John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Dr Johnson has supposed, that, in assuming for his subject a living prince, Dryden incurred some risque; as, should Aureng-Zebe have learned and resented the freedom, our Indian trade was exposed to the consequences of his displeasure. It may, however, be safely doubted, whether a monarch, who had actually performed the achievements above narrated, would have been scandalized by those imputed to him in the text. In other respects, the distance and obscurity of the events gave a poet the same authority over them, as if they had occurred in the annals of past ages; a circumstance in which Dryden’s age widely differed from ours, when so much has our intimacy increased with the Oriental world, that the transactions of Delhi are almost as familiar to us as those of Paris.

  The tragedy of “Aureng-Zebe” is introduced by the poet’s declaration in the prologue, that his taste for heroic plays was now upon the wane:

  But he has now another taste of wit;

  And, to confess a truth, though out of time,

  Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.

  Passion’s too fierce to be in fetters bound,

  And nature flies him, like enchanted ground,

  What verse can do, he has performed in this,

  Which he presumes the most correct of his.

  Agreeably to what might be expected from this declaration, the verse used in “Aureng-Zebe” is of that kind which may be most easily applied to the purposes of ordinary dialogue. There is much less of ornate structure and emphatic swell, than occurs in the speeches of Almanzor and Maximin; and Dryden, though late, seems to have at length discovered, that the language of true passion is inconsistent with that regular modulation, to maintain which, the actor must mouth each couplet in a sort of recitative. The ease of the verse in “Aureng-Zebe,” although managed with infinite address, did not escape censure. In the “just remonstrance of affronted That,” transmitted to the Spectator, the offended conjunction is made to plead, “What great advantage was I of to Mr Dryden, in his “Indian Emperor?”

  You force me still to answer you in that,

  To furnish out a rhime to Morat.

  And what a poor figure would Mr Bayes have made, without his Egad, and all that?” But, by means of this easy flow of versification in which the rhime is sometimes almost lost by the pause being transferred to the middle of the line, Dryden, in some measure indemnified himself for his confinement, and, at least, muffled the clank of his fetters. Still, however, neither the kind of verse, nor perhaps the poet, himself, were formed for expressing rapid and ardent dialogue; and the beauties of “Aureng-Zebe” will be found chiefly to consist in strains of didactic morality, or solemn meditation. The passage, descriptive of life, has been distinguished by all the critics, down to Dr Johnson:

  Aur. When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat;

  Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit;

  Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay:

  To-morrow’s falser than the former day;

  Lies worse; and, while it says, We shall be blest

  With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.

  Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,

  Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;

  And from the dregs of life think to receive

  What the first sprightly running could not give.

  I’m tired with waiting for this chemic gold,

  Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.

  Nor is the answer of Nourmahal inferior in beauty:

  Nour. ’Tis not for nothing that we life pursue;

  It pays our hopes with something still that’s new;

  Each day’s a mistress, unenjoyed before;

  Like travellers, we’re pleased with seeing more.

  Did you but know what joys your way attend,

  You would not hurry to your journey’s end.

  It might be difficult to point out a passage in English poetry, in which so common and melancholy a truth is expressed in such beautiful verse, varied with such just illustration. The declamation on virtue, also, has great merit, though, perhaps, not equal to that on the vanity of life:

  Aur. How vain is virtue, which directs our ways

  Through certain danger to uncertain praise!

  Barren, and airy name! thee fortune flies,

  With thy lean train, the pious and the wise.

  Heaven takes thee at thy word, without regard;

  And let’s thee poorly be thy own reward.

  The world is made for the bold impious man,

  Who stops at nothing, seizes all he can.

  Justice to merit does weak aid afford;

  She trusts her balance, and neglects her sword.

  Virtue is nice to take what’s not her own;

  And, while she long consults, the prize is gone.

  To this account may be added the following passage from Davies’ “Dramatic Miscellanies.”

  “Dryden’s last and most perfect rhiming tragedy was ‘Aureng-Zebe.’ In this play, the passions are strongly depicted, the characters well discriminated, and the diction more familiar and dramatic than in any of his preceding pieces. Hart and Mohun greatly distinguished themselves in the characters of Aureng-Zebe, and the Old Emperor. Mrs Marshall was admired in Nourmahal, and Kynaston has been much extolled by Cibber, for his happy expression of the arrogant and savage fierceness in Morat. Booth, in some part of this character, says the same critical historian, was too tame, from an apprehension of raising the mirth of the audience improperly.

  “Though I pay great deference to Cibber’s judgment, yet I am not sure whether Booth was not in the right. And I cannot help approving the answer which this actor gave to one, who told him, he was surprised, that he neglected to give a spirited turn to the passage in question:

  Nour. ‘Twill not be safe to let him live an hour.

  Mor. I’ll do it to shew my arbitrary power.

  “‘Sir,’ said Booth, ‘it was not through negligence, but by design, that I gave no spirit to that ludicrous bounce of Morat. I know very well, that a laugh of approbation may be obtained from the understanding few, but there is nothing more dangerous than exciting the laugh of simpletons, who know not where to stop. The majority is not the wisest part of the audience, and therefore I will run no hazard.’

  “The court greatly encouraged the play of ‘Aureng-Zebe.’ The author tells us, in his dedication, that Charles II. altered an incident in the plot, and pronounced it to be the best of all Dryden’s tragedies. It was revived at Drury-Lane about the year 1726, with the public approbation: The Old Emperor, Mills; Wilkes, Aureng-Zebe; Booth, Morat; Indamora, Mrs Oldfield; Melesinda, the first wife of Theophilus Cibber, a very pleasing actress, in person agreeable, and in private life unblemished. She died in 1733.” — Vol. I. p. 157.

  The introduction states all that can be said in favour of the management of the piece; and it is somewhat amusing to see the anxiety which Dryden uses to justify the hazardous experiment, of ascribing to emperors and princesses the language of nature and of passion. He appears with difficulty to have satisfied himself, that the decorum of the scene was not as peremptory as the etiquette of a court. “Aureng-Zebe” was received with the applause to which it is certainly entitled. It was acted and printed in 1676.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  ACT III.

  ACT IV.

  ACT V.

  EPILOGUE

  TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOHN, EARL OF MULGRAVE, GENTLEMAN OF HIS MAJESTY’S BED-CHAMBER, AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER.

  My Lord,

  It is a severe reflection which Montaigne has made on princes, that we ought not, in reason, to have any expectations of favour from them; and that it is kindness enough, if they leave us in possession of our own. The boldness of the censure shows the free spirit of the author: And the subjects of England may justly congratulate to themselves, that both the nature o
f our government, and the clemency of our king, secure us from any such complaint. I, in particular, who subsist wholly by his bounty, am obliged to give posterity a far other account of my royal master, than what Montaigne has left of his. Those accusations had been more reasonable, if they had been placed on inferior persons: For in all courts, there are too many, who make it their business to ruin wit; and Montaigne, in other places, tells us, what effects he found of their good natures. He describes them such, whose ambition, lust, or private interest, seem to be the only end of their creation. If good accrue to any from them, it is only in order to their own designs: conferred most commonly on the base and infamous; and never given, but only happening sometimes on well-deservers. Dulness has brought them to what they are; and malice secures them in their fortunes. But somewhat of specious they must have, to recommend themselves to princes, (for folly will not easily go down in its own natural form with discerning judges,) and diligence in waiting is their gilding of the pill; for that looks like love, though it is only interest. It is that which gains them their advantage over witty men; whose love of liberty and ease makes them willing too often to discharge their burden of attendance on these officious gentlemen. It is true, that the nauseousness of such company is enough to disgust a reasonable man; when he sees, he can hardly approach greatness, but as a moated castle; he must first pass through the mud and filth with which it is encompassed. These are they, who, wanting wit, affect gravity, and go by the name of solid men; and a solid man is, in plain English, a solid, solemn fool. Another disguise they have, (for fools, as well as knaves, take other names, and pass by an alias) and that is, the title of honest fellows. But this honesty of theirs ought to have many grains for its allowance; for certainly they are no farther honest, than they are silly: They are naturally mischievous to their power; and if they speak not maliciously, or sharply, of witty men, it is only because God has not bestowed on them the gift of utterance. They fawn and crouch to men of parts, whom they cannot ruin; quote their wit when they are present, and, when they are absent steal their jests; but to those who are under them, and whom they can crush with ease, they shew themselves in their natural antipathy; there they treat wit like the common enemy, and giving no more quarter, than a Dutchman would to an English vessel in the Indies; they strike sail where they know they shall be mastered, and murder where they can with safety.

  This, my lord, is the character of a courtier without wit; and therefore that which is a satire to other men, must be a panegyric to your lordship, who are a master of it. If the least of these reflections could have reached your person, no necessity of mine could have made me to have sought so earnestly, and so long, to have cultivated your kindness. As a poet, I cannot but have made some observations on mankind; the lowness of my fortune has not yet brought me to flatter vice; and it is my duty to give testimony to virtue. It is true, your lordship is not of that nature, which either seeks a commendation, or wants it. Your mind has always been above the wretched affectation of popularity. A popular man is, in truth, no better than a prostitute to common fame, and to the people. He lies down to every one he meets for the hire of praise; and his humility is only a disguised ambition. Even Cicero himself, whose eloquence deserved the admiration of mankind, yet, by his insatiable thirst of fame, he has lessened his character with succeeding ages; his action against Catiline may be said to have ruined the consul, when it saved the city; for it so swelled his soul, which was not truly great, that ever afterwards it was apt to be over-set with vanity. And this made his virtue so suspected by his friends, that Brutus, whom of all men he adored, refused him a place in his conspiracy. A modern wit has made this observation on him; that, coveting to recommend himself to posterity, he begged it as an alms of all his friends, the historians, to remember his consulship: And observe, if you please, the oddness of the event; all their histories are lost, and the vanity of his request stands yet recorded in his own writings. How much more great and manly in your lordship, is your contempt of popular applause, and your retired virtue, which shines only to a few; with whom you live so easily and freely, that you make it evident, you have a soul which is capable of all the tenderness of friendship, and that you only retire yourself from those, who are not capable of returning it. Your kindness, where you have once placed it, is inviolable; and it is to that only I attribute my happiness in your love. This makes me more easily forsake an argument, on which I could otherwise delight to dwell; I mean, your judgment in your choice of friends; because I have the honour to be one. After which I am sure you will more easily permit me to be silent, in the care you have taken of my fortune; which you have rescued, not only from the power of others, but from my worst of enemies, my own modesty and laziness; which favour, had it been employed on a more deserving subject, had been an effect of justice in your nature; but, as placed on me, is only charity. Yet, withal, it is conferred on such a man, as prefers your kindness itself, before any of its consequences; and who values, as the greatest of your favours, those of your love, and of your conversation. From this constancy to your friends, I might reasonably assume, that your resentments would be as strong and lasting, if they were not restrained by a nobler principle of good nature and generosity; for certainly, it is the same composition of mind, the same resolution and courage, which makes the greatest friendships, and the greatest enmities. And he, who is too lightly reconciled, after high provocations, may recommend himself to the world for a Christian, but I should hardly trust him for a friend. The Italians have a proverb to that purpose, “To forgive the first time, shows me a good Catholic; the second time, a fool.” To this firmness in all your actions, though you are wanting in no other ornaments of mind and body, yet to this I principally ascribe the interest your merits have acquired you in the royal family. A prince, who is constant to himself, and steady in all his undertakings; one with whom that character of Horace will agree,

  Si fractus illabatur orbis,

  Impavidum ferient ruinæ; —

  such an one cannot but place an esteem, and repose a confidence on him, whom no adversity, no change of courts, no bribery of interests, or cabals of factions, or advantages of fortune, can remove from the solid foundations of honour and fidelity:

  Ille meos, primus qui me sibi junxit, amores

  Abstulit; ille habeat secum, servetque sepulcro.

  How well your lordship will deserve that praise, I need no inspiration to foretell. You have already left no room for prophecy: Your early undertakings have been such, in the service of your king and country, when you offered yourself to the most dangerous employment, that of the sea; when you chose to abandon those delights, to which your youth and fortune did invite you, to undergo the hazards, and, which was worse, the company of common seamen, that you have made it evident, you will refuse no opportunity of rendering yourself useful to the nation, when either your courage or conduct shall be required. The same zeal and faithfulness continue in your blood, which animated one of your noble ancestors to sacrifice his life in the quarrels of his sovereign; though, I hope, both for your sake, and for the public tranquillity, the same occasion will never be offered to your lordship, and that a better destiny will attend you. But I make haste to consider you as abstracted from a court, which (if you will give me leave to use a term of logic) is only an adjunct, not a propriety of happiness. The academics, I confess, were willing to admit the goods of fortune into their notion of felicity; but I do not remember, that any of the sects of old philosophers did ever leave a room for greatness. Neither am I formed to praise a court, who admire and covet nothing, but the easiness and quiet of retirement. I naturally withdraw my sight from a precipice; and, admit the prospect be never so large and goodly, can take no pleasure even in looking on the downfal, though I am secure from the danger. Methinks, there is something of a malignant joy in that excellent description of Lucretius;