Chapter XXIV: Epilogue

My part being small, I have had time to-day,
To mark your various censures of our play.
First, looking for a judgment or a wit,
Like Jews, I saw them scattered through the pit;
And where a knot of smilers lent an ear
To one that talked, I knew the foe was there.
The club of jests went round; he, who had none,
Borrowed o'the next, and told it for his own.
Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir,
In whispering that he stole the Astrologer;
And said, betwixt a French and English plot,
He eased his half-tired muse, on pace and trot.
Up starts a Monsieur, new come o'er, and warm
In the French stoop, and the pull-back o'the arm;
_Morbleu, dit il_, and cocks, I am a rogue,
But he has quite spoiled the feigned _Astrologue_.
'Pox, says another, here's so great a stir
With a son of a whore farce that's regular,
A rule, where nothing must decorum shock!
Damme, 'tis as dull, as dining by the clock.
An evening! Why the devil should we be vext,
Whether he gets the wench this night or next?
When I heard this, I to the poet went, }
Told him the house was full of discontent, }
And asked him what excuse he could invent. }
He neither swore or stormed, as poets do,
But, most unlike an author, vowed 'twas true;
Yet said, he used the French like enemies,
And did not steal their plots, but made them prize.
But should he all the pains and charges count
Of taking them, the bill so high would mount,
That, like prize-goods, which through the office come,
He could have had them much more cheap at home.
He still must write; and, banquier-like, each day
Accept new bills, and he must break, or pay.
When through his hands such sums must yearly run,
You cannot think the stock is all his own.
His haste his other errors might excuse,
But there's no mercy for a guilty muse;
For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall,
And please you to a height, or not at all.

TYRANNIC LOVE;

OR, THE

ROYAL MARTYR.

A

TRAGEDY.

TYRANNIC LOVE.

The "Royal Martyr" is one of Dryden's most characteristic productions. The character of Maximin, in particular, is drawn on his boldest plan, and only equalled by that of Almanzor, in the "Conquest of Granada." Indeed, although, in action, the latter exhibits a larger proportion of that extravagant achievement peculiar to the heroic drama, it may be questioned, whether the language of Maximin does not abound more with the flights of fancy, which hover betwixt the confines of the grand and the bombast, and which our author himself has aptly termed the Dalilahs of the theatre. Certainly, in some of those rants which occasionally burst from the emperor, our poet appears shorn of his locks; as for example,

Look to it, Gods; for you the aggressors are:
Keep you your rain and sunshine in your skies,
And I'll keep back my flame and sacrifice;
Your trade of heaven will soon be at a stand,
And all your goods lie dead upon your hand.

Indeed, Dryden himself acknowledged, in the Dedication to the "Spanish Friar," that some verses of Maximin and Almanzor cry vengeance upon him for their extravagance, and heartily wishes them in the same fire with Statius and Chapman. But he pleads in apology, that he knew they were bad enough to please, even when he wrote them, although he is now resolved no longer to seek credit from the approbation of fools. Johnson has doubted, with apparent reason, whether this confession be sufficiently ample; and whether the poet did not really give his love to those enticing seducers of his imagination, although he contemned them in his more sober judgment. In the Prologue, he has boldly stated and justified his determination to rush forwards, and hazard the disgrace of a fall, rather than the loss of the race. Certainly a genius, which dared so greatly as that of Dryden, cannot always be expected to check its flight upon the verge of propriety; and we are often hurried along with it into the extravagant and bombast, when we can seldom discover the error till a second reading of the passage. Take, for example, the often quoted account of the death of Charinus;

With a fierce haste he led our troops the way;
While fiery showers of sulphur on him rained;
Nor left he, till the battlements he gained:
There with a forest of their darts he strove,
And stood, like Capaneus defying Jove.
With his broad sword the boldest beating down,
While fate grew pale, lest he should win the town,
And turned the iron leaves of its dark book,
To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook:
Till sought by many deaths, he sunk, though late,
And by his fall asserted doubtful fate.

Although this passage, upon examination, will be found to contain much tumid bombast, yet, like others in the same tone, it conveys, at first, a dark impression of grandeur and sublimity, which only vanishes on a critical examination. Such passages, pronounced with due emphasis on the stage, will always meet with popular applause. They are like the fanciful shapes into which a mist is often wreathed; it requires a near approach, and an attentive consideration, to discover their emptiness and vanity. On the other hand, we meet with many passages in Maximin, where the impression of sublimity becomes more deep, in proportion to the attention we bestow on them. Such is the speech of St Catharine to her mother:

Could we live always, life were worth our cost;
But now we keep with care what must be lost.
Here we stand shivering on the bank, and cry,
When we should plunge into eternity.
One moment ends our pain;
And yet the shock of death we dare not stand,
By thought scarce measured, and too swift for sand:
'Tis but because the living death ne'er knew,
They fear to prove it, as a thing that's new.
Let me the experiment before you try,
I'll show you first how easy 'tis to die.

In the same scene occurs an instance of a different kind of beauty, less commonly found in Dryden. The tender description given by Felicia of her attachment to her child, in infancy, is exquisitely beautiful.

The introduction of magic, and of the astral spirits, who have little to do with the catastrophe, was perhaps contrived for the sake of music and scenery. The supernatural has, however, been fashionable at all periods; and we learn, from a passage in the dedication to "Prince Arthur," that the Duchess of Monmouth, whom Dryden calls his first and best patroness, was pleased with the parts of airy and earthy spirits, and with that fairy kind of writing, which depends upon the force of imagination. It is probable, therefore, that, in a play inscribed to her husband, that style of composition was judiciously intermingled, to which our poet knew the duchess was partial. There is much fine description in the first account of the wizard; but the lyrical dialogue of the spirits is rather puerile, and is ridiculed, with great severity, in the "Rehearsal."

Mr Malone has fixed the first acting of this play to the end of 1668, or beginning of 1669. It was printed in 1670, and a revised edition came forth in 1672.

TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE,

JAMES,

DUKE OF MONMOUTH AND BUCCLEUGH,

ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY-COUNCIL; AND KNIGHT OF THE
MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &C.[K]

Sir,

The favourable reception which your excellent lady afforded to one of my former plays[L], has encouraged me to double my presumption, in addressing this to your grace's patronage. So dangerous a thing it is to admit a poet into your family, that you can never afterwards be free from the chiming of ill verses, perpetually sounding in your ears, and more troublesome than the neighbourhood of steeples. I have been favourable to myself in this expression; a zealous fanatick would have gone farther, and have called me the serpent, who first presented the fruit of my poetry to the wife, and so gained the opportunity to seduce the husband. Yet, I am ready to avow a crime so advantageous to me; but the world, which will condemn my boldness, I am sure will justify and applaud my choice. All men will join with me in the adoration which I pay you; they would wish only I had brought you a more noble sacrifice. Instead of an heroick play, you might justly expect an heroick poem, filled with the past glories of your ancestors, and the future certainties of your own. Heaven has already taken care to form you for an hero. You have all the advantages of mind and body, and an illustrious birth, conspiring to render you an extraordinary person. The Achilles and the Rinaldo are present in you, even above their originals; you only want a Homer, or a Tasso, to make you equal to them. Youth, beauty, and courage (all which you possess in the height of their perfection) are the most desirable gifts of heaven: and heaven is never prodigal of such treasures, but to some uncommon purpose. So goodly a fabric was never framed by an Almighty architect for a vulgar guest. He shewed the value which he set upon your mind, when he took care to have it so nobly, and so beautifully lodged. To a graceful fashion and deportment of body, you have joined a winning conversation, and an easy greatness, derived to you from the best, and best-beloved of princes. And with a great power of obliging, the world has observed in you a desire to oblige, even beyond your power. This, and all that I can say on so excellent and large a subject, is only history, in which fiction has no part; I can employ nothing of poetry in it, any more than I do in that humble protestation which I make, to continue ever

Your Grace's most obedient

And most devoted servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

[Footnote K: For some account of the Duke of Monmouth, we refer our readers to the poem of Absalom and Achitophel, in which Dryden has described that unfortunate young nobleman under the character of Absalom].

[Footnote L: See the Dedication to the "Indian Emperor."]