Cleon. O Father! Enter Cleonidas. Cleom. Why dost thou call me by so kiud a name? A Father! that implies presiding care, Cheerful to give willing himself to want Whate'er thy needs require! Cleon. A little food! Have you none, father? one poor hungry morsel: --as I desir'd; For without your consent, Heaven knows I dare not." This absence of the power of swaying the feelings of the heart, is a lamentable deficiency; and when taken into consideration, together with the bad taste of the worthless age, and Dryden's dependance for support on public opinion, may account for the ill success which he has had with posterity as a dramatic writer. Nothing but the most perverted ingenuity could defend, or the most morbid state of public taste applaud the system of rhyming plays,-Yet it was precisely those which gained the greatest meed of applause, at the time of their representation, and which Dryden himself has defended, in compositions of unequalled force and brilliancy. We will quote the following passage, from one of his prefaces, as it illustrates the topics we have just alluded to, the taste of the town, and because it displays the felicity with which Dryden could make the worse appear the better cause. "Whether heroick verse ought to be admitted into serious plays is not now to be disputed, it is already in possession of the stage, and I dare confidently affirm, that very few tragedies, in this age, shall be received without it. All the arguments which are formed against it, can amount to no more than this, that it is not so near conversation as prose, and therefore not so natural. But it is very clear to all who understand poetry, that serious plays ought not to imitate conversation too nearly. If nothing were to be raised above that level, the foundation of poetry would be destroyed. And if you once admit of a latitude, that thoughts may be exalted, and that images and actions may be raised above the life, and described in measure without rhyme, that leads you insensibly from your own principles to mine: you are already so far onward of your way, that you have forsaken the imitation of ordinary converse. You are gone beyond it; and to continue where you are, is to lodge in the open fields, betwixt two inns. You have lost that which you call natural, and have not acquired the last perfection of art. But it was only custom which cozened us so long; we thought, because Shakespear and Fletcher went no farther, that there the pillars of poetry were to be erected. That, because they excellently described passion without rhyme, therefore rhyme was not capable of describing it. But time has now convinced most men of that error. 'Tis indeed so difficult to write verse, that the adversaries of it have a good plea against many, who undertook that task without being formed by art or nature for it. Yet, even they who have written worst in it, would have written worse without it: They have cozened many with their sound, who never took the pains to examine their sense. In fine, they have succeeded; tho' 'tis true they have more dishonored rhyme by their good success, than they have done by their ill. But I am willing to let fall this argument: 'tis free for every man to write, or not to write, in verse, as he judges it to be or not to be his talent; or as he imagines the audience will receive it.” It is very true that the prevalence of a bad taste in poetry, in the court and among the people at large, might have had a serious tendency to debase the genius of the writers of the age. But this is hardly sufficient to account for the absurdities, of which in general the plays of Dryden are composed. The turgid and inflated stuff, which is put into the mouth of almost every character, can only be attributed to a marvellous want of judgment and right-feeling in Dryden himself; audacious boastings, bold and bragging blasphemies, fire-breathing threats to do impossibilities, abound every where. The art of sinking, or the true and genuine bathos, is sought no where so well, as in the plays of Dryden. That whole speeches should consist of ranting, might be attributed to an attempt at the sublime, by a feeble imagination, and a warm temperament; but when we find a series of beautiful lines terminate in some base image, or in some ridiculous, familiar, or bombastic allusion; we do not accuse the poet of poverty, but of a bad use of riches. Instances of this nature abound; take the following beautiful description of the execution of St. Catharine, and Maximin's answer. Val. Your pity comes too late. Betwixt her guards she seem'd by bride-men led, Etherial musick did her death prepare, But when (its work perform'd) the cloud withdrew, I sought her head, to bring it on my spear: Of charming notes we heard the last rebounds; Max. And dost thou think This lame account fit for a love-sick king? -from the other world a better bring. [Kills him, then sets his foot on him, and speaks on. When in my breast two mighty passions strove, 'Tis true, that way thy death had follow'd too, [Spurns the body. It seems almost impossible that any man should write lines like those we are about to quote, and not be aware of their egregious absurdity. "Max. What had the gods to do with me or mine? Did I molest your heav'n ?. Why should you then make Maximin your foe, Who paid you tribute, which he need not do? More than your sun could draw you in a year. Hostility with you and yours declare, Look to it, gods: for you th' aggressors are, Or take the scene immediately following, which will come behind no fustian to be met with in Tom Thumb or elsewhere: Plac. Thus, tyrant, since the gods th' aggressors are, Thus by this stroke they have begun the war. [Maximin struggles with him, and gets the dagger from him. Max. Thus I return the strokes which they have given ; Thus, traitor, thus, and thus I would to heaven. [Placidius falls, and the Emperor staggers after him, and sits down upon him, the Guards come to help the Emperor. Max. Stand off, and let me, ere my strength be gone, Enter a Centurion. Cent. Arm, arm, the camp is in a mutiny; Porphyrius mov'd their pity, as he went And now he heads their new-attempted crime. Max. Now I am down, the Gods have watch'd their time. My coward body does my will controul; Bring me Porphyrius and my Empress dead, [To the Soldiers. Max. Vanquish'd, and dar'st thou yet a rebel be? [Stabs him again. Plac. Oh, I am gone! [Dies. Max. -and after thee, I go, my blow, [Stabs him again. [Dies. Revenging full, and following ev'n to th' other world And shoving back this earth on which I sit, The following is a much more favorable specimen of Dryden's power, or rather want of power, in making an appeal to the heart; it nevertheless illustrates our observations on this point. A mother is appealing to her daughter: Hear, oh hear your wretched mother's call. Think, at your birth, ah think what pains I bore, And can your eyes behold me suffer more! And from the waves my floating pledge did bear, So much my love was stronger than my fear. In the following exquisite passage there is a kind of tender and pathetic playfulness not common in Dryden, but it will be observed, it is not the simple expression of natural feeling, but a certain fanciful dallying with emotion, which though it does not appeal by its truth to nature, gratifies and delights the imagination. Berenice, wedded to a tyrant, thus addresses her former lover, who is endeavouring to persuade her to leave the object of her disgust.-She refuses and says, My earthly part Which is my tyrant's right, death will remove, The beauty of this passage does not consist in the ideas alone; there is a melody of versification, and an aptness in the expression, which hardly any one but Dryden could compass. |