by John Dryden
Have still conformed their genius to their age.
Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show
When men were dull, and conversation low.
Then comedy was faultless, but ’twas coarse:
Cobb’s tankard was a jest, and Otter’s horse.
And, as their comedy, their love was mean;
Except, by chance, in some one laboured scene,
Which must atone for an ill-written play,
They rose, but at their height could seldom stay.
Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;
And they have kept it since, by being dead.
But, were they now to write, when critics weigh
Each line, and every word, throughout a play,
None of them, no, not Jonson in his height,
Could pass, without allowing grains for weight.
Think it not envy, that these truths are told;
Our poet’s not malicious, though he’s bold.
’Tis not to brand them that their faults are shown,
But by their errors to excuse his own.
If love and honour now are higher raised,
’Tis not the poet, but the age is praised.
Wit’s now arrived to a more high degree;
Our native language more refined and free;
Our ladies and our men now speak more wit
In conversation than those poets writ.
Then, one of these is, consequently, true;
That what this poet writes comes short of you,
And imitates you ill (which most he fears),
Or else his writing is not worse than theirs.
Yet, though you judge (as sure the critics will),
That some before him writ with greater skill,
In this one praise he has their fame surpast,
To please an age more gallant than the last.”
The daring doctrine laid down in these obnoxious lines, our author ventured to maintain in what he has termed a “Defence of the Epilogue, or an Essay on the Dramatic Poetry of the last age.” It is subjoined to the “Conquest of Granada;” and, as that play was not printed till after the “Rehearsal,” it serves to show how little Dryden’s opinions were altered, or his tone lowered, by the success of that witty satire. It was necessary, he says, either not to print the bold epilogue, which we have quoted, or to show that he could defend it. He censures decidedly the antiquated language, irregular plots, and anachronisms of Shakespeare and Fletcher; but his main strength seems directed against Jonson. From his works he selects several instances of harsh, inelegant, and even inaccurate diction. In describing manners, he claims for the modern writers a decided superiority over the poets of the earlier age, when there was less gallantry, and when the authors were not admitted to the best society. The manners of their low, or Dutch school of comedy, in which Jonson led the way, by his “Bartholomew Fair,” and similar pieces, are noticed, and censured, as unfit for a polished audience. The characters in what may be termed genteel comedy are reviewed, and restricted to the Truewit of Jonson’s “Silent Woman,” the Mercutio of Shakespeare, and Fletcher’s Don John in the “Chances.” Even this last celebrated character, he observes, is better carried on in the modern alteration of the play, than in Fletcher’s original; a singular instance of Dryden’s liberality of criticism, since the alteration of the “Chances” was made by that very Duke of Buckingham, from whom he had just received a bitter and personal offence. Dryden proceeds to contend, that the living poets, from the example of a gallant king and sprightly court, have learned, in their comedies, a tone of light discourse and raillery, in which the solidity of English sense is blended with the air and gaiety of their French neighbours; in short, that those who call Jonson’s the golden age of poetry, have only this reason, that the audience were then content with acorns, because they knew not the use of bread. In all this criticism there was much undeniable truth; but sufficient weight was not given to the excellencies of the old school, while their faults were ostentatiously and invidiously enumerated. It would seem that Dryden, perhaps from the rigour of a puritanical education, had not studied the ancient dramatic models in his youth, and had only begun to read them with attention when it was his object rather to depreciate than to emulate them. But the time came when he did due homage to their genius.
Meanwhile, this avowed preference of his own period excited the resentment of the older critics, who had looked up to the era of Shakespeare as the golden age of poetry; and no less that of the playwrights of his own standing, who pretended to discover that Dryden designed to establish less the reputation of his age, than of himself individually upon the ruined fame of the ancient poets. They complained that, as the wild bull in the Vivarambla of Granada,
“monarch-like he ranged the listed field, And some he trampled down, and some he kill’d.”
Many, therefore, advancing, under pretence of vindicating the fame of the ancients, gratified their spleen by attacking that of Dryden, and strove less to combat his criticisms, than to criticise his productions. We shall have too frequent occasion to observe, that there was, during the reign of Charles II., a semi-barbarous virulence of controversy, even upon abstract points of literature, which would be now thought injudicious and unfair, even by the newspaper advocates of contending factions. A critic of that time never deemed he had so effectually refuted the reasoning of his adversary, as when he had said something disrespectful of his talents, person, or moral character. Thus, literary contest was embittered by personal hatred, and truth was so far from being the object of the combatants that even victory was tasteless unless obtained by the disgrace and degradation of the antagonist. This reflection may serve to introduce a short detail of the abusive controversies in which it was Dryden’s lot to be engaged.
One of those who most fiercely attacked our author’s system and opinions was Matthew Clifford, already mentioned as engaged in the “Rehearsal.” At what precise time he began his Notes upon Dryden’s Poems, in Four Letters, or how they were originally published, is uncertain. The last of the letters is dated from the Charter-House 1st July 1672, and is signed with his name: probably the others were written shortly before. The only edition now known was printed along with some “Reflections on the Hind and Panther, by another Hand” (Tom Brown), in 1687. If these letters were not actually printed in 1672, they were probably successively made public by transcripts handed about in the coffee-houses which was an usual mode of circulating lampoons and pieces of satire. Although Clifford was esteemed a man of wit and a scholar, his style is rude, coarse, and ungentlemanlike, and the criticism is chiefly verbal. In the note the reader may peruse an ample specimen of the kind of wit, or rather banter, employed by this facetious person. The letters were written successively at different periods; for Clifford in the last complains that he cannot extort an answer, and therefore seems to conceive that his arguments are unanswerable.
There were several other pamphlets, and fugitive pieces, published against Dryden at the same time. One of them, entitled “The Censure of the Rota on Mr. Dryden’s Conquest of Granada,” was printed at Oxford in 1673. This was followed by a similar piece, entitled, “A description of the Academy of Athenian Virtuosi, with a Discourse held there in Vindication of Mr. Dryden’s Conquest of Granada against the Author of the Censure of the Rota.” And a third, called “A Friendly Vindication of Mr. Dryden from the Author of the Censure of the Rota,” was printed at Cambridge. All these appeared previous to the publication of the “Assignation.” The first, as Wood informs us, was written by Richard Leigh, educated at Queen’s College, Oxford, where he entered in 1665, and was probably resident when this piece was there published. He was afterwards a player in the Duke’s Company, but must be carefully distinguished from the celebrated comedian of the same name. It seems likely that he wrote also the second tract, which is a continuation of the first. Both are in a frothy, flippant style of raillery, of which the reader will find a specimen in the note. The Cambridge Vi
ndication seems to have been written by a different hand, though in the same taste. It is singular in bringing a charge against our author which has been urged by no other antagonist; for he is there upbraided with exhibiting in his comedies the persons and follies of living characters.
The friends and admirers of Dryden did not see with indifference these attacks upon his reputation for he congratulates himself upon having found defenders even among strangers alluding probably to a tract by Mr. Charles Blount, entitled, “Mr. Dryden Vindicated, in answer to the Friendly Vindication of Mr. Dryden, with reflections on the Rota.” This piece is written with all the honest enthusiasm of youth in defence of that genius, which has excited its admiration. In his address to Sedley, Dryden notices these attacks upon him with a supreme degree of contempt. In other respects, the dedication is drawn with the easy indifference of one accustomed to the best society, towards the authority of those who presumed to judge of modern manners, without having access to see those of the higher circles. The picture which it draws of the elegance of the convivial parties of the wits in that gay time has been quoted a few pages higher.
I know not if it be here worth while to mention a pretty warfare between Dryden and Edward Ravenscroft, an unworthy scribbler, who wrote plays, or rather altered those of Shakespeare, and imitated those of Molière. This person, whether from a feud which naturally subsisted between the two rival theatres, or from envy and dislike to Dryden personally, chose, in the Prologue to the “Citizen turned Gentleman,” acted at the Duke’s House in 1672, to level some sneers at the heroic drama, which affected particularly the “Conquest of Granada,” then acting with great applause. Ravenscroft’s play, which is a bald translation from the “Bourgeois Gentilhomme” of Molière, was successful, chiefly owing to the burlesque procession of Turks employed to dub the Citizen a Mamamouchi, or Paladin. Dryden, with more indignation than the occasion warranted, retorted, in the Prologue to the “Assignation,” by the following attack on Ravenscroft’s jargon and buffoonery:
”You must have Mamamouchi, such a fop
As would appear a monster in a shop;
He’ll fill your pit and boxes to the brim,
Where, ramm’d in crowds, you see yourselves in him.
Sure there’s some spell our poet never knew,
In Hullibabilah de, and Chu, chu, chu;
But Marababah sahem most did touch you;
That is, Oh how we love the Mamamouchi!
Grimace and habit sent you pleased away;
You damned the poet, and cried up the play.”
About this time, too, the actresses in the King’s theatre, to vary the amusements of the house, represented “Marriage à la Mode” in men’s dresses. The Prologue and Epilogue were furnished by Dryden; and in the latter, mentioning the projected union of the theatres, —
”all the women most devoutly swear,
Each would be rather a poor actress here,
Than to be made a Mamamouchi there.”
Ravenscroft, thus satirised, did not fail to exult in the bad success of the “Assignation,” and celebrated his triumph in some lines of a Prologue to the “Careless Lovers,” which was acted in the vacation succeeding the ill fate of Dryden’s play. They are thrown into the note, that the reader may judge how very unworthy this scribbler was of the slightest notice from the pen of Dryden.
And with this Te Deum, on the part of Ravenscroft ended a petty controversy, which gives him his only title to be named in the life of an English classic.
From what has been detailed of these disputes we may learn that, even at this period, the laureate’s wreath was not unmingled with thorns; and that if Dryden still maintained his due ascendancy over the common band of authors, it was not without being occasionally under the necessity of descending into the arena against very inferior antagonists.
In the course of these controversies, Dryden was not idle, though he cannot be said to have been worthily or fortunately employed; his muse being lent to the court, who were at this time anxious to awake the popular indignation against the Dutch. It is a characteristic of the English nation, that their habitual dislike against their neighbours is soon and easily blown into animosity. But, although Dryden chose for his theme the horrid massacre of Amboyna, and fell to the task with such zeal that he accomplished it in a month, his play was probably of little service to the cause in which it was written. The story is too disgusting to produce the legitimate feelings of pity and terror which tragedy should excite: the black-hole of Calcutta would be as pleasing a subject. The character of the Hollanders is too grossly vicious and detestable to give the least pleasure. They are neither men, nor even devils; but a sort of lubber fiends, compounded of cruelty, avarice, and brutal debauchery, like Dutch swabbers possessed by demons. But of this play the author has himself admitted, that the subject is barren, the persons low, and the writing not heightened by any laboured scenes: and, without attempting to contradict this modest description, we may dismiss the tragedy of “Amboyna.” It was dedicated to Lord Clifford of Chudleigh, an active member of the Cabal administration of Charles II.; but who, as a Catholic, on the test act being passed, resigned his post of lord high treasurer, and died shortly afterwards. There is great reason to think that this nobleman had essentially favoured Dryden’s views in life. On a former occasion, he had termed Lord Clifford a better Maecenas than that of Horace; and, in the present dedication, he mentions the numerous favours received through so many years as forming one continued act of his patron’s generosity and goodness; so that the excess of his gratitude had led the poet to receive those benefits, as the Jews received their law, with mute wonder, rather than with outward and ceremonious acclamation. These sentiments of obligation he continued, long after Lord Clifford’s death, to express in terms equally glowing; so that we may safely do this statesman’s memory the justice to record him as an active and discerning patron of Dryden’s genius.
In the course of 1673 our author’s pen was engaged in a task, which may be safely condemned as presumptuous, though that pen was Dryden’s. It was no other than that of new-modelling the “Paradise Lost” of Milton into a dramatic poem, called the “State of Innocence, or the Fall of Man.” The coldness with which Milton’s mighty epic was received upon the first publication is almost proverbial. The character of the author, obnoxious for his share in the usurped government; the turn of the language, so different from that of the age; the seriousness of a subject so discordant with its lively frivolities — gave to the author’s renown the slowness of growth with the permanency of the oak. Milton’s merit, however, had not escaped the eye of Dryden. He was acquainted with the author, perhaps even before the Restoration; and who can doubt Dryden’s power of feeling the sublimity of the “Paradise Lost,” even had he himself not assured us, in the prefatory essay to his own piece, that he accounts it, “undoubtedly, one of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems, which either this age or nation has produced”? We are, therefore, to seek for the motive which could have induced him, holding this opinion, “to gild pure gold, and set a perfume on the violet.” Dennis has left a curious record upon this subject:— “Dryden,” he observes, “in his Preface before the ‘State of Innocence,’ appears to have been the first, those gentlemen excepted whose verses are before Milton’s poem, who discovered in so public a manner an extraordinary opinion of Milton’s extraordinary merit. And yet Mr. Dryden at that time knew not half the extent of his excellence, as more than twenty years afterwards he confessed to me, and is pretty plain from his writing the ‘State of Innocence.’” Had he known the full extent of Milton’s excellence, Dennis thought he would not have ventured on this undertaking, unless he designed to be a foil to him: “but they,” he adds, “who knew Mr. Dryden, know very well, that he was not of a temper to design to be a foil to any one.” We are therefore to conclude, that it was only the hope of excelling his original, admirable as he allowed it to be, which impelled Dryden upon this unprofitable and abortive labour; and we are t
o examine the improvements which Dryden seemed to meditate, or, in other words, the differences between his taste and that of Milton.
And first we may observe, that the difference in their situations affected their habits of thinking upon poetical subjects. Milton had retired into solitude, if not into obscurity, relieved from everything like external agency either influencing his choice of a subject, or his mode of treating it; and in consequence, instead of looking abroad to consult the opinion of his age, he appealed only to the judge which heaven had implanted within him, when he was endowed with severity of judgment, and profusion of genius. But the taste of Dryden was not so independent. Placed by his very office at the head of what was fashionable in literature, he had to write for those around him, rather than for posterity; was to support a brilliant reputation in the eye of the world; and is frequently found boasting of his intimacy with those who led the taste of the age, and frequently quoting the
”tamen me
Cum magnis vixisse, invita falebitur usque
Invidia.”
It followed, that Dryden could not struggle against the tide into which he was launched, and that, although it might be expected from his talents that he should ameliorate the reigning taste, or at least carry those compositions which it approved to their utmost pitch of perfection, it could not be hoped that he should altogether escape being perverted by it, or should soar so superior to all its prejudices as at once to admit the super-eminent excellence of a poem which ran counter to these in so many particulars. The versification of Milton, according to the taste of the times, was ignoble, from its supposed facility. Dryden was, we have seen, so much possessed with this prejudice, as to pronounce blank verse unfit even for a fugitive paper of verses. Even in his later and riper judgment he affirms, that, whatever pretext Milton might allege for the use of blank verse, “his own particular reason is plainly this, — that rhyme was not his talent; he had neither the ease of doing it, nor the graces of it: which is manifest in his ‘Juvenilia,’ or verses written in his youth, where his rhyme is always constrained and forced, and comes hardly from him, at an age when the soul is most pliant, and the passion of love makes almost every man a rhymer, though not a poet.”