No More Learning

Dryden, observing the
resemblance between the plays, took the plagiarism for granted,
because the style of "Albumazar" is certainly the most antiquated.
This appearance of antiquity is, however, only a consequence of
the vein of pedantry which runs through the whole piece. It was
written by ---- Tomkins, a scholar of Trinity College, and acted
before King James VI. by the gentlemen of that house, 9th March_,
1614. _It is, upon the whole, a very excellent play; yet the author,
whether consulting his own taste, or that of our British Solomon,
before whom it was to be represented, has contrived to give it an
air of such learned stiffness, that it much more resembles the
translation of a play from Terence or Plautus, than an original
English composition. By this pedantic affectation, the humour of
the play is completely smothered; and although there are several
very excellent comic situations in the action_, _yet neither the
attempt to revive it in Dryden's time_, _nor those which followed
in_ 1748 _and_ 1773, _met with any success_.

_As Dryden had imputed, very rashly, however, and groundlessly,
the guilt of plagiarism to Jonson, he made this supposed crime
the introduction to a similar slur on Shadwell, who at that
time seems to have been possessed of the laurel; a circumstance
which ascertains the date of the prologue to be posterior to the
Revolution. _

To say this comedy pleased long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit,
When few men censured, and when fewer writ.
And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,
As the best model of his master-piece:
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
Here he was fashioned, and we may suppose,
He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
What was another's lead, becomes his gold:
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains.
But this our age such authors does afford,
As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word;
Who, in this anarchy of wit, rob all,
And what's their plunder, their possession call;
Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey,
But rob by sun-shine, in the face of day:
Nay, scarce the common ceremony use
Of, "Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse;"
But knock the poet down, and, with a grace,
Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.
Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad,[406]
'Tis time for all true men to leave that road.
Yet it were modest, could it but be said,
They strip the living, but these rob the dead;
Dare with the mummies of the Muses play,
And make love to them the Egyptian way;
Or, as a rhiming author would have said,
Join the dead living to the living dead.
Such men in poetry may claim some part,
They have the license, though they want the art;
And might, where theft was praised, for laureats stand;[407]
Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.
They make the benefits of others studying,
Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,
Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage;
'Tis all his own, when once he has spit i'the porridge.
But, gentlemen, you're all concerned in this;
You are in fault for what they do amiss;
For they their thefts still undiscovered think,
And durst not steal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your decree,
They should refund,--but that can never be;
For, should you letters of reprisal seal,
These men write that which no man else would steal.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 406: This seems to have been a cant name for highwaymen.
Shadwell's christian name was Thomas. ]

[Footnote 407: Shadwell succeeded to our author's post of laureat,
after the Revolution. I am not able to discover, if Shadwell had
given any very recent cause for this charge of plagiarism. In the
"Libertine," "The Miser," "Bury-fair," and "The Sullen Lovers," he has
borrowed, or rather translated, from Moliere. The "Squire of Alsatia"
contains some imitations of Terence's "Adelphi. " "Psyche" is taken
from the French, and "Timon of Athens" from Shakespeare, although
Shadwell has the assurance to claim the merit of having made it into a
play. He was also under obligations to his contemporaries. The "Royal
Shepherdess" was originally written by one Mr Fountain of Devonshire.
Dryden, in "Mac-Flecnoe," intimates, that Sedley "larded with wit"
his play of "Epsom Wells;" and in the Dedication to the "True Widow,"
Shadwell himself acknowledges obligations to that gentleman's revision
of some of his pieces. Langbaine, who hated Dryden, and professed an
esteem for Shadwell, expresses himself thus, on the latter's claim to
originality:

"But I am willing to say the less of Mr Shadwell, because I have
publicly professed a friendship for him; and though it be not of
so long date as some former intimacy with others, so neither is it
blemished with some unhandsome dealings I have met with from persons
where I least expected it. I shall therefore speak of him with the
impartiality that becomes a critic, and own I like his comedies better
than Mr Dryden's, as having more variety of characters, and those drawn
from the life; I mean men's converse and manners, and not from other
men's ideas, copied out of their public writings: though indeed I
cannot wholly acquit our present laureat from borrowing; his plagiaries
being in some places too bold and open to be disguised, of which I
shall take notice, as I go along; though with this remark, that several
of them are observed to my hand, and in great measure excused by
himself, in the public acknowledgment he makes in his several prefaces,
to the persons to whom he was obliged for what he borrowed. "

Shadwell in the following lines, which occur in the prologue to the
"Scowerers," seems to retort on Dryden the accusation here brought
against him:

You have been kind to many of his plays,
And should not leave him in his latter days.
Though loyal writers of the last two reigns,}
Who tired their pens for Popery and chains, }
Grumble at the reward of all his pains; }
They would, like some, the benefit enjoy
Of what they vilely laboured to destroy.
They cry him down as for his place unfit, }
Since they have all the humour and the wit; }
They must write better e'er he fears them yet. }
'Till they have shewn you more variety }
Of natural, unstolen comedy than he, }
By you at least he should protected be. }
'Till then, may he that mark of bounty have,}
Which his renowned and royal master gave, }
Who loves a subject, and contemns a slave; }
Whom heaven, in spite of hellish plots, designed
To humble tyrants, and exalt mankind.
]




AN

EPILOGUE.


You saw our wife was chaste, yet throughly tried,
And, without doubt, you are hugely edified;
For, like our hero, whom we showed to-day,
You think no woman true, but in a play.
Love once did make a pretty kind of show; }
Esteem and kindness in one breast would grow;}
But 'twas heaven knows how many years ago. }
Now some small chat, and guinea expectation,
Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation.
In comedy your little selves you meet;
'Tis Covent Garden drawn in Bridges-street.
Smile on our author then, if he has shown
A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.
Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,
Who act those follies, poets toil to write!
The sweating Muse does almost leave the chace;
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices pace.
Pinch you but in one vice, away you fly
To some new frisk of contrariety.
You roll like snow-balls, gathering as you run,
And get seven devils, when dispossessed of one.
Your Venus once was a Platonic queen,
Nothing of love beside the face was seen;
But every inch of her you now uncase,
And clap a vizard-mask upon the face;
For sins like these, the zealous of the land,
With little hair, and little or no band,
Declare how circulating pestilences
Watch, every twenty years, to snap offences.
Saturn, e'en now, takes doctoral degrees;[408]
He'll do your work this summer without fees.
Let all the boxes, Phœbus, find thy grace,
And, ah, preserve the eighteen-penny place! [409]
But for the pit confounders, let them go,
And find as little mercy as they show!
The actors thus, and thus thy poets pray;
For every critic saved, thou damn'st a play.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 408: Perhaps our author had in view the three oppositions
of Saturn and Jupiter in June and December 1692, and in April 1693,
which are thus feelingly descanted upon by John Silvester: "It hath
been long observed, that the most remarkable mutations of a kingdom, or
nation, have chiefly depended on the conjunctions or aspects of those
two superior planets, Saturn and Jupiter; and by their effects past, we
perceive that the most wise Creator first placed them higher than all
the other planets, that they should respect, chiefly, the highest and
most durable affairs and concerns of men on earth.

"And if one opposition of Saturn and Jupiter produceth much, how
then can those three oppositions to come do any less than cause some
remarkable changes and alterations of laws, or religious orders, in
England's chief and most renowned city? because Saturn then will be
stronger than Jupiter, who also, at his second opposition, will be near
unto the body of Mars, (the planet of war;) and having took possession
of religious Jupiter, should contend with him, (with a frowning lofty
countenance,) in London's ascendant, from whence I fear some religious
disturbances, if not some warlike violence, by insurrections, or
otherwise, occasioned by some frowning dissatisfied minds, which will
then happen in some part of Britain, or take its beginning there to the
purpose in those years.

"Ah poor Jupiter in Gemini! (London,) I fear thou wilt then be so much
humbled against thy will, that thou wilt think thou hast a sufficient
occasion to bewail thy condition; and if so, God will suffer this,
that thou mayest humbly endeavour to forsake thy accustomed sins, and
that thou mayest know power is not in thee to help thyself. But yet I
think thou wilt then have no need to fear that God hath wholly forsaken
thee; for look but a little back unto the years 1682 and 1683, where
Jupiter was three times in conjunction with Saturn, in a sign of his
own triplicity, and consider, was not he then stronger than Saturn, and
hast not thou been victorious ever since, throughout all those great
changes and alterations? And when thou hast thus considered, perhaps
thou wilt believe, that that which begins well will end well; and
indeed perhaps it may so happen; but be not too proud of this, a word
is enough to the wise. "--_Astrological Observations and Predictions for
the year of our Lord 1691, by John Silvester. _ London, 1690, 4to. ]

[Footnote 409: The Gallery. ]




EPILOGUE

TO THE

HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD.


_This play was written by John Dryden, Junior, son to our poet. See
the preface among our author's prose works. It was dedicated to Sir
Robert Howard, and acted in_ 1696.

Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
Nor is the puny poet void of care; }
For authors, such as our new authors are, }
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare; }
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,
But has as little as the very parson:
Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though you like the play,
The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day;
But with the parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace;
The poet has one disadvantage more, }
That if his play be dull, he's damn'd all o'er, }
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor. }
But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoiled a priest's preferment;
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes, }
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose, }
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux. }
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears, }
At what his beauship says, but what he wears; }
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears. }
The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.
The truth on't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our absent author[410] hope,
He should equip the stage with such a fop.
Fools change in England, and new fools arise; }
For, though the immortal species never dies, }
Yet every year new maggots make new flies. }
But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find
One fool, for million that he left behind.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 410: Young Dryden was then in Rome with his brother Charles,
who was gentleman-usher to the Pope. ]




MAC-FLECNOE,

A SATIRE

AGAINST

THOMAS SHADWELL.




MAC-FLECNOE.


The enmity between Dryden and Shadwell at first probably only sprung
from some of those temporary causes of disgust, which must frequently
divide persons whose lives are spent in a competition for public
applause. That they were occasionally upon tolerable terms is certain,
for Dryden has told us so; and Shadwell, in 1676, when expressing
his dissent from one of our author's rules of theatrical criticism,
industriously and anxiously qualifies his opinion, with the highest
compliments to our author's genius. [411] They had formerly even
joined forces, and called in the aid of another wit, to overwhelm the
reputation of no less a person than Elkanah Settle. [412] But, between
the politics of the stage and of the nation, the friendship of these
bards, which probably never had a very solid foundation, was at length
totally overthrown. It is not very easy to discover who struck the
first blow; but it may be suspected, that Dryden was displeased to
see Shadwell not only dispute his canons of criticism in print, but
seem to establish himself as an imitator of the old school of dramatic
composition, and particularly of Jonson, on whom Dryden had thrown
some censure in his epilogue to "The Conquest of Grenada," and in the
Defence of these verses. It seems certain, that the feud had broke out
in 1675-6; for Shadwell has not only made some invidious allusions to
the success of "Aureng-Zebe," which was represented that season, but
has plainly intimated, that he needed only a pension to enable him to
write as well as Dryden himself. [413] This assault, however, seems to
have been forgiven; for Dryden obliged Shadwell with an epilogue to the
"True Widow," acted in 1678. But their precarious reconcilement did not
long subsist, when political animosity was added to literary rivalry.
Shadwell not only wrote the "Lancashire Witches," in ridicule of the
Tory party, but entered into a personal contest with our author on the
subject of "The Medal," which he answered by a clumsy, though venomous,
retort, called "The Medal of John Bayes. " In the preface he asserts,
that no one can think Dryden "hardly dealt with, since he knows, and
so do all his old acquaintance, that there is not one untrue word
spoke of him. " Neither was this a single offence; for Dryden, in his
"Vindication of the Duke of Guise," says, that Shadwell has repeatedly
called him Atheist in print. These reiterated insults at length drew
down the vengeance of our poet, who seems to have singled Shadwell
from the herd of those who had libelled him, to be gibbetted in rhyme
while the English language shall last. Neither was Dryden satisfied
with a single attack upon this obnoxious bard; but, having divided his
poetical character from that which he held as a political writer, he
discussed the first in the satire which follows, and the last, with
equal severity, in the Second Part of "Absalom and Achitophel. " These
two admirable pieces of satire appeared within less than a month of
each other; and leave it a matter of doubt, whether the bitter ridicule
of the anointed Prince of Dulness, or the sarcastic description of Og,
the seditious poetaster, be most cruelly severe.

"Mac-Flecnoe" must be allowed to be one of the keenest satires in the
English language. It is what Dryden has elsewhere termed a Varronian
satire;[414] that is, as he seems to use the phrase, one in which the
author is not contented with general sarcasm upon the object of attack,
but where he has woven his piece into a sort of imaginary story, or
scene, in which he introduces the person, whom he ridicules, as a
principal actor. The position in which Dryden has placed Shadwell is
the most mortifying to literary vanity which can possibly be imagined,
and is hardly excelled by the device of Pope in the "Dunciad," who
has obviously followed the steps of his predecessor. Flecnoe, who
seems to have been universally acknowledged as the very lowest of
all poetasters, and whose name had passed into a proverb for doggrel
verse and stupid prose, is represented as devolving upon Shadwell that
pre-eminence over the realms of Dulness, which he had himself possessed
without a rival. The spot chosen for this devolution of empire is
the Barbican, an obscure suburb, in which it would seem that there
were temporary theatrical representations of the lowest order, among
other receptacles of vulgar dissipation, for the amusement of the very
lowest of the vulgar. Here the ceremony of Shadwell's coronation is
supposed to be performed with an inaugural oration by Flecnoe, his
predecessor, in which all his pretensions to wit and to literary fame
are sarcastically enumerated and confuted, by a counter-statement of
his claims to distinction by pre-eminent and unrivalled stupidity. In
this satire, the shafts of the poet are directed with an aim acutely
malignant. The inference drawn concerning Shadwell's talents is
general and absolute; but in the proof, Dryden appeals with triumph
to those parts only of his literary character which are obviously
vulnerable. He reckons up among his titles to the throne of Flecnoe,
his desperate and unsuccessful attempts at lyrical composition, in
the opera of "Psyche;" the clumsy and coarse limning of those whom
he designed to figure as fine gentlemen in his comedies; the false
and florid taste of his dedications; his presumptuous imitation of
Jonson in composition, and his absurd resemblance to him in person.
But the satirist industriously keeps out of view those points, in
which perhaps he internally felt some inferiority to the object of
his wrath. He mentions nothing that could recal to the reader's
recollection that insight into human life, that acquaintance with the
foibles and absurdities displayed in individual pursuits, that bold
though coarse delineation of character, which gave fame to Shadwell's
comedies in the last century, and renders them amusing even at the
present day. This discrimination is an excellent proof of the exquisite
address with which Dryden wielded the satirical weapon, and managed
the feelings of his readers. We never find him attempting a desperate
or impossible task; at least in a way which seems, in the moment of
perusal, desperate or impossible. He never wastes his powder against
the impregnable part of a fortress, but directs all his battery
against some weaker spot, where a breach may be rendered practicable.
In short, by convincing his reader that he is right in the examples
which he quotes, he puts the question at issue upon the ground most
disadvantageous for his antagonist, and renders it very difficult for
one who has been proved a dunce in one instance to establish his credit
in any other.

I have had so frequently to call the attention of my reader to the
sonorous and emphatic effect of Dryden's versification, that it is
almost ridiculous to repeat epithets which apply to every poem which
succeeded his _Annus Mirabilis_; yet I cannot but remark, that the mock
heroic may be said to have owed its rise to our author, and that there
is hardly any poem, before "Mac-Flecnoe," in which it has been employed
with all its qualities of grave and pompous irony, expressed in solemn
and sounding verse.

It is no inconsiderable part of the merit of "Mac-Flecnoe," that it
led the way to the "Dunciad:" yet, while we acknowledge the more
copious and variegated flow of Pope's satire, we must not forget,
that, independent of the merit of originality, always inestimable,
Dryden's poem claims that of a close and more compact fable, of a
single and undisturbed aim. Pope's ridicule and sarcasm is scattered
so wide, and among such a number of authors, that it resembles small
shot discharged at random among a crowd; while that of Dryden, like a
single well-directed bullet, prostrates the individual object against
whom it was directed. Besides, the reader is apt to sympathise with
the degree of the satirist's provocation, which, in Dryden's case,
cannot be disputed; whereas Pope sometimes confounds those, from whom
he had received gross incivility, with others who had given him no
offence, and with some whose characters were above his accusation. To
posterity, the "Mac-Flecnoe" possesses a decided superiority over the
"Dunciad," for a very few facts make us master of the argument; while
that of the latter poem, excepting the Sixth Book, where the satire is
more general, requires a note at every tenth line to render it even
intelligible.

Mr Malone has given us the title of the first edition of "Mac-Flecnoe,"
which the present Editor has never seen, as indeed it is of the last
degree of rarity. It was published not by Tonson, but by D. Green, and
entitled, "Mac-Flecnoe, or a Satire on the True-blue[415] Protestant
Poet, T. S. ; by the Author of Absalom and Achitophel. " It consisted
only of one sheet and a half, and was sold for twopence. The satire
was too personal, and too poignant, to fail in attracting immediate
attention, and accordingly the poem was quickly sold off. It was not
republished until it appeared in Tonson's first Miscellany, in 1684,
with a few slight alterations, intended either to point particular
verses, or to correct errors of the press, or pen. It must have been
generally known, that Dryden was the author of this satire, both
because it is stated in the title-page to be by the author of "Absalom
and Achitophel," and because there existed no contemporary poet to whom
so masterly a production could have been ascribed, even with remote
probability; yet Shadwell, in his dedication of the tenth satire of
Juvenal, (a most miserable performance,) says, that Dryden, when he
taxed him with being the author, "denied it with all the execrations
he could think of;" an accusation which was echoed by Brown, though
apparently upon the authority of Shadwell alone. [416] From this
averment, which is probably made far too broadly, we can only infer,
that Dryden, like Swift in the same predicament, left his adversary
to prove what he had no title to call upon him to confess; for that
he seriously meant to disavow a performance, of which he had from the
very beginning sufficiently avouched himself the author, can hardly
be supposed for a moment. It has indeed been noticed, that our author
has omitted this poem, as well as the "Eulogy on Cromwell," in a list
of his plays and poems subjoined to one of his plays; but Dryden might
not think fit to admit a personal, and what he probably considered
as a fugitive satire, into a formal list of his poetry. We know he
entertained a conscious sense of his dignity in this respect; for,
excepting in a slight and passing sarcasm, he never deigned to answer
any of his literary adversaries, excepting Settle and Shadwell; and he
might possibly think, on reflection, that he had done the latter too
much honour in making him the subject of a separate and laboured poem.
Mr Malone also conceives, that he might be with-held from inserting
this poem in an authoritative list of his works, by delicacy towards
Dorset, his recent benefactor, who had thought Shadwell worthy of the
laurel of which our poet had been divested at the Revolution. Be it
as it may, he was afterwards so far from disowning the poem, that, in
the Essay on Satire, he gives it, with "Absalom and Achitophel," as
instances of his own attempts at the Varronian satire.

The purpose and scope of "Mac-Flecnoe" was strangely misconstrued by
the object of it, and by our poet's editors. Shadwell took it into his
head, that Dryden meant seriously to tax him with being an Irishman;
a charge which he seems more anxious to refute than seems necessary.
Cibber, or whoever wrote Dryden's Life in the collection bearing his
name, supposes, that Flecnoe, who died in 1678, had actually succeeded
our author in the office of poet-laureat. Derrick, though he corrects
this error, has fallen into another, in which he is followed by Dr
Johnson, who considers "Mac-Flecnoe" as written in express ridicule
of Shadwell's inauguration as court poet. The scarcity of the first
edition of "Mac-Flecnoe" might have been some excuse for these errors,
had not the piece been printed in the first Miscellany, in 1684, four
years before Dryden's being deposed, and Shadwell succeeding him.
Certainly the two events tallied strangely; and the friends of Shadwell
might have considered the substantial office which he gained by the
downfall of Dryden, as a just compensation for the ludicrous and mock
dignity with which his foe had invested him.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 411: See the whole passage, Vol. VII. p. 141. note. ]

[Footnote 412: See the Remarks on the Empress of Morocco, written in
conjunction by Dryden, Crown, and Shadwell. They were printed in 1674. ]

[Footnote 413: These circumstances of offence occur in the prologue,
epilogue, and preface to the "Virtuoso," which must have been acted in
the same season with "Aureng-Zebe," as the dedication is dated 26th
June, 1676. The prologue commences with an irreverend allusion to that
play, and to our author's theatrical engagements:

You came with such an eager appetite
To a late play, which gave so great delight,
Our poet fears, that by so rich a treat
Your palates are become too delicate.
Yet since you've had rhyme for a relishing bit,
To give a better taste to comic wit;
But this requires expence of time and pains,
Too great, alas! for poets' slender gains.
For wit, like china, should long buried lie,
Before it ripens to good comedy;
A thing we ne'er have seen since Jonson's days,
And but a few of his were perfect plays.
Now drudges of the stage must oft appear,
They must be bound to scribble twice a year.

That these insinuations might not be mistaken, Shadwell, in the
epilogue, severely attacks rhyming tragedies in general; the object of
which diatribe, considering the late success of "Aureng-Zebe," could
not possibly be misinterpreted:

But of those ladies he despairs to-day,
Who love a dull romantic whining play;
Where poor frail woman's made a deity, }
With senseless amorous idolatry, }
And snivelling heroes sigh, and pine, and cry. }
Though singly they beat armies, and huff kings,
Rant at the gods, and do impossible things;
Though they can laugh at danger, blood, and wounds,
Yet if the dame once chides, the milk-sop hero swoons.
These doughty things nor manners have nor wit;
We ne'er saw hero fit to drink with yet.

The passage in the Dedication, in which he insinuates that the
provision of a pension was all he wanted, to place him on a level with
the proudest of his rivals, is as follows: "That there are a great many
faults in the conduct of this play, I am not ignorant; but I (having
no pension but from the theatre, which is either unwilling, or unable,
to reward a man sufficiently for so much pains as correct comedies
require) cannot allot my whole time to the writing of plays, but am
forced to mind some other business of advantage. Had I as much money,
and as much time for it, I might perhaps write as correct a comedy as
any of my contemporaries. "]

[Footnote 414: See Essay on Satire, Vol. XIII. p. 65. ]

[Footnote 415: This epithet preceded the nickname of Whig. See Vol. IX.
p. 211. ]

[Footnote 416: "I make bold to use his own expression in "Mac-Flecnoe,"
if it is _his_, I say, for Mr Shadwell, in the preface before his
Translation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal, has been lately pleased to
acquaint the world, that he publicly disowned the writing it with as
solemn imprecations as his friend the Spanish Friar did the Cavalier
Lorenzo. "--_Reasons_, &c. ]




MAC-FLECKNOE.


All human things are subject to decay,
And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found,[417] who, like Augustus, young
Was called to empire, and had governed long;
In prose and verse was owned, without dispute,
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And blest with issue of a large increase,
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the state;
And, pondering which of all his sons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
Cried,--'Tis resolved! for nature pleads, that he
Should only rule, who most resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulness from his tender years;[418]
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he,
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense;
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems designed for thoughtless majesty;
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley[419] were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of tautology!
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget,[420] came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute,--the lute I whilom strung,
When to king John of Portugal I sung,--
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-timed oars, before the royal barge,[421]
Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of an host,--
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost. [422]
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. [423]
At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to shore,
The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar;
Echoes, from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou weild'st thy papers in thy threshing hand;
St André's[424] feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme,
Though they in number as in sense excel;[425]
So just, so like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton[426] forswore }
The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, }
And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more. --}
Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy,
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dulness he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,
(The fair Augusta much to fears inclined,[427])
An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight;
A watch-tower once, but now, so fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains;
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys;
Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep,
And, undisturbed by watch, in silence sleep. [428]
Near these a nursery erects its head,
Where queens are formed, and future heroes bred;
Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry;}
Where infant punks their tender voices try, }
And little Maximins the gods defy. }
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simkin[429] just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanished minds;
Pure clinches the suburbian muse affords,
And Panton[430] waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Decker[431] prophesied long since, }
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,}
Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense; }
To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe,
But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;
Humorists, and Hypocrites, it should produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. [432]
Now empress Fame had published the renown
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Roused by report of fame, the nations meet,
From near Bunhill, and distant Watling-street.
No Persian carpets spread the imperial way,
But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay;
From dusty shops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pies, and relics of the bum;
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way;
Bilked stationers for yeomen stood prepared,
And Herringman[433] was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appeared,
High on a throne of his own labours reared.
At his right hand our young Ascanius sate,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state;
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent dulness played around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Swore by his sire, a mortal foe to Rome,
So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain,
That he till death true dulness would maintain;
And, in his father's right, and realm's defence,
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.
The king himself the sacred unction made,
As king by office, and as priest by trade.
In his sinister hand, instead of ball,
He placed a mighty mug of potent ale;
"Love's kingdom"[434] to his right he did convey,
At once his sceptre, and his rule of sway;
Whose righteous lore the prince had practised young,
And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung.
His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread,[435]
That nodding seemed to consecrate his head.
Just at the point of time, if fame not lie,
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly;--
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tyber's brook,
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
The admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulness: long he stood, }
Repelling from his breast the raging god; }
At length burst out in this prophetic mood:--}
Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let him reign,
To far Barbadoes on the western main;
Of his dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his father's be his throne;
Beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his pen! --
He paused, and all the people cried, Amen. --
Then thus continued he: My son, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Success let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuosos in five years be writ,
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. [436]
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,[437]
And in their folly show the writer's wit;
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justify their author's want of sense.
Let them be all by thy own model made
Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own:
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and differing but in name;
But let no alien Sedley interpose,
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. [438]
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou would'st cull,
Trust nature; do not labour to be dull,
But write thy best, and top; and, in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,
And does thy northern dedications fill. [439]
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name;[440]
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.
Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part:
What share have we in nature, or in art?
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?
Where sold he bargains, "whip-stitch, kiss my arse,"[441]
Promised a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfused, as oil and waters flow,
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
This is thy province, this thy wonderous way,
New humours to invent for each new play:[442]
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,
By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined;
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,
Thy inoffensive satires never bite;
In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius call thee not to purchase fame
In keen iambics, but mild anagram.
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command,
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.
There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise,[443]
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways;
Or, if thou would'st thy different talents suit,
Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute. --
He said:--but his last words were scarcely heard;}
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepared, }
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. [444] }
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a subterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 417: Note I. ]

[Footnote 418: Note II. ]

[Footnote 419: Note III. ]

[Footnote 420: Note IV. ]

[Footnote 421: Note V. ]

[Footnote 422: Note VI. ]

[Footnote 423: Note VII. ]

[Footnote 424: An eminent dancing-master of the period. ]

[Footnote 425: Note VIII. ]

[Footnote 426: Note IX. ]

[Footnote 427: Alluding to the political apprehensions of the period,
so universal in the city. ]

[Footnote 428: These lines are a parody on a passage in Cowley's
_Davideis_, Book I. :

Beneath the dens where unfledged tempests lie,
And infant winds their tender voices cry;

* * * * *

Where their vast court the mother waters keep;
And, undisturbed by moons, in silence sleep.
]

[Footnote 429: The character of a cobler in an interlude. ]

[Footnote 430: A celebrated punster, according to Derrick. ]

[Footnote 431: Note X. ]

[Footnote 432: Note XI. ]

[Footnote 433: Henry Herringman, bookseller, published almost all the
poems, plays, and lighter pieces of the day. He was Dryden's original
publisher. ]

[Footnote 434: A play of Flecknoe's so called. See Note XII. ]

[Footnote 435: Perhaps in allusion to Shadwell's frequent use of opium,
as well as to his dulness. ]

[Footnote 436: Note XIII. ]

[Footnote 437: Note XIV. ]

[Footnote 438: Note XV. ]

[Footnote 439: Note XVI. ]

[Footnote 440: Note XVII. ]

[Footnote 441: This elegant phrase is the current catch-word of Sir
Samuel Hearty in the "Virtuoso," described in the _dramatis personæ_ as
"a brisk, amorous, adventurous, unfortunate coxcomb; one that, by the
help of humorous, nonsensical bye-words, takes himself to be a great
wit. "]

[Footnote 442: Alluding, probably, to the following vaunt of Shadwell,
in the Dedication to the "Virtuoso:" "Four of the humours are entirely
new; and, without vanity, I may say, I ne'er produced a comedy that
had not some natural humour in it not represented before, and I hope I
never shall. "]

[Footnote 443: Note XVIII. ]

[Footnote 444: Bruce and Longvil are fine gentlemen in Shadwell's
comedy of the "Virtuoso;" who, during a florid speech of Sir Formal
Trifle, contrive to get rid of the orator, by letting go a trap-door,
upon which he had placed himself during his declamation. ]




NOTES

ON

MAC-FLECKNOE.


Note I.

_This Flecknoe found. _--P. 433.

Richard Flecknoe, the unfortunate bard whom our author has damned to
everlasting fame, was by birth an Irishman, and by profession a Roman
Catholic priest. Marvel, who seems to have known him at Rome, describes
his person as meagre in the extreme, and his itch for scribbling as
incessant. The poem, in which Marvel depicts him, is in the old taste
of extravagant burlesque, and the lines are as rugged as Flecknoe
could himself have produced. It contains, however, some witty and some
humorous description, and the reader may be pleased to see a specimen:

_Flecknoe, an English Priest at Rome. _

Obliged by frequent visits of this man,
Whom, as a priest, poet, musician,
I for some branch of Melchizedec took,
Though he derives himself from my Lord Brooke,
I sought his lodging, which is at the sign
Of the sad Pelican, subject divine
For poetry. There, three stair-cases high,
Which signifies his triple property,
I found at last a chamber, as 'twas said,
But seemed a coffin set on the stair's head,
Not higher than seven, nor larger than three feet;
There neither was a ceiling, nor a sheet,
Save that the ingenious door did, as you come,
Turn in, and show to wainscot half the room;
Yet of his state no man could have complained,
There being no bed where he entertained;
And though within this cell so narrow pent,
He'd stanzas for a whole apartement.

* * * * *

---- ----Nothing now, dinner staid,
But till he had himself a body made;
I mean till he were dressed; for else, so thin
He stands, as if he only fed had been
With consecrated wafers; and the host
Hath sure more flesh and blood than he can boast.
This basso-relievo of a man,
Who, as a camel tall, yet easily can
The needle's eye thread without any stitch;
His only impossible is to be rich.
Lest his too subtle body, growing rare,
Should leave his soul to wander in the air,
He therefore circumscribes himself in rhymes,
And, swaddled in's own paper seven times,
Wears a close jacket of poetic buff,
With which he doth his third dimension stuff.
Thus armed underneath, he over all
Doth make a primitive sotana fall;
And over that, yet casts an antique cloak,
Worn at the first council of Antioch,
Which, by the Jews long hid and disesteemed,
He heard of by tradition, and redeemed;
But were he not in this black habit decked,
This half transparent man would soon reflect
Each colour that he past by, and be seen
As the camelion, yellow, blue, or green.

It appears that Flecknoe either laid aside, or disguised, his spiritual
character, when he returned to England; but he still preserved
extensive connections with the Roman Catholic nobility and gentry. [445]
He probably wrote upon many occasional subjects, but his poetry has
fallen into total oblivion. I have particularly sought in vain for
his verses to King John of Portugal, to which Dryden alludes a little
lower. Langbaine mentions four of his plays, namely, "Damoiselles a la
Mode," "Erminia," "Love's Dominion," and "Love's Kingdom," (of which
more hereafter;) but none of these were ever acted, excepting the last.
This gave Flecknoe great indignation, which he thus vents against the
players in his preface to "Damoiselles a la Mode. " "For the acting
of this comedy, those who have the governing of the stage have their
humour, and would be entreated; and I have mine, and won't entreat
them: and were all dramatic writers of my mind, they should wear their
old plays thread-bare before they should have any new, till they
better understood their own interest, and how to distinguish betwixt
good and bad. " Notwithstanding this ill usage, he honoured the players
so far, as to prefix to each character, in the _dramatis personæ_ of
his pieces, the name of the actor, by whom, had the managers been
less inexorable, he meant it should have been performed. But this he
did for the sake of the gentle reader, whom he assures, that a lively
imagination being thus assisted in bodying forth the character, he
may receive as much pleasure from the perusal as from the actual
representation of the performance. Flecknoe bore the damnation of the
only one of his plays which was represented, with the same valiant
indifference with which he supported the rebuffs of the players. In
short, he seems to have been fitted for an incorrigible scribbler, by
a happy fund of self-satisfaction, upon which neither the censures of
criticism, nor the united hisses of a whole nation, could make the
slightest impression. When or how Flecknoe died is uncertain, and of
very little consequence; I presume, however, that he was dead when this
satire was published. I am uncertain whether the reader will think,
that this poor poetaster merited mercy at the hands of Dryden, for the
following lines which he had written in his praise, and which, at any
rate, may serve as a specimen of Flecknoe's poetry:

Dryden, the muses darling and delight,
Than whom none ever flew so high a flight:
Some have their veins so drossy, as from earth,
Their muses only seem to have ta'en their birth.
Other but water-poets are, have gone
No farther than to the fount of Helicon:
And they're but airy ones, whose muse soars up
No higher than to mount Parnassus top;
Whilst thou, with thine, dost seem to have mounted higher
Than he who fetch from heaven celestial fire;
And dost as far surpass all others, as
Fire does all other elements surpass.

Flecknoe's memory being only preserved by this satire, his very name
came to be identified with its title. King, in "A Dialogue in the
Shades," introduces him under the name of _Mac_-Flecknoe; and Derrick
falls into the same error.


Note II.

_Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulness from his tender years. _--P. 433.

Thomas Shadwell was born at Santon-hall, in Norfolk, in which county
his father represented a very ancient family. He was educated at Caius
College, in Cambridge, and placed in the Middle Temple to study law;
but, like many of the inhabitants of these buildings, he preferred the
smoother paths of literature. He made several essays in heroic verse,
all of which are deplorably bad. They are chiefly occasional pieces;
as, an Address to the Prince of Orange on his Landing, another to Queen
Mary, and a Translation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal; which, though
prefaced by a violent refutation of our author's attacks upon him, is
so execrable, as fully to confirm Dryden's censures of the author's
poetical talents. But, in comedy, he was much more successful; and, in
that capacity, Dryden does him great injustice in pronouncing him a
dunce. On the contrary, I think most of Shadwell's comedies may be read
with great pleasure. They do not, indeed, exhibit any brilliancy of
wit, or ingenuity of intrigue; but the characters are truly dramatic,
original, and well drawn; and the picture of manners which they exhibit
gives us a lively idea of those of the author's age. As Shadwell
proposed Jonson for his model, peculiarity of character, or what
was then technically called _humour_, was what he chiefly wished to
exhibit; and in this, it cannot be denied that he has often succeeded
admirably. His powers, as a dramatist, are highly rated by Rochester,
who imputes his coarseness to rapidity of composition:

Of all our modern wits, none seem to me}
Once to have touched upon true comedy, }
But hasty Shadwell and slow Wycherley. }
Shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart
Great proofs of force of genius, none of art;
With just bold strokes he dashes here and there,
Showing great mastery with little care;
Scorning to varnish his good touches o'er,
To make the fools and women praise them more.

_Allusion to Tenth Satire of Horace. _

Shadwell's plays are seventeen in number, and were published, in four
volumes, under the inspection of his son, Sir John Shadwell, M. D.

Shadwell's life was chequered with misfortune. As he espoused the
party of the Duke of Monmouth, to whom he dedicated "Psyche," and of
Shaftesbury, he thought himself obliged to draw the quill in defence
of their cause. Accordingly, as we have seen, he attempted to answer
"The Medal" on the one hand, and, on the other, accused our author of
intending a parallel between Monmouth and the Duke of Guise, in the
play so entitled. This zeal seems to have cost Shadwell dear; for,
besides undergoing the severe flagellations administered by Dryden,
in the "Defence of the Duke of Guise," in "Absalom and Achitophel,"
and in the present poem, he complains, that his ruin was designed,
and his life sought; and that, for near ten years, he was kept from
the exercise of that profession which had afforded him a competent
subsistence. [446] It is no wonder, therefore, he was among the first
to hail the dawn of the Revolution, by the address already mentioned,
of which the full title is, "A Congratulatory Poem on his Highness the
Prince of Orange his coming into England. Written by T. S. (Thomas
Shadwell,) a True Lover of his Country, (10th January) 1689;" and that
King William distinguished him by the honours of the laurel. Dorset,
who was high chamberlain, answered, to those who remonstrated on
Shadwell's lack of poetical talent, that, without pretending to vouch
for Mr Shadwell's genius, he was sure he was an honest man. Shadwell
did not long enjoy this triumph over his great enemy. He died 19th
November, 1692,[447] in the fifty-second year of his age. It is said,
this event was hastened by his taking an over dose of opium, to the use
of which he was inordinately addicted. "His death," says Dr Nicholas
Brady, who preached his funeral sermon, "seized him suddenly; but he
could not be unprepared, since, to my certain knowledge, he never took
a dose of opium but he solemnly recommended himself to God by prayer. "
In person, Shadwell was large, corpulent, and unwieldy; a circumstance
which our author generally keeps in the eye of the reader. He seems to
have imitated his prototype, Ben Jonson, in gross and coarse sensual
indulgence, and profane conversation. But, if there be truth in a
funeral sermon, he must have corrected these habits before his death;
for Dr Brady tells us, "that our author was a man of great honesty
and integrity, and inviolable fidelity and strictness in his word; an
unalterable friendship wherever he professed it; and however the world
may be mistaken in him, he had a much deeper sense of religion than
many who pretended more to it. His natural and acquired abilities,"
continues the Doctor, "made him very amiable to all who knew and
conversed with him, a very few being equal in the becoming qualities
which adorn and set off a complete gentleman; his very enemies, if he
has now any left, will give him this character, at least if they knew
him so thoroughly as I did. "--CIBBER'S _Lives of the Poets_, Article
_Shadwell_, Vol. III.


Note III.

_Heywood and Shirley. _--P. 434.

Voluminous dramatic authors, who flourished in the beginning of the
17th century. There were no less than four Heywoods who wrote plays;
so that, Winstanley says, the name of Heywood seemed to be destinated
to the stage. But he whom Dryden here means, is Thomas Heywood, a
person rather to be admired for the facility, than for the excellence
of his compositions. Every place and situation was alike to him while
composing; and the favourite register of his scenes was the back of
a tavern bill. Far the greater part of his labours are now lost; and
yet there remain, in the libraries of the curious, twenty-four printed
plays by Thomas Heywood. He was an actor by profession, and a good
scholar, as is evinced by several of his classical allusions. His plays
may be examined with advantage by the antiquary, but afford slender
amusement to the lovers of poetry. The following character of him, by
an old poet, is preserved by Langbaine:

---- ----Heywood sage,
The apologetic Atlas of the stage;
Well of the golden age he could entreat,
But little of the metal he could get.
Threescore sweet babes be fashioned at a lump,
For he was christened in Parnassus pump,
The muses' gossip to Aurora's bed;
And ever since that time his face was red.

If we cannot call Heywood a second Lope de Vega, in point of the extent
of his dramatic works, he overtops most English authors; since he
assures us, in his preface to the "English Traveller," that it was one
reserved among two hundred and twenty plays, in which he had either
had "a whole hand, or, at the least, a main finger. " It is a pity, as
Johnson said of Churchill, so fruitful a tree should have borne only
crabs.

James Shirley, whom our author most unjustly couples with Heywood,
to whom, as well as to Shadwell, he was greatly superior, was born
in 1594, and, although for some time a schoolmaster, appears to have
lived chiefly by the stage. When the civil wars broke out, he followed
the fortune of William, Earl of Newcastle. During the usurpation, when
theatres were prohibited, he returned to his original profession of
a schoolmaster. He died of fatigue and distress of mind during the
great fire of London, in 1666. He wrote forty-two plays, and there
are thirty-nine in print; a complete set of which is much esteemed by
collectors. Dr Farmer has traced, to this neglected bard, an idea,
which Milton thought not unworthy of adoption.

Shirley is spoken of with contempt in "Mac-Flecknoe," but his
imagination is sometimes fine to an extraordinary degree. I recollect
a passage in the Fourth Book of the "Paradise Lost," which hath been
suspected of imitation, as a prettiness below the genius of Milton: I
mean, where Uriel glides backward and forward to heaven on a sun-beam.
Dr Newton informs us, that this might possibly be hinted by a picture
of Annabal Caracci, in the king of France's cabinet; but I am apt
to believe, that Milton had been struck with a portrait in Shirley.
Fernando, in the comedy of the "Brothers," 1652, describes Jacinta at
vespers:

Her eye did seem to labour with a tear,
Which suddenly took birth, but overweighed
With its own swelling, dropped upon her bosom;
Which, by reflection of her light, appeared
As nature meant her sorrow for an ornament':
After, her looks grew cheerfull, and I saw
A smile shoot graceful upward from her eyes,
As if they had gained a victory o'er grief;
_And with it many beams twisted themselves,
Upon whose golden threads the angels walk
To and again from heaven_.

Essay on the Learning of Shakespeare.


Note IV.

_Coarsely clad in Norwich drugget. _--P. 434.

This stuff appears to have been sacred to the use of the poorer
votaries of Parnassus; and it is somewhat odd, that it seems to
have been the dress of our poet himself in the earlier stage of his
fortunes. An old gentleman, who corresponded with the "Gentleman's
Magazine," says, he remembers our author in this dress. Vol. XV. p. 99.


Note V.

_When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-timed oars, before the royal barge. _--P. 434.

I confess myself, after some research, at a loss to discover the nature
of the procession, in which Shadwell seems to have acted as leader of
the band. One is at first sight led to consider the whole procession as
imaginary, and preliminary to his supposed coronation; but, on closer
investigation, it appears, that Flecknoe talks of some real occurrence,
on which Shadwell preceded the royal barge, at the head of a boat-load
of performers. We may see, in the seventh note, that he professed to
understand music, and may certainly have been called upon to assist or
direct the band during some entertainment upon the river, an amusement
to which King Charles was particularly addicted.


Note VI.

_The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost. _--P. 434.

This seems to be in ridicule of the following elegant expression
which Shadwell puts in the mouth of a fine lady: "Such a fellow as he
deserves to be _tossed in a blanket_. " This, however, does not occur
in "Epsom-Wells," but in another of Shadwell's comedies, called "The
Sullen Lovers. "


Note VII.

_Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. _--P. 434.

Shadwell appears to have been a proficient in music, and to have
himself adjusted that of his opera of "Psyche," which Dryden here
treats with such consummate contempt. Indeed, in the preface of that
choice piece he affected to value himself more upon the music than the
poetry, as appears from the following passage in the preface: "I had
rather be author of one scene of comedy, like some of Ben Jonson's,
than of all the best plays of this kind, that have been, or ever shall
be written; good comedy requiring much more wit and judgment in the
writer, than any rhiming, unnatural plays can do. This I have so little
valued, that I have not altered six lines in it since it was first
written, which (except the songs at the marriage of Psyche, in the
last scene) was all done sixteen months since. In all the words which
are sung, I did not so much take care of the wit or fancy of them, as
the making of them proper for music; in which I cannot but have some
little knowledge, having been bred, for many years of my youth, to some
performance in it.

"I chalked out the way to the composer, (in all but the song of Furies
and Devils, in the fifth act,) having designed which line I would have
sung by one, which by two, which by three, which by four voices, &c.
and what manner of humour I would have in all the vocal music. "


Note VIII.

_Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme,
Though they in number as in sense excel. _--P. 435.

This unfortunate opera was imitated from the French of Moliere, and
finished, as Shadwell assures us, in the space of five weeks. The
author having no talents for poetry, and no ear for versification,
"Psyche" is one of the most contemptible of the frivolous dramatic
class to which it belongs. It was, however, _got up_ with extreme
magnificence, and received much applause on its first appearance, in
1675. To justify the censure of Dryden, it is only necessary to quote a
few of the verses, taken at random as a specimen, of what he afterwards
calls "Prince Nicander's vein:"

_Nicander. _ Madam, I to this solitude am come,
Humbly from you to hear my latest doom.

_Psyche. _ The first command which I did give,
Was, that you should not see me here;
The next command you will receive,
Much harsher will to you appear.

_Nic. _ How long, fair Psyche, shall I sigh in vain?
How long of scorn and cruelty complain?
Your eyes enough have wounded me,
You need not add your cruelty.
You against me too many weapons chuse,
Who am defenceless against each you use.

The poet himself seems so conscious of the sad inferiority of his
verses, that he makes, in the preface, a half apology, implying
a mortifying consciousness, that it was necessary to anticipate
condemnation, by pleading guilty. "In a thing written in five weeks, as
this was, there must needs be many errors, which I desire true critics
to pass by; and which, perhaps, I see myself, but having much business,
and indulging myself with some pleasure too, I have not had leisure
to mend them; nor would it indeed be worth the pains, since there are
so many splendid objects in the play, and such variety of diversion,
as will not give the audience leave to mind the writing; and I doubt
not but the candid reader will forgive the faults, when he considers,
that the great design was to entertain the town with variety of music,
curious dancing, splendid scenes, and machines; and that I do not, nor
ever did intend, to value myself upon the writing of this play. "

Shadwell, however, had no right to plead, that this affected contempt
of his own lyric poetry ought to have disarmed the criticism of Dryden;
because, in the very same preface, he sets out by insinuating, that he
could easily have beaten our author on his own strong ground of rhyme,
had he thought such a contest worth winning. So much, at least, may be
inferred from the following declaration:

"In a good-natured country, I doubt not but this, my first essay in
rhyme, would be at least forgiven, especially when I promise to offend
no more in this kind; but I am sensible that here I must encounter a
great many difficulties. In the first place, (though I expect more
candour from the best writers in rhyme,) the more moderate of them (who
have yet a numerous party, good judges being very scarce) are very
much offended with me, for leaving my own province of comedy, to invade
their dominion of rhyme: but, methinks, they might be satisfied, since
I have made but a small incursion, and am resolved to retire. And, were
I never so powerful, they should escape me, as the northern people did
the Romans; their craggy barren territories being not worth conquering. "


Note IX.