John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Vulgique secutum ultima murmur erat: —

  But the judges awarded the prize, for which they contended, to Ulysses;

  Mota manus procerum est; et quid facundia posset

  Tum patuit, fortisque viri tulit arma disertus.

  The next necessary rule is, to put nothing into the discourse, which may hinder your moving of the passions. Too many accidents, as I have said, incumber the poet, as much as the arms of Saul did David; for the variety of passions, which they produce, are ever crossing and justling each other out of the way. He, who treats of joy and grief together, is in a fair way of causing neither of those effects. There is yet another obstacle to be removed, which is, — pointed wit, and sentences affected out of season; these are nothing of kin to the violence of passion: no man is at leisure to make sentences and similes, when his soul is in an agony. I the rather name this fault, that it may serve to mind me of my former errors; neither will I spare myself, but give an example of this 261 kind from my “Indian Emperor.” Montezuma, pursued by his enemies, and seeking sanctuary, stands parleying without the fort, and describing his danger to Cydaria, in a simile of six lines;

  As on the sands the frighted traveller

  Sees the high seas come rolling from afar, &c.

  My Indian potentate was well skilled in the sea for an inland prince, and well improved since the first act, when he sent his son to discover it. The image had not been amiss from another man, at another time: Sed nunc non erat his locus: he destroyed the concernment which the audience might otherwise have had for him; for they could not think the danger near, when he had the leisure to invent a simile.

  If Shakespeare be allowed, as I think he must, to have made his characters distinct, it will easily be inferred, that he understood the nature of the passions: because it has been proved already, that confused passions make distinguishable characters: yet I cannot deny that he has his failings; but they are not so much in the passions themselves, as in his manner of expression: he often obscures his meaning by his words, and sometimes makes it unintelligible. I will not say of so great a poet, that he distinguished not the blown puffy stile, from true sublimity; but I may venture to maintain, that the fury of his fancy often transported him beyond the bounds of judgment, either in coining of new words and phrases, or racking words which were in use, into the violence of a catachresis. It is not that I would explode the use of metaphors from passion, for Longinus thinks them necessary to raise it: but to use them at every word, to say nothing without a metaphor, a simile, an image, or 262 description; is, I doubt, to smell a little too strongly of the buskin. I must be forced to give an example of expressing passion figuratively; but that I may do it with respect to Shakespeare, it shall not be taken from any thing of his: it is an exclamation against Fortune, quoted in his Hamlet, but written by some other poet:

  Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! all you gods,

  In general synod, take away her power;

  Break all the spokes and felleys from her wheel,

  And bowl the round nave down the hill of heav’n,

  As low as to the fiends.

  And immediately after, speaking of Hecuba, when Priam was killed before her eyes:

  But who, ah woe! had seen the mobled queen

  Run barefoot up and down, threatening the flame

  With bisson rheum; a clout about that head,

  Where late the diadem stood; and, for a rob

  About her lank and all o’er-teemed loins,

  A blanket in th’ alarm of fear caught up.

  Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep’d

  ‘Gainst fortune’s state would treason have pronounc’d;

  But if the gods themselves did see her then,

  When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport

  In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs,

  The instant burst of clamour that she made

  (Unless things mortal move them not at all)

  Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven,

  And passion in the gods.

  What a pudder is here kept in raising the expression of trifling thoughts! would not a man have thought that the poet had been bound prentice to a wheel-wright, for his first rant? and had followed a rag-man, for the clout and blanket, in the second? Fortune is painted on a wheel, and therefore the writer, in a rage, will have poetical justice done 263 upon every member of that engine: after this execution, he bowls the nave down-hill, from heaven, to the fiends: (an unreasonable long mark, a man would think;) ’tis well there are no solid orbs to stop it in the way, or no element of fire to consume it: but when it came to the earth, it must be monstrous heavy, to break ground as low as the center. His making milch the burning eyes of heaven, was a pretty tolerable flight too: and I think no man ever drew milk out of eyes before him: yet, to make the wonder greater, these eyes were burning. Such a sight indeed were enough to have raised passion in the gods; but to excuse the effects of it, he tells you, perhaps they did not see it. Wise men would be glad to find a little sense couched under all these pompous words; for bombast is commonly the delight of that audience, which loves poetry, but understands it not: and as commonly has been the practice of those writers, who, not being able to infuse a natural passion into the mind, have made it their business to ply the ears, and to stun their judges by the noise. But Shakespeare does not often thus; for the passions in his scene between Brutus and Cassius are extremely natural, the thoughts are such as arise from the matter, the expression of them not viciously figurative. I cannot leave this subject, before I do justice to that divine poet, by giving you one of his passionate descriptions: ’tis of Richard the Second when he was deposed, and led in triumph through the streets of London by Henry of Bolingbroke: the painting of it is so lively, and the words so moving that I have scarce read any thing comparable to it, in any other language. Suppose you have seen already the fortunate usurper passing through the crowd, and followed by the shouts and acclamations of the people; and now behold King Richard 264 entering upon the scene: consider the wretchedness of his condition, and his carriage in it; and refrain from pity, if you can:

  As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

  After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage,

  Are idly bent on him that enters next,

  Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

  Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes

  Did scowl on Richard: no man cry’d, God save him:

  No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home,

  But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,

  Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,

  His face still combating with tears and smiles,

  (The badges of his grief and patience)

  That had not God (for some strong purpose) steel’d

  The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,

  And barbarism itself have pitied him.

  To speak justly of this whole matter: it is neither height of thought that is discommended, nor pathetic vehemence, nor any nobleness of expression in its proper place; but it is a false measure of all these, something which is like them, and is not them: it is the Bristol-stone, which appears like a diamond; it is an extravagant thought, instead of a sublime one; it is roaring madness, instead of vehemence; and a sound of words, instead of sense. If Shakespeare were stripped of all the bombasts in his passions, and dressed in the most vulgar words, we should find the beauties of his thoughts remaining; if his embroideries were burnt down, there would still be silver at the bottom of the melting-pot: but I fear (at least let me fear it for myself) that we, who ape his sounding words, have nothing of his thought, but are all outside; there is not so much as a dwarf within our giant’s clothes. Therefore, let not Shakespeare suffer for our sakes; it is our fault, who succeed him in an age which is more refined, if we imitate him so ill, that we copy his 265 failings only, and make a virtue of that in our writings, which in his was an imperfection.

  For what rem
ains, the excellency of that poet was, as I have said, in the more manly passions; Fletcher’s in the softer: Shakespeare writ better betwixt man and man; Fletcher, betwixt man and woman: consequently, the one described friendship better; the other love: yet Shakespeare taught Fletcher to write love: and Juliet and Desdemona are originals. It is true, the scholar had the softer soul; but the master had the kinder. Friendship is both a virtue and a passion essentially; love is a passion only in its nature, and is not a virtue but by accident: good nature makes friendship; but effeminacy love. Shakespeare had an universal mind, which comprehended all characters and passions; Fletcher a more confined and limited: for though he treated love in perfection, yet honour, ambition, revenge, and generally all the stronger, passions, he either touched not, or not masterly. To conclude all, he was a limb of Shakespeare.

  I had intended to have proceeded to the last property of manners, which is, that they must be constant, and the characters maintained the same from the beginning to the end; and from thence to have proceeded to the thoughts and expressions suitable to a tragedy: but I will first see how this will relish with the age. It is, I confess, but cursorily written; yet the judgment, which is given here, is generally founded upon experience: but because many men are shocked at the name of rules, as if they were a kind of magisterial prescription upon poets, I will conclude with the words of Rapin, in his Reflections on Aristotle’s Work of Poetry: “If the rules be well considered, we shall find them to be made only to reduce nature into method, to trace her step by step, and not to suffer the least mark of her 266 to escape us: it is only by these, that probability in fiction is maintained, which is the soul of poetry. They are founded upon good sense, and sound reason, rather than on authority; for though Aristotle and Horace are produced, yet no man must argue, that what they write is true, because they writ it; but ’tis evident, by the ridiculous mistakes and gross absurdities, which have been made by those poets who have taken their fancy only for their guide, that if this fancy be not regulated, it is a mere caprice, and utterly incapable to produce a reasonable and judicious poem.”

  PROLOGUE

  SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON, REPRESENTING THE GHOST OF SHAKESPEARE.

  See, my loved Britons, see your Shakespeare rise,

  An awful ghost confessed to human eyes!

  Unnamed, methinks, distinguished I had been

  From other shades, by this eternal green,

  About whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive,

  And with a touch, their withered bays revive.

  Untaught, unpractised, in a barbarous age,

  I found not, but created first the stage.

  And, if I drained no Greek or Latin store,

  ’Twas, that my own abundance gave me more.

  On foreign trade I needed not rely,

  Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply.

  In this my rough-drawn play, you shall behold

  Some master-strokes, so manly and so bold,

  That he who meant to alter, found ‘em such,

  He shook, and thought it sacrilege to touch.

  Now, where are the successors to my name?

  What bring they to fill out a poet’s fame?

  Weak, short-lived issues of a feeble age;

  Scarce living to be christened on the stage!

  For humour farce, for love they rhyme dispense,

  That tolls the knell for their departed sense.

  Dulness might thrive in any trade but this:

  ‘Twould recommend to some fat benefice.

  Dulness, that in a playhouse meets disgrace,

  Might meet with reverence, in its proper place.

  The fulsome clench, that nauseates the town,

  Would from a judge or alderman go down,

  Such virtue is there in a robe and gown!

  And that insipid stuff which here you hate,

  Might somewhere else be called a grave debate;

  Dulness is decent in the church and state.

  But I forget that still ’tis understood,

  Bad plays are best decried by showing good.

  Sit silent then, that my pleased soul may see

  A judging audience once, and worthy me;

  My faithful scene from true records shall tell,

  How Trojan valour did the Greek excell;

  Your great forefathers shall their fame regain,

  And Homer’s angry ghost repine in vain.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  Hector,

  Troilus,}

  }Sons of Priam.

  Priam, King of Troy.

  Æneas, a Trojan Warrior.

  Pandarus, Uncle to Cressida.

  Calchas, a Trojan Priest, and Father to Cressida, a fugitive to the Grecian camp.

  Agamemnon,

  Ulysses,

  Achilles,

  Ajax,

  Nestor,

  Diomedes,

  Patroclus,

  Menelaus,}

  Grecian Warriors, engaged in the siege of Troy.

  Thersites, a slanderous Buffoon.

  Cressida, Daughter to Calchas.

  Andromache, Wife to Hector.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I. — A Camp.

  Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Diomedes, and Nestor.

  Agam. Princes, it seems not strange to us, nor new,

  That, after nine years siege, Troy makes defence,

  Since every action of recorded fame

  Has with long difficulties been involved,

  Not answering that idea of the thought,

  Which gave it birth; why then, you Grecian chiefs,

  With sickly eyes do you behold our labours,

  And think them our dishonour, which indeed

  Are the protractive trials of the gods,

  To prove heroic constancy in men?

  Nest. With due observance of thy sovereign seat,

  Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply

  Thy well-weighed words. In struggling with misfortunes

  Lies the true proof of virtue: On smooth seas,

  How many bauble-boats dare set their sails,

  And make an equal way with firmer vessels!

  But let the tempest once enrage that sea,

  And then behold the strong-ribbed argosie,

  Bounding between the ocean and the air,

  Like Perseus mounted on his Pegasus.

  Then where are those weak rivals of the main?

  Or, to avoid the tempest, fled to port,

  Or made a prey to Neptune. Even thus

  Do empty show, and true-prized worth, divide

  In storms of fortune.

  Ulys. Mighty Agamemnon!

  Heart of our body, soul of our designs,

  In whom the tempers, and the minds of all

  Should be inclosed, — hear what Ulysses speaks.

  Agam. You have free leave.

  Ulys. Troy had been down ere this, and Hector’s sword

  Wanted a master, but for our disorders:

  The observance due to rule has been neglected,

  Observe how many Grecian tents stand void

  Upon this plain, so many hollow factions:

  For, when the general is not like the hive,

  To whom the foragers should all repair,

  What honey can our empty combs expect?

  Or when supremacy of kings is shaken,

  What can succeed? How could communities,

  Or peaceful traffic from divided shores,

  Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels,

  But by degree, stand on their solid base?

  Then every thing resolves to brutal force,

  And headlong force is led by hoodwinked will.

  For wild ambition, like a ravenous wolf,

  Spurred on by will, and seconded by power,

  Must make an universal prey of all,

  And last devour itself.

  Nest. Most prudently Ulysses has discovered

  The malady, whereof our state is s
ick.

  Diom. ’Tis truth he speaks; the general’s disdained

  By him one step beneath, he by the next;

  That next by him below: So each degree

  Spurns upward at superior eminence.

  Thus our distempers are their sole support;

  Troy in our weakness lives, not in her strength.

  Agam. The nature of this sickness found, inform us

  From whence it draws its birth?

  Ulys. The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns

  The chief of all our host,

  Having his ears buzzed with his noisy fame,

  Disdains thy sovereign charge, and in his tent

  Lies, mocking our designs; with him Patroclus,

  Upon a lazy bed, breaks scurril jests,

  And with ridiculous and aukward action,

  Which, slanderer, he imitation calls,

  Mimics the Grecian chiefs.

  Agam. As how, Ulysses?

  Ulys. Even thee, the king of men, he does not spare,

  (The monkey author) but thy greatness pageants,

  And makes of it rehearsals: like a player,

  Bellowing his passion till he break the spring,

  And his racked voice jar to his audience;

  So represents he thee, though more unlike

  Than Vulcan is to Venus.

  And at this fulsome stuff, — the wit of apes, —

  The large Achilles, on his prest bed lolling,

  From his deep chest roars out a loud applause,

  Tickling his spleen, and laughing till he wheeze.

  Nest. Nor are you spared, Ulysses; but, as you speak in council,