The Age of Dryden Part 5

'Along he brought the sparkling coal From some celestial chimney[6] stole; Quickly the plundered stars he left, And as he hastened down, With the robbed flames his hands still shone, And seemed as if they were burnt for the theft.'

Congreve is equally absurd in his personification of Sleep:

'An ancient sigh he sits upon, Whose memory of sound is long since gone, And purposely annihilated for his throne.'

This poet, nevertheless, who, as pointed out by Dr. Johnson and Mr.

Gosse, has the critical merit of having given the English Pindaric a regular structure, was capable of much better things. The opening of the ode which yields the above choice _morceau_ (_To Mrs. Arabella Hunt, Singing_) is in a fine strain of poetry:

'Let all be hushed, each softest motion cease, Be every loud tumultuous thought at peace, And every ruder gasp of breath Be calm, as in the arms of death: And then, most fickle, most uneasy part, Thou restless wanderer, my heart, Be still; gently, ah gently, leave, Thou busy, idle thing, to heave: Stir not a pulse; and let my blood, That turbulent unruly flood, Be softly staid: Let me be all, but my attention, dead.

Go, rest, unnecessary springs of life, Leave your officious toil and strife; For I would hear her voice, and try If it be possible to die.'

FOOTNOTES:

[6] It should be noted that this word is not so absurd as it may appear to the modern reader. Chimney (Fr. _cheminee_) here means the fireplace, not the flue. 'The mantle of the _chimney_ in his hall.'--WALTON, _Life of George Herbert_.

CHAPTER IV.

DRYDEN AND THE RESTORATION DRAMA.

Dryden occupies an unique position as by far the most important representative of a department of literature for which, on his own showing, he had little natural qualification, and in which he had little ambition to excel. Only one of his numerous plays, he tells us, was written to please himself. But he wanted reputation, money, and Court favour, and these inducements directed him to the most popular and lucrative department of the Muses' province. Here, as elsewhere, his progress was slow. His first play, _The Wild Gallant_ (1663), has come down to us in an amended version; in its original form it is p.r.o.nounced by Pepys 'as poor a thing as I ever saw in my life.' Dryden might long have remained an unsuccessful dramatist but for the invention of rhyming tragedy, which, though in itself an objectionable form, suited his talent to perfection. The management of the heroic couplet was and always continued the strongest of all his strong points, and his genius for rhetoric was stimulated to the utmost by the facilities afforded by this sonorous form of metre. Hence _The Indian Emperor_ (1665) was a great success, and determined the main course of Dryden's dramatic activity for some years. It necessarily brought him nearer to the French drama, and gave a French character to the drama of the day, not really in harmony with the taste of the English public, and from which Dryden ultimately freed himself. The opinion of the day was prepared to go in the direction of cla.s.sicism as far as Jonson, but not as far as Corneille. The French traveller Sorbiere having in 1663 censured the irregularity of the English stage, was answered by Sprat, who a.s.serts the superiority of his countrymen, and points out the fundamental difference in the taste of the two nations. 'The French,' he says, 'for the most part take only one or two great men, and chiefly insist upon some one remarkable accident of their story; to this end they admit no more persons than will serve to adorn that: and they manage all in rhyme, with long speeches, almost in the way of dialogues, in making high ideas of honour, and in speaking n.o.ble things. The English on their side make their chief plot to consist in a greater variety of actions, and, besides the main design, add many little contrivances. By this means their scenes are shorter, their stage fuller, many more persons of different humours are introduced. And in carrying on of this they generally do only confine themselves to blank verse.' Sprat then proceeds to point out the advantages of the English method; and it is evident that neither he nor the public imagined themselves to be on the eve of such serious modifications of the national drama as actually took place--modifications to be chiefly attributed to the taste of the Court, and the more easily effected from the paucity of theatres.

The inferiority of the Restoration drama to the Elizabethan is one of the commonplaces of criticism, perhaps even one of its plat.i.tudes, and cannot be admitted without some qualification. Yet, as the broad general statement of a fact, it is undeniable, and the fact is a proof that the elements which preserve a play as literature for posterity are not those which fit it for the contemporary stage. In every play of serious purpose there is, or should be, an earthly part and a spiritual, dramatic craftsmans.h.i.+p and poetical inspiration. In the former particular the Restoration dramatists compare not unfavourably with their predecessors, always excepting Shakespeare; they fail not as dramatists, but as poets. The whole Elizabethan drama is steeped in an atmosphere of poetry. To say nothing of its chief representatives, take up such satires as _The Return from Parna.s.sus_, or such merely occasional pieces as the academical play on _Timon_ which preceded Shakespeare's, and you will not doubt that you are reading the work of a poet. Read through, on the other hand, the best plays of the representative dramatists of the Restoration, and you will generally find the poetical element concentrated in a few brilliant pa.s.sages. In the Elizabethan age, it is evident, men lived at such a height of heroic and romantic sentiment that the purveyors of public entertainment could not but be poets. In the Restoration era, on the other hand, men habitually lived, breathed, and wrote prose; and when the dramatist would be a poet, he had to set himself to the task. To convince ourselves that the distinction between poetry and prose is not artificial, as Carlyle seemed to think, but essential, we have only to consider the widely different influence of Elizabethan and Restoration drama upon the after world. Both, excepting the works of Shakespeare, are virtually dead as acted drama. But in losing the stage the Restoration drama has lost everything, while the Elizabethan is yet a living and working force. It powerfully co-operated in the splendid revival of English poetry at the end of last century; it is at this moment an inspirer and a nurse of young genius. It is inconceivable that the Restoration drama as a whole should inspire anyone, or that it should count for anything as a factor in future developments of literature. One is a perennial plant, which may die down to the root in ungenial seasons, but will a.s.suredly put forth new flowers; the other is a fossil, curious and in some measure beautiful, but devoid of vital force. And for this, the merely intellectual merits of both being so considerable, no reason can be given but that one is on the whole poetical, and therefore living, the other on the whole prosaic, and therefore inert. Hence we may prophesy of the success of the endeavour of Ibsen, and other men of distinguished talent, to produce dramas conceived in an entirely realistic spirit, and entirely devoted to the problems of modern society. Such compet.i.tions will be valuable _pieces justificatives_ for the intellectual history of the nineteenth century, but they will be extinct as literary forces long ere the end of the twentieth.

This, nevertheless, is to be said for the Restoration dramatists, that their art is not an imitation of an extinct form of the drama, but is at least something new, really expressive of the sentiments of their generation. The imitation of Shakespeare could only have produced gross unreality, which must have degenerated still further into mere inanity.

The playwrights did what the contemporary painters should have done, they fell back, in a measure, upon realism when high imagination was no longer possible. If they had gone further in this direction their works would have possessed more intrinsic merit, and have claimed a more important place in the history of culture. Their tragedies would not so often have been rendered unnatural by the employment of rhyme, and their comedies would have exhibited the manners and the morals of the English nation, and not merely of the playgoing part of it. It cannot be believed that the comedy of that age affords anything like so faithful a picture of the seventeenth century as Fielding's novels do of the eighteenth. The realistic tendency was chiefly conspicuous in the closer approach to the language of common life, and in the more logical character even of appeals to emotion. The extravagant transports of heroes and heroines only betray that true imagination had grown cold; but the manly nervous sense and the almost forensic reasoning so often found in their company show that a new stratum had really been touched.

Another consideration should not be overlooked in the comparison between the Elizabethan and the Restoration drama, that the debas.e.m.e.nt of the latter is exaggerated from the seeming abruptness of the metamorphosis undergone by the former. Pa.s.sing from the stage of Shakespeare to the stage of Dryden, we appear to have suddenly entered a new world. The representatives of the drama seem instantaneously transformed by some Circean potion into beings of a lower type. We do not immediately remember that the gradual development which would have interpreted the apparent prodigy was rudely interrupted by the Civil War and the Commonwealth. If the interval between s.h.i.+rley and Dryden had been continuously occupied by popular dramatists, we should have observed the change slowly coming on, and have watched the older form shading off into the newer by gradations not more violent than those by which the latter subsequently pa.s.sed into the drama of the eighteenth century. As it is, the poets of Charles II.'s time seem the authors of a revolution of which they were merely the instruments. The younger portion of their audiences, on whose suffrages they had mainly to rely, had scarcely so much as seen a play. The spells of authority and tradition were broken, or at least so grievously impaired as to be unable to withstand the seduction of French example. Honest Samuel Pepys would not have so easily p.r.o.nounced the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ 'a mean thing' if the romantic drama had not been absolutely extinct for him. And, taking a broad view of the revolution in popular taste, we must admit that, however deplorable in itself, it had some good sides. It tended to bring England more into harmony with the general current of European taste and thought, and repressed the tendency of our n.o.ble literature to fanciful and eccentric insularity. In the long run, moreover, it was serviceable to the English drama by providing a subst.i.tute, however inferior, for the old vein now unproductive. The want of such a resource killed the drama of Spain. Spanish dramatists, until the nineteenth century, were unable to accommodate themselves to any dramatic form but the national one, every phase of which had been completely exemplified before the end of the seventeenth century. In consequence, the Spanish theatre of the eighteenth century did not produce a single tolerable piece until, near the termination of the epoch, a playwright arose who was capable of profiting by French example.

Another extenuation of the departure of the Restoration dramatists from the better traditions of the English stage is the strength as well as the suddenness of the new influence to which they were subjected. It came from the Court, and the Court dispensed the playwright's daily bread. There is sufficient evidence that even Shakespeare was by no means indifferent to the good opinion of Elizabeth and James, but neither of these sovereigns was sufficiently the drama's patron to be the drama's legislator. It was otherwise with Charles II., a man of wit, taste, and polish, inaccessible to the deeper emotions of humanity, and without a grain of poetry in his composition. Such a man must have found the Elizabethan drama intolerable. He no doubt honestly agreed with his laureate, who coolly says: 'At his return he found a nation lost as much in barbarism as in rebellion; and, as the excellency of his nature forgave the one, so the excellency of his manners reformed the other.

The desire of imitating so great a pattern first awakened the dull and heavy spirits of the English from their natural reservedness.' With every allowance for adulation, there can be no doubt that Dryden in a considerable measure believed himself a reformer. Charles had his Paladins in the field of letters. 'The favour,' says Dryden elsewhere, 'which heroic plays have lately found upon our theatres has been wholly derived to them from the countenance and approbation they have received at Court.' We may well feel thankful that the experiment of Gallicizing the native genius of England should have been tried so fairly, and have broken down so utterly, under such patronage as Charles's and in such hands as Dryden's. We have not quite seen the last of it, but where Corneille and Moliere failed Goncourt and Zola are not likely to succeed.

This may at least be said for Dryden, that the romantic drama was for a time in a state of suspended animation, and that the only question was what successor should fill its place. For a short time two foreign schools seemed contending for the prize. Dryden's own allegiance in his first piece, _The Wild Gallant_, was given to the Spanish drama, a form exceedingly attractive from its brisk action, sudden vicissitudes, and dexterous development of intrigue. But the Spanish drama cannot be naturalized in England for two reasons, one creditable to English genius, the other the reverse. A play of intrigue is necessarily a play of incident, and allows little room for the development of character; but Englishmen are 'humoursome,' and enjoy the discrimination of character to the nicest shades. If we judged the two nations solely by their dramas, we should say that all Spaniards were exactly alike, and no two Englishmen. The other reason is that Englishmen do not particularly excel in the contrivance of incident, and that few even of our best dramatists could rival the ingenuity of third-rate Spanish playwrights. The Anglo-Spanish drama soon disappeared, and its place in serious dramatic literature was taken by a _genre_ most intimately a.s.sociated with the name of Dryden, its most brilliant pract.i.tioner, and upon whose desertion it crumbled into dust.

Dryden himself has told us in few words what he understands by an heroic play, and the definition exempts him from much of the criticism to which he might otherwise have been held liable: 'An heroic play ought to be an imitation, in little, of an heroic poem.' In other words, it must have an epical element as well as a dramatic. The experiment was worth making, as it proved that neither branch of the poetic art gained anything by invading the other's territory. Compared with the art of Shakespeare or of Sophocles, the art of Dryden in this department seems a tawdry caricature. All the higher qualities of the dramatist are absent, being, in fact, inconsistent with the demands of epic poetry, while epic dignity is equally sacrificed to the exigencies of drama.

Without constant hurry and bustle, such pieces would be intolerable.

They require, as Dryden tacitly admits by the quotation from Ariosto, which he adduces as expressive of his guiding principle, a constant succession of adventures. Such incessant agitation leaves no place for the development of character; the actors come on the stage ready labelled; or if, like Nourmahal in _Aurengzebe_, they disclose a new trait, the sudden novelty produces the effect of complete metamorphosis.

The pieces could only be regarded as splendid puppet-shows, were not the failings of the dramatist so frequently redeemed by the poet. It so chanced that the Coryphaeus of this unnatural style was the most splendid poetical declaimer (unless Byron be excepted) that England ever produced, and his pieces resound with tirades not merely brilliant in diction and sonorous in versification, but now fiery with mettlesome spirit, now weighty with manly sense. And these qualities were aided by the otherwise objectionable form selected by the poet. His blank-verse plays, far superior as works of art, contain few such eloquent pa.s.sages as his rhyming tragedies. Rhyme helped him on, as a riderless runaway horse is spurred by the thunder of his own hoofs. Even where his thought is poor, its poverty is veiled by the brilliancy of the diction--a brilliancy which he could hardly have attained by the use of any other form; and if the employment of rhyme seems, as it is, unnatural, the form at least harmonizes with the substance, and they produce between them an illusive effect of a species of art which may possibly be legitimate, as the ordinary rules evidently do not apply. We must also remember how this subornation of the judgment, not imperceptible or ineffective in the closet, was aided on the stage by the most potent appeals to the senses.

_Tyrannic Love_, Dryden's first considerable attempt in 'heroic tragedy,' is very remarkable as a proof of to what extraordinary absurdities a vigorous intellect may be liable, and also how these may be dignified by energy of expression. 'The rants of Maximin,' says Johnson, 'have long been the sport of criticism;' but so spirited and sonorous is the diction, that, inconsistent as seems the alliance of admiration with derision, such actually is the mingled feeling which they excite in the quiet of the closet. On the stage they must have pa.s.sed off much better by the aid of scenery, costume, and emphatic declamation; and success on the boards, it must be remembered, was invariably Dryden's first object. The same consideration which explains, though it does not excuse, his indecency, palliates his bombast. He wrote to live, and could not afford to produce unactable dramas. A much more interesting performance than _Tyrannic Love_ is his _Conquest of Granada_ (1669-1670). It is a touchstone of 'heroic tragedy,' a crucial test of what it can and what it cannot do. It renounces all pretence to nature, reason, and probability; on the other hand, it delights with a crowd of striking sentiments and images, and enchains the attention with perpetual bustle and variety. It is to one of Shakespeare's plays as a bit of s.h.i.+ning gla.s.s is to a plant of which every fibre is the creation of a natural law. Yet the gla.s.s is not a displeasing object, neither is the play.

The worst offence of _The Conquest of Granada_, after all, is not its bombast, but its bathos. It is true that both spring from the same root, that want of genuine creative imagination which in attempting the great only achieves the big, which a small oversight easily converts into the laughable. But apart from this failing, which Dryden shares with most epic poets of the second rank, it is difficult to acquit him of a singular insensibility to the ridiculous. This is evinced among other things by the entire conception of one of his most serious and elaborate works, _The Hind and the Panther_, and it requires all the gravity and obvious conviction of his preface to _The Conquest of Granada_ to convince us that he did not occasionally mean to burlesque his own principles. The rapid changes of fortune, the constant fallings into and out of love, the odd predicaments in which heroes and heroines continually find themselves, frequently produce the effect of the broadest comedy--an effect much a.s.sisted by the extraordinary rants of the princ.i.p.al speakers; as when Lyndaraxa desires the personage who has first stabbed her and then himself to

'Die for us both, I have not leisure now;'

or Almahide threatens to send her ghost to fetch back Almanzor's scarf, as if she and her ghost were different beings; or Almanzor's astounding menace to his mother's spirit:

'I'll squeeze thee like a bladder there, And make thee groan thyself away in air.'

So unequal is Dryden's genius that the second of these monstrosities occurs in close proximity to the exquisite verses:

'What precious drops are those Which silently each other's track pursue, Bright as young diamonds in their infant dew?'

and the burlesque threat to the ghost is immediately succeeded by the n.o.ble couplet:

'I am the ghost of her who gave thee birth, The airy shadow of her mouldering earth.'

The beauties which are thickly sown throughout _The Conquest of Granada_ owe, perhaps, something of their effect as poetry to the utter want of nature in the characters and of reason in the conduct of the play. In a drama aiming at the delineation of real men and women they would frequently have appeared absurdly inappropriate, but when it is once understood that the personages are the puppets and mouthpieces of the author, the question of dramatic propriety becomes irrelevant. Yet _The Conquest of Granada_ is something more than a heap of glittering morsels of sentiment and wit. It possesses a unity of feeling which serves as cement for these scattered jewels. The 'kind of generous and n.o.ble spirit animating it,' to employ Mr. Saintsbury's just description, maintains the reader at a level above the pitch of ordinary life. When he opens the book he rises, as he closes it he descends. He may laugh, but his amus.e.m.e.nt is unmingled with contempt; and ever and anon he comes upon the genuine heroic, unsuspected of sham, unspoiled by bombast. The soul of chivalry inspires the lines quoted with just applause by both Scott and Saintsbury:

'Fair though you are As summer mornings, and your eyes more bright Than stars that twinkle on a winter's night; Though you have eloquence to warm and move Cold age and fasting hermits into love; Though Almahide with scorn rewards my care; Yet than to change 'tis n.o.bler to despair.

My love's my soul, and that from fate is free, 'Tis that unchanged and deathless part of me.'

_Aurengzebe_ (1675), Mr. Saintsbury considers 'in some respects a very n.o.ble play.' We should rather have called it an indifferent play with some n.o.ble pa.s.sages more remarkable for eloquence than dramatic propriety. The characters, though by no means subtle or even natural, are better discriminated than in _The Conquest of Granada_; there is much less rant and bustle, yet quite enough to make one cordially echo Indamora's nave inquiry:

'Are there yet more Morats, more fighting kings?'

Nor are choice examples of bathos wanting. Aurengzebe finely says:

'I need not haste the end of life to meet, The precipice is just beneath my feet.'

Nourmahal replies:

'Think not my sense of virtue is so small, I'll rather leap down first and break your fall.'

The first act opens with a striking couplet:

'The night seems doubled with the fear she brings, And o'er the citadel now spreads her wings.'

To which immediately succeeds:

'The morning, as mistaken, turns about, And all her early fires again go out.'

Dryden was probably betrayed into these lapses, not so much by mere haste and carelessness, as by the trick of the heroic metre, which in dialogue almost enforces balanced ant.i.thesis.

Nearly all _Aurengzebe_ is composed in this brilliant snip-snap, where the ball of a fine sentiment, tossed from one character to another, comes back in a retort, to be returned in a repartee. Of dramatic art as Shakespeare or the Greeks understood it there is not a trace; the pivot of the action is the property, fitter for a fairy tale than a tragedy, possessed by Indamora, of compelling every one who sees her to fall in love with her. Neither pity nor terror can be excited on such terms; if Aristotle's criterion be sound, _Aurengzebe_ is no tragedy at all. If, however, we are content to regard it as a medley of fine things, a model of spirited declamation and sonorous versification, it claims high praise. Great must have been the intellectual strength which could thus thunder and dazzle through five acts of unabated energy: and the sentiments, considered merely as such, lose nothing of their effect from being placed in the mouths of puppets, and misplaced even there. Take, for instance, the most famous pa.s.sage in the play, one of the finest in all Dryden:

'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 runnings could not give.'

This potent quintessence of the experience of age is ill a.s.signed to Aurengzebe, a young prince at the outset of a splendid career; but the word remains while the lip is forgotten, and has taken its place among the treasures of English poetry. Among other claims to notice, _Aurengzebe_ is remarkable as one of the few English dramas in which a living foreign potentate is brought upon the stage, and, less exceptionally, for its entire perversion of the truth of history. The generous and filial part here ascribed to the unnatural and cold-blooded Aurengzebe was really performed by his unfortunate brother Dara. To have crowned Dara, however, would have involved an equal violation of historical truth, to have killed him a violation of what the dramatists of Dryden's day considered more important, poetical justice.

_Marriage a la Mode_ (1673), the first fair example of Dryden's comedy, is a more satisfactory exhibition of his power as a dramatist, if a piece adding little to his fame as a poet. Mr. Saintsbury justly remarks that 'Scott's general undervaluing of Dryden's comic pieces is very evident' in his prefatory notice. Mr. Saintsbury himself, though warmly appreciative of 'Dryden's only original excursion into the realms of the higher comedy,' might, we think, have said even more in its favour. The situation of the spouses, fancying themselves tired of each other while their affection only needs the fillip of jealousy, is comic in a high degree, and the brisk intricacy of the action, with only four actors to sustain it, manifests great ingenuity and deftness in dramatic construction. The serious section of the play is certainly much less meritorious than the comic, to which it is a mere appendage. Written in most slovenly blank verse, it entirely wants the fire and energy of Dryden's heroic plays. Its fault is rather sterility than extravagance; with some exceptions, it appears tame and bald. But these exceptions are very fine. The scene between Leonidas and Palmyra (act ii., sc. 1) is like a morsel of Theocritus, allying the charm of pastoral innocence to the wit and point of an accomplished court-poet. It is remarkable how surely, at this period of his career, Dryden rises when he resorts to rhyme; but even the careless blank verse of this play, in general merely a foil to the comic part, sometimes sparkles with strokes worthy of a great poet:

'_Pol._ He is a prince, and you are meanly born.

_Leon._ Love either finds equality, or makes it.'