COLLINS, _and then_ PEREZ, JULIA _following him. _
_Har. _ No more; your time's now come, you must away.
_Col. _ Now, devils, you have done your worst with tortures; death's a
privation of pain, but they were a continual dying.
_Jul. _ Farewell, my dearest! I may have many husbands,
But never one like thee.
_Per. _ As you love my soul, take hence that woman. --
My English friends, I'm not ashamed of death,
While I have you for partners; I know you innocent,
And so am I, of this pretended plot;
But I am guilty of a greater crime;
For, being married in another country,
The governor's persuasions, and my love
To that ill woman, made me leave the first,
And make this fatal choice.
I'm justly punished; for her sake I die:
The Fiscal, to enjoy her, has accused me.
There is another cause;
By his procurement I should have killed--
_Fisc. _ Away with him, and stop his mouth. [_He is led off. _
_Tow. _ I leave thee, life, with no regret at parting;
Full of whatever thou could'st give, I rise
From thy neglected feast, and go to sleep:
Yet, on this brink of death, my eyes are opened,
And heaven has bid me prophecy to you,
The unjust contrivers of this tragic scene:--
_An age is coming, when an English monarch
With blood shall pay that blood which you have shed:
To save your cities from victorious arms,
You shall invite the waves to hide your earth[1],
And, trembling, to the, tops of houses fly,
While deluges invade your lower rooms:
Then, as with waters you have swelled our bodies,
With damps of waters shall your heads be swoln:
Till, at the last, your sapped foundations fall,
And universal ruin swallows all. _
[_He is led out with the English; the Dutch
remain. _
_Van. Her. _ Ay, ay, we'll venture both ourselves and children for such
another pull.
_1 Dutch. _ Let him prophecy when his head's off.
_2 Dutch. _ There's ne'er a Nostradamus of them all shall fright us
from our gain.
_Fisc. _ Now for a smooth apology, and then a fawning letter to the
king of England; and our work's done.
_Har. _ 'Tis done as I would wish it:
Now, brethren, at my proper cost and charges,
Three days you are my guests; in which good time
We will divide their greatest wealth by lots,
While wantonly we raffle for the rest:
Then, in full rummers, and with joyful hearts,
We'll drink confusion to all English starts. [_Exeunt. _
Footnote:
1. During the French invasion of 1672, the Dutch were obliged to adopt
the desperate defence of cutting their dykes, and inundating the
country.
EPILOGUE
A poet once the Spartans led to fight,
And made them conquer in the muse's right;
So would our poet lead you on this day,
Showing your tortured fathers in his play.
To one well-born the affront is worse, and more,
When he's abused, and baffled by a boor:
With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do,
They've both ill-nature and ill-manners too.
Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation,
For they were bred ere manners were in fashion;
And their new commonwealth has set them free,
Only from honour and civility.
Venetians do not more uncouthly ride[1],
Than did their lubber state mankind bestride;
Their sway became them with as ill a mien,
As their own paunches swell above their chin:
Yet is their empire no true growth, but humour,
And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour[2].
As Cato did his Afric fruits display,
So we before your eyes their Indies lay:
All loyal English will, like him, conclude,
Let Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdued[3]!
Footnotes:
1. The situation of Venice renders it impossible to bring horses into
the town; accordingly, the Venetians are proverbially bad riders.
2. The poet alludes to the king's evil, and to the joint war of France
and England against Holland.
3. Allusions to Cato,--who presented to the Roman Senate the rich figs
of Africa, and reminded them it was but three days sail to the
country which produced such excellent fruit,--were fashionable
during the Dutch war. The Lord Chancellor Shaftesbury had set the
example, by applying to Holland the favourite maxim of the Roman
philosopher, _Delenda est Carthago. _ When that versatile statesman
afterwards fled to Holland, he petitioned to be created a burgess
of Amsterdam, to ensure him against being delivered up to England.
The magistrates conferred on him the freedom desired, with the
memorable words, "_Ab nostra Carthagine nondum deleta, salutem
accipe. _"
* * * * *
THE
STATE OF INNOCENCE,
AND
FALL OF MAN.
AN
OPERA.
--_Utinam modò dicere possem
Carmina digna deâ: Certe est dea carmine digna. _
OVID. MET.
THE STATE OF INNOCENCE, &c.
The "Paradise Lost" of Milton is a work so extraordinary in conception
and execution, that it required a lapse of many years to reconcile the
herd of readers, and of critics, to what was almost too sublime for
ordinary understandings. The poets, in particular, seemed to have
gazed on its excellencies, like the inferior animals on Dryden's
immortal Hind; and, incapable of fully estimating a merit, which, in
some degree, they could not help feeling, many were their absurd
experiments to lower it to the standard of their own comprehension.
One author, deeming the "Paradise Lost" deficient in harmony, was
pleased painfully to turn it into rhyme; and more than one, conceiving
the subject too serious to be treated in verse of any kind, employed
their leisure in humbling it into prose. The names of these
well-judging and considerate persons are preserved by Mr Todd in his
edition of Milton's Poetical Works.
But we must not confound with these effusions of gratuitous folly an
alteration, or imitation, planned and executed by John Dryden;
although we may be at a loss to guess the motives by which he was
guided in hazarding such an attempt. His reverence for Milton and his
high estimation of his poetry, had already called forth the well-known
verses, in which he attributes to him the joint excellencies of the
two most celebrated poets of antiquity; and if other proofs of his
veneration were wanting, they may be found in the preface to this very
production. Had the subject been of a nature which admitted its being
actually represented, we might conceive, that Dryden, who was under
engagements to the theatre, with which it was not always easy to
comply, might have been desirous to shorten his own labour, by
adopting the story sentiments, and language of a poem, which he so
highly esteemed and which might probably have been new to the
generality of his audience. But the _costume_ of our first parents,
had there been no other objection, must have excluded the "State of
Innocence" from the stage, and accordingly it was certainly never
intended for representation. The probable motive, therefore, of this
alteration, was the wish, so common to genius, to exert itself upon a
subject in which another had already attained brilliant success, or,
as Dryden has termed a similar attempt, the desire to shoot in the bow
of Ulysses. Some circumstances in the history of Milton's immortal
poem may have suggested to Dryden the precise form of the present
attempt. It is reported by Voltaire, and seems at length to be
admitted, that the original idea of the "Paradise Lost" was supplied
by an Italian Mystery, or religious play, which Milton witnessed when
abroad[1]; and it is certain, that he intended at first to mould his
poem into a dramatic form[2]. It seems, therefore, likely, that
Dryden, conscious of his own powers, and enthusiastically admiring
those of Milton, was induced to make an experiment upon the forsaken
plan of the blind bard, which, with his usual rapidity of conception
and execution, he completed in the short space of one month. The
spurious copies which got abroad, and perhaps the desire of testifying
his respect for his beautiful patroness, the Duchess of York, form his
own apology for the publication. It is reported by Mr Aubrey that the
step was not taken without Dryden's reverence to Milton being
testified by a personal application for his permission. The aged poet,
conscious that the might of his versification could receive no
addition even from the flowing numbers of Dryden, is stated to have
answered with indifference--"Ay, you may _tag_ my verses, if you
will. "
The structure and diction of this opera, as it is somewhat improperly
termed, being rather a dramatic poem, strongly indicate the taste of
Charles the Second's reign, for what was ingenious, acute, and
polished, in preference to the simplicity of the true sublime. The
judgment of that age, as has been already noticed, is always to be
referred rather to the head than to the heart; and a poem, written to
please mere critics, requires an introduction and display of art, to
the exclusion of natural beauty. --This explains the extravagant
panegyric of Lee on Dryden's play:
--Milton did the wealthy mine disclose,
And rudely cast what you could well dispose;
He roughly drew, on an old-fashioned ground,
A chaos; for no perfect world was found,
Till through the heap your mighty genius shined:
He was the golden ore, which you refined.
He first beheld the beauteous rustic maid,
And to a place of strength the prize conveyed:
You took her thence; to Court this virgin brought,
Dressed her with gems, new-weaved her hard-spun thought,
And softest language sweetest manners taught;
Till from a comet she a star did rise,
Not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes.
Doubtless there were several critics of that period, who held the
heretical opinion above expressed by Lee. And the imitation was such
as to warrant that conclusion, considering the school in which it was
formed. The scene of the consultation in Pandemonium, and of the
soliloquy of Satan on his arrival in the newly-created universe, would
possess great merit, did they not unfortunately remind us of the
majestic simplicity of Milton. But there is often a sort of Ovidian
point in the diction which seems misplaced. Thus, Asmodeus tells us,
that the devils, ascending from the lake of fire,
Shake off their slumber _first_, and _next_ their fear.
And, with Dryden's usual hate to the poor Dutchmen, the council of
Pandemonium are termed,
_Most High and Mighty_ Lords, who better fell
From heaven, to rise _States General_ of hell.
There is one inconvenience, which, as this poem was intended for
perusal only, the author, one would have thought, might have easily
avoided. This arises from the stage directions, which supply the place
of the terrific and beautiful descriptions of Milton. What idea,
except burlesque, can we form of the expulsion of the fallen angels
from heaven, literally represented by their tumbling down upon the
stage? or what feelings of terror can be excited by the idea of an
opera hell, composed of pasteboard and flaming rosin? If these follies
were not actually to be produced before our eyes, it could serve no
good purpose to excite the image of them in our imaginations. They are
circumstances by which we feel, that scenic deception must be rendered
ridiculous; and ought to be avoided, even in a drama intended for
perusal only, since they cannot be mentioned without exciting
ludicrous combinations. --Even in describing the primitive state of our
first parents, Dryden has displayed some of the false and corrupted
taste of the court of Charles. Eve does not consent to her union with
Adam without coquettish apprehensions of his infidelity, which
circumstances rendered rather improbable; and even in the state of
innocence, she avows the love of sway and of self, which, in a loose
age, is thought the principal attribute of her daughters. It may be
remembered that the Adam of Milton, when first experiencing the powers
of slumber, thought,
I then was passing to my former state
Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve.
The Eve of Dryden expresses the same apprehensions of annihilation
upon a very different occasion. These passages form a contrast highly
favourable to the simplicity and chastity of Milton's taste. The
school logic, employed by Adam and the angels in the first scene of
the fourth act, however misplaced, may be paralleled if not justified,
by similar instances in the "Paradise Lost. "
On the other hand, the "State of Innocence" contains many passages of
varied and happy expression peculiar to our great poet; and the speech
of Lucfier in Paradise (Act third, scene first), approaches in
sublimity to his prototype in Milton, Indeed, altered as this poem was
from the original, in order to accommodate it to the taste of a
frivolous age, it still retained too much fancy to escape the raillery
of the men of wit and fashion, more disposed to "laugh at
extravagance, than to sympathise with feelings of grandeur. " The
"Companion to the Theatre" mentions an objection started by the more
nice and delicate critics, against the anachronism and absurdity of
Lucifer conversing about the world, its form and vicissitudes, at a
time previous to its creation, or, at least, to the possibility of his
knowing any thing of it. But to this objection, which applies to the
"Paradise Lost" also, it is sufficient to reply, that the measure of
intelligence, competent to supernatural beings, being altogether
unknown to us, leaves the poet at liberty to accommodate its extent to
the purposes in which he employs them, without which poetic license,
it would be in vain to introduce them. Dryden, moved by this, and
similar objections, has prefixed to the drama, "An Apology for Heroic
Poetry," and the use of what is technically called "the machinery"
employed in it.
Upon the whole, it may be justly questioned, whether Dryden shewed his
judgment in the choice of a subject which compelled an immediate
parallel betwixt Milton and himself, upon a subject so exclusively
favourable to the powers of the former. Indeed, according to Dennis,
notwithstanding Dryden's admiration of Milton, he evinced sufficiently
by this undertaking, what he himself confessed twenty years
afterwards, that he was not sensible of half the extent of his
excellence. In the "Town and Country Mouse," Mr Bayes is made to term
Milton "a rough unhewen fellow;" and Dryden himself, even in the
dedication to the Translation from Juvenal, a work of his advanced
life, alleges, that, though he found in that poet a true sublimity,
and lofty thoughts, clothed with admirable Grecisms, he did not find
the elegant turn of words and expression proper to the Italian poets
and to Spenser. In the same treatise, he undertakes to excuse, but not
to justify Milton, for his choice of blank verse, affirming that he
possessed neither grace nor facility in rhyming. A consciousness of
the harmony of his own numbers, and a predilection for that kind of
verse, in which he excelled, seemed to have encouraged him to think he
could improve the "Paradise Lost. " Baker observes but too truly, that
the "State of Innocence" recals the idea reprobated by Marvell in his
address to Milton:
Or if a work so infinite be spanned,
Jealous I was, lest some less skilful hand,
Such as disquiet always what is well,
And by ill-imitating would excel,
Might hence presume the whole creation's day
To change in scenes, and shew it in a play.
The "State of Innocence" seems to have been undertaken by Dryden
during a cessation of his theatrical labours, and was first published
in 1674, shortly after the death of Milton, which took place on the
8th of November in the same year.
Footnotes:
1. The Adamo of Andreini; for an account of which, see Todd's Milton,
Vol. I. the elegant Hayley's Conjectures on the Origin of Paradise
Lost, and Walker's Memoir on Italian Tragedy. The Drama of Andreini
opens with a grand chorus of angels, who sing to this purpose:
Let the rainbow be the fiddle-stick to the fiddle of heaven,
Let the spheres be the strings, and the stars the musical notes;
Let the new-born breezes make the pauses and sharps,
And let time be careful to beat the measure.
2. See a sketch of his plan in Johnson's Life of Milton, and in the
authorities above quoted.
TO
HER ROYAL HIGHNESS,
THE
DUCHESS[1].
MADAM,
Ambition is so far from being a vice in poets, that it is almost
impossible for them to succeed without it. Imagination must be raised,
by a desire of fame, to a desire of pleasing; and they whom, in all
ages, poets have endeavoured most to please, have been the beautiful
and the great. Beauty is their deity, to which they sacrifice, and
greatness is their guardian angel, which protects them. Both these,
are so eminently joined in the person of your royal highness, that it
were not easy for any but a poet to determine which of them outshines
the other. But I confess, madam, I am already biassed in my choice. I
can easily resign to others the praise of your illustrious family, and
that glory which you derive from a long-continued race of princes,
famous for their actions both in peace and war: I can give up, to the
historians of your country, the names of so many generals and heroes
which crowd their annals, and to our own the hopes of those which you
are to produce for the British chronicle. I can yield, without envy,
to the nation of poets, the family of Este, to which Ariosto and Tasso
have owed their patronage, and to which the world has owed their
poems. But I could not, without extreme reluctance, resign the theme
of your beauty to another hand. Give me leave, madam, to acquaint the
world, that I am jealous of this subject; and let it be no dishonour
to you, that, after having raised the admiration of mankind, you have
inspired one man to give it voice. But, with whatsoever vanity this
new honour of being your poet has filled my mind, I confess myself too
weak for the inspiration: the priest was always unequal to the oracle:
the god within him was too mighty for his breast: he laboured with the
sacred revelation, and there was more of the mystery left behind, than
the divinity itself could enable him to express. I can but discover a
part of your excellencies to the world; and that, too, according to
the measure of my own weakness. Like those who have surveyed the moon
by glasses, I can only tell of a new and shining world above us, but
not relate the riches and glories of the place. 'Tis therefore that I
have already waved the subject of your greatness, to resign myself to
the contemplation of what is more peculiarly yours. Greatness is
indeed communicated to some few of both sexes; but beauty is confined
to a more narrow compass: 'tis only in your sex, 'tis not shared by
many, and its supreme perfection is in you alone. And here, madam, I
am proud that I cannot flatter; you have reconciled the differing
judgments of mankind; for all men are equal in their judgment of what
is eminently best. The prize of beauty was disputed only till you were
seen; but now all pretenders have withdrawn their claims: there is no
competition but for the second place; even the fairest of our island,
which is famed for beauties, not daring to commit their cause against
you to the suffrage of those, who most partially adore them. Fortune
has, indeed, but rendered justice to so much excellence, in setting it
so high to public view; or, rather, Providence has done justice to
itself, in placing the most perfect workmanship of heaven, where it
may be admired by all beholders. Had the sun and stars been seated
lower, their glory had not been communicated to all at once, and the
Creator had wanted so much of his praise, as he had made your
condition more obscure: but he has placed you so near a crown, that
you add a lustre to it by your beauty. You are joined to a prince, who
only could deserve you; whose conduct, courage, and success in war;
whose fidelity to his royal brother, whose love for his country, whose
constancy to his friends, whose bounty to his servants, whose justice
to merit, whose inviolable truth, and whose magnanimity in all his
actions, seem to have been rewarded by heaven by the gift of you. You
are never seen but you are blest; and I am sure you bless all those
who see you. We think not the day is long enough when we behold you;
and you are so much the business of our souls, that while you are in
sight, we can neither look nor think on any else. There are no eyes
for other beauties; you only are present, and the rest of your sex are
but the unregarded parts that fill your triumph. Our sight is so
intent on the object of its admiration, that our tongues have not
leisure even to praise you: for language seems too low a thing to
express your excellence; and our souls are speaking so much within,
that they despise all foreign conversation. Every man, even the
dullest, is thinking more than the most eloquent can teach him how to
utter. Thus, madam, in the midst of crowds, you reign in solitude; and
are adored with the deepest veneration, that of silence. 'Tis true,
you are above all mortal wishes; no man desires impossibilities,
because they are beyond the reach of nature. To hope to be a god, is
folly exalted into madness; but, by the laws of our creation, we are
obliged to adore him, and are permitted to love him too at human
distance. 'Tis the nature of perfection to be attractive, but the
excellency of the object refines the nature of the love. It strikes an
impression of awful reverence; 'tis indeed that love which is more
properly a zeal than passion. 'Tis the rapture which anchorites find
in prayer, when a beam of the divinity shines upon them; that which
makes them despise all worldly objects; and yet 'tis all but
contemplation. They are seldom visited from above, but a single vision
so transports them, that it makes up the happiness of their lives.
Mortality cannot bear it often: it finds them in the eagerness and
height of their devotion; they are speechless for the time that it
continues, and prostrate and dead when it departs. That ecstacy had
need be strong, which, without any end, but that of admiration has
power enough to destroy all other passions. You render mankind
insensible to other beauties, and have destroyed the empire of love in
a court which was the seat of his dominion. You have subverted (may I
dare to accuse you of it? ) even our fundamental laws; and reign
absolute over the hearts of a stubborn and free-born people, tenacious
almost to madness of their liberty. The brightest and most victorious
of our ladies make daily complaints of revolted subjects, if they may
be said to be revolted, whose servitude is not accepted; for your
royal highness is too great, and too just a monarch, either to want or
to receive the homage of rebellious fugitives. Yet, if some few among
the multitude continue stedfast to their first pretensions, 'tis an
obedience so lukewarm and languishing, that it merits not the name of
passion; their addresses are so faint, and their vows so hollow to
their sovereigns, that they seem only to maintain their faith out of a
sense of honour: they are ashamed to desist, and yet grow careless to
obtain. Like despairing combatants, they strive against you as if they
had beheld unveiled the magical shield of your Ariosto, which dazzled
the beholders with too much brightness. They can no longer hold up
their arms; they have read their destiny in your eyes:
_Splende lo scudo, a guisa di piropo;
E luce altra non é tanto lucente:
Cader in terra a lo splendor fu d'vopo,
Con gli occhi abbacinati, e senza mente. _
And yet, madam, if I could find in myself the power to leave this
argument of your incomparable beauty, I might turn to one which would
equally oppress me with its greatness; for your conjugal virtues have
deserved to be set as an example, to a less degenerate, less tainted
age. They approach so near to singularity in ours, that I can scarcely
make a panegyric to your royal highness, without a satire on many
others. But your person is a paradise, and your soul a cherubim
within, to guard it. If the excellence of the outside invite the
beholders, the majesty of your mind deters them from too bold
approaches, and turns their admiration into religion. Moral
perfections are raised higher by you in the softer sex; as if men were
of too coarse a mould for heaven to work on, and that the image of
divinity could not be cast to likeness in so harsh a metal. Your
person is so admirable, that it can scarce receive addition, when it
shall be glorified: and your soul, which shines through it, finds it
of a substance so near her own, that she will be pleased to pass an
age within it, and to be confined to such a palace.
