by John Dryden
These favours, my lord, received from yourself and your noble family, have encouraged me to this Dedication; wherein I not only give you back a play, which, had you not redeemed it, had not been mine; but also, at the same time, dedicate to you the unworthy author, with my inviolable faith, and (how mean soever) my utmost service; and I shall be proud to hold my dependence on you in chief, as I do part of my small fortune in Wiltshire. Your goodness has not been wanting to me during the reign of my two masters; and, even from a bare treasury, my success has been contrary to that of Mr. Cowley; and Gideon’s fleece has then been moistened, when all the ground has been dry about it. Such and so many provocations of this nature have concurred to my invading of your modesty with this address. I am sensible that it is in a manner forced upon you; but your lordship has been the aggressor in this quarrel, by so many favours, which you were not weary of conferring on me, though at the same time, I own the ambition on my side to be ever esteemed,
Your Lordship’s most thankful,
And most obedient Servant,
JOHN DRYDEN
PREFACE.
It is now seven or eight years since I designed to write this play of Cleomenes and my Lord Falkland (whose name I cannot mention without honour, for the many favours I have received from him) is pleased to witness for me, that, in a French book which I presented him about that time, there were the names of many subjects that I had thought on for the stage, amongst which this tragedy was one. This was out of my remembrance; but my lord, on the occasion of stopping my play, took the opportunity of doing me a good office at Court, by representing it as it was, a piece long ago designed; which, being judiciously treated, I thought was capable of moving compassion on the stage. The success has justified my opinion; and that at a time when the world is running mad after Farce, the extremity of bad poetry, or rather the judgment that is fallen upon dramatic writing. Were I in the humour, I have sufficient cause to expose it in its true colours; but, having for once escaped, I will forbear my satire, and only be thankful for my deliverance. A great part of my good fortune, I must confess, is owing to the justice which was done me in the performance. I can scarcely refrain from giving every one of the actors their particular commendations; but none of them will be offended, if I say, what the town has generally granted, that Mrs. Barry, always excellent, has, in this tragedy, excelled herself, and gained a reputation beyond any woman whom I have ever seen on the theatre. After all, it was a bold attempt of mine, to write upon a single plot, unmixed with comedy; which, though it be the natural and true way, yet is not to the genius of the nation. Yet, to gratify the barbarous part of my audience, I gave them a short rabble scene, because the mob (as they call them) are represented by Plutarch and Polybius, with the same character of baseness and cowardice which are here described in the last attempt of “Cleomenes.” They may thank me, if they please, for this indulgence; for no French poet would have allowed them any more than a bare relation of that scene, which debases a tragedy to show upon the stage.
For the rest, some of the mechanic rules of unity are observed, and others are neglected.
The action is but one, which is the death of Cleomenes; and every scene in the play is tending to the accomplishment of the main design. The place is likewise one for it is all in the compass of Alexandria, and the port of that city. The time might easily have been reduced into the space of twenty-four hours, if I would have omitted the scene of famine in the fifth act; but it pleased me to try how Spartans could endure it, and, besides, gave me the occasion of writing that other scene, betwixt Cleomenes and his suspected friend; and, in such a case, it is better to trespass on a rule, than leave out a beauty.
As for other objections, I never heard any worth answering; and, least of all, that foolish one which is raised against me by the sparks, for Cleomenes not accepting the favours of Cassandra. They would not have refused a fair lady! I grant they would not; but, let them grant me, that they are not heroes; and so much for the point of honour. A man might have pleaded an excuse for himself, if he had been false to an old wife, for the sake of a young mistress; but Cleora was in the flower of her age, and it was yet but honeymoon with Cleomenes; and so much for nature. Some have told me, that many of the fair sex complain for want of tender scenes, and soft expressions of love. I will endeavour to make them some amends, if I write again, and my next hero shall be no Spartan.
I know it will be here expected, that I should write somewhat concerning the forbidding of my play; but, the less I say of it, the better. And, besides, I was so little concerned at it, that, had it not been on consideration of the actors, who were to suffer on my account, I should not have been at all solicitous whether it were played or no. Nobody can imagine that, in my declining age, I write willingly, or that I am desirous of exposing, at this time of day, the small reputation which I have gotten on the theatre. The subsistence which I had from the former Government is lost; and the reward I have from the stage is so little, that it is not worth my labour.
As for the reasons which were given for suspending the play, it seems they were so illfounded, that my Lord Chamberlain no sooner took the pains to read it, but they vanished; and my copy was restored to me, without the least alteration by his lordship. It is printed as it was acted; and, I dare assure you, that here is no parallel to be found: it is neither compliment, nor satire; but a plain story, more strictly followed than any which has appeared upon the stage. It is true, it had been garbled before by the superiors of the play-house; and I cannot reasonably blame them for their caution, because they are answerable for anything that is publicly represented; and their zeal for the Government is such, that they had rather lose the best poetry in the world, than give the least suspicion of their loyalty. The short is, that they were diligent enough to make sure work, and to geld it so clearly in some places, that they took away the very manhood of it. I can only apply to them what Cassandra says somewhere in the play to Ptolemy —
To be so nice in my concerns for you;
To doubt where doubts are not: to be too fearful;
To raise a bugbear shadow of a danger;
And then be frighted, though it cannot reach you.
But, since it concerns me to be as circumspect as they are, I have given leave to my bookseller to print the life of Cleomenes, as it is elegantly and faithfully translated out of Plutarch, by my learned friend, Mr. Creech, to whom the world has been indebted for his excellent version of
Lucretius, and I particularly obliged in his translation of Horace. We daily expect Manilius II — The enemies of Dryden, imputing to him the pitiful jealousy of which they were probably themselves conscious, pretended, that, envious of the reputation which Creech acquired by his translation of Lucretius, Dryden insidiously pushed him on to attempt a version of Horace, a task for which he was totally unfit, and by which he forfeited all the credit he had gained. The accusation is thus stated by Tom
Brown, and may serve for a specimen of the underbred petulance in which he indulges: —
“Bays. I have a certain profound stratagem still behind, my Sacra Anchora I call it, which is only to be made use of upon extraordinary occasions, and which I was never forced to employ but once in my time, and is as follows: When any young author has been so fortunate in his first undertaking, as to win himself the applause of all the world, so that ’tis impossible for one to ruin his reputation, without running the hazard of having his throat cut by all sort of company,
I am as forward as the best of them all to commend his ingenuity, to extol his parts, and promise him a copy of verses before his book, if he honours the world with a second edition.
“Crites. Very good.
“Bays. At the same time I privately feel his pulse, and examine the nature and inclination of the beast. If he chances to be a little saturnine like myself, I set him upon a gay undertaking, where ’tis the devil and all of ill luck if he does not shipwreck all his former credit. But, if he proves a man of a brisk and jolly temper, I persuade him
of all loves to make an experiment of his abilities upon some serious solemn subject; tell him, if ever he expects to be saved, he must out of hand do justice to the Psalms and Canticles, which work he’s as incapable to manage, egad, as little
David was to fight in Saul’s armour. Thus, gentlemen, by engaging the author in a province where he has not stock enough to carry on the plantation, I never fail one way or other to compass my designs, and, at long-run, to defeat my competitor.
“Crites. Why, Mr. Bays, this is like enjoining a painter, that has a good fancy at drawing of Saracens’ heads, and grotesque figures only, to draw you a Venus or an Adonis, where he must certainly miscarry. Now, I am apt to fancy you trepanned the honest translator of Lucretius with this from him, an author worthy only of such hands; which, having formerly revealed the secrets of nature to us here on earth, is now discovering to us her palace in the skies, and, if I might be profound piece of policy: come, confess the truth, man; did you not?
“Bays. You could not have guessed better, Mr. Crites, if you had dived into my diaphragma for the secret. It was not in my power, you must know, either to suppress the work, or to discommend it; because, to give the gentleman his due, it was performed beyond all expectation, and, what was a mighty matter, it suited as pat as might be with the philosophy of the town that was then in fashion. Now, to undermine and ruin him to all intents and purposes, I took these measures. I flatter, hug, and caress him, like an Achitophel as I was; after the strangest manner imaginable, profess all the respect and friendship in the world for him; tell him that providence had certainly reserved him for working miracles in poetry; and that I had some ancient prophecies by me at home, which declared him to be the very person that was to deliver the immortal writers of former ages out of that Algerine captivity they had so long laboured under —
“Crites. Well, for daubing and wheedling, I’ll let thee loose to any poet in Christendom.
“Bays. That, if by his mighty feat he could form those
Irish atoms of Lucretius into so regular and well-disciplined an army, could raise such harmony out of a dull, unmusical philosopher, how glorious and exalted would his attempts be upon Horace, or what might we not expect from so advantageous, so promising an undertaking. And so, gentlemen, with the help of a little incense and flattery, I so cajoled this
Æsop’s crow, that he presently dropped his Epicurean cheese out of his mouth, to sing one of his unmusical, ill-turned Odes of Horace. I persuaded this Welsh courser to leave his ragged, unaccessible precipices, where there was no coming after him, to try his strength and feet upon good plain ground, where an English vinegar-horse, I knew, would easily distance him.” — The Reasom of Mr. Bayes changing his Religion considered in a Dialogue.
Shields, or whoever wrote Creech’s Life, in the collection to which Theophilus Cibber gave his name, has not only adopted this tale of scandal, but has added, that the great contempt expressed by Dryden for the translation of Horace, gave the author a shock, from which he never recovered, and, allowed to say it, giving light to the stars of heaven —
Ergo vivida vis animi pervicit, et extra
Processif longe jlammantia mœnia mundi.
in short, occasioned his falling into low spirits, and finallycommitting suicide. The passage, to which this note refers, is sufficient to clear our author from so gross and scandalous a reproach. It shows that after the publication of Creech’s
Horace he continued, in the most public manner, not only to speak kindly and respectfully of the translator, but to stimulate him to new exertions. It is hence evident that no breach of friendship took place between them on this occasion; far less could Dryden have driven him to despair by harshness or contempt. The inference, that Dryden urged Creech to attempt Horace, because he foresaw his failure, seems the unfounded deduction of calumny and envy. In the Dedication to the Translation of Horace, which is addressed to our author, Creech himself bears the following strong testimony to the liberality of Dryden’s sentiments: —
“’Tis you, sir, that have advanced our dramatic to its height, and showed that epic poetry is not confined to Italy and Greece. That you are honoured by the best, and envied by others, proclaims excellency and worth; for, true honour is built only upon perfection; and envy, as it is as sharp-sighted, so ’tis as soaring as an eagle; and who ever saw it stoop at a sparrow or a wren; and that candour and goodness have the greatest share in your composition, I dare appeal to every one whom you have any way favoured with your conversation; these so fill your mind, that there is no room left for pride, or any disobliging quality. This appears from the encouragement you are ready to give any tolerable attempts, and reach out a helping hand to all those who endeavour to climb that height where you are already seated.
Even this owes its completion to those smiles which you condescended to bestow upon some parts of it, and now ventures to appear a second time, where at first it found a favourable entertainment.”
The reader will observe that this Dedication is prefixed to the second edition of the Translation of Horace; a circumstance which confutes the assertion that Dryden ridiculed the work, and indeed the whole of a tale, so malignantly invented by slander, and repeated by credulity.
But, to return to Plutarch: you will find him particularly fond of Cleomenes his character; who, as he was the last of the Spartan heroes,’ so he was, in my opinion, the greatest. Even his enemy, Polybius, though engaged in the contrary faction, yet speaks honourably of him, and especially of his last action in Egypt. This author is also made English, and will shortly be published for the common benefit.
What I have added to the story is chiefly the love of Agathoclea, the king’s mistress, whose name I have changed into Cassandra, only for the better sound; as I have also the name of Nicagoras, into that of Ccenus, for the same reason. Cratesiclea, Pantheus, and Sosibius are to be found in the story, with the same characters which they have in the tragedy. There is likewise mention made of the son of Cleomenes, who had resolution enough to throw himself headlong from a tower, when he had heard of his father’s ill success. And for Cleora, whom I make the second wife of Cleomenes, (for Ægiatis was dead before,) you will find a hint of her in Plutarch; for he tells us, that after the loss of the battle at Sellasia, he returned to Sparta, and, entering his own house, was there attended by a free-born woman of Megalopolis.
The picture of Ptolemy Philopater is given by the fore-mentioned authors to the full. Both agree that he was an original of his kind; a lazy, effeminate, cowardly, cruel, and luxurious prince, managed by his favourite, and imposed on by his mistress. The son of Sosibius, whom I call Cleanthes, was a friend to Cleomenes; but, Plutarch says, he at length forsook him. I have given him a fairer character, and made it only a seeming treachery which he practised. If any be so curious to inquire what became of Cassandra, whose fortune was left in suspense at the conclusion of the play, I must first inform them, that, after the death of Cleomenes (the hero of my poem), I was obliged by the laws of the drama to let fall the curtain immediately, because the action was then concluded. But Polybius tells us that she survived Ptolemy, who reigned about twenty-seven years; that, with her brother
Agathocles, she governed Egypt in the minority of his son Ptolemy Epiphanes; and that, finally, for oppressing of the people, both the brother and sister were slain in a popular insurrection.
There is nothing remaining, but my thanks to the town in general, and to the fair ladies in particular, for their kind reception of my play. And, though I cannot retract what I said before, that I was not much concerned, in my own particular, for the embargo which was laid upon it, yet I think myself obliged, at the same time, to render my acknowledgments to those honourable persons who were instrumental in the freeing it; for, as it was from a principle of nobleness in them that they would not suffer one to want, who was grown old in their service, so, it is from a principle of another sort that I have learned to possess my soul in patience, and not to be much disquieted with any disappointment of thi
s nature.
[The following verses mere sent me by a young gentleman, under twenty years of age, whose modesty would have concealed his name; but I learned it from another hand, and have taken the boldness to subscribe it without his leave. I presume that, on the reading of them, nobody can blame me for making Cleonidas speak above his youth, when you see an Englishman so far surpassing my Spartan.]
TO MR. DRYDEN ON HIS CLEOMENES.
Has youth, then, lost its great prerogative?
And does the soul alone for age survive?
Like embryos sleeping in their seeds, seem nought,
Till friendly time does ripen it to thought?
Judgment, experience, that before was theirs:
But fancy wanton’d in a younger sphere;
Played with some loose and scattered beams of light,
And revelled in an anarchy of wit.
Both youth and age unequally did charm;
As much too cold was this, as that too warm.
But you have reconciled their differing praise,
By fixing both to your immortal bays;
Where Fancy mounts, but Judgment holds the reins,
Not checks, but guides you to harmonious strains.
’Tis harmony indeed, ’tis all unite,
Like finished nature, and divided light:
Like the vast order, and its numerous throng,
Crowded to their Almighty Maker’s song;
Where heaven and earth seem but one single tongue.
O wondrous man! where have you learned the art.
To charm our reason, while you wound the heart?