9. The allegory of the one-eyed Archer, and the fire arising betwixt
him and Albion, will be made evident by the following extracts from
Sprat's history of the Conspiracy. In enumerating the persons
engaged in the Rye-house plot, he mentions "Richard Rumbold,
maltster, an old army officer, a desperate and bloody Ravaillac."
After agitating several schemes for assassinating Charles, the
Rye-house was fixed upon as a spot which the king must necessarily
pass in his journey trom Newmarket, and which, being a solitary
moated house, in the actual occupation of Rumbold, afforded the
conspirators facility of previous concealment and subsequent
defence. "All other propositions, as subject to far more casualties
and hazards, soon gave place to that of the Rye, in Herefordshire,
a house then inhabited by the foresaid Richard Rumbold, who
proposed that to be the seat of the action, offering himself to
command the party, that was to do the work. Him, therefore, as the
most daring captain, and by reason of a blemish in one of his eyes,
they were afterwards wont, in common discourse, to call Hannibal;
often drinking healths to _Hannibal and his boys_, meaning Rumbold
and his _hellish crew_.
"Immediately upon the coaches coming within the gates and hedges
about the house, the conspirators were to divide into several
parties; some before, in the habit of labourers, were to overthrow
a cart in the narrowest passage, so as to prevent all possibility
of escape: others were to fight the guards, Walcot chusing that
part upon a punctilio of honour; others were to shoot at the
coachman, postillion, and horses; others to aim only at his
Majesty's coach, which party was to be under the particular
direction of Rumbold himself; the villain declaring beforehand,
that, upon that occasion, he would make use of a very good
blunderbuss, which was in West's possession, and blasphemously
adding, that Ferguson should first consecrate it." ... "But whilst
they were thus wholly intent on this barbarous work, and proceeded
securely in its contrivance without any the least doubt of a
prosperous success, behold! on a sudden, God miraculously
disappointed all their hopes and designs, by the terrible
conflagration unexpectedly breaking out at Newmarket. In which
extraordinary event there was one remarkable passage, that is not
so generally taken notice of, as, for the glory of God, and the
confusion of his Majesty's enemies, it ought to be.
"For, after that the approaching fury of the flames had driven the
king out of his own palace, his Majesty, at first, removed into
another quarter of the town, remote from the fire, and, as yet,
free from any annoyance of smoke and ashes. There his Majesty,
finding he might be tolerably well accommodated, had resolved to
stay, and continue his recreations as before, till the day first
named for his journey back to London. But his Majesty had no sooner
made that resolution, when the wind, as conducted by an invisible
power from above, presently changed about, and blew the smoke and
cinders directly on his new lodging, making them in a moment as
untenable as the other. Upon this, his Majesty being put to a new
shift, and not finding the like conveniency elsewhere, immediately
declared, he would speedily return to Whitehall, as he did; which
happening to be several days before the assassins expected him, or
their preparations for the Rye were in readiness, it may justly
give occasion to all the world to acknowledge, what one of the very
conspirators could not but do, _that it was a providential
fire._" - Pages 51_ et seq._
The proprietor of the Rye-house (for Rumbold was but a tenant)
shocked at the intended purpose, for which it was to have been
used, is said to have fired it with his own hand. This is the
subject of a poem, called the Loyal Incendiary, or the generous
_Boute-feu_.
10. The total ruin of those, who were directly involved in the
Rye-house, was little to be regretted, had it not involved the fate
of those who were pursuing reform, by means more manly and
constitutional, - the fate of Russel, Essex, and Sidney.
Rumbold, "the one-eyed archer," fled to Holland, and came to
Scotland with Argyle, on his ill-concerted expedition. He was
singled out and pursued, after the dispersion of his companions in
a skirmish. He defended himself with desperate resolution against
two armed peasants, till a third, coming behind him with a
pitch-fork, turned off his head-piece, when he was cut down and
made prisoner, exclaiming, "Cruel countryman, to use me thus, while
my face was to mine enemy." He suffered the doom of a traitor at
Edinburgh, and maintained on the scaffold, with inflexible
firmness, the principles in which he had lived. He could never
believe, he said, that the many of human kind came into the world
bridled and saddled, and the few with whips and spurs to ride them.
"His rooted ingrained opinion, says Fountainhall, was for a
republic against monarchy, to pull down which he thought a duty,
and no sin." At his death, he declared, that were every hair of his
head a man, he would venture them all in the good old cause.
11. "I must not," says Langbaine, "take the pains to acquaint my
reader, that by the man on the pedestal, &c. is meant the late Lord
Shaftesbury. I shall not pretend to pass my censure, whether he
deserved this usage from our author or no, but leave it to the
judgments of statesmen and politicians." Shaftesbury having been
overturned in a carriage, received some internal injury which
required a constant discharge by an issue in his side. Hence he was
ridiculed under the name of _Tapski_. In a mock account of an
apparition, stated to have appeared to Lady Gray, it says, "Bid
Lord Shaftesbury have a care to his spigot - if he is tapt, all the
plot will run out." _Ralph's History_, vol. i. p. 562. from a
pamphlet in Lord Somers' collection. There are various allusions to
this circumstance in the lampoons of the time. A satire called "The
Hypocrite," written by Carryl, concludes thus:
His body thus and soul together vie.
In vice's empire for the sovereignty;
In ulcers shut this does abound in sin,
Lazar without and Lucifer within.
The silver pipe is no sufficient drain
For the corruption of this little man;
Who, though he ulcers have in every part,
Is no where so corrupt as in his heart.
At length, in prosecution of this coarse and unhandsome jest, a
sort of vessel with a turn-cock was constructed for holding wine,
which was called a Shaftesbury, and used in the taverns of the
royal party.
EPILOGUE
After our Æsop's fable shown to-day,
I come to give the moral of the play.
Feigned Zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace;
But the last heat, Plain Dealing won the race:
Plain Dealing for a jewel has been known;
But ne'er till now the jewel of a crown.
When heaven made man, to show the work divine,
Truth was his image, stamped upon the coin:
And when a king is to a God refined,
On all he says and does he stamps his mind:
This proves a soul without alloy, and pure;
Kings, like their gold, should every touch endure.
To dare in fields is valour; but how few
Dare be so throughly valiant, - to be true!
The name of great, let other kings affect:
He's great indeed, the prince that is direct.
His subjects know him now, and trust him more
Than all their kings, and all their laws before.
What safety could their public acts afford?
Those he can break; but cannot break his word.
So great a trust to him alone was due;
Well have they trusted whom so well they knew.
The saint, who walked on waves, securely trod,
While he believed the beck'ning of his God;
But when his faith no longer bore him out,
Began to sink, as he began to doubt.
Let us our native character maintain;
'Tis of our growth, to be sincerely plain.
To excel in truth we loyally may strive,
Set privilege against prerogative:
He plights his faith, and we believe him just;
His honour is to promise, ours to trust.
Thus Britain's basis on a word is laid,
As by a word the world itself was made[1].
Footnote:
1. From this Epilogue we learn, what is confirmed by many proofs
elsewhere, that the attribute for which James desired to be
distinguished and praised, was that of openness of purpose, and
stern undeviating inflexibility of conduct. He scorned to disguise
his designs, either upon the religion or the constitution of his
country. He forgot that it was only the temporising concessions of
his brother which secured his way to the throne, when his
exclusion, or a civil war, seemed the only alternatives. His
brother was the reed, which bent before the whirlwind, and
recovered its erect posture when it had passed away; and James, the
inflexible oak, which the first tempest rooted up for ever.
* * * * *
DON SEBASTIAN.
A
TRAGEDY.
_ - Nec tarda senectus
Debilitat vires animi, mutatque vigorem._
VIRG.
DON SEBASTIAN.
The following tragedy is founded upon the adventures supposed to have
befallen Sebastian, king of Portugal, after the fatal battle of
Alcazar. The reader may be briefly reminded of the memorable
expedition of that gallant monarch to Africa, to signalize, against
the Moors, his chivalry as a warrior, and his faith as a Christian.
The ostensible pretext of invasion was the cause of Muly Mahomet, son
of Abdalla, emperor of Morocco; upon whose death, his brother, Muly
Moluch, had seized the crown, and driven his nephew into exile. The
armies joined battle near Alcazar. The Portuguese, far inferior in
number to the Moors, displayed the most desperate valour, and had
nearly won the day, when Muly Moluch, who, though almost dying, was
present on the field in a litter, fired with shame and indignation,
threw himself on horseback, rallied his troops, renewed the combat,
and, being carried back to his litter, immediately expired, with his
finger placed on his lips, to impress on the chiefs, who surrounded
him, the necessity of concealing his death. The Moors, rallied by
their sovereign's dying exertion, surrounded, and totally routed, the
army of Sebastian. Mahomet, the competitor for the throne of Morocco,
was drowned in passing a river in his flight, and Sebastian, as his
body was never found, probably perished in the same manner. But where
the region of historical certainty ends, that of romantic tradition
commences. The Portuguese, to whom the memory of their warlike
sovereign was deservedly dear, grasped at the feeble hope which the
uncertainty of his fate afforded, and long, with vain fondness,
expected the return of Sebastian, to free them from the yoke of Spain.
This mysterious termination of a hero's career, as it gave rise to
various political intrigues, (for several persons assumed the name and
character of Sebastian,) early afforded a subject for exercising the
fancy of the dramatist and romance writer. "The Battle of Alcazar[1]"
is known to the collectors of old plays; a ballad on the same subject
is reprinted in Evans's collection; and our author mentions a French
novel on the adventures of Don Sebastian, to which Langbaine also
refers.
The situation of Dryden, after the Revolution, was so delicate as to
require great caution and attention, both in his choice of a subject,
and his mode of treating it. His distressed circumstances and lessened
income compelled him to come before the public as an author; while the
odium attached to the proselyte of a hated religion, and the partizan
of a depressed faction, was likely, upon the slightest pretext, to
transfer itself from the person of the poet to the labours on which
his support depended. He was, therefore, not only obliged to chuse a
theme, which had no offence in it, and to treat it in a manner which
could not admit of misconstruction, but also so to exert the full
force of his talents, as, by the conspicuous pre-eminence of his
genius, to bribe prejudice and silence calumny. An observing reader
will accordingly discover, throughout the following tragedy, symptoms
of minute finishing, and marks of accurate attention, which, in our
author's better days, he deigned not to bestow upon productions, to
which his name alone was then sufficient to give weight and privilege.
His choice of a subject was singularly happy: the name of Sebastian
awaked historical recollections and associations, favourable to the
character of his hero; while the dark uncertainty of his fate removed
all possibility of shocking the audience by glaring offence against
the majesty of historical truth. The subject has, therefore, all the
advantages of a historical play, without the detects, which either a
rigid coincidence with history, or a violent contradiction of known
truth, seldom fail to bring along with them. Dryden appears from his
preface to have been fully sensible of this; and he has not lost the
advantage of a happy subject by treating it with the carelessness he
sometimes allowed himself to indulge.
The characters in "Don Sebastian" are contrasted with singular ability
and judgment. Sebastian, high-spirited and fiery; the soul of royal
and military honour; the soldier and the king; almost embodies the
idea which the reader forms at the first mention of his name. Dorax,
to whom he is so admirable a contrast, is one of those characters whom
the strong hand of adversity has wrested from their natural bias; and
perhaps no equally vivid picture can be found, of a subject so awfully
interesting. Born with a strong tendency to all that was honourable
and virtuous, the very excess of his virtues became vice, when his own
ill fate, and Sebastian's injustice, had driven him into exile. By
comparing, as Dryden has requested, the character of Dorax, in the
fifth act, with that he maintains in the former part of the play, the
difference may be traced betwixt his natural virtues, and the vices
engrafted on them by headlong passion and embittering calamity. There
is no inconsistence in the change which takes place after his scene
with Sebastian; as was objected by those, whom the poet justly terms,
"the more ignorant sort of creatures." It is the same picture in a new
light; the same ocean in tempest and in calm; the same traveller, whom
sunshine has induced to abandon his cloak, which the storm only forced
him to wrap more closely around him. The principal failing of Dorax is
the excess of pride, which renders each supposed wound to his honour
more venomously acute; yet he is not devoid of gentler affections,
though even in indulging these the hardness of his character is
conspicuous. He loves Violante, but that is a far subordinate feeling
to his affection for Sebastian. Indeed, his love appears so inferior
to his loyal devotion to his king, that, unless to gratify the taste
of the age, I see little reason for its being introduced at all. It is
obvious he was much more jealous of the regard of his sovereign, than
of his mistress; he never mentions Violante till the scene of
explanation with Sebastian; and he appears hardly to have retained a
more painful recollection of his disappointment in that particular,
than of the general neglect and disgrace he had sustained at the court
of Lisbon. The last stage of a virtuous heart, corroded into evil by
wounded pride, has been never more forcibly displayed than in the
character of Dorax. When once induced to take the fatal step which
degraded him in his own eyes, all his good affections seem to be
converted into poison. The religion, which displays itself in the
fifth act in his arguments against suicide, had, in his efforts to
justify his apostacy, or at least to render it a matter of no moment,
been exchanged for sentiments approaching, perhaps to atheism,
certainly to total scepticism. His passion for Violante is changed
into contempt and hatred for her sex, which he expresses in the
coarsest terms. His feelings of generosity, and even of humanity, are
drowned in the gloomy and stern misanthropy, which has its source in
the self-discontent that endeavours to wreak itself upon others. This
may be illustrated by his unfeeling behaviour, while Alvarez and
Antonio, well known to him in former days, approach, and draw the
deadly lot, which ratifies their fate. No yielding of compassion, no
recollection of former friendship, has power to alter the cold and
sardonic sarcasm with which he sketches their characters, and marks
their deportment in that awful moment. Finally, the zealous attachment
of Alonzo for his king, which, in its original expression, partakes of
absolute devotion, is changed, by the circumstances of Dorax, into an
irritated and frantic jealousy, which he mistakes for hatred; and
which, in pursuing the destruction of its object, is almost more
inveterate than hatred itself. Nothing has survived of the original
Alonzo at the opening of the piece, except the gigantic passion which
has caused his ruin. This character is drawn on a large scale, and in
a heroic proportion; but it is so true to nature, that many readers
must have lamented, even within the circle of domestic acquaintance,
instances of feelings hardened, and virtues perverted, where a high
spirit has sustained severe and unjust neglect and disgrace. The whole
demeanour of this exquisite character suits the original sketch. From
"the long stride and sullen port," by which Benducar distinguishes him
at a distance, to the sullen stubbornness with which he obeys, or the
haughty contempt with which he resists, the commands of the peremptory
tyrant under whom he had taken service, all announce the untamed pride
which had robbed Dorax of virtue, and which yet, when Benducar would
seduce him into a conspiracy, and in his conduct towards Sebastian,
assumes the port and dignity of virtue herself. In all his conduct and
bearing, there is that mixed feeling and impulse, which constitutes
the real spring of human action. The true motive of Alonzo in saving
Sebastian, is not purely that of honourable hatred, which he proposes
to himself; for to himself every man endeavours to appear consistent,
and readily find arguments to prove to himself that he is so. Neither
is his conduct to be ascribed altogether to the gentler feelings of
loyal and friendly affection, relenting at the sight of his
sovereign's ruin, and impending death. It is the result of a mixture
of these opposite sensations, clashing against each other like two
rivers at their conflux, yet urging their united course down the same
channel. Actuated by a mixture of these feelings, Dorax meets
Sebastian; and the art of the poet is displayed in that admirable
scene, by suggesting a natural motive to justify to the injured
subject himself the change of the course of his feelings. As his
jealousy of Sebastian's favour, and resentment of his unjust neglect,
was chiefly founded on the avowed preference which the king had given
to Henriquez, the opportune mention of his rival's death, by removing
the cause of that jealousy, gives the renegade an apology to his own
pride, for throwing himself at the feet of that very sovereign, whom a
moment before he was determined to force to combat. They are little
acquainted with human passions, at least have only witnessed their
operations among men of common minds, who doubt, that at the height of
their very spring-tide, they are often most susceptible of sudden
changes; revolutions, which seem to those who have not remarked how
nearly the most opposite feelings are allied and united, the most
extravagant and unaccountable. Muly Moluch is an admirable specimen of
that very frequent theatrical character, - a stage tyrant. He is fierce
and boisterous enough to be sufficiently terrible and odious, and that
without much rant, considering he is an infidel Soldan, who, from the
ancient deportment of Mahomed and Termagaunt, as they appeared in the
old Mysteries, might claim a prescriptive right to tear a passion to
tatters. Besides, the Moorish emperor has fine glances of savage
generosity, and that free, unconstrained, and almost noble openness,
the only good quality, perhaps, which a consciousness of unbounded
power may encourage in a mind so firm as not to be totally depraved by
it. The character of Muly Moluch, like that of Morat, in
"Aureng-Zebe," to which it bears a strong resemblance, was admirably
represented by Kynaston; who had, says Cibber, "a fierce lion-like
majesty in his port and utterance, that gave the spectator a kind of
trembling admiration." It is enough to say of Benducar, that the cool,
fawning, intriguing, and unprincipled statesman, is fully developed in
his whole conduct; and of Alvarez, that the little he has to say and
do, is so said and done, as not to disgrace his common-place character
of the possessor of the secret on which the plot depends; for it may
be casually observed, that the depositary of such a clew to the
catastrophe, though of the last importance to the plot, is seldom
himself of any interest whatever. The haughty and high-spirited
Almeyda is designed by the author as the counterpart of Sebastian. She
breaks out with the same violence, I had almost said fury, and
frequently discovers a sort of kindred sentiment, intended to prepare
the reader for the unfortunate discovery, that she is the sister of
the Portuguese monarch.
Of the diction, Dr Johnson has said, with meagre commendation, that it
has "some sentiments which leave a strong impression," and "others of
excellence, universally acknowledged." This, even when the admiration
of the scene betwixt Dorax and Sebastian has been sanctioned by that
great critic, seems scanty applause for the _chef d'oeuvre_ of
Dryden's dramatic works. The reader will be disposed to look for more
unqualified praise, when such a poet was induced, by every pressing
consideration, to combine, in one effort, the powers of his mighty
genius, and the fruits of his long theatrical experience: Accordingly,
Shakespeare laid aside, it will be perhaps difficult to point out a
play containing more animatory incident, impassioned language, and
beautiful description, than "Don Sebastian." Of the former, the scene
betwixt Dorax and the king, had it been the only one ever Dryden
wrote, would have been sufficient to insure his immortality. There is
not, - no, perhaps, not even in Shakespeare, - an instance where the
chord, which the poet designed should vibrate, is more happily struck;
strains there are of a higher mood, but not more correctly true; in
evidence of which, we have known those, whom distresses of a gentler
nature were unable to move, feel their stubborn feelings roused and
melted by the injured pride and deep repentance of Dorax. The burst of
anguish with which he answers the stern taunt of Sebastian, is one of
those rare, but natural instances, in which high-toned passion assumes
a figurative language, because all that is familiar seems inadequate
to express its feelings:
_Dor._ Thou hast dared
To tell me, what I durst not tell myself:
I durst not think that I was spurned, and live;
And live to hear it boasted to my face.
All my long avarice of honour lost,
Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age!
Has honour's fountain then sucked back the stream?
He has; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass,
And gather pebbles from the naked ford.
Give me my love, my honour; give them back -
Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it!
But I will not dwell on the beauties of this scene. If any one is
incapable of relishing it, he may safely conclude, that nature has not
merely denied him that rare gift, poetical taste, but common powers of
comprehending the ordinary feelings of humanity. The love scene,
betwixt Sebastian and Almeyda, is more purely conceived, and expressed
with more reference to sentiment, than is common with our author. The
description which Dorax gives of Sebastian, before his appearance,
coming from a mortal enemy, at least from one whose altered love was
as envenomed as hatred, is a grand preparation for the appearance of
the hero. In many of the slighter descriptive passages, we recognize
the poet by those minute touches, which a mind susceptible of poetic
feeling is alone capable of bringing out. The approach of the emperor,
while the conspirators are caballing, is announced by Orchan, with
these picturesque circumstances:
I see the blaze of torches from afar,
And hear the trampling of thick-beating feet -
This way they move. -
The following account, given by the slave sent to observe what passed
in the castle of Dorax, believed to be dead, or dying, is equally
striking:
_Haly._ Two hours I warily have watched his palace:
All doors are shut, no servant peeps abroad;
Some officers, with striding haste, past in;
While others outward went on quick dispatch.
Sometimes hushed silence seemed to reign within;
Then cries confused, and a joint clamour followed;
Then lights went gliding by, from room to room,
And shot like thwarting meteors cross the house.
Not daring further to inquire, I came
With speed to bring you this imperfect news.
The description of the midnight insurrection of the rabble is not less
impressive:
_Ham._ What you wish:
The streets are thicker in this noon of night,
Than at the mid-day sun: A drouzy horror
Sits on their eyes, like fear, not well awake:
All crowd in heaps, as, at a night alarm,
The bees drive out upon each others backs,
T'imboss their hives in clusters; all ask news:
Their busy captain runs the weary round
To whisper orders; and, commanding silence,
Makes not noise cease, but deafens it to murmurs.
These illustrations are designedly selected from the parts of the
lower characters, because they at once evince the diligence and
success with which Dryden has laboured even the subordinate points of
this tragedy.
"Don Sebastian" has been weighed, with reference to its tragic merits,
against "Love for Love;" and one or other is universally allowed to be
the first of Dryden's dramatic performances. To the youth of both
sexes the latter presents the most pleasing subject of emotion; but to
those whom age has rendered incredulous upon the romantic effects of
love, and who do not fear to look into the recesses of the human
heart, when agitated by darker and more stubborn passions, "Don
Sebastian" offers a far superior source of gratification.
To point out the blemishes of so beautiful a tragedy, is a painful,
though a necessary, task. The style, here and there, exhibits marks of
a reviving taste for those frantic bursts of passion, which our author
has himself termed the "Dalilahs of the theatre." The first speech of
Sebastian has been often noticed as an extravagant rant, more worthy
of Maximin, or Almanzor, than of a character drawn by our author in
his advanced years, and chastened taste:
I beg no pity for this mouldering clay;
For if you give it burial, there it takes
Possession of your earth:
If burnt and scatter'd in the air, the winds,
That strew my dust, diffuse my royalty,
And spread me o'er your clime; for where one atom
Of mine shall light, know, there Sebastian reigns.
The reader's discernment will discover some similar extravagancies in
the language of Almeyda and the Emperor.
It is a separate objection, that the manners of the age and country
are not adhered to. Sebastian, by disposition a crusading
knight-errant, devoted to religion and chivalry, becomes, in the hands
of Dryden, merely a gallant soldier and high-spirited prince, such as
existed in the poet's own days. But, what is worse, the manners of
Mahometans are shockingly violated. Who ever heard of human
sacrifices, or of any sacrifices, being offered up to Mahomet[2]; and
when were his followers able to use the classical and learned
allusions which occur throughout the dialogue! On this last topic
Addison makes the following observations, in the "Guardian," No. 110.
"I have now Mr Dryden's "Don Sebastian" before me, in which I find
frequent allusions to ancient poetry, and the old mythology of the
heathens. It is not very natural to suppose a king of Portugal would
be borrowing thoughts out of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," when he talked
even to those of his own court; but to allude to these Roman fables,
when he talks to an emperor of Barbary, seems very extraordinary.
But observe how he defies him out of the classics in the following
lines:
Why didst not thou engage me man to man,
And try the virtue of that Gorgon face,
To stare me into statue?
"Almeyda, at the same time, is more book-learned than Don Sebastian.
She plays an Hydra upon the Emperor, that is full as good as the
Gorgon:
O that I had the fruitful heads of Hydra,
That one might bourgeon where another fell!
Still would I give thee work, still, still, thou tyrant,
And hiss thee with the last.
"She afterwards, in allusion to Hercules, bids him 'lay down the
lion's skin, and take the distaff;' and, in the following speech,
utters her passion still more learnedly:
No; were we joined, even though it were in death,
Our bodies burning in one funeral pile,
The prodigy of Thebes would be renewed,
And my divided flame should break from thine.
"The emperor of Barbary shews himself acquainted with the Roman
poets as well as either of his prisoners, and answers the foregoing
speech in the same classic strain:
Serpent, I will engender poison with thee:
Our offspring, like the seed of dragon's teeth,
Shall issue armed, and fight themselves to death.
"Ovid seems to have been Muley-Moloch's favourite author; witness
the lines that follow:
She, still inexorable, still imperious,
And loud, as if, like Bacchus, born in thunder.
"I shall conclude my remarks on his part with that poetical
complaint of his being in love; and leave my reader to consider, how
prettily it would sound in the mouth of an emperor of Morocco:
The god of love once more has shot his fires
Into my soul, and my whole heart receives him.
"Muley Zeydan is as ingenious a man as his brother Muley Moloch; as
where he hints at the story of Castor and Pollux:
May we ne'er meet;
For, like the twins of Leda, when I mount,
He gallops down the skies.
"As for the Mufti, we will suppose that he was bred up a scholar,
and not only versed in the law of Mahomet, but acquainted with all
kinds of polite learning. For this reason he is not at all surprised
when Dorax calls him a Phæton in one place, and in another tells him
he is like Archimedes.
"The Mufti afterwards mentions Ximenes, Albornoz, and cardinal
Wolsey, by name. The poet seems to think, he may make every person,
in his play, know as much as himself, and talk as well as he could
have done on the same occasion. At least, I believe, every reader
will agree with me, that the above-mentioned sentiments, to which I
might have added several others, would have been better suited to
the court of Augustus than that of Muley Moloch. I grant they are
beautiful in themselves, and much more so in that noble language,
which was peculiar to this great poet. I only observe, that they are
improper for the persons who make use of them."
The catastrophe of the tragedy may be also censured, not only on the
grounds objected to that of "OEdipus," but because it does not
naturally flow from the preceding events, and opens, in the fifth act,
a new set of persons, and a train of circumstances, unconnected with
the preceding action. In the concluding scene, it was remarked, by the
critics, that there is a want of pure taste in the lovers dwelling
more upon the pleasures than the horrors of their incestuous
connection.
Of the lighter scenes, which were intended for comic, Dr Johnson has
said, "they are such as that age did not probably commend, and as the
present would not endure." Dryden has remarked, with self-complacency,
the art with which they are made to depend upon the serious business.
This has not, however, the merit of novelty; being not unlike the
connection between the tragic and comic scenes of the "Spanish Friar."
The persons introduced have also some resemblance; though the gaiety
of Antonio is far more gross than that of Lorenzo, and Morayma is a
very poor copy of Elvira. It is rather surprising, that when a gay
libertine was to be introduced, Dryden did not avail himself of a real
character, the English Stukely; a wild gallant, who, after spending a
noble fortune, became the leader of a band of Italian Condottieri,
engaged in the service of Sebastian, and actually fell in the battle
of Alcazar. Collier complains, and with very good reason, that, in the
character of the Mufti, Dryden has seized an opportunity to deride and
calumniate the priesthood of every religion; an opportunity which, I
am sorry to say, he seldom fails to use with unjustifiable inveteracy.
The rabble scenes were probably given, as our author himself says of
that in Cleomenes, "to gratify the more barbarous part of the
audience." Indeed, to judge from the practice of the drama at this
time, the representation of a riot upon the stage seems to have had
the same charms for the popular part of the English audience, which
its reality always possesses in the streets.
Notwithstanding the excellence of this tragedy, it appears to have
been endured, rather than applauded, at its first representation;
although, being judiciously curtailed, it soon became a great
favourite with the public[3]; and, omitting the comic scenes, may be
again brought forward with advantage, when the public shall be tired
of children and of show. The tragedy of "Don Sebastian" was acted and
printed in 1690.
Footnotes:
1. "The Battle of Alcazar, with Captain Stukely's death, acted by the
Lord High Admiral's servants, 1594," 4to. Baker thinks Dryden might
have taken the hint of "Don Sebastian" from this old play.
Shakespeare drew from it some of the bouncing rants of Pistol, as,
"Feed, and be fat; my fair Callipolis," &c.
2. In a Zambra dance, introduced in the "Conquest of Granada," our
author had previously introduced the Moors bowing to the image of
Jupiter; a gross solecism, hardly more pardonable, as Langbaine
remarks, than the introduction of a pistol in the hand of
Demetrius, a successor of Alexander the Great, which Dryden has
justly censured.
3. Langbaine says, it was acted "with great applause;" but this must
refer to its reception after the first night; for the author's own
expressions, that "the audience endured it with much patience, and
were weary with much good nature and silence," exclude the idea of
a brilliant reception on the first representation. See the
beginning of the Preface.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
PHILIP,
EARL OF LEICESTER, &c.[1]
Far be it from me, my most noble lord, to think, that any thing which
my meanness can produce, should be worthy to be offered to your
patronage; or that aught which I can say of you should recommend you
farther to the esteem of good men in this present age, or to the
veneration which will certainly be paid you by posterity. On the other
side, I must acknowledge it a great presumption in me, to make you
this address; and so much the greater, because by the common suffrage
even of contrary parties, you have been always regarded as one of the
first persons of the age, and yet not one writer has dared to tell you
so; whether we have been all conscious to ourselves that it was a
needless labour to give this notice to mankind, as all men are ashamed
to tell stale news; or that we were justly diffident of our own
performances, as even Cicero is observed to be in awe when he writes
to Atticus; where, knowing himself over-matched in good sense, and
truth of knowledge, he drops the gaudy train of words, and is no
longer the vain-glorious orator. From whatever reason it may be, I am
the first bold offender of this kind: I have broken down the fence,
and ventured into the holy grove. How I may be punished for my profane
attempt, I know not; but I wish it may not be of ill omen to your
lordship: and that a crowd of bad writers do not rush into the quiet
of your recesses after me. Every man in all changes of government,
which have been, or may possibly arrive, will agree, that I could not
have offered my incense, where it could be so well deserved. For you,
my lord, are secure in your own merit; and all parties, as they rise
uppermost, are sure to court you in their turns; it is a tribute which
has ever been paid your virtue. The leading men still bring their
bullion to your mint, to receive the stamp of their intrinsic value,
that they may afterwards hope to pass with human kind. They rise and
fall in the variety of revolutions, and are sometimes great, and
therefore wise in men's opinions, who must court them for their
interest. But the reputation of their parts most commonly follows
their success; few of them are wise, but as they are in power; because
indeed, they have no sphere of their own, but, like the moon in the
Copernican system of the world, are whirled about by the motion of a
greater planet. This it is to be ever busy; neither to give rest to
their fellow-creatures, nor, which is more wretchedly ridiculous, to
themselves; though, truly, the latter is a kind of justice, and giving
mankind a due revenge, that they will not permit their own hearts to
be at quiet, who disturb the repose of all beside them. Ambitious
meteors! how willing they are to set themselves upon the wing, and
taking every occasion of drawing upward to the sun, not considering
that they have no more time allowed them for their mounting, than the
short revolution of a day; and that when the light goes from them,
they are of necessity to fall. How much happier is he, (and who he is
I need not say, for there is but one phoenix in an age) who, centering
on himself, remains immoveable, and smiles at the madness of the dance
about him? he possesses the midst, which is the portion of safety and
content. He will not be higher, because he needs it not; but by the
prudence of that choice, he puts it out of fortune's power to throw
him down. It is confest, that if he had not so been born, he might
have been too high for happiness; but not endeavouring to ascend, he
secures the native height of his station from envy, and cannot descend
from what he is, because he depends not on another. What a glorious
character was this once in Rome! I should say, in Athens; when, in the
disturbances of a state as mad as ours, the wise Pomponius transported
all the remaining wisdom and virtue of his country into the sanctuary