Part 12
_Adam._ Add, that she's proud, fantastic, apt to change, Restless at home, and ever prone to range: With shows delighted, and so vain is she, She'll meet the devil, rather than not see. Our wise Creator, for his choirs divine, Peopled his heaven with souls all masculine.-- Ah! why must man from woman take his birth? Why was this sin of nature made on earth? This fair defect, this helpless aid, called wife; The bending crutch of a decrepid life? Posterity no pairs from you shall find, But such as by mistake of love are joined: The worthiest men their wishes ne'er shall gain; But see the slaves they scorn their loves obtain. Blind appetite shall your wild fancies rule; False to desert, and faithful to a fool. [_Turns in anger from her, and is going off._
_Eve._ Unkind! wilt thou forsake me, in distress, [_Kneeling._ For that which now is past me to redress? I have misdone, and I endure the smart, Loth to acknowledge, but more loth to part. The blame be mine; you warned, and I refused: What would you more? I have myself accused. Was plighted faith so weakly sealed above, That, for one error, I must lose your love? Had you so erred, I should have been more kind, Than to add pain to an afflicted mind.
_Adam._ You're grown much humbler than you were before; I pardon you; but see my face no more.
_Eve._ Vain pardon, which includes a greater ill; Be still displeased, but let me see you still. Without your much-loved sight I cannot live; You more than kill me, if you so forgive. The beasts, since we are fallen, their lords despise; And, passing, look at me with glaring eyes: Must I then wander helpless, and alone? You'll pity me, too late, when I am gone.
_Adam._ Your penitence does my compassion move; As you deserve it, I may give my love.
_Eve._ On me, alone, let heaven's displeasure fall; You merit none, and I deserve it all.
_Adam._ You all heaven's wrath! how could you bear a part, Who bore not mine, but with a bleeding heart? I was too stubborn, thus to make you sue; Forgive me--I am more in fault than you. Return to me, and to my love return; And, both offending, for each other mourn.
_Enter_ RAPHAEL.
_Raph._ Of sin to warn thee I before was sent; For sin, I now pronounce thy punishment: Yet that much lighter than thy crimes require; Th' All-good does not his creatures' death desire: Justice must punish the rebellious deed; Yet punish so, as pity shall exceed.
_Adam._ I neither can dispute his will, nor dare: Death will dismiss me from my future care, And lay me softly in my native dust, To pay the forfeit of ill-managed trust.
_Eve._ Why seek you death? consider, ere you speak, The laws were hard, the power to keep them, weak. Did we solicit heaven to mould our clay? From darkness to produce us to the day? Did we concur to life, or chuse to be? Was it our will which formed, or was it He? Since 'twas his choice, not ours, which placed us here, The laws we did not chuse why should we bear?
_Adam._ Seek not, in vain, our Maker to accuse; Terms were proposed; power left us to refuse. The good we have enjoyed from heaven's free will, And shall we murmur to endure the ill? Should we a rebel son's excuse receive, Because he was begot without his leave? Heaven's right in us is more: first, formed to serve; The good, we merit not; the ill, deserve.
_Raph._ Death is deferred, and penitence has room To mitigate, if not reverse the doom: But, for your crime, the Eternal does ordain In Eden you no longer shall remain. Hence, to the lower world, you are exiled; This place with crimes shall be no more defiled.
_Eve._ Must we this blissful paradise forego?
_Raph._ Your lot must be where thorns and thistles grow, Unhid, as balm and spices did at first; For man, the earth, of which he was, is cursed. By thy own toil procured, thou food shalt eat; [_To_ ADAM. And know no plenty, but from painful sweat. She, by a curse, of future wives abhorred, Shall pay obedience to her lawful lord; And he shall rule, and she in thraldom live, Desiring more of love than man can give.
_Adam._ Heaven is all mercy; labour I would chuse; And could sustain this paradise to lose: The bliss, but not the place: Here, could I say, Heaven's winged messenger did pass the day; Under this pine the glorious angel staid: Then, show my wondering progeny the shade. In woods and lawns, where-e'er thou didst appear, Each place some monument of thee should bear. I, with green turfs, would grateful altars raise, And heaven, with gums, and offered incense, praise.
_Raph._ Where-e'er thou art, He is; the Eternal Mind Acts through all places; is to none confined: Fills ocean, earth, and air, and all above, And through the universal mass does move. Thou canst be no where distant: Yet this place Had been thy kingly seat, and here thy race, From all the ends of peopled earth had come To reverence thee, and see their native home. Immortal, then; now sickness, care, and age, And war, and luxury's more direful rage, Thy crimes have brought, to shorten mortal breath, With all the numerous family of death.
_Eve._ My spirits faint, while I these ills foreknow, And find myself the sad occasion too. But what is death?
_Raph._ In vision thou shalt see his griesly face, The king of terrors, raging in thy face. That, while in future fate thou shar'st thy part, A kind remorse, for sin, may seize thy heart.
_The_ SCENE _shifts, and discovers deaths of several sorts. A Battle at Land, and a Naval Fight._
_Adam._ O wretched offspring! O unhappy state Of all mankind, by me betrayed to fate! Born, through my crime, to be offenders first; And, for those sins they could not shun, accurst.
_Eve._ Why is life forced on man, who, might he chuse, Would not accept what he with pain must lose? Unknowing, he receives it; and when, known, He thinks it his, and values it, 'tis gone.
_Raph._ Behold of every age; ripe manhood see, Decrepid years, and helpless infancy: Those who, by lingering sickness, lose their breath; And those who, by despair, suborn their death: See yon mad fools, who for some trivial right, For love, or for mistaken honour, fight: See those, more mad, who throw their lives away In needless wars; the stakes which monarchs lay, When for each other's provinces they play. Then, as if earth too narrow were for fate, On open seas their quarrels they debate: In hollow wood they floating armies bear; And force imprisoned winds to bring them near.
_Eve._ Who would the miseries of man foreknow? Not knowing, we but share our part of woe: Now, we the fate of future ages bear, And, ere their birth, behold our dead appear.
_Adam._ The deaths, thou show'st, are forced and full of strife, Cast headlong from the precipice of life. Is there no smooth descent? no painless way Of kindly mixing with our native clay?
_Raph._ There is; but rarely shall that path be trod, Which, without horror, leads to death's abode. Some few, by temperance taught, approaching slow, To distant fate by easy journies go: Gently they lay them down, as evening sheep On their own woolly fleeces softly sleep.
_Adam._ So noiseless would I live, such death to find; Like timely fruit, not shaken by the wind, But ripely dropping from the sapless bough, And, dying, nothing to myself would owe.
_Eve._ Thus, daily changing, with a duller taste Of lessening joys, I, by degrees, would waste: Still quitting ground, by unperceived decay, And steal myself from life, and melt away.
_Raph._ Death you have seen: Now see your race revive, How happy they in deathless pleasures live; Far more than I can show, or you can see, Shall crown the blest with immortality.
_Here a Heaven descends, full of Angels, and blessed Spirits, with soft Music, a Song and Chorus._
_Adam._ O goodness infinite! whose heavenly will Can so much good produce from so much ill! Happy their state! Pure, and unchanged, and needing no defence From sins, as did my frailer innocence. Their joy sincere, and with no sorrow mixt: Eternity stands permanent and fixt, And wheels no longer on the poles of time; Secure from fate, and more secure from crime.
_Eve._ Ravished with joy, I can but half repent The sin, which heaven makes happy in the event.
_Raph._ Thus armed, meet firmly your approaching ill; For see, the guards, from yon' far eastern hill, Already move, nor longer stay afford; High in the air they wave the flaming sword, Your signal to depart; now down amain They drive, and glide, like meteors, through the plain.
_Adam._ Then farewell all; I will indulgent be To my own ease, and not look back to see. When what we love we ne'er must meet again, To lose the thought is to remove the pain.
_Eve._ Farewell, you happy shades! Where angels first should practise hymns, and string Their tuneful harps, when they to heaven would sing. Farewell, you flowers, whose buds, with early care, I watched, and to the chearful sun did rear: Who now shall bind your stems? or, when you fall, With fountain streams your fainting souls recal? A long farewell to thee, my nuptial bower, Adorned with every fair and fragrant flower! And last, farewell, farewell my place of birth! I go to wander in the lower earth, As distant as I can; for, dispossest, Farthest from what I once enjoyed, is best.
_Raph._ The rising winds urge the tempestuous air; And on their wings deformed winter bear: The beasts already feel the change; and hence They fly to deeper coverts, for defence: The feebler herd before the stronger run; For now the war of nature is begun: But, part you hence in peace, and, having mourned your sin, For outward Eden lost, find Paradise within. [_Exeunt._
* * * * *
AURENG-ZEBE.
A
TRAGEDY.
--_Sed, cum fregit subsellia versu, Esurit, intactam Paridi nisi vendat Agaven._ JUV.
AURENG-ZEBE.
"Aureng-Zebe," or the Ornament of the Throne, for such is the interpretation of his name, was the last descendant of Timur, who enjoyed the plenitude of authority originally vested in the Emperor of India. His father, Sha-Jehan, had four sons, to each of whom he delegated the command of a province. Dara-Sha, the eldest, superintended the district of Delhi, and remained near his father's person; Sultan-Sujah was governor of Bengal, Aureng-Zebe of the Decan, and Morat Bakshi of Guzerat. It happened, that Sha-Jehan being exhausted by the excesses of the Haram, a report of his death became current in the provinces, and proved the signal for insurrection and discord among his children. Morat Bakshi possessed himself of Surat, after a long siege, and Sultan-Sujah, having declared himself independent in Bengal, advanced as far as Lahor, with a large army. Dara-Sha, the legitimate successor of the crown, was the only son of Sha-Jehan, who preferred filial duty to the prospect of aggrandisement. He dispatched an army against Sultan-Sujah, checked his progress, and compelled him to retreat. But Aureng-Zebe, the third and most wily of the brethren, had united his forces to those of Morat Bakshi, and advancing against Dara-Sha, totally defeated him, and dissipated his army. Aureng-Zebe availed himself of the military reputation and treasures, acquired by his success, to seduce the forces of Morat Bakshi, whom he had pretended to assist, and, seizing upon his person at a banquet, imprisoned him in a strong fortress. Meanwhile, he advanced towards Agra, where his father had sought refuge, still affecting to believe that the old emperor was dead. The more pains Sha-Jehan took to contradict this report, the more obstinate was Aureng-Zebe in refusing to believe that he was still alive. And, although the emperor dispatched his most confidential servants to assure his dutiful son that he was yet in being, the incredulity of Aureng-Zebe could only be removed by a personal interview, the issue of which was Sha-Jehan's imprisonment and speedy death. During these transactions Dara-Sha, who, after his defeat, had fled with his treasures to Lahor, again assembled an army, and advanced against the conqueror; but, being deserted by his allies, defeated by Aureng-Zebe, and betrayed by an Omrah, whom he trusted in his flight, he was delivered up to his brother, and by his command assassinated. Aureng-Zebe now assumed the throne, and advanced against Sultan-Sujah, his sole remaining brother; he seduced his chief commanders, routed the forces who remained faithful, and drove him out of Bengal into the Pagan countries adjacent, where, after several adventures, he perished miserably in the mountains. Aureng-Zebe also murdered one or two nephews, and a few other near relations; but, in expiation of his complicated crimes, renounced the use of flesh, fish, and wine, living only upon barley-bread vegetables, and confections, although scrupling no excesses by which he could extend and strengthen his usurped power[1].
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.
Footnote: 1. Voyages de Tavernier, seconde partie; livre seconde.
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[1].
MY LORD,