When this Masquerade was complete, the prattler Vanbrugghe led us on to the Grey Bear tavern, where the whimzey-headed and the slender-witted and the shallow-brained come to sip their Brandy and make their Chit-chat on what they have just view'd. And so sir, he cried as we waited for the Tapster, how did you like the Play?
I have forgot it, sir.
So soon?
I asked him what he said, for there was such a mish-mash of Conversation around us that I could scarcely understand him -the frequenters of Taverns have Hearts of Curd and Souls of Milk Sop, but they have Mouths like Cannons which stink of Tobacco and their own foul Breath as they cry What News? What's a Clock? Methinks it's Cold to Day! Thus is it a Hospital For Fools: DRAMATIS PERSONAE John Vanbrugghe: An Architect in Fashion Nicholas Dyer: A Nothing, a Neighbour Sir Philip Bareface: A Courtier Moneytrap: A Jobber Various Gentlemen of the Town, Rakes, Bullies and Servants vannbrugghe. (Taking up his glass) I said, sir, forgot so soon? dyer. (Sits down) There was nothing that I recall save that the Sunne was a Round flat shining Disc and the Thunder was a Noise from a Drum or a Pan. vannbrugghe. (Aside) What a Child is this! (To Dyer) These are only our Devices, and are like the Paint of our Painted Age. dyer. But in Meditation the Sunne is a vast and glorious Body, and Thunder is the most forcible and terrible Phaenomenon: it is not to be mocked, for the highest Passion is Terrour. And why was it, too, that this Scribbler mock'd Religion? It is a perilous Case. vannbrugghe. Amen to that. I pray the Lord. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! But let me tell you plainly, sir, this Scribbler was just; Religion is only the quaint Leger-de-main of strong-pated Statesmen who, to overawe the Capriciousness of the giddy Multitude, did forge the Image of some Punisher of all Humane actions. dyer. (Aside) A small rational Sir Fopling this! vannbrugghe. Have I told you this Story? When a Widow, hearing in a Sermon of the Crucifixion, came to the Priest after, dropped him a Courtsie and asked him how long ago this sad Accident happened?
When he answered, about 15 or 16 hundred Years ago, she began to be comforted and said, Then by the grace of God it may not be true.
(Laughing). dyer. (In a low tone) Interest is the God of your World, who may be sacrificed to Hypocrisie. vannbrugghe. (Aside) I find he knows me! (To Dyer) What was that? dyer. It was nothing, nothing at all.
There is an uneasy Silence between them vannbrugghe. And how do your Churches, Mr Dyer? dyer. (In alarm) They do very well, sir. vannbrugghe. You build in Greenwich next? dyer. (Wiping sweat from his brow) I build first in Bloomsbury, and then in Greenwich. vannbrugghe. How interesting. (He pauses) The Play was well received, was it not? dyer. The Audience had so humble an Opinion of itself tonight that it thought what pleased the People of Fashion ought also to please it. vannbrugghe. And yet there was that to please all: the Language was enrich'd with beautiful Conceptions and inimitable Similitudes.
(He stares at Dyer) Are you not of my Mind in this at least? dyer. No, I am not of your Mind, for the Dialogue was fitted up with too much Facility. Words must be pluckt from Obscurity and nourished with Care, improved with Art and corrected with Application.
Labour and Time are the Instruments in the perfection of all Work. (Aside) Including churches. vannbrugghe. (Coughs in his glass) Here is a Speech that would fright me into Nothing! (To the Boy) Fill some Brandy, sirrah! (To Dyer) But the greatest Art is to speak agreeably about the smallest Things, to spread a general evenness of Humour and a natural decency of Style. dyer. (Looking at him scornfully) So that is why Wits swarm like Egypt's Frogs. If I were a Writer now, I would wish to thicken the water of my Discourse so that it was no longer easy or familiar. I would chuse a huge lushious Style! vannbrugghe. (Interrupting) Ah the music of Erudition, it is unimaginable to weaker Wits. dyer. (Ignoring him) I would imploy outlandish Phrases and fantasti-call Terms, thus to restore Terrour, Reverence and Desire like wild Lightning. vannbrugghe. (Offended) I do not wish for meer Words: I wish for Matter. dyer. And what is matter, according to the Greshamites, but blind Attomes? vannbrugghe. (Laughing) Well let us drop that Matter.
They stand again without speaking, only drinking vannbrugghe. (Inclining his head) See this Man's manner as he walked by me: he has lately been in the powdering Tub of Affliction and it has affected his Step. (He calls out and smiles at the Man) Sir Philip, Sir Philip! (Aside to Dyer) His sword is tyed as high as the Waist-band of his Breeches, do you see, and it has no more Motion when he walks than a Two-foot Rule stuck into the Apron of a Carpenter. (To Sir Philip Bareface) You have been to Court, I hear, what's done? sir philip. Extraordinary News, I do assure you. dyer. (Aside) Only when you are hanged, sirrah. sir philip. The events in Silesia have caused great Consternation: I never approved of our Affairs there after my Lord Peterborough was called away. It is true my Lord Galway is a brave General and a Man of excellent Parts (he breaks off to look around cautiously) but what, then, if Luck is not on his side? (He whispers now) Did you read of my Lord in the Spectator! dyer. (Aside) I have seen Mr Addison among the Buggerantoes in Vinegar Yard: truly he is a Man of Parts. sir philip. (Still whispering) I see nothing ahead but endless Broils and Divisions. But here is Master Money trap who will tell us more News. Pray Sir (addressing him) what Intelligence from the City? moneytrap. There are those frighted at the News from Silesia. But I can tell the secret of that: Stocks may fall, but I say buy. vannbrugghe and sir philip. (In unison) Buy? moneytrap. Yes, buy, for they fall only by degrees to rise further.
Yesterday South Sea stock was 95 one quarter and Bank was 130! sir philip. This is strange News indeed.
CHORUS OF GENTLEMEN AND SERVANTS. What News is this? What News is this? (And then they sing)
Bankrupts, Elopements, Thefts and Lotteries Strange News from Petersburg and Flanders, Fast Mails from Frankfurt and Saxony Bring Chit-chat, Jobbing, Venery and Slanders.
Exeunt Sir Philip and Money trap, in conversation. Vannbrugghe and Dyer talk apart. dyer. (Having listen'd attentively to the Song) Was I not saying that Poetry is now sunk and miserably debas'd? It is as low a Thing now as the music of Italian Opera, and not even as Sweet as the Songs we heard in Childhood. For the best Authors, like the greatest Buildings, are the most ancient: this is but a cold Age of the World, filled with a generall Imperfection. vannbrugghe. No, no, the Fables and Religions of the Ancient World are well nigh consum'd: they have served the Poet and the Architect long enough, and it is now high time to dismiss them. We must copy the present Age, even in our Songs. dyer. (Aside) His Eyes and Countenance show a great Alteration, for this Matter touches him keenly. (To Vannbrugghe) If we copy the present Age, as you put it, we will be like those people who judge only by Resemblance and are therefore most delighted with Pictures of their Acquaintance. We will be like the Greshamites who will deal only with that which they know or see or touch: and so your Playwrights catch the Audience as Woodcocks and Widgeons are caught, by a lowd Bell and a greasie Light. vannbrugghe. (Aside) He has a solemn Air, but still he mocks me. (To Dyer) Well said, sir, you have brought yourself off cleverly. And so you would lugg down old Aristotle, Scaliger and all their Commentators from the high Shelf, and let the Moths flutter round your Gabardeen, so that you can furnish Prose with Episodes, Narrations, Deliberations, Didacticks, Pathetics, Monologues, Figures, Intervals and Catastrophes? dyer. (Aside) Methinks he strives to shine in his Talk the more to Insult my own. (To Vannbrugghe) I will say this only: that there is scarcely any Art or Faculty wherein we do not come short of the Ancients. vannbrugghe. (Spitting upon the floor) But the bounds of the Mind are yet unknown: we form our Judgments too much on what has been done without knowing what might be done. Originals must soar into the region of Liberty. dyer. And then fall down, since they have Wings made only of Wax.
Why prostrate your Reason to meer Nature? We live off the Past: it is in our Words and our Syllables. It is reverberant in our Streets and Courts, so that we can scarce walk across the Stones without being reminded of those who walked there before us; the Ages before our own are like an Eclipse which blots out the Clocks and Watches of
our present Artificers and, in that Darkness, the Generations jostle one another. It is the dark of Time from which we come and to which we will return. vannbrugghe. (Aside) What is this Stuf f about Time? (To Dyer) This is well said, but this Age of ours is quite new. The World was never more active or youthful than it is now, and all this Imitation of the past is but the Death's Head of Writing as it is of Architecture. You cannot learn how to build from the Instructions of a Vitruvius or to manage a good Mien from a Tomb-painting: in the same Fashion, that which truly pleases in Writing is always the result of a Man's own Force. It is his proper Wealth, and he draws it out of himself as the Silk-worm spins out of her own Bowel. And speaking of Bowels They break off for a Minute as Vannbrugghe repairs to the Jakes; and Dyer listens to the assembled Company who can now be heard. rake. Why are Women like Frogs, sirrah? his companion. Tell me, why are Women like Frogs? rake. Because only their lower parts are Man's Meat. Ha, ha, ha, ha! his companion. And I will tell you another. A plain countryman, being called at an Assize in Norfolk to be a Witness about a peece of Land that was in Controversy, the Judge asked him what call you that Water which runs on the south side of the Close? The Fellow answered, My Lord, our Water comes without Calling. Ha, ha, ha!
Dyer scowls and then looks upon two Gentlemen in another Corner, who are inflamed with Liquor and speaking wildly. first gentleman. You hear this on Rep? second gentleman. Pozz. It was his Phizz and the Mobb saw it: it was in the News. As sure as Eggs are Eggs. first gent. Ah but these Eggs give me disconsolate Dreams, and make me melancholy for Days after. second gent. And do you know why you do not like Eggs? first gent. Why do I not like Eggs, sirrah? second gent. Because your Father was so often pelted with them! dyer. (To himself) There is nothing but Corruption withinne, a hollow sounding Box: whatsoever I see, whatsoever I hear, all Things seem to sound Corruption! (He turns towards Vannbrugghe, who has come back to the Table) What was I saying? vannbrugghe. You were extolling the Ancients. dyer. Yes, so I was. The Ancients wrote of General Passions, which are the same, but you wish only for that which is lively or new or surprizing. But the Ancients knew how Nature is a dark Room, and that is why their Plays will stand when even our Playhouses are crumbled into Dust: for their Tragedy reflects Corruption, and Men are the same now as they have ever been. The World is still mighty sick. Did you hear during the late Plague – vannbrugghe.
(Laughing) I had quite forgot that Distemper. dyer. -Did you hear of the Victim who persewed a young Girl, kissed her and then said, I have given you the Plague! Look here! And then he opened his Shirt to show her the fa tall Tokens. There is a Horrour and Loathsomeness there that must affect us all. vannbrugghe. (Aside) But there is a mixture of Delight in the Disgust it gives you. (To Dyer) I see, sir, that you are for strolling in Dirty Lanes and among the Cole-pits, like the Irish among their Boggs. dyer. Yes, for in such Places may the Truth be found. vannbrugghe. And so the Fumes issuing from a Jakes are for you Incense from an Altar: for they also have allwaies been the same! dyer. Should I peruse the casual Scratches and inside Daubings made upon the Walls, in order to take my Inspiration from their Novelty? vannbrugghe. (Growing impatient) There is nothing so pedantick as many Quotations, and your reverence for the Ancients is an excuse for meer Plagiarism. dyer. This is not so. (He gets up from the Table, walks awkwardly about, and then resumes his Seat) Even the magnificent Vergil has borrowed almost all his Works: his Eclogues from Theocritus, his Georgicks from Hesiod and Aratus, his Aeneid from Homer. Aristotle himself derived many things from Hippocrates, Pliny from Dioscorides, and we are assur'd that Homer himself built upon some Predecessors.
You will have Variety and Novelty, which is nothing but unruly Fancy. It is only from Imitation – vannbrugghe.
(Laughing) Plagiarism! dyer. (With a grave countenance) -Only from Imitation that we have Order and Massiveness. vannbrugghe. (Sighing) Words, words, words breeding no thing but more Wordiness which represents no thing in Nature, either, but a meer Confused Idea of Grandeur or Terrour. Pray speak that you may be understood, Mr Dyer: Language was design'd for it, they say. dyer. So you would have me speak Plain, when then my Words would blast you! (Vannbrugghe raises his Eyebrows at this, and Dyer adopts a lower tone) Reality is not so plain, sir, and will escape you as the Mist escapes the Squab who puts out a Hand to grasp it.
Enter Potboy boy. Do you call, sirs, do you call? Coffee or Brandy, Gentlemen? I have a fresh Pot a making. vannbrugghe. Make it Brandy, for this is thirsty work.
He takes off his wig for a moment to cool himself, and Dyer notices his Hair. dyer. (Aside) It is strangely Black beneeth his Wigg: the clear Water has been used to turn it. vannbrugghe. (Staring at him) And you were saying? dyer. (In confusion, lest he was heard) I have lost my Thred. (He hesitates)
I am troubled by many Thoughts. vannbrugghe. Why so? Tell me your Affliction: do you speak of Mr Hayes? dyer. That Piece of Deformity! (He checks himself) No, I speak of Walter who is Sick. vannbrugghe. You are condemned dyer.
Condemned? To what? Speak! Quick! vannbrugghe. -You are condemned to be always fearful. It is your natural Temper. dyer. (Hastily) Well, enough of this. (Clumsily, to break the silence between them) And I can press my Theme still further, for Milton copied Spenser – vannbrugghe.
No doubt you were more charmed by Milton's Hell than by his Paradise. dyer. -And Spenser copied his master Chaucer. The world is a continued Allegory and a dark Conceit. vannbrugghe. And what is your Allegory, sir? dyer. (Somewhat drunken now) I build in Hieroglyph and in Shadow, like my Ancients. vannbrugghe. (Interrupting) So you speak of your Churches at last! dyer. No! But yes, yes, I do, I do. For just as in the Narration of Fables we may see strange Shapes and Passages which lead to unseen Doors, so my Churches are the Vesture of other active Powers. (He warms to his theme as the Brandy warms him) I wish my Buildings to be filled with Secresy, and such Hieroglyphs as conceal from the Vulgar the Mysteries of Religion. These occult ways of Proceeding were treated of by the Abbot Trithemius in his very learned and ingenious Discourse de Cryptographia… (He breaks off here suddenly and nervously) vannbrugghe. Do not be abashed, Mr Dyer. dyer. (In a lower tone) But this Art, like that of Painting upon Glass, is but little practiced now and is in great measure lost. Our Colours are not so Rich. vannbrugghe. But they are rich enough else where. dyer. How so? vannbrugghe. In the Elaboratory, or so I am told, they use Salts to turn blew into red, and red into Green. dyer. I see you have not understood this Discourse.
Both men growing uneasy, they turn to look at the Company; but the Hour is past Midnight, and the Tavern empty except for the Boy cleaning the Tables. vannbrugghe. I am tired now: I must find a Chair to take me home.
He comes forward, as Nicholas Dyer sleeps uneasily in his Cups, and addresses the Audience with a SONG What foolish Frenzy does this Man possess To cling to Ancients and expect Success?
To bring old Customs on the modern Stage When nought but Sense and Reason please this Age?
Goodnight, Mr Dyer.
He makes a low Bow to him, and exits. Dyer wakes suddenly and stares wildly around. Then he stands up unsteadily and delivers to the Audience another SONG And yet who was that miserable Creature Who trusts to Sense and coppies Nature?
What Warmth can his dull Reasons still inspire When in Darkness only can be seen the Fire?
He exits. boy. (Calling out after him) What, no Epilogue?
No, and there will be none, for this Play is follow'd by a Masquerade.
When I return'd to my Lodgings, much incens'd at the high talk of Vannbrugghe, I tyed an Handkerchief about my Head, tore a woollen Cap in many places, as likewise my Coat and Stockings, and looked exactly what I design'd to represent: a Beggar-Fellow, and one who might merit the World's just Scorn. Then I slipped out of my Closet at Two a clock, when all the Household was abed, proposing to make my way through the Streets without a Lanthorn. As I passed the Bed-chamber of Mrs Best I heard her call out, Lord what Noise is that?
And then a Man (so, says I to myself, she has fo
und fresh Meat) replied, Perhaps the Dog or Catte. I was instantly in the Entry and came out at the Street-door without any other Disturbance. And as I |i walk'd the Street the fearful Lightness in my Head, which so afflicted f| me, passed away and in these Beggar robes I was once more fastened by the Earth: in that manner, all my Fears and anxious Perplexities left me.]
At Three in the Morning, with the Moon on my left Hand, I came to | an old House by Tottenham Fields and here I sank into a corner with i my Chin upon my Breast: another Beggar came but he did not like my Looks and was soon gone. Then I rous'd my self and walked into the i Pasture by Montagu House, close behind my new Church at Bloomsbury.
It was a silent Night but that the Wind made a low Sound like a Woman sighing; I laid my self down upon the grass curled like an Embrio and was recalling Days far gone when I heard a Whistling borne to me by the Wind. I rais'd my self upon my Knees, crouch'd ready to Spring, and then I saw a young Fellow crossing the Pasture i towards me: he was as like to have walked straight to the Bloomsbury Church, in which Path I would assist him. I stood upright and went to ›r him with a Smile: How do you do my little Honey, says 1, How do you ^; do my Sweetheart?; At that he was much affrighted and said, For God's sake who are you?
I am your pretty Maid, your merry Wren. And will you show me the Church yonder so that we may hug in its Shaddowe?
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