The play which is next in merit to these is the "Secret Love," and as a very favourable specimen of the natural genius for the drama in Dryden, which sometimes, indeed, breaks out even in his worst plays, when he bursts through the encrustations of bad judgment and false taste, we might mention the sweet and beautiful character of the Maiden Queen, in the "Secret Love," and the interesting situations and the able developement of them in this impassioned play. Let any one read the following scene from this play, and doubt, if he will, the dramatic power of Dryden. The Maiden Queen secretly bears, in the recesses of her heart, a deep and ardent passion for one of her courtiers, which he, being attached to another, is ignorant of, and blind to the indications of it in his royal mistress-indications which a less engaged man might have discovered. Philocles, the object of her affection, has been prevailed upon to plead in behalf of the suit of a prince attached to the queen, who is her equal, and desired by the people to be her consort: he is leaving her presence with the unsuccessful petitioner, when she thus addresses him. "Queen. Philocles, you may stay. Phil. I humbly wait your Majesty's commands. Queen. I have no commands- -or, what's all one, Phil. How! no obedience, Madam ? I plead no other merit; 'tis the charter By which I hold your favour, and my fortunes. Queen. My favours are cheap blessings, like rain and sunshine, For which we scarcely thank the gods, because We daily have them. Phil. Madam, your breath, which rais'd me from the dust, May lay me there again: But fate nor time can ever make me lose The sense of your indulgent bounties to me. Queen. You are above them now, grown popular: Ah, Philocles! could I expect from you That usage? no tongue but yours To move me to a marriage ? The factious deputies might have some end in't, ambitious cousin gain a crown; But what advantage could there come to you? [Weeps. Phil. You yourself clear me, Madam. Had I sought More pow'r, this marriage sure was not the way. But, when your safety was in question, When all your people were unsatisfied, Queen. Let me be judge of my own safety; But danger from my subjects cannot fright me. Shall I, I who was born a sovereign queen, Leave me, good Philocles, to my own thoughts; * * * * * * * * * * * * "Asteria. Dear Madam, what's the matter! Pardon my boldness, that I press thus far Into your secret thoughts: I have, at least, A subject's share in you. Queen. Thou hast a greater, That of a friend; but am I froward, say'st thou ? Ast. It ill becomes me, Madam, to say that. Queen. I know I am: Prythee forgive me for it. I cannot help it; but thou hast Not long to suffer it. Ast. Alas! Queen. I feel my strength each day and hour consume, Like lillies wasting in a lymbeck's heat. Yet a few days And thou shall see me lye all damp and cold, Shrowded within some hollow vault, among My silent ancestors. Ast. O, dearest Madam! Speak not of death, or think not, if you die, That I will stay behind. Queen. Thy love has mov'd me, I for once will have The pleasure to be pitied; I'll unfold A thing so strange, so horrid of myself Ast. Bless me, sweet Heav'n! So horrid, said you, Madam! Queen. That Sun, who with one look surveys the globe, Sees not a wretch like me: and could the world Take a right measure of my state within, Queen. Thou long'st to know't, And I to tell thee, but shame stops my mouth. I would not have you guess, for should you find it, And then I were most wretched; Therefore, though you should know it, flatter me, Ast. Madam, I need not flatter you, I cannot-and yet, Might not ambition trouble your repose ? Queen. My Sicily, I thank the gods, contents me; But since I must reveal it, know 'tis love: I who pretended so to glory, am Become the slave of love. Ast. I thought your Majesty had fram'd designs Queen. Is not this enough? Then know, I love below myself; a subject; Ast. He must be told it, Madam. Queen. Not for the world, Asteria: Whene'er he knows it, I shall die for shame. Ast. What is it then that would content you? Perhaps the most striking defect of Dryden was a total absence of pathos-the power of affecting the human heartexcepting, perhaps, in a scene or two in the " All for Love," we doubt whether Dryden ever drew a tear: there are no gentle appeals to loved associations in his writing, no mention of those simple images and natural objects, which flow from a heart throbbing with half painful, half pleasing, emotions; no scenes of writhing distress worked up with the unadorned eloquence of true passion; no visions of shadowy beauty, which appear for an instant, and leave a melancholy impression of their having come and so departed. His mind was stored with information: he had wonderful aptness at seeing the likenesses of things, and he was a master of analogy: he was a rich and excellent reasoner: his fancy was brilliant, but his imagination was confined and vulgar: the powers of his mind were perfect and active, but his heart was cold-it was He wrote a never o'er-informed with " gushing tenderness." scene, in the spirit with which a man would set about to unravel a puzzle. Otway was a poet who wept over, and bathed his productions in his tears. Dryden would feel a selfsatisfied delight, as he brought to a close some of, what he would think the most striking passages of his plays,-a satisfaction something similar to that of a mathematician who observes his investigation proceeding favourably to the solution of the problem before him. In general, he avoids dwelling upon a pathetic incident of his play; when he feels the necessity of it, and attempts to be affecting, he becomes common-place. We cannot give our readers a better idea of the extent of Dryden's inability "To ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears," than by quoting the prison scene in Cleomenes, by which a truly pathetic poet must, if he had chosen the subject, have excited emotions too painful to bear. It will be seen how Dryden has succeeded: Cleom. No food: and this the third arising sun: And measuring time? that runs no more for me! If they wou'd give me leave; But Virtue in distress, and Vice in triumph, Enter Cratesiclea. What comfort, mother? Crut. A soul, not conscious to itself of ill, Who like a lazy master stands aloof, And leaves his work to the slow hands of famine. Is, but to die alone; a single ruin : But to die o'er and o'er, in each of you, With my own hunger pinch'd, but pierc'd with your's! Cleom. What! not for you, my mother! I'm strangely tempted to blaspheme the gods, And this is my return, to cause her death Crat. Peace! your misfortunes cause it, not your fault." Cleom. What! my Cleora? go, I stretch'd my bounds as far as I could A flower withering on the stalk for want Of nourishment from Earth, and showers from Heaven: [Wiping his eyes. Cleor. Alas! I have not wherewithal to weep: My eyes grow dim, and stiffen'd up with drought, Crat. And so am I-Heaven knows! However, [Aside. [Exit Cratesiclea. Cleom. How does your helpless Infant ? Cleom. Go in and rest thee, And hush the child asleep. Look down, ye Gods Look, Hercules, thou author of my race, On his neglected work of human-kind; Tell him-I do not curse him: but devotion Will cool in after-times, if none but good men suffer— |