Part 20
_Aur._ Go: Though thou leav'st me tortured on the rack, 'Twixt shame and pride, I cannot call thee back.-- She's guiltless, and I should submit; but oh! When she exacts it, can I stoop so low? Yes; for she's guiltless; but she's haughty too. Great souls long struggle ere they own a crime: She's gone; and leaves me no repenting time. I'll call her now; sure, if she loves, she'll stay; Linger at least, or not go far away. [_Looks to the door, and returns._ For ever lost! and I repent too late. My foolish pride would set my whole estate, Till, at one throw, I lost all back to fate.
_To him the Emperor, drawing in_ INDAMORA: _Attendants._
_Emp._ It must not be, that he, by whom we live, Should no advantage of his gift receive. Should he be wholly wretched? he alone, In this blessed day, a day so much his own? [_To_ IND. I have not quitted yet a victor's right: I'll make you happy in your own despite. I love you still; and, if I struggle hard To give, it shows the worth of the reward.
_Ind._ Suppose he has o'ercome; must I find place Among his conquered foes, and sue for grace? Be pardoned, and confess I loved not well? What though none live my innocence to tell, I know it: Truth may own a generous pride: I clear myself, and care for none beside.
_Aur._ Oh, Indamora, you would break my heart! Could you resolve, on any terms, to part? I thought your love eternal: Was it tied So loosely, that a quarrel could divide? I grant that my suspicions were unjust; But would you leave me, for a small distrust? Forgive those foolish words-- [_Kneeling to her._ They were the froth my raging folly moved, When it boiled up: I knew not then I loved; Yet then loved most.
_Ind._ [_To_ AUR.] You would but half be blest! [_Giving her hand, smiling._
_Aur._ Oh do but try My eager love: I'll give myself the lie. The very hope is a full happiness, Yet scantly measures what I shall possess. Fancy itself, even in enjoyment, is But a dumb judge, and cannot tell its bliss.
_Emp._ Her eyes a secret yielding do confess, And promise to partake your happiness. May all the joys I did myself pursue, Be raised by her, and multiplied on you!
_A Procession of Priests, Slaves following, and, last,_ MELESINDA _in white._
_Ind._ Alas! what means this pomp?
_Aur._ 'Tis the procession of a funeral vow, Which cruel laws to Indian wives allow, When fatally their virtue they approve; Cheerful in flames, and martyrs of their love.
_Ind._ Oh, my foreboding heart! the event I fear: And see! sad Melesinda does appear.
_Mel._ You wrong my love; what grief do I betray? This is the triumph of my nuptial day, My better nuptials; which, in spite of fate, For ever join me to my dear Morat. Now I am pleased; my jealousies are o'er: He's mine; and I can lose him now no more.
_Emp._ Let no false show of fame, your reason blind.
_Ind._ You have no right to die; he was not kind.
_Mel._ Had he been kind, I could no love have shown: Each vulgar virtue would as much have done. My love was such, it needed no return; But could, though he supplied no fuel, burn. Rich in itself, like elemental fire, Whose pureness does no aliment require. In vain you would bereave me of my lord; For I will die:--Die is too base a word, I'll seek his breast, and, kindling by his side, Adorned with flames, I'll mount a glorious bride. [_Exit._
_Enter_ NOURMAHAL, _distracted, with_ ZAYDA.
_Zay._ She's lost, she's lost! but why do I complain, For her, who generously did life disdain! Poisoned, she raves-- The envenomed body does the soul attack; The envenomed soul works its own poison back.
_Nour._ I burn, I more than burn; I am all fire. See how my mouth and nostrils flame expire! I'll not come near myself-- Now I'm a burning lake, it rolls and flows; I'll rush, and pour it all upon my foes. Pull, pull that reverend piece of timber near: Throw't on--'tis dry--'twill burn-- Ha, ha! how my old husband crackles there! Keep him down, keep him down; turn him about: I know him,--he'll but whiz, and strait go out. Fan me, you winds: What, not one breath of air? I'll burn them all, and yet have flames to spare. Quench me: Pour on whole rivers. 'Tis in vain: Morat stands there to drive them back again: With those huge billows in his hands, he blows New fire into my head: My brain-pan glows. See! see! there's Aureng-Zebe too takes his part; But he blows all his fire into my heart[4].
_Aur._ Alas, what fury's this?
_Nour._ That's he, that's he! [_Staring upon him, and catching at him._ I know the dear man's voice: And this my rival, this the cursed she. They kiss; into each other's arms they run: Close, close, close! must I see, and must have none? Thou art not hers: Give me that eager kiss. Ungrateful! have I lost Morat for this? Will you?--before my face?--poor helpless I See all, and have my hell before I die! [_Sinks down._
_Emp._ With thy last breath thou hast thy crimes confest: Farewell; and take, what thou ne'er gav'st me, rest. But you, my son, receive it better here: [_Giving him_ INDAMORA'S _hand._ The just rewards of love and honour wear. Receive the mistress, you so long have served; Receive the crown, your loyalty preserved. Take you the reins, while I from cares remove, And sleep within the chariot which I drove. [_Exeunt._
Footnotes: 1. --_Magne regnator deum, Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides? Ecquando sæva fulmen emittes manu, Si nunc serenum est? --Me velox cremet, Transactus ignis. Sum nocens, merui mori, Placui novercæ._--Hippolitus apud Senecam.
See Langbaine, on this play.
2. In Dryden's time it was believed, that some Indian tribes devoured the bodies of their parents; affirming, they could shew no greater mark of respect, than to incorporate their remains with their own substance.
3. Langbaine traces this speech also to Seneca's Hippolitus.
_--Thesei vultus amo; Illos priores quos tulit quondam puer, Cum prima puras barba signaret genas._
4. I wish the duty of an editor had permitted me to omit this extravagant and ludicrous rhapsody.
EPILOGUE
A pretty task! and so I told the fool, Who needs would undertake to please by rule: He thought, that if his characters were good, The scenes entire, and freed from noise and blood; The action great, yet circumscribed by time, The words not forced, but sliding into rhyme, The passions raised, and calm by just degrees, As tides are swelled, and then retire to seas; He thought, in hitting these, his business done, Though he, perhaps, has failed in every one: But, after all, a poet must confess, His art's like physic, but a happy guess. Your pleasure on your fancy must depend: The lady's pleased, just as she likes her friend. No song! no dance! no show! he fears you'll say: You love all naked beauties, but a play. He much mistakes your methods to delight; And, like the French, abhors our target-fight: But those damned dogs can ne'er be in the right. True English hate your Monsieur's paltry arts, For you are all silk-weavers in your hearts[1]. Bold Britons, at a brave Bear-Garden fray, Are roused: And, clattering sticks, cry,--Play, play, play![2] Meantime, your filthy foreigner will stare, And mutters to himself,--_Ha! gens barbare!_ And, gad, 'tis well he mutters; well for him; Our butchers else would tear him limb from limb. 'Tis true, the time may come, your sons may be Infected with this French civility: But this, in after ages will be done: Our poet writes an hundred years too soon. This age comes on too slow, or he too fast: And early springs are subject to a blast! Who would excel, when few can make a test Betwixt indifferent writing and the best? For favours, cheap and common, who would strive, Which, like abandoned prostitutes, you give? Yet, scattered here and there, I some behold, Who can discern the tinsel from the gold: To these he writes; and, if by them allowed, 'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd. For he more fears, like a presuming man, Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs who can.
Footnotes: 1. Enemies, namely, like the English silk-weavers to the manufactures of France.
2. Alluding to the prize-fighting with broad-swords at the Bear-Garden: an amusement sufficiently degrading, yet more manly, and less brutal than that of boxing, as now practised. We have found, in the lowest deep, a lower still.
* * * * *
ALL FOR LOVE;
OR,
THE WORLD WELL LOST.
A
TRAGEDY.
ALL FOR LOVE.
The prologue to the preceding play has already acquainted us, that Dryden's taste for Rhyming, or Heroic Plays, was then upon the wane; and, accordingly "Aureng-Zebe" was the last tragedy which he formed upon that once admired model. "Henceforth a series of new times began," for, when given up by the only writer, whose command of flowing and powerful numbers had rendered it impressive, that department of the drama was soon abandoned by the inferior class of play-writers, to whom it presented multiplied difficulties, without a single advantage. The new taste, which our author had now decidedly adopted, was founded upon the stile of Shakespeare, of whose works he appears always to have been a persevering student, and, at length, an ardent admirer. Accordingly, he informs us, in the introduction, that this play is professedly written in imitation of "the divine Shakespeare." As if to bring this more immediately under the eye of the reader, he has chosen a subject upon which his immortal original had already laboured; and, perhaps, the most proper introduction to "All for Love" may be a parallel betwixt it and Shakespeare's "Antony and Cleopatra."
The first point of comparison is the general conduct, or plot, of the tragedy. And here Dryden, having, to use his own language, undertaken to shoot in the bow of Ulysses, imitates the wily Antinous in using art to eke out his strength, and suppling the weapon before he attempted to bend it.
Shakespeare, with the license peculiar to his age and character, had diffused the action of his play over Italy, Greece, and Egypt; but Dryden, who was well aware of the advantage to be derived from a simplicity and concentration of plot, has laid every scene in the city of Alexandria. By this he guarded the audience from that vague and puzzling distraction which must necessarily attend a violent change of place. It is a mistake to suppose, that the argument in favour of the unities depends upon preserving the deception of the scene; they are necessarily connected with the intelligibility of the piece. It may be true, that no spectator supposes that the stage before him is actually the court of Alexandria; yet, when he has once made up his mind to let it pass as such during the representation, it is a cruel tax, not merely on his imagination, but on his powers of comprehension, if the scene be suddenly transferred to a distant country. Time is lost before he can form new associations, and reconcile their bearings with those originally presented to him, and if he be a person of slow comprehension, or happens to lose any part of the dialogue, announcing the changes, the whole becomes unintelligible confusion. In this respect, and in discarding a number of uninteresting characters, the plan of Dryden's play must be unequivocally preferred to that of Shakespeare in point of coherence, unity, and simplicity. It is a natural consequence of this more artful arrangement of the story, that Dryden contents himself with the concluding scene of Antony's history instead of introducing the incidents of the war with Cneius Pompey, the negociation with Lepidus, death of his first wife, and other circumstances, which, in Shakespeare, only tend to distract our attention from the main interest of the drama. The union of time, as necessary as that of place to the intelligibility of the drama, has, in like manner, been happily attained; and an interesting event is placed before the audience with no other change of place, and no greater lapse of time, than can be readily adapted to an ordinary imagination.
But, having given Dryden the praise of superior address in managing the story, I fear he must be pronounced in most other respects inferior to his grand prototype. Antony, the principal character in both plays, is incomparably grander in that of Shakespeare. The majesty and generosity of the military hero is happily expressed by both poets; but the awful ruin of grandeur, undermined by passion, and tottering to its fall, is far more striking in the Antony of Shakespeare. Love, it is true, is the predominant; but it is not the sole ingredient in his character. It has usurped possession of his mind, but is assailed by his original passions, ambition of power, and thirst for military fame. He is, therefore, often, and it should seem naturally represented, as feeling for the downfall of his glory and power, even so intensely as to withdraw his thoughts from Cleopatra, unless considered as the cause of his ruin. Thus, in the scene in which he compares himself to "black Vesper's pageants," he runs on in a train of fantastic and melancholy similes, having relation only to his fallen state, till the mention of Egypt suddenly recalls the idea of Cleopatra. But Dryden has taken a different view of Antony's character, and more closely approaching to his title of "All for Love."--"He seems not now that awful Antony." His whole thoughts and being are dedicated to his fatal passion; and though a spark of resentment is occasionally struck out by the reproaches of Ventidius, he instantly relapses into love-sick melancholy. The following beautiful speech exhibits the romance of despairing love, without the deep and mingled passion of a dishonoured soldier, and dethroned emperor:
_Ant._ [_Throwing himself down._] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; The place, thou pressest on thy mother earth, Is all thy empire now: Now, it contains thee; Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, When thou'rt contracted in the narrow urn, Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then, Octavia, For Cleopatra will not live to see it, Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widowed hand to Cæsar; Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep, To see his rival of the universe Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't. Give me some music; look that it be sad: I'll sooth my melancholy, 'till I swell, And burst myself with sighing-- [_Soft music._ 'Tis somewhat to my humour: Stay, I fancy I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all; Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, I lean my head upon the mossy bark, And look just of a piece, as I grew from it: My uncombed locks, matted like misletoe, Hang o'er my hoary face; a murmuring brook Runs at my foot.
_Ven._ Methinks I fancy Myself there too.
_Ant._ The herd come jumping by me, And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, And take me for their fellow-citizen.
Even when Antony is finally ruined, the power of jealousy is called upon to complete his despair, and he is less sensible to the idea of Cæsar's successful arms, than to the risque of Dolabella's rivalling him in the affections of Cleopatra. It is true, the Antony of Shakespeare also starts into fury, upon Cleopatra permitting Thyreus to kiss her hand; but this is not jealousy; it is pride offended, that she, for whom he had sacrificed his glory and empire, should already begin to court the favour of the conqueror, and vouchsafe her hand to be saluted by a "jack of Cæsars." Hence Enobarbus, the witness of the scene, alludes immediately to the fury of mortified ambition and falling power:
'Tis better playing with a lion's whelp, Than with an old one dying--
Having, however, adopted an idea of Antony's character, rather suitable to romance than to nature, or history, we must not deny Dryden the praise of having exquisitely brought out the picture he intended to draw. He has informed us, that this was the only play written to please himself; and he has certainly exerted in it the full force of his incomparable genius. Antony is throughout the piece what the author meant him to be; a victim to the omnipotence of love, or rather to the infatuation of one engrossing passion[1].
In the Cleopatra of Dryden, there is greatly less spirit and originality than in Shakespeare's. The preparation of the latter for death has a grandeur which puts to shame the same scene in Dryden, and serves to support the interest during the whole fifth act, although Antony has died in the conclusion of the fourth. No circumstance can more highly evince the power of Shakespeare's genius, in spite of his irregularities; since the conclusion in Dryden, where both lovers die in the same scene, and after a reconciliation, is infinitely more artful and better adapted to theatrical effect.
In the character of Ventidius, Dryden has filled up, with ability, the rude sketches, which Shakespeare has thrown off in those of Scæva and Eros. The rough old Roman soldier is painted with great truth; and the quarrel betwixt him and Antony, in the first act, is equal to any single scene that our author ever wrote, excepting, perhaps, that betwixt Sebastian and Dorax; an opinion in which the judgment of the critic coincides with that of the poet. It is a pity, as has often been remarked, that this dialogue occurs so early in the play, since what follows is necessarily inferior in force. Dryden, while writing this scene, had unquestionably in his recollection the quarrel betwixt Brutus and Cassius, which was justly so great a favourite in his time, and to which he had referred as inimitable in his prologue to "Aureng-Zebe.[2]"
The inferior characters are better supported in Dryden than in Shakespeare. We have no low buffoonery in the former, such as disgraces Enobarbus, and is hardly redeemed by his affecting catastrophe. Even the Egyptian Alexas acquires some respectability, from his patriotic attachment to the interests of his country, and from his skill as a wily courtier. He expresses, by a beautiful image, the effeminate attachment to life, appropriated to his character and country:
O, that I less could fear to lose this being, Which, like a snow-ball in my coward hand, The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away.
The Octavia of Dryden is a much more important personage than in the "Antony and Cleopatra" of Shakespeare. She is, however, more cold and unamiable; for, in the very short scenes in which the Octavia of Shakespeare appears, she is placed in rather an interesting point of view. But Dryden has himself informed us, that he was apprehensive the justice of a wife's claim upon her husband would draw the audience to her side, and lessen their interest in the lover and the mistress. He seems accordingly to have studiedly lowered the character of the injured Octavia, who, in her conduct towards her husband, shews much duty and little love; and plainly intimates, that her rectitude of conduct flows from a due regard to her own reputation, rather than from attachment to Antony's person, or sympathy with him in his misfortunes. It happens, therefore, with Octavia, as with all other very good selfish kind of people; we think it unnecessary to feel any thing for her, as she is obviously capable of taking very good care of herself. I must not omit, that her scolding scene with Cleopatra, although anxiously justified by the author in the preface, seems too coarse to be in character, and is a glaring exception to the general good taste evinced throughout the rest of the piece.
It would be too long a task to contrast the beauties of these two great poets in point of diction and style. But the reader will doubtless be pleased to compare the noted descriptions of the voyage of Cleopatra down the Cydnus. It is thus given in Shakespeare:
The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, Burned on the water: The poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with them: The oars were silver; Which, to the tune of flutes, kept stroke, and made The water which they beat, to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggared all description: she did lie In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue), O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see, The fancy outwork nature; on each side her, Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With diverse coloured fans, whose wind did seem To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, And what they undid, did. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereids, So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, And made their bends adornings: At the helm A seeming mermaid steers: The silken tackle Swells with the touches of those flower-soft hands That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her; and Antony, Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone, Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy, Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in nature. _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act i. Scene 2.
The parallel passage in Dryden runs thus:
The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold, The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed; Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay,
_Dola._ No more: I would not hear it,
_Ant._ O, you must! She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, And cast a look so languishingly sweet, As if secure of all beholders hearts, Neglecting she could take them: Boys, like Cupids, Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds That played about her face! But if she smiled, A darting glory secured to blaze abroad: That men's desiring eyes were never wearied, But hung upon the object: To soft flutes The silver oars kept time; and while they played, The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more; For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath To give their welcome voice. Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul? Was not thy fury quite disarmed with murder? Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes, And whisper in my ear, Oh, tell her not That I accused her of my brother's death?
In judging betwixt these celebrated passages, we feel almost afraid to avow a preference of Dryden, founded partly upon the easy flow of the verse, which seems to soften with the subject, but chiefly upon the beauty of the language and imagery, which is flowery without diffusiveness, and rapturous without hyperbole. I fear Shakespeare cannot be exculpated from the latter fault; yet I am sensible, it is by sifting his beauties from his conceits that his imitator has been enabled to excel him.
It is impossible to bestow too much praise on the beautiful passages which occur so frequently in "All for Love." Having already given several examples of happy expression of melancholy and tender feelings, I content myself with extracting the sublime and terrific description of an omen presaging the downfall of Egypt.