INTRODUCTORY NOTE
The
age of Elizabeth, memorable for so many reasons in the history of
England, was especially brilliant in literature, and, within
literature, in the drama. With some falling off in spontaneity, the
impulse to great dramatic production lasted till the Long
Parliament
closed the theaters in 1642; and when they were reopened at the
Restoration, in 1660, the stage only too faithfully reflected the
debased moral tone of the court society of Charles II.John
Dryden (1631-1700), the great representative figure in the
literature
of the latter part of the seventeenth century, exemplifies in his
work most of the main tendencies of the time. He came into notice
with a poem on the death of Cromwell in 1658, and two years later
was
composing couplets expressing his loyalty to the returned king. He
married Lady Elizabeth Howard, the daughter of a royalist house,
and
for practically all the rest of his life remained an adherent of
the
Tory Party. In 1663 he began writing for the stage, and during the
next thirty years he attempted nearly all the current forms of
drama.
His "Annus Mirabilis" (1666), celebrating the English naval
victories over the Dutch, brought him in 1670 the Poet
Laureateship.
He had, meantime, begun the writing of those admirable critical
essays, represented in the present series by his Preface to the
"Fables" and his Dedication to the translation of Virgil.
In these he shows himself not only a critic of sound and
penetrating
judgment, but the first master of modern English prose
style.With
"Absalom and Achitophel," a satire on the Whig leader,
Shaftesbury, Dryden entered a new phase, and achieved what is
regarded as "the finest of all political satires." This was
followed by "The Medal," again directed against the Whigs,
and this by "Mac Flecknoe," a fierce attack on his enemy
and rival Shadwell. The Government rewarded his services by a
lucrative appointment.After
triumphing in the three fields of drama, criticism, and satire,
Dryden appears next as a religious poet in his "Religio Laici,"
an exposition of the doctrines of the Church of England from a
layman's point of view. In the same year that the Catholic James
II.
ascended the throne, Dryden joined the Roman Church, and two years
later defended his new religion in "The Hind and the Panther,"
an allegorical debate between two animals standing respectively for
Catholicism and Anglicanism.The
Revolution of 1688 put an end to Dryden's prosperity; and after a
short return to dramatic composition, he turned to translation as a
means of supporting himself. He had already done something in this
line; and after a series of translations from Juvenal, Persius, and
Ovid, he undertook, at the age of sixty-three, the enormous task of
turning the entire works of Virgil into English verse. How he
succeeded in this, readers of the "Aeneid" in a companion
volume of these classics can judge for themselves. Dryden's
production closes with the collection of narrative poems called
"Fables," published in 1700, in which year he died and was
buried in the Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey.Dryden
lived in an age of reaction against excessive religious idealism,
and
both his character and his works are marked by the somewhat
unheroic
traits of such a period. But he was, on the whole, an honest man,
open minded, genial, candid, and modest; the wielder of a style,
both
in verse and prose, unmatched for clearness, vigor, and
sanity.Three
types of comedy appeared in England in the time of Dryden—the
comedy of humors, the comedy of intrigue, and the comedy of
manners—and in all he did work that classed him with the ablest of
his contemporaries. He developed the somewhat bombastic type of
drama
known as the heroic play, and brought it to its height in his
"Conquest of Granada"; then, becoming dissatisfied with
this form, he cultivated the French classic tragedy on the model of
Racine. This he modified by combining with the regularity of the
French treatment of dramatic action a richness of characterization
in
which he showed himself a disciple of Shakespeare, and of this
mixed
type his best example is "All for Love." Here he has the
daring to challenge comparison with his master, and the greatest
testimony to his achievement is the fact that, as Professor Noyes
has
said, "fresh from Shakespeare's 'Antony and Cleopatra,' we can
still read with intense pleasure Dryden's version of the
story."
PREFACE
The death of Antony and
Cleopatra is a subject which has been treated by the greatest wits
of our nation, after Shakespeare; and by all so variously, that
their example has given me the confidence to try myself in this bow
of Ulysses amongst the crowd of suitors, and, withal, to take my
own measures, in aiming at the mark. I doubt not but the same
motive has prevailed with all of us in this attempt; I mean the
excellency of the moral: For the chief persons represented were
famous patterns of unlawful love; and their end accordingly was
unfortunate. All reasonable men have long since concluded, that the
hero of the poem ought not to be a character of perfect virtue, for
then he could not, without injustice, be made unhappy; nor yet
altogether wicked, because he could not then be pitied. I have
therefore steered the middle course; and have drawn the character
of Antony as favourably as Plutarch, Appian, and Dion Cassius would
give me leave; the like I have observed in Cleopatra. That which is
wanting to work up the pity to a greater height, was not afforded
me by the story; for the crimes of love, which they both committed,
were not occasioned by any necessity, or fatal ignorance, but were
wholly voluntary; since our passions are, or ought to be, within
our power. The fabric of the play is regular enough, as to the
inferior parts of it; and the unities of time, place, and action,
more exactly observed, than perhaps the English theatre requires.
Particularly, the action is so much one, that it is the only one of
the kind without episode, or underplot; every scene in the tragedy
conducing to the main design, and every act concluding with a turn
of it. The greatest error in the contrivance seems to be in the
person of Octavia; for, though I might use the privilege of a poet,
to introduce her into Alexandria, yet I had not enough considered,
that the compassion she moved to herself and children was
destructive to that which I reserved for Antony and Cleopatra;
whose mutual love being founded upon vice, must lessen the favour
of the audience to them, when virtue and innocence were oppressed
by it. And, though I justified Antony in some measure, by making
Octavia's departure to proceed wholly from herself; yet the force
of the first machine still remained; and the dividing of pity, like
the cutting of a river into many channels, abated the strength of
the natural stream. But this is an objection which none of my
critics have urged against me; and therefore I might have let it
pass, if I could have resolved to have been partial to myself. The
faults my enemies have found are rather cavils concerning little
and not essential decencies; which a master of the ceremonies may
decide betwixt us. The French poets, I confess, are strict
observers of these punctilios: They would not, for example, have
suffered Cleopatra and Octavia to have met; or, if they had met,
there must have only passed betwixt them some cold civilities, but
no eagerness of repartee, for fear of offending against the
greatness of their characters, and the modesty of their sex. This
objection I foresaw, and at the same time contemned; for I judged
it both natural and probable, that Octavia, proud of her new-gained
conquest, would search out Cleopatra to triumph over her; and that
Cleopatra, thus attacked, was not of a spirit to shun the
encounter: And it is not unlikely, that two exasperated rivals
should use such satire as I have put into their mouths; for, after
all, though the one were a Roman, and the other a queen, they were
both women. It is true, some actions, though natural, are not fit
to be represented; and broad obscenities in words ought in good
manners to be avoided: expressions therefore are a modest clothing
of our thoughts, as breeches and petticoats are of our bodies. If I
have kept myself within the bounds of modesty, all beyond, it is
but nicety and affectation; which is no more but modesty depraved
into a vice. They betray themselves who are too quick of
apprehension in such cases, and leave all reasonable men to imagine
worse of them, than of the poet.Honest Montaigne goes yet further: Nous ne sommes que
ceremonie; la ceremonie nous emporte, et laissons la substance des
choses. Nous nous tenons aux branches, et abandonnons le tronc et
le corps. Nous avons appris aux dames de rougir, oyans seulement
nommer ce qu'elles ne craignent aucunement a faire: Nous n'osons
appeller a droit nos membres, et ne craignons pas de les employer a
toute sorte de debauche. La ceremonie nous defend d'exprimer par
paroles les choses licites et naturelles, et nous l'en croyons; la
raison nous defend de n'en faire point d'illicites et mauvaises, et
personne ne l'en croit. My comfort is, that by this opinion my
enemies are but sucking critics, who would fain be nibbling ere
their teeth are come.Yet, in this nicety of manners does the excellency of French
poetry consist. Their heroes are the most civil people breathing;
but their good breeding seldom extends to a word of sense; all
their wit is in their ceremony; they want the genius which animates
our stage; and therefore it is but necessary, when they cannot
please, that they should take care not to offend. But as the
civilest man in the company is commonly the dullest, so these
authors, while they are afraid to make you laugh or cry, out of
pure good manners make you sleep. They are so careful not to
exasperate a critic, that they never leave him any work; so busy
with the broom, and make so clean a riddance that there is little
left either for censure or for praise: For no part of a poem is
worth our discommending, where the whole is insipid; as when we
have once tasted of palled wine, we stay not to examine it glass by
glass. But while they affect to shine in trifles, they are often
careless in essentials. Thus, their Hippolytus is so scrupulous in
point of decency, that he will rather expose himself to death, than
accuse his stepmother to his father; and my critics I am sure will
commend him for it. But we of grosser apprehensions are apt to
think that this excess of generosity is not practicable, but with
fools and madmen. This was good manners with a vengeance; and the
audience is like to be much concerned at the misfortunes of this
admirable hero. But take Hippolytus out of his poetic fit, and I
suppose he would think it a wiser part to set the saddle on the
right horse, and choose rather to live with the reputation of a
plain-spoken, honest man, than to die with the infamy of an
incestuous villain. In the meantime we may take notice, that where
the poet ought to have preserved the character as it was delivered
to us by antiquity, when he should have given us the picture of a
rough young man, of the Amazonian strain, a jolly huntsman, and
both by his profession and his early rising a mortal enemy to love,
he has chosen to give him the turn of gallantry, sent him to travel
from Athens to Paris, taught him to make love, and transformed the
Hippolytus of Euripides into Monsieur Hippolyte. I should not have
troubled myself thus far with French poets, but that I find our
Chedreux critics wholly form their judgments by them. But for my
part, I desire to be tried by the laws of my own country; for it
seems unjust to me, that the French should prescribe here, till
they have conquered. Our little sonneteers, who follow them, have
too narrow souls to judge of poetry. Poets themselves are the most
proper, though I conclude not the only critics. But till some
genius, as universal as Aristotle, shall arise, one who can
penetrate into all arts and sciences, without the practice of them,
I shall think it reasonable, that the judgment of an artificer in
his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at
least where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice.
And this, I suppose, is manifest by plain inductions: For, first,
the crowd cannot be presumed to have more than a gross instinct of
what pleases or displeases them: Every man will grant me this; but
then, by a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake
first, and will be distinguished from the multitude, of which other
men may think him one. But, if I come closer to those who are
allowed for witty men, either by the advantage of their quality, or
by common fame, and affirm that neither are they qualified to
decide sovereignly concerning poetry, I shall yet have a strong
party of my opinion; for most of them severally will exclude the
rest, either from the number of witty men, or at least of able
judges. But here again they are all indulgent to themselves; and
every one who believes himself a wit, that is, every man, will
pretend at the same time to a right of judging. But to press it yet
further, there are many witty men, but few poets; neither have all
poets a taste of tragedy. And this is the rock on which they are
daily splitting. Poetry, which is a picture of nature, must
generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts of
it must please every man; therefore is not tragedy to be judged by
a witty man, whose taste is only confined to comedy. Nor is every
man, who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must
understand the excellences of it too, or he will only prove a blind
admirer, not a critic. From hence it comes that so many satires on
poets, and censures of their writings, fly abroad. Men of pleasant
conversation (at least esteemed so), and endued with a trifling
kind of fancy, perhaps helped out with some smattering of Latin,
are ambitious to distinguish themselves from the herd of gentlemen,
by their poetry—Rarus enim ferme sensus communis in illa Fortuna.And is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented
with what fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with
their estates, but they must call their wits in question, and
needlessly expose their nakedness to public view? Not considering
that they are not to expect the same approbation from sober men,
which they have found from their flatterers after the third bottle.
If a little glittering in discourse has passed them on us for witty
men, where was the necessity of undeceiving the world? Would a man
who has an ill title to an estate, but yet is in possession of it;
would he bring it of his own accord, to be tried at Westminster? We
who write, if we want the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it
for a poor subsistence; but what can be urged in their defence,
who, not having the vocation of poverty to scribble, out of mere
wantonness take pains to make themselves ridiculous? Horace was
certainly in the right, where he said, "That no man is satisfied
with his own condition." A poet is not pleased, because he is not
rich; and the rich are discontented, because the poets will not
admit them of their number. Thus the case is hard with writers: If
they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some malicious
satire is prepared to level them, for daring to please without
their leave. But while they are so eager to destroy the fame of
others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem
of their own is to be produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat
with their faces on the ground, that the monarch may appear in the
greater majesty.Dionysius and Nero had the same longings, but with all their
power they could never bring their business well about. 'Tis true,
they proclaimed themselves poets by sound of trumpet; and poets
they were, upon pain of death to any man who durst call them
otherwise. The audience had a fine time on't, you may imagine; they
sat in a bodily fear, and looked as demurely as they could: for it
was a hanging matter to laugh unseasonably; and the tyrants were
suspicious, as they had reason, that their subjects had them in the
wind; so, every man, in his own defence, set as good a face upon
the business as he could. It was known beforehand that the monarchs
were to be crowned laureates; but when the show was over, and an
honest man was suffered to depart quietly, he took out his laughter
which he had stifled, with a firm resolution never more to see an
emperor's play, though he had been ten years a-making it. In the
meantime the true poets were they who made the best markets: for
they had wit enough to yield the prize with a good grace, and not
contend with him who had thirty legions. They were sure to be
rewarded, if they confessed themselves bad writers, and that was
somewhat better than to be martyrs for their reputation. Lucan's
example was enough to teach them manners; and after he was put to
death, for overcoming Nero, the emperor carried it without dispute
for the best poet in his dominions. No man was ambitious of that
grinning honour; for if he heard the malicious trumpeter
proclaiming his name before his betters, he knew there was but one
way with him. Maecenas took another course, and we know he was more
than a great man, for he was witty too: But finding himself far
gone in poetry, which Seneca assures us was not his talent, he
thought it his best way to be well with Virgil and with Horace;
that at least he might be a poet at the second hand; and we see how
happily it has succeeded with him; for his own bad poetry is
forgotten, and their panegyrics of him still remain. But they who
should be our patrons are for no such expensive ways to fame; they
have much of the poetry of Maecenas, but little of his liberality.
They are for prosecuting Horace and Virgil, in the persons of their
successors; for such is every man who has any part of their soul
and fire, though in a less degree. Some of their little zanies yet
go further; for they are persecutors even of Horace himself, as far
as they are able, by their ignorant and vile imitations of him; by
making an unjust use of his authority, and turning his artillery
against his friends. But how would he disdain to be copied by such
hands! I dare answer for him, he would be more uneasy in their
company, than he was with Crispinus, their forefather, in the Holy
Way; and would no more have allowed them a place amongst the
critics, than he would Demetrius the mimic, and Tigellius the
buffoon;
——— - Demetri, teque, Tigelli,Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.With what scorn would he look down on such miserable
translators, who make doggerel of his Latin, mistake his meaning,
misapply his censures, and often contradict their own? He is fixed
as a landmark to set out the bounds of poetry—
——— - Saxum antiquum, ingens,—Limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis.But other arms than theirs, and other sinews are required, to
raise the weight of such an author; and when they would toss him
against enemies—Genua labant, gelidus concrevit frigore sanguis.Tum lapis ipse viri, vacuum per inane volatus,Nec spatium evasit totum, nec pertulit ictum.For my part, I would wish no other revenge, either for
myself, or the rest of the poets, from this rhyming judge of the
twelve-penny gallery, this legitimate son of Sternhold, than that
he would subscribe his name to his censure, or (not to tax him
beyond his learning) set his mark: For, should he own himself
publicly, and come from behind the lion's skin, they whom he
condemns would be thankful to him, they whom he praises would
choose to be condemned; and the magistrates, whom he has elected,
would modestly withdraw from their employment, to avoid the scandal
of his nomination. The sharpness of his satire, next to himself,
falls most heavily on his friends, and they ought never to forgive
him for commending them perpetually the wrong way, and sometimes by
contraries. If he have a friend, whose hastiness in writing is his
greatest fault, Horace would have taught him to have minced the
matter, and to have called it readiness of thought, and a flowing
fancy; for friendship will allow a man to christen an imperfection
by the name of some neighbour virtue—Vellem in amicitia sic erraremus; et istiErrori nomen virtus posuisset honestum.But he would never allowed him to have called a slow man
hasty, or a hasty writer a slow drudge, as Juvenal explains
it—
——— - Canibus pigris, scabieque vestustaLaevibus, et siccae lambentibus ora lucernae,Nomen erit, Pardus, Tigris, Leo; si quid adhuc estQuod fremit in terris violentius.Yet Lucretius laughs at a foolish lover, even for excusing
the imperfections of his mistress—Nigra <melichroos> est, immunda et foetida
<akosmos>Balba loqui non quit, <traylizei>; muta pudens est,
etc.But to drive it ad Aethiopem cygnum is not to be endured. I
leave him to interpret this by the benefit of his French version on
the other side, and without further considering him, than I have
the rest of my illiterate censors, whom I have disdained to answer,
because they are not qualified for judges. It remains that I
acquiant the reader, that I have endeavoured in this play to follow
the practice of the ancients, who, as Mr. Rymer has judiciously
observed, are and ought to be our masters. Horace likewise gives it
for a rule in his art of poetry—
——— - Vos exemplaria GraecaNocturna versate manu, versate diurna.Yet, though their models are regular, they are
too little for English tragedy; which requires to be built in a
larger compass. I could give an instance in the Oedipus Tyrannu
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