TO

THE PROPHETESS.

BY

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

REVIVED

By DRYDEN.

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.

_"The Prophetess" of Beaumont and Fletcher, even in its original

state, required a good deal of machinery; for it contains stage

directions for thunder-bolts brandished from on high, and for a

chariot drawn through mid air by flying dragons; but it was now

altered into an opera, with the addition of songs and scenical

decorations, by Betterton, in 1690. Our author wrote the following

prologue, to introduce it upon the stage in its altered state. The

music was by Henry Purcell, and is said to have merited applause.

Rich, whose attachment to scenery and decoration is ridiculed by

Pope, revived this piece, and piqued himself particularly upon a

set of dancing chairs, which he devised for the nonce._

_The prologue gave offence to the court, and was prohibited by

the Earl of Dorset, Lord Chamberlain, after the first day's

representation. It contains, Cibber remarks, some familiar

metaphorical sneers at the Revolution itself; and as the poetry is

good, the offence was less pardonable. King William was at this

time prosecuting his campaigns in Ireland; and the author not only

ridicules the warfare in which he was engaged, and the English

volunteers who attended him, but even the government of Queen Mary

in his absence._

What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess

The fate of our approaching Prophetess?

A play, which, like a perspective set right,

Presents our vast expences close to sight;

But turn the tube, and there we sadly view

Our distant gains, and those uncertain too;

A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise,

And all, like you, in hopes of better days.

When will our losses warn us to be wise?

Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise.

Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes,

Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops.

We raise new objects to provoke delight,

But you grow sated ere the second sight.

False men, even so you serve your mistresses;

They rise three stories in their towering dress;

And, after all, you love not long enough

To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.

Never content with what you had before,

But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er.

Now honour calls you hence; and all your care

Is to provide the horrid pomp of war.

In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade,

Your silver goes, that should support our trade.

Go, unkind heroes! leave our stage to mourn,

Till rich from vanquished rebels you return;

And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw,

His firkin butter, and his usquebaugh.

Go, conquerors of your male and female foes;

Men without hearts, and women without hose.

Each bring his love a Bogland captive home;

Such proper pages will long trains become;

With copper collars, and with brawny backs,

Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks.[400]

Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows,

And furnish all their laurels for your brows;

Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights;

We want not poets fit to sing your flights.

But you, bright beauties, for whose only sake

Those doughty knights such dangers undertake,

When they with happy gales are gone away, }

With your propitious presence grace our play, }

And with a sigh their empty seats survey; }

Then think,--On that bare bench my servant sat!

I see him ogle still, and hear him chat;

Selling facetious bargains, and propounding

That witty recreation, called dum-founding.[401]--

Their loss with patience we will try to bear,

And would do more, to see you often here;

That our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes,

Under a female regency may rise.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 400: It was the fashion, at this time, to have black boys

in attendance, decorated with silver collars. See the following

advertisement: "A black boy, about fifteen years of age, named John

White, ran away from Colonel Kirke, the 15th inst.; he has a silver

collar about his neck, upon which is the Colonel's arms and cipher."

Gazette, March 18th, 1685.]

[Footnote 401: _Selling bargains_, a species of wit common, according

to Swift, among Queen Anne's maids of honour, consisted in leading

some innocent soul to ask a question, which was answered by the

bargain-seller's naming his, or her, sitting part, by its broadest

appellation. _Dum-founding_ is explained by a stage direction in

Bury-fair, where "Sir Humphrey dum-founds the Count with a rap betwixt

the shoulders." The humour seems to have consisted in doing this with

such dexterity, that the party dum-founded should be unable to discover

to whom he was indebted for the favour.]

PROLOGUE

TO

THE MISTAKES.

_This play was brought forward by Joseph Harris, a comedian, as his

own, although it is said to have been chiefly written by another

person. It was acted in_ 1690.

_Enter_ MR BRIGHT.

Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no prologue to be had

to-day. Our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece; as

bald as one of you young beaux without your periwig. I left our young

poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody

that has deceived him.

_Enter_ MR BOWEN.

Hold your prating to the audience; here's honest Mr Williams just come

in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern.[402] He swears he is inspired

with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with

a prologue of his own, or something like one. O here he comes to his

trial, at all adventures; for my part, I wish him a good deliverance.

[_Exeunt Mr_ BRIGHT _and Mr_ BOWEN.

_Enter Mr_ WILLIAMS.

Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way. }

I should speak something, in rhyme, now, for the play }

But the deuce take me, if I know what to say. }

I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye,

To the last drop of claret in my belly.

So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme--that needs no granting;

And, if my verses' feet stumble--you see my own are wanting.

Our young poet has brought a piece of work, }

In which though much of art there does not lurk, }

It may hold out three days--and that's as long as Cork.[403] }

But, for this play--(which till I have done, we show not)

What may be its fortune--by the Lord--I know not.

This I dare swear, no malice here is writ;

'Tis innocent of all things----even of wit.

He's no high-flyer----he makes no sky-rockets,

His squibs are only levelled at your pockets;

And if his crackers light among your pelf,

You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.

By this time, I'm something recovered of my flustered madness;

And now, a word or two in sober sadness.

Ours is a common play; and you pay down

A common harlot's price--just half a crown.

You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score; }

But since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er, }

For many a mother has done that before. }

How's this? you cry: an actor write?--we know it;

But Shakespeare was an actor, and a poet.

Has not great Jonson's learning often failed?

But Shakespeare's greater genius still prevailed.

Have not some writing actors, in this age,

Deserved and found success upon the stage?

To tell the truth, when our old wits are tired,

Not one of us but means to be inspired.

Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer; }

Peace and the butt[404] is all our business here; }

So much for that--and the devil take small beer. }

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 402: This was quite in character. Cibber says of Williams,

that his industry was not equal to his capacity, for he loved his

bottle better than his business. _Apology_, p. 115.]

[Footnote 403: The taking of Cork was one of the first exploits of the

renowned Marlborough. The besieging army was disembarked on the 23d

September, 1690, and the garrison, amounting to four thousand men,

surrendered on the 28th of the same month.]

[Footnote 404: A phrase in the "Tempest" as altered by Dryden, which

seems to have become proverbial.]

EPILOGUE

TO

HENRY II.

BY JOHN BANCROFT,

AND PUBLISHED BY MR MOUNTFORT, 1693.

SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.

_This play is founded on the amours of Henry II. and the death

of fair Rosamond. John Bancroft, the author, was a surgeon, and

wrote another play called "Sertorius." He gave both the reputation

and the profits of "Henry II." to Mountfort, the comedian; and

probably made him no great compliment in the former particular,

though, as the piece was well received, the latter might be of some

consequence. Mountfort was an actor of great eminence. Cibber says,

that he was the most affecting lover within his memory._

Thus you the sad catastrophe have seen,

Occasioned by a mistress and a queen.

Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they say;

But English manufacture got the day.

Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver;

Fair Rosamond was but her _nom de guerre_.

Now tell me, gallants, would you lead your life

With such a mistress, or with such a wife?

If one must be your choice, which d'ye approve,

The curtain lecture, or the curtain love?

Would ye be godly with perpetual strife,

Still drudging on with homely Joan, your wife

Or take your pleasure in a wicked way,

Like honest whoring Harry in the play?

I guess your minds; the mistress would be taken,

And nauseous matrimony sent a packing.

The devil's in you all; mankind's a rogue;

You love the bride, but you detest the clog.

After a year, poor spouse is left i'the lurch,

And you, like Haynes,[405] return to mother-church.

Or, if the name of Church comes cross your mind,

Chapels-of-ease behind our scenes you find.

The playhouse is a kind of market-place;

One chaffers for a voice, another for a face;

Nay, some of you,--I dare not say how many,--

Would buy of me a pen'worth for your penny.

E'en this poor face, which with my fan I hide,}

Would make a shift my portion to provide, }

With some small perquisites I have beside. }

Though for your love, perhaps, I should not care,

I could not hate a man that bids me fair.

What might ensue, 'tis hard for me to tell; }

But I was drenched to-day for loving well, }

And fear the poison that would make me swell.}

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 405: The facetious Joe Haynes became a Catholic in the latter

part of James the Second's reign. But after the Revolution, he read his

recantation of the errors of Rome in a penitentiary prologue, which he

delivered in a suit of mourning.]

A

PROLOGUE.

Gallants, a bashful poet bids me say,

He's come to lose his maidenhead to-day.

Be not too fierce; for he's but green of age,

And ne'er, till now, debauched upon the stage.

He wants the suffering part of resolution,

And comes with blushes to his execution.

Ere you deflower his Muse, he hopes the pit

Will make some settlement upon his wit.

Promise him well, before the play begin;

For he would fain be cozened into sin.

'Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail; }

But, if you leave him after being frail, }

He'll have, at least, a fair pretence to rail; }

To call you base, and swear you used him ill,

And put you in the new Deserters' bill.

Lord, what a troop of perjured men we see;

Enow to fill another Mercury!

But this the ladies may with patience brook;

Theirs are not the first colours you forsook.

He would be loth the beauties to offend;

But, if he should, he's not too old to mend.

He's a young plant, in his first year of bearing;

But his friend swears, he will be worth the rearing.

His gloss is still upon him; though 'tis true

He's yet unripe, yet take him for the blue.

You think an apricot half green is best;

There's sweet and sour, and one side good at least.

Mangos and limes, whose nourishment is little,

Though not for food, are yet preserved for pickle.

So this green writer may pretend, at least,

To whet your stomachs for a better feast.

He makes this difference in the sexes too;

He sells to men, he gives himself to you.

To both he would contribute some delight;

A meer poetical hermaphrodite.

Thus he's equipped, both to be wooed, and woo; }

With arms offensive, and defensive too; }

'Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do. }

PROLOGUE

TO

ALBUMAZAR.

_The old Play, to which this prologue was prefixed upon its

revival, was originally acted in_ 1634, _three or four years after

the appearance of Jonson's_ "_Alchemist;_" _to which, therefore,

it could not possibly afford any hint. Dryden, observing the

resemblance between the plays, took the plagiarism for granted,

because the style of "Albumazar" is certainly the most antiquated.

This appearance of antiquity is, however, only a consequence of

the vein of pedantry which runs through the whole piece. It was

written by ---- Tomkins, a scholar of Trinity College, and acted

before King James VI. by the gentlemen of that house, 9th March_,

1614. _It is, upon the whole, a very excellent play; yet the author,

whether consulting his own taste, or that of our British Solomon,

before whom it was to be represented, has contrived to give it an

air of such learned stiffness, that it much more resembles the

translation of a play from Terence or Plautus, than an original

English composition. By this pedantic affectation, the humour of

the play is completely smothered; and although there are several

very excellent comic situations in the action_, _yet neither the

attempt to revive it in Dryden's time_, _nor those which followed

in_ 1748 _and_ 1773, _met with any success_.

_As Dryden had imputed, very rashly, however, and groundlessly,

the guilt of plagiarism to Jonson, he made this supposed crime

the introduction to a similar slur on Shadwell, who at that

time seems to have been possessed of the laurel; a circumstance

which ascertains the date of the prologue to be posterior to the

Revolution._

To say this comedy pleased long ago,

Is not enough to make it pass you now.

Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit,

When few men censured, and when fewer writ.

And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,

As the best model of his master-piece:

Subtle was got by our Albumazar,

That Alchymist by this Astrologer;

Here he was fashioned, and we may suppose,

He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes.

But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;

What was another's lead, becomes his gold:

Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,

Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains.

But this our age such authors does afford,

As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word;

Who, in this anarchy of wit, rob all,

And what's their plunder, their possession call;

Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey,

But rob by sun-shine, in the face of day:

Nay, scarce the common ceremony use

Of, "Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse;"

But knock the poet down, and, with a grace,

Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.

Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad,[406]

'Tis time for all true men to leave that road.

Yet it were modest, could it but be said,

They strip the living, but these rob the dead;

Dare with the mummies of the Muses play,

And make love to them the Egyptian way;

Or, as a rhiming author would have said,

Join the dead living to the living dead.

Such men in poetry may claim some part,

They have the license, though they want the art;

And might, where theft was praised, for laureats stand;[407]

Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.

They make the benefits of others studying,

Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,

Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage;

'Tis all his own, when once he has spit i'the porridge.

But, gentlemen, you're all concerned in this;

You are in fault for what they do amiss;

For they their thefts still undiscovered think,

And durst not steal, unless you please to wink.

Perhaps, you may award by your decree,

They should refund,--but that can never be;

For, should you letters of reprisal seal,

These men write that which no man else would steal.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 406: This seems to have been a cant name for highwaymen.

Shadwell's christian name was Thomas.]

[Footnote 407: Shadwell succeeded to our author's post of laureat,

after the Revolution. I am not able to discover, if Shadwell had

given any very recent cause for this charge of plagiarism. In the

"Libertine," "The Miser," "Bury-fair," and "The Sullen Lovers," he has

borrowed, or rather translated, from Moliere. The "Squire of Alsatia"

contains some imitations of Terence's "Adelphi." "Psyche" is taken

from the French, and "Timon of Athens" from Shakespeare, although

Shadwell has the assurance to claim the merit of having made it into a

play. He was also under obligations to his contemporaries. The "Royal

Shepherdess" was originally written by one Mr Fountain of Devonshire.

Dryden, in "Mac-Flecnoe," intimates, that Sedley "larded with wit"

his play of "Epsom Wells;" and in the Dedication to the "True Widow,"

Shadwell himself acknowledges obligations to that gentleman's revision

of some of his pieces. Langbaine, who hated Dryden, and professed an

esteem for Shadwell, expresses himself thus, on the latter's claim to

originality:

"But I am willing to say the less of Mr Shadwell, because I have

publicly professed a friendship for him; and though it be not of

so long date as some former intimacy with others, so neither is it

blemished with some unhandsome dealings I have met with from persons

where I least expected it. I shall therefore speak of him with the

impartiality that becomes a critic, and own I like his comedies better

than Mr Dryden's, as having more variety of characters, and those drawn

from the life; I mean men's converse and manners, and not from other

men's ideas, copied out of their public writings: though indeed I

cannot wholly acquit our present laureat from borrowing; his plagiaries

being in some places too bold and open to be disguised, of which I

shall take notice, as I go along; though with this remark, that several

of them are observed to my hand, and in great measure excused by

himself, in the public acknowledgment he makes in his several prefaces,

to the persons to whom he was obliged for what he borrowed."

Shadwell in the following lines, which occur in the prologue to the

"Scowerers," seems to retort on Dryden the accusation here brought

against him:

You have been kind to many of his plays,

And should not leave him in his latter days.

Though loyal writers of the last two reigns,}

Who tired their pens for Popery and chains, }

Grumble at the reward of all his pains; }

They would, like some, the benefit enjoy

Of what they vilely laboured to destroy.

They cry him down as for his place unfit, }

Since they have all the humour and the wit; }

They must write better e'er he fears them yet.}

'Till they have shewn you more variety }

Of natural, unstolen comedy than he, }

By you at least he should protected be.}

'Till then, may he that mark of bounty have,}

Which his renowned and royal master gave, }

Who loves a subject, and contemns a slave; }

Whom heaven, in spite of hellish plots, designed

To humble tyrants, and exalt mankind.

]

AN

EPILOGUE.

You saw our wife was chaste, yet throughly tried,

And, without doubt, you are hugely edified;

For, like our hero, whom we showed to-day,

You think no woman true, but in a play.

Love once did make a pretty kind of show; }

Esteem and kindness in one breast would grow;}

But 'twas heaven knows how many years ago. }

Now some small chat, and guinea expectation,

Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation.

In comedy your little selves you meet;

'Tis Covent Garden drawn in Bridges-street.

Smile on our author then, if he has shown

A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.

Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,

Who act those follies, poets toil to write!

The sweating Muse does almost leave the chace;

She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices pace.

Pinch you but in one vice, away you fly

To some new frisk of contrariety.

You roll like snow-balls, gathering as you run,

And get seven devils, when dispossessed of one.

Your Venus once was a Platonic queen,

Nothing of love beside the face was seen;

But every inch of her you now uncase,

And clap a vizard-mask upon the face;

For sins like these, the zealous of the land,

With little hair, and little or no band,

Declare how circulating pestilences

Watch, every twenty years, to snap offences.

Saturn, e'en now, takes doctoral degrees;[408]

He'll do your work this summer without fees.

Let all the boxes, Phœbus, find thy grace,

And, ah, preserve the eighteen-penny place![409]

But for the pit confounders, let them go,

And find as little mercy as they show!

The actors thus, and thus thy poets pray;

For every critic saved, thou damn'st a play.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 408: Perhaps our author had in view the three oppositions

of Saturn and Jupiter in June and December 1692, and in April 1693,

which are thus feelingly descanted upon by John Silvester: "It hath

been long observed, that the most remarkable mutations of a kingdom, or

nation, have chiefly depended on the conjunctions or aspects of those

two superior planets, Saturn and Jupiter; and by their effects past, we

perceive that the most wise Creator first placed them higher than all

the other planets, that they should respect, chiefly, the highest and

most durable affairs and concerns of men on earth.

"And if one opposition of Saturn and Jupiter produceth much, how

then can those three oppositions to come do any less than cause some

remarkable changes and alterations of laws, or religious orders, in

England's chief and most renowned city? because Saturn then will be

stronger than Jupiter, who also, at his second opposition, will be near

unto the body of Mars, (the planet of war;) and having took possession

of religious Jupiter, should contend with him, (with a frowning lofty

countenance,) in London's ascendant, from whence I fear some religious

disturbances, if not some warlike violence, by insurrections, or

otherwise, occasioned by some frowning dissatisfied minds, which will

then happen in some part of Britain, or take its beginning there to the

purpose in those years.

"Ah poor Jupiter in Gemini! (London,) I fear thou wilt then be so much

humbled against thy will, that thou wilt think thou hast a sufficient

occasion to bewail thy condition; and if so, God will suffer this,

that thou mayest humbly endeavour to forsake thy accustomed sins, and

that thou mayest know power is not in thee to help thyself. But yet I

think thou wilt then have no need to fear that God hath wholly forsaken

thee; for look but a little back unto the years 1682 and 1683, where

Jupiter was three times in conjunction with Saturn, in a sign of his

own triplicity, and consider, was not he then stronger than Saturn, and

hast not thou been victorious ever since, throughout all those great

changes and alterations? And when thou hast thus considered, perhaps

thou wilt believe, that that which begins well will end well; and

indeed perhaps it may so happen; but be not too proud of this, a word

is enough to the wise."--_Astrological Observations and Predictions for

the year of our Lord 1691, by John Silvester._ London, 1690, 4to.]

[Footnote 409: The Gallery.]

EPILOGUE

TO THE

HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD.

_This play was written by John Dryden, Junior, son to our poet. See

the preface among our author's prose works. It was dedicated to Sir

Robert Howard, and acted in_ 1696.

Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,

So trembles a young poet at a full pit.

Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,

And wonders how the devil he durst come there;

Wanting three talents needful for the place,

Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.

Nor is the puny poet void of care; }

For authors, such as our new authors are, }

Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare; }

And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,

But has as little as the very parson:

Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;

But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.

The difference is, that though you like the play,

The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day;

But with the parson 'tis another case,

He, without holiness, may rise to grace;

The poet has one disadvantage more, }

That if his play be dull, he's damn'd all o'er, }

Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor. }

But dulness well becomes the sable garment;

I warrant that ne'er spoiled a priest's preferment;

Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes, }

Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose, }

For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux. }

You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears, }

At what his beauship says, but what he wears; }

So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears. }

The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,

The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.

The truth on't is, the payment of the pit

Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.

You cannot from our absent author[410] hope,

He should equip the stage with such a fop.

Fools change in England, and new fools arise; }

For, though the immortal species never dies, }

Yet every year new maggots make new flies. }

But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find

One fool, for million that he left behind.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 410: Young Dryden was then in Rome with his brother Charles,

who was gentleman-usher to the Pope.]

MAC-FLECNOE,

A SATIRE

AGAINST

THOMAS SHADWELL.

MAC-FLECNOE.

The enmity between Dryden and Shadwell at first probably only sprung

from some of those temporary causes of disgust, which must frequently

divide persons whose lives are spent in a competition for public

applause. That they were occasionally upon tolerable terms is certain,

for Dryden has told us so; and Shadwell, in 1676, when expressing

his dissent from one of our author's rules of theatrical criticism,

industriously and anxiously qualifies his opinion, with the highest

compliments to our author's genius.[411] They had formerly even

joined forces, and called in the aid of another wit, to overwhelm the

reputation of no less a person than Elkanah Settle.[412] But, between

the politics of the stage and of the nation, the friendship of these

bards, which probably never had a very solid foundation, was at length

totally overthrown. It is not very easy to discover who struck the

first blow; but it may be suspected, that Dryden was displeased to

see Shadwell not only dispute his canons of criticism in print, but

seem to establish himself as an imitator of the old school of dramatic

composition, and particularly of Jonson, on whom Dryden had thrown

some censure in his epilogue to "The Conquest of Grenada," and in the

Defence of these verses. It seems certain, that the feud had broke out

in 1675-6; for Shadwell has not only made some invidious allusions to

the success of "Aureng-Zebe," which was represented that season, but

has plainly intimated, that he needed only a pension to enable him to

write as well as Dryden himself.[413] This assault, however, seems to

have been forgiven; for Dryden obliged Shadwell with an epilogue to the

"True Widow," acted in 1678. But their precarious reconcilement did not

long subsist, when political animosity was added to literary rivalry.

Shadwell not only wrote the "Lancashire Witches," in ridicule of the

Tory party, but entered into a personal contest with our author on the

subject of "The Medal," which he answered by a clumsy, though venomous,

retort, called "The Medal of John Bayes." In the preface he asserts,

that no one can think Dryden "hardly dealt with, since he knows, and

so do all his old acquaintance, that there is not one untrue word

spoke of him." Neither was this a single offence; for Dryden, in his

"Vindication of the Duke of Guise," says, that Shadwell has repeatedly

called him Atheist in print. These reiterated insults at length drew

down the vengeance of our poet, who seems to have singled Shadwell

from the herd of those who had libelled him, to be gibbetted in rhyme

while the English language shall last. Neither was Dryden satisfied

with a single attack upon this obnoxious bard; but, having divided his

poetical character from that which he held as a political writer, he

discussed the first in the satire which follows, and the last, with

equal severity, in the Second Part of "Absalom and Achitophel." These

two admirable pieces of satire appeared within less than a month of

each other; and leave it a matter of doubt, whether the bitter ridicule

of the anointed Prince of Dulness, or the sarcastic description of Og,

the seditious poetaster, be most cruelly severe.

"Mac-Flecnoe" must be allowed to be one of the keenest satires in the

English language. It is what Dryden has elsewhere termed a Varronian

satire;[414] that is, as he seems to use the phrase, one in which the

author is not contented with general sarcasm upon the object of attack,

but where he has woven his piece into a sort of imaginary story, or

scene, in which he introduces the person, whom he ridicules, as a

principal actor. The position in which Dryden has placed Shadwell is

the most mortifying to literary vanity which can possibly be imagined,

and is hardly excelled by the device of Pope in the "Dunciad," who

has obviously followed the steps of his predecessor. Flecnoe, who

seems to have been universally acknowledged as the very lowest of

all poetasters, and whose name had passed into a proverb for doggrel

verse and stupid prose, is represented as devolving upon Shadwell that

pre-eminence over the realms of Dulness, which he had himself possessed

without a rival. The spot chosen for this devolution of empire is

the Barbican, an obscure suburb, in which it would seem that there

were temporary theatrical representations of the lowest order, among

other receptacles of vulgar dissipation, for the amusement of the very

lowest of the vulgar. Here the ceremony of Shadwell's coronation is

supposed to be performed with an inaugural oration by Flecnoe, his

predecessor, in which all his pretensions to wit and to literary fame

are sarcastically enumerated and confuted, by a counter-statement of

his claims to distinction by pre-eminent and unrivalled stupidity. In

this satire, the shafts of the poet are directed with an aim acutely

malignant. The inference drawn concerning Shadwell's talents is

general and absolute; but in the proof, Dryden appeals with triumph

to those parts only of his literary character which are obviously

vulnerable. He reckons up among his titles to the throne of Flecnoe,

his desperate and unsuccessful attempts at lyrical composition, in

the opera of "Psyche;" the clumsy and coarse limning of those whom

he designed to figure as fine gentlemen in his comedies; the false

and florid taste of his dedications; his presumptuous imitation of

Jonson in composition, and his absurd resemblance to him in person.

But the satirist industriously keeps out of view those points, in

which perhaps he internally felt some inferiority to the object of

his wrath. He mentions nothing that could recal to the reader's

recollection that insight into human life, that acquaintance with the

foibles and absurdities displayed in individual pursuits, that bold

though coarse delineation of character, which gave fame to Shadwell's

comedies in the last century, and renders them amusing even at the

present day. This discrimination is an excellent proof of the exquisite

address with which Dryden wielded the satirical weapon, and managed

the feelings of his readers. We never find him attempting a desperate

or impossible task; at least in a way which seems, in the moment of

perusal, desperate or impossible. He never wastes his powder against

the impregnable part of a fortress, but directs all his battery

against some weaker spot, where a breach may be rendered practicable.

In short, by convincing his reader that he is right in the examples

which he quotes, he puts the question at issue upon the ground most

disadvantageous for his antagonist, and renders it very difficult for

one who has been proved a dunce in one instance to establish his credit

in any other.

I have had so frequently to call the attention of my reader to the

sonorous and emphatic effect of Dryden's versification, that it is

almost ridiculous to repeat epithets which apply to every poem which

succeeded his _Annus Mirabilis_; yet I cannot but remark, that the mock

heroic may be said to have owed its rise to our author, and that there

is hardly any poem, before "Mac-Flecnoe," in which it has been employed

with all its qualities of grave and pompous irony, expressed in solemn

and sounding verse.

It is no inconsiderable part of the merit of "Mac-Flecnoe," that it

led the way to the "Dunciad:" yet, while we acknowledge the more

copious and variegated flow of Pope's satire, we must not forget,

that, independent of the merit of originality, always inestimable,

Dryden's poem claims that of a close and more compact fable, of a

single and undisturbed aim. Pope's ridicule and sarcasm is scattered

so wide, and among such a number of authors, that it resembles small

shot discharged at random among a crowd; while that of Dryden, like a

single well-directed bullet, prostrates the individual object against

whom it was directed. Besides, the reader is apt to sympathise with

the degree of the satirist's provocation, which, in Dryden's case,

cannot be disputed; whereas Pope sometimes confounds those, from whom

he had received gross incivility, with others who had given him no

offence, and with some whose characters were above his accusation. To

posterity, the "Mac-Flecnoe" possesses a decided superiority over the

"Dunciad," for a very few facts make us master of the argument; while

that of the latter poem, excepting the Sixth Book, where the satire is

more general, requires a note at every tenth line to render it even

intelligible.

Mr Malone has given us the title of the first edition of "Mac-Flecnoe,"

which the present Editor has never seen, as indeed it is of the last

degree of rarity. It was published not by Tonson, but by D. Green, and

entitled, "Mac-Flecnoe, or a Satire on the True-blue[415] Protestant

Poet, T. S.; by the Author of Absalom and Achitophel." It consisted

only of one sheet and a half, and was sold for twopence. The satire

was too personal, and too poignant, to fail in attracting immediate

attention, and accordingly the poem was quickly sold off. It was not

republished until it appeared in Tonson's first Miscellany, in 1684,

with a few slight alterations, intended either to point particular

verses, or to correct errors of the press, or pen. It must have been

generally known, that Dryden was the author of this satire, both

because it is stated in the title-page to be by the author of "Absalom

and Achitophel," and because there existed no contemporary poet to whom

so masterly a production could have been ascribed, even with remote

probability; yet Shadwell, in his dedication of the tenth satire of

Juvenal, (a most miserable performance,) says, that Dryden, when he

taxed him with being the author, "denied it with all the execrations

he could think of;" an accusation which was echoed by Brown, though

apparently upon the authority of Shadwell alone.[416] From this

averment, which is probably made far too broadly, we can only infer,

that Dryden, like Swift in the same predicament, left his adversary

to prove what he had no title to call upon him to confess; for that

he seriously meant to disavow a performance, of which he had from the

very beginning sufficiently avouched himself the author, can hardly

be supposed for a moment. It has indeed been noticed, that our author

has omitted this poem, as well as the "Eulogy on Cromwell," in a list

of his plays and poems subjoined to one of his plays; but Dryden might

not think fit to admit a personal, and what he probably considered

as a fugitive satire, into a formal list of his poetry. We know he

entertained a conscious sense of his dignity in this respect; for,

excepting in a slight and passing sarcasm, he never deigned to answer

any of his literary adversaries, excepting Settle and Shadwell; and he

might possibly think, on reflection, that he had done the latter too

much honour in making him the subject of a separate and laboured poem.

Mr Malone also conceives, that he might be with-held from inserting

this poem in an authoritative list of his works, by delicacy towards

Dorset, his recent benefactor, who had thought Shadwell worthy of the

laurel of which our poet had been divested at the Revolution. Be it

as it may, he was afterwards so far from disowning the poem, that, in

the Essay on Satire, he gives it, with "Absalom and Achitophel," as

instances of his own attempts at the Varronian satire.

The purpose and scope of "Mac-Flecnoe" was strangely misconstrued by

the object of it, and by our poet's editors. Shadwell took it into his

head, that Dryden meant seriously to tax him with being an Irishman;

a charge which he seems more anxious to refute than seems necessary.

Cibber, or whoever wrote Dryden's Life in the collection bearing his

name, supposes, that Flecnoe, who died in 1678, had actually succeeded

our author in the office of poet-laureat. Derrick, though he corrects

this error, has fallen into another, in which he is followed by Dr

Johnson, who considers "Mac-Flecnoe" as written in express ridicule

of Shadwell's inauguration as court poet. The scarcity of the first

edition of "Mac-Flecnoe" might have been some excuse for these errors,

had not the piece been printed in the first Miscellany, in 1684, four

years before Dryden's being deposed, and Shadwell succeeding him.

Certainly the two events tallied strangely; and the friends of Shadwell

might have considered the substantial office which he gained by the

downfall of Dryden, as a just compensation for the ludicrous and mock

dignity with which his foe had invested him.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 411: See the whole passage, Vol. VII. p. 141. note.]

[Footnote 412: See the Remarks on the Empress of Morocco, written in

conjunction by Dryden, Crown, and Shadwell. They were printed in 1674.]

[Footnote 413: These circumstances of offence occur in the prologue,

epilogue, and preface to the "Virtuoso," which must have been acted in

the same season with "Aureng-Zebe," as the dedication is dated 26th

June, 1676. The prologue commences with an irreverend allusion to that

play, and to our author's theatrical engagements:

You came with such an eager appetite

To a late play, which gave so great delight,

Our poet fears, that by so rich a treat

Your palates are become too delicate.

Yet since you've had rhyme for a relishing bit,

To give a better taste to comic wit;

But this requires expence of time and pains,

Too great, alas! for poets' slender gains.

For wit, like china, should long buried lie,

Before it ripens to good comedy;

A thing we ne'er have seen since Jonson's days,

And but a few of his were perfect plays.

Now drudges of the stage must oft appear,

They must be bound to scribble twice a year.

That these insinuations might not be mistaken, Shadwell, in the

epilogue, severely attacks rhyming tragedies in general; the object of

which diatribe, considering the late success of "Aureng-Zebe," could

not possibly be misinterpreted:

But of those ladies he despairs to-day,

Who love a dull romantic whining play;

Where poor frail woman's made a deity, }

With senseless amorous idolatry, }

And snivelling heroes sigh, and pine, and cry.}

Though singly they beat armies, and huff kings,

Rant at the gods, and do impossible things;

Though they can laugh at danger, blood, and wounds,

Yet if the dame once chides, the milk-sop hero swoons.

These doughty things nor manners have nor wit;

We ne'er saw hero fit to drink with yet.

The passage in the Dedication, in which he insinuates that the

provision of a pension was all he wanted, to place him on a level with

the proudest of his rivals, is as follows: "That there are a great many

faults in the conduct of this play, I am not ignorant; but I (having

no pension but from the theatre, which is either unwilling, or unable,

to reward a man sufficiently for so much pains as correct comedies

require) cannot allot my whole time to the writing of plays, but am

forced to mind some other business of advantage. Had I as much money,

and as much time for it, I might perhaps write as correct a comedy as

any of my contemporaries."]

[Footnote 414: See Essay on Satire, Vol. XIII. p. 65.]

[Footnote 415: This epithet preceded the nickname of Whig. See Vol. IX.

p. 211.]

[Footnote 416: "I make bold to use his own expression in "Mac-Flecnoe,"

if it is _his_, I say, for Mr Shadwell, in the preface before his

Translation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal, has been lately pleased to

acquaint the world, that he publicly disowned the writing it with as

solemn imprecations as his friend the Spanish Friar did the Cavalier

Lorenzo."--_Reasons_, &c.]

MAC-FLECKNOE.

All human things are subject to decay,

And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey.

This Flecknoe found,[417] who, like Augustus, young

Was called to empire, and had governed long;

In prose and verse was owned, without dispute,

Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.

This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,

And blest with issue of a large increase,

Worn out with business, did at length debate

To settle the succession of the state;

And, pondering which of all his sons was fit

To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,

Cried,--'Tis resolved! for nature pleads, that he

Should only rule, who most resembles me.

Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,

Mature in dulness from his tender years;[418]

Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he,

Who stands confirmed in full stupidity.

The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,

But Shadwell never deviates into sense;

Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,

Strike through, and make a lucid interval;

But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,

His rising fogs prevail upon the day.

Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,

And seems designed for thoughtless majesty;

Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,

And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.

Heywood and Shirley[419] were but types of thee,

Thou last great prophet of tautology!

Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,

Was sent before but to prepare thy way;

And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget,[420] came

To teach the nations in thy greater name.

My warbling lute,--the lute I whilom strung,

When to king John of Portugal I sung,--

Was but the prelude to that glorious day,

When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,

With well-timed oars, before the royal barge,[421]

Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge;

And big with hymn, commander of an host,--

The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost.[422]

Methinks I see the new Arion sail,

The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.[423]

At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to shore,

The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar;

Echoes, from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call,

And Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall.

About thy boat the little fishes throng,

As at the morning toast that floats along.

Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,

Thou weild'st thy papers in thy threshing hand;

St André's[424] feet ne'er kept more equal time,

Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme,

Though they in number as in sense excel;[425]

So just, so like tautology, they fell,

That, pale with envy, Singleton[426] forswore }

The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, }

And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more.--}

Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy,

In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.

All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,

That for anointed dulness he was made.

Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,

(The fair Augusta much to fears inclined,[427])

An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight,

There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight;

A watch-tower once, but now, so fate ordains,

Of all the pile an empty name remains;

From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,

Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys;

Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep,

And, undisturbed by watch, in silence sleep.[428]

Near these a nursery erects its head,

Where queens are formed, and future heroes bred;

Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry;}

Where infant punks their tender voices try, }

And little Maximins the gods defy. }

Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,

Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;

But gentle Simkin[429] just reception finds

Amidst this monument of vanished minds;

Pure clinches the suburbian muse affords,

And Panton[430] waging harmless war with words.

Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,

Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne.

For ancient Decker[431] prophesied long since, }

That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,}

Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense; }

To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe,

But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;

Humorists, and Hypocrites, it should produce,

Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.[432]

Now empress Fame had published the renown

Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.

Roused by report of fame, the nations meet,

From near Bunhill, and distant Watling-street.

No Persian carpets spread the imperial way,

But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay;

From dusty shops neglected authors come,

Martyrs of pies, and relics of the bum;

Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,

But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way;

Bilked stationers for yeomen stood prepared,

And Herringman[433] was captain of the guard.

The hoary prince in majesty appeared,

High on a throne of his own labours reared.

At his right hand our young Ascanius sate,

Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state;

His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,

And lambent dulness played around his face.

As Hannibal did to the altars come,

Swore by his sire, a mortal foe to Rome,

So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain,

That he till death true dulness would maintain;

And, in his father's right, and realm's defence,

Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.

The king himself the sacred unction made,

As king by office, and as priest by trade.

In his sinister hand, instead of ball,

He placed a mighty mug of potent ale;

"Love's kingdom"[434] to his right he did convey,

At once his sceptre, and his rule of sway;

Whose righteous lore the prince had practised young,

And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung.

His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread,[435]

That nodding seemed to consecrate his head.

Just at the point of time, if fame not lie,

On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly;--

So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tyber's brook,

Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.

The admiring throng loud acclamations make,

And omens of his future empire take.

The sire then shook the honours of his head,

And from his brows damps of oblivion shed

Full on the filial dulness: long he stood, }

Repelling from his breast the raging god; }

At length burst out in this prophetic mood:--}

Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let him reign,

To far Barbadoes on the western main;

Of his dominion may no end be known,

And greater than his father's be his throne;

Beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his pen!--

He paused, and all the people cried, Amen.--

Then thus continued he: My son, advance

Still in new impudence, new ignorance.

Success let others teach, learn thou from me

Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.

Let Virtuosos in five years be writ,

Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.[436]

Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,

Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;

Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,[437]

And in their folly show the writer's wit;

Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,

And justify their author's want of sense.

Let them be all by thy own model made

Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid;

That they to future ages may be known,

Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own:

Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,

All full of thee, and differing but in name;

But let no alien Sedley interpose,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.[438]

And when false flowers of rhetoric thou would'st cull,

Trust nature; do not labour to be dull,

But write thy best, and top; and, in each line,

Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:

Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,

And does thy northern dedications fill.[439]

Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,

By arrogating Jonson's hostile name;[440]

Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,

And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part:

What share have we in nature, or in art?

Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,

And rail at arts he did not understand?

Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,

Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?

Where sold he bargains, "whip-stitch, kiss my arse,"[441]

Promised a play, and dwindled to a farce?

When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,

As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine?

But so transfused, as oil and waters flow,

His always floats above, thine sinks below.

This is thy province, this thy wonderous way,

New humours to invent for each new play:[442]

This is that boasted bias of thy mind,

By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined;

Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,

And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.

Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence

Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.

A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,

But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.

Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;

Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep.

With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,

Thy inoffensive satires never bite;

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,

It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.

Thy genius call thee not to purchase fame

In keen iambics, but mild anagram.

Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command,

Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.

There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise,[443]

And torture one poor word ten thousand ways;

Or, if thou would'st thy different talents suit,

Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.--

He said:--but his last words were scarcely heard;}

For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepared, }

And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.[444] }

Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,

Borne upwards by a subterranean wind.

The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,

With double portion of his father's art.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 417: Note I.]

[Footnote 418: Note II.]

[Footnote 419: Note III.]

[Footnote 420: Note IV.]

[Footnote 421: Note V.]

[Footnote 422: Note VI.]

[Footnote 423: Note VII.]

[Footnote 424: An eminent dancing-master of the period.]

[Footnote 425: Note VIII.]

[Footnote 426: Note IX.]

[Footnote 427: Alluding to the political apprehensions of the period,

so universal in the city.]

[Footnote 428: These lines are a parody on a passage in Cowley's

_Davideis_, Book I.:

Beneath the dens where unfledged tempests lie,

And infant winds their tender voices cry;

* * * * *

Where their vast court the mother waters keep;

And, undisturbed by moons, in silence sleep.

]

[Footnote 429: The character of a cobler in an interlude.]

[Footnote 430: A celebrated punster, according to Derrick.]

[Footnote 431: Note X.]

[Footnote 432: Note XI.]

[Footnote 433: Henry Herringman, bookseller, published almost all the

poems, plays, and lighter pieces of the day. He was Dryden's original

publisher.]

[Footnote 434: A play of Flecknoe's so called. See Note XII.]

[Footnote 435: Perhaps in allusion to Shadwell's frequent use of opium,

as well as to his dulness.]

[Footnote 436: Note XIII.]

[Footnote 437: Note XIV.]

[Footnote 438: Note XV.]

[Footnote 439: Note XVI.]

[Footnote 440: Note XVII.]

[Footnote 441: This elegant phrase is the current catch-word of Sir

Samuel Hearty in the "Virtuoso," described in the _dramatis personæ_ as

"a brisk, amorous, adventurous, unfortunate coxcomb; one that, by the

help of humorous, nonsensical bye-words, takes himself to be a great

wit."]

[Footnote 442: Alluding, probably, to the following vaunt of Shadwell,

in the Dedication to the "Virtuoso:" "Four of the humours are entirely

new; and, without vanity, I may say, I ne'er produced a comedy that

had not some natural humour in it not represented before, and I hope I

never shall."]

[Footnote 443: Note XVIII.]

[Footnote 444: Bruce and Longvil are fine gentlemen in Shadwell's

comedy of the "Virtuoso;" who, during a florid speech of Sir Formal

Trifle, contrive to get rid of the orator, by letting go a trap-door,

upon which he had placed himself during his declamation.]

NOTES

ON

MAC-FLECKNOE.

Note I.

_This Flecknoe found._--P. 433.

Richard Flecknoe, the unfortunate bard whom our author has damned to

everlasting fame, was by birth an Irishman, and by profession a Roman

Catholic priest. Marvel, who seems to have known him at Rome, describes

his person as meagre in the extreme, and his itch for scribbling as

incessant. The poem, in which Marvel depicts him, is in the old taste

of extravagant burlesque, and the lines are as rugged as Flecknoe

could himself have produced. It contains, however, some witty and some

humorous description, and the reader may be pleased to see a specimen:

_Flecknoe, an English Priest at Rome._

Obliged by frequent visits of this man,

Whom, as a priest, poet, musician,

I for some branch of Melchizedec took,

Though he derives himself from my Lord Brooke,

I sought his lodging, which is at the sign

Of the sad Pelican, subject divine

For poetry. There, three stair-cases high,

Which signifies his triple property,

I found at last a chamber, as 'twas said,

But seemed a coffin set on the stair's head,

Not higher than seven, nor larger than three feet;

There neither was a ceiling, nor a sheet,

Save that the ingenious door did, as you come,

Turn in, and show to wainscot half the room;

Yet of his state no man could have complained,

There being no bed where he entertained;

And though within this cell so narrow pent,

He'd stanzas for a whole apartement.

* * * * *

---- ----Nothing now, dinner staid,

But till he had himself a body made;

I mean till he were dressed; for else, so thin

He stands, as if he only fed had been

With consecrated wafers; and the host

Hath sure more flesh and blood than he can boast.

This basso-relievo of a man,

Who, as a camel tall, yet easily can

The needle's eye thread without any stitch;

His only impossible is to be rich.

Lest his too subtle body, growing rare,

Should leave his soul to wander in the air,

He therefore circumscribes himself in rhymes,

And, swaddled in's own paper seven times,

Wears a close jacket of poetic buff,

With which he doth his third dimension stuff.

Thus armed underneath, he over all

Doth make a primitive sotana fall;

And over that, yet casts an antique cloak,

Worn at the first council of Antioch,

Which, by the Jews long hid and disesteemed,

He heard of by tradition, and redeemed;

But were he not in this black habit decked,

This half transparent man would soon reflect

Each colour that he past by, and be seen

As the camelion, yellow, blue, or green.

It appears that Flecknoe either laid aside, or disguised, his spiritual

character, when he returned to England; but he still preserved

extensive connections with the Roman Catholic nobility and gentry.[445]

He probably wrote upon many occasional subjects, but his poetry has

fallen into total oblivion. I have particularly sought in vain for

his verses to King John of Portugal, to which Dryden alludes a little

lower. Langbaine mentions four of his plays, namely, "Damoiselles a la

Mode," "Erminia," "Love's Dominion," and "Love's Kingdom," (of which

more hereafter;) but none of these were ever acted, excepting the last.

This gave Flecknoe great indignation, which he thus vents against the

players in his preface to "Damoiselles a la Mode." "For the acting

of this comedy, those who have the governing of the stage have their

humour, and would be entreated; and I have mine, and won't entreat

them: and were all dramatic writers of my mind, they should wear their

old plays thread-bare before they should have any new, till they

better understood their own interest, and how to distinguish betwixt

good and bad." Notwithstanding this ill usage, he honoured the players

so far, as to prefix to each character, in the _dramatis personæ_ of

his pieces, the name of the actor, by whom, had the managers been

less inexorable, he meant it should have been performed. But this he

did for the sake of the gentle reader, whom he assures, that a lively

imagination being thus assisted in bodying forth the character, he

may receive as much pleasure from the perusal as from the actual

representation of the performance. Flecknoe bore the damnation of the

only one of his plays which was represented, with the same valiant

indifference with which he supported the rebuffs of the players. In

short, he seems to have been fitted for an incorrigible scribbler, by

a happy fund of self-satisfaction, upon which neither the censures of

criticism, nor the united hisses of a whole nation, could make the

slightest impression. When or how Flecknoe died is uncertain, and of

very little consequence; I presume, however, that he was dead when this

satire was published. I am uncertain whether the reader will think,

that this poor poetaster merited mercy at the hands of Dryden, for the

following lines which he had written in his praise, and which, at any

rate, may serve as a specimen of Flecknoe's poetry:

Dryden, the muses darling and delight,

Than whom none ever flew so high a flight:

Some have their veins so drossy, as from earth,

Their muses only seem to have ta'en their birth.

Other but water-poets are, have gone

No farther than to the fount of Helicon:

And they're but airy ones, whose muse soars up

No higher than to mount Parnassus top;

Whilst thou, with thine, dost seem to have mounted higher

Than he who fetch from heaven celestial fire;

And dost as far surpass all others, as

Fire does all other elements surpass.

Flecknoe's memory being only preserved by this satire, his very name

came to be identified with its title. King, in "A Dialogue in the

Shades," introduces him under the name of _Mac_-Flecknoe; and Derrick

falls into the same error.

Note II.

_Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,

Mature in dulness from his tender years._--P. 433.

Thomas Shadwell was born at Santon-hall, in Norfolk, in which county

his father represented a very ancient family. He was educated at Caius

College, in Cambridge, and placed in the Middle Temple to study law;

but, like many of the inhabitants of these buildings, he preferred the

smoother paths of literature. He made several essays in heroic verse,

all of which are deplorably bad. They are chiefly occasional pieces;

as, an Address to the Prince of Orange on his Landing, another to Queen

Mary, and a Translation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal; which, though

prefaced by a violent refutation of our author's attacks upon him, is

so execrable, as fully to confirm Dryden's censures of the author's

poetical talents. But, in comedy, he was much more successful; and, in

that capacity, Dryden does him great injustice in pronouncing him a

dunce. On the contrary, I think most of Shadwell's comedies may be read

with great pleasure. They do not, indeed, exhibit any brilliancy of

wit, or ingenuity of intrigue; but the characters are truly dramatic,

original, and well drawn; and the picture of manners which they exhibit

gives us a lively idea of those of the author's age. As Shadwell

proposed Jonson for his model, peculiarity of character, or what

was then technically called _humour_, was what he chiefly wished to

exhibit; and in this, it cannot be denied that he has often succeeded

admirably. His powers, as a dramatist, are highly rated by Rochester,

who imputes his coarseness to rapidity of composition:

Of all our modern wits, none seem to me}

Once to have touched upon true comedy, }

But hasty Shadwell and slow Wycherley. }

Shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart

Great proofs of force of genius, none of art;

With just bold strokes he dashes here and there,

Showing great mastery with little care;

Scorning to varnish his good touches o'er,

To make the fools and women praise them more.

_Allusion to Tenth Satire of Horace._

Shadwell's plays are seventeen in number, and were published, in four

volumes, under the inspection of his son, Sir John Shadwell, M. D.

Shadwell's life was chequered with misfortune. As he espoused the

party of the Duke of Monmouth, to whom he dedicated "Psyche," and of

Shaftesbury, he thought himself obliged to draw the quill in defence

of their cause. Accordingly, as we have seen, he attempted to answer

"The Medal" on the one hand, and, on the other, accused our author of

intending a parallel between Monmouth and the Duke of Guise, in the

play so entitled. This zeal seems to have cost Shadwell dear; for,

besides undergoing the severe flagellations administered by Dryden,

in the "Defence of the Duke of Guise," in "Absalom and Achitophel,"

and in the present poem, he complains, that his ruin was designed,

and his life sought; and that, for near ten years, he was kept from

the exercise of that profession which had afforded him a competent

subsistence.[446] It is no wonder, therefore, he was among the first

to hail the dawn of the Revolution, by the address already mentioned,

of which the full title is, "A Congratulatory Poem on his Highness the

Prince of Orange his coming into England. Written by T. S. (Thomas

Shadwell,) a True Lover of his Country, (10th January) 1689;" and that

King William distinguished him by the honours of the laurel. Dorset,

who was high chamberlain, answered, to those who remonstrated on

Shadwell's lack of poetical talent, that, without pretending to vouch

for Mr Shadwell's genius, he was sure he was an honest man. Shadwell

did not long enjoy this triumph over his great enemy. He died 19th

November, 1692,[447] in the fifty-second year of his age. It is said,

this event was hastened by his taking an over dose of opium, to the use

of which he was inordinately addicted. "His death," says Dr Nicholas

Brady, who preached his funeral sermon, "seized him suddenly; but he

could not be unprepared, since, to my certain knowledge, he never took

a dose of opium but he solemnly recommended himself to God by prayer."

In person, Shadwell was large, corpulent, and unwieldy; a circumstance

which our author generally keeps in the eye of the reader. He seems to

have imitated his prototype, Ben Jonson, in gross and coarse sensual

indulgence, and profane conversation. But, if there be truth in a

funeral sermon, he must have corrected these habits before his death;

for Dr Brady tells us, "that our author was a man of great honesty

and integrity, and inviolable fidelity and strictness in his word; an

unalterable friendship wherever he professed it; and however the world

may be mistaken in him, he had a much deeper sense of religion than

many who pretended more to it. His natural and acquired abilities,"

continues the Doctor, "made him very amiable to all who knew and

conversed with him, a very few being equal in the becoming qualities

which adorn and set off a complete gentleman; his very enemies, if he

has now any left, will give him this character, at least if they knew

him so thoroughly as I did."--CIBBER'S _Lives of the Poets_, Article

_Shadwell_, Vol. III.

Note III.

_Heywood and Shirley._--P. 434.

Voluminous dramatic authors, who flourished in the beginning of the

17th century. There were no less than four Heywoods who wrote plays;

so that, Winstanley says, the name of Heywood seemed to be destinated

to the stage. But he whom Dryden here means, is Thomas Heywood, a

person rather to be admired for the facility, than for the excellence

of his compositions. Every place and situation was alike to him while

composing; and the favourite register of his scenes was the back of

a tavern bill. Far the greater part of his labours are now lost; and

yet there remain, in the libraries of the curious, twenty-four printed

plays by Thomas Heywood. He was an actor by profession, and a good

scholar, as is evinced by several of his classical allusions. His plays

may be examined with advantage by the antiquary, but afford slender

amusement to the lovers of poetry. The following character of him, by

an old poet, is preserved by Langbaine:

---- ----Heywood sage,

The apologetic Atlas of the stage;

Well of the golden age he could entreat,

But little of the metal he could get.

Threescore sweet babes be fashioned at a lump,

For he was christened in Parnassus pump,

The muses' gossip to Aurora's bed;

And ever since that time his face was red.

If we cannot call Heywood a second Lope de Vega, in point of the extent

of his dramatic works, he overtops most English authors; since he

assures us, in his preface to the "English Traveller," that it was one

reserved among two hundred and twenty plays, in which he had either

had "a whole hand, or, at the least, a main finger." It is a pity, as

Johnson said of Churchill, so fruitful a tree should have borne only

crabs.

James Shirley, whom our author most unjustly couples with Heywood,

to whom, as well as to Shadwell, he was greatly superior, was born

in 1594, and, although for some time a schoolmaster, appears to have

lived chiefly by the stage. When the civil wars broke out, he followed

the fortune of William, Earl of Newcastle. During the usurpation, when

theatres were prohibited, he returned to his original profession of

a schoolmaster. He died of fatigue and distress of mind during the

great fire of London, in 1666. He wrote forty-two plays, and there

are thirty-nine in print; a complete set of which is much esteemed by

collectors. Dr Farmer has traced, to this neglected bard, an idea,

which Milton thought not unworthy of adoption.

Shirley is spoken of with contempt in "Mac-Flecknoe," but his

imagination is sometimes fine to an extraordinary degree. I recollect

a passage in the Fourth Book of the "Paradise Lost," which hath been

suspected of imitation, as a prettiness below the genius of Milton: I

mean, where Uriel glides backward and forward to heaven on a sun-beam.

Dr Newton informs us, that this might possibly be hinted by a picture

of Annabal Caracci, in the king of France's cabinet; but I am apt

to believe, that Milton had been struck with a portrait in Shirley.

Fernando, in the comedy of the "Brothers," 1652, describes Jacinta at

vespers:

Her eye did seem to labour with a tear,

Which suddenly took birth, but overweighed

With its own swelling, dropped upon her bosom;

Which, by reflection of her light, appeared

As nature meant her sorrow for an ornament':

After, her looks grew cheerfull, and I saw

A smile shoot graceful upward from her eyes,

As if they had gained a victory o'er grief;

_And with it many beams twisted themselves,

Upon whose golden threads the angels walk

To and again from heaven_.

Essay on the Learning of Shakespeare.

Note IV.

_Coarsely clad in Norwich drugget._--P. 434.

This stuff appears to have been sacred to the use of the poorer

votaries of Parnassus; and it is somewhat odd, that it seems to

have been the dress of our poet himself in the earlier stage of his

fortunes. An old gentleman, who corresponded with the "Gentleman's

Magazine," says, he remembers our author in this dress. Vol. XV. p. 99.

Note V.

_When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,

With well-timed oars, before the royal barge._--P. 434.

I confess myself, after some research, at a loss to discover the nature

of the procession, in which Shadwell seems to have acted as leader of

the band. One is at first sight led to consider the whole procession as

imaginary, and preliminary to his supposed coronation; but, on closer

investigation, it appears, that Flecknoe talks of some real occurrence,

on which Shadwell preceded the royal barge, at the head of a boat-load

of performers. We may see, in the seventh note, that he professed to

understand music, and may certainly have been called upon to assist or

direct the band during some entertainment upon the river, an amusement

to which King Charles was particularly addicted.

Note VI.

_The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost._--P. 434.

This seems to be in ridicule of the following elegant expression

which Shadwell puts in the mouth of a fine lady: "Such a fellow as he

deserves to be _tossed in a blanket_." This, however, does not occur

in "Epsom-Wells," but in another of Shadwell's comedies, called "The

Sullen Lovers."

Note VII.

_Methinks I see the new Arion sail,

The lute still trembling underneath thy nail._--P. 434.

Shadwell appears to have been a proficient in music, and to have

himself adjusted that of his opera of "Psyche," which Dryden here

treats with such consummate contempt. Indeed, in the preface of that

choice piece he affected to value himself more upon the music than the

poetry, as appears from the following passage in the preface: "I had

rather be author of one scene of comedy, like some of Ben Jonson's,

than of all the best plays of this kind, that have been, or ever shall

be written; good comedy requiring much more wit and judgment in the

writer, than any rhiming, unnatural plays can do. This I have so little

valued, that I have not altered six lines in it since it was first

written, which (except the songs at the marriage of Psyche, in the

last scene) was all done sixteen months since. In all the words which

are sung, I did not so much take care of the wit or fancy of them, as

the making of them proper for music; in which I cannot but have some

little knowledge, having been bred, for many years of my youth, to some

performance in it.

"I chalked out the way to the composer, (in all but the song of Furies

and Devils, in the fifth act,) having designed which line I would have

sung by one, which by two, which by three, which by four voices, &c.

and what manner of humour I would have in all the vocal music."

Note VIII.

_Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme,

Though they in number as in sense excel._--P. 435.

This unfortunate opera was imitated from the French of Moliere, and

finished, as Shadwell assures us, in the space of five weeks. The

author having no talents for poetry, and no ear for versification,

"Psyche" is one of the most contemptible of the frivolous dramatic

class to which it belongs. It was, however, _got up_ with extreme

magnificence, and received much applause on its first appearance, in

1675. To justify the censure of Dryden, it is only necessary to quote a

few of the verses, taken at random as a specimen, of what he afterwards

calls "Prince Nicander's vein:"

_Nicander._ Madam, I to this solitude am come,

Humbly from you to hear my latest doom.

_Psyche._ The first command which I did give,

Was, that you should not see me here;

The next command you will receive,

Much harsher will to you appear.

_Nic._ How long, fair Psyche, shall I sigh in vain?

How long of scorn and cruelty complain?

Your eyes enough have wounded me,

You need not add your cruelty.

You against me too many weapons chuse,

Who am defenceless against each you use.

The poet himself seems so conscious of the sad inferiority of his

verses, that he makes, in the preface, a half apology, implying

a mortifying consciousness, that it was necessary to anticipate

condemnation, by pleading guilty. "In a thing written in five weeks, as

this was, there must needs be many errors, which I desire true critics

to pass by; and which, perhaps, I see myself, but having much business,

and indulging myself with some pleasure too, I have not had leisure

to mend them; nor would it indeed be worth the pains, since there are

so many splendid objects in the play, and such variety of diversion,

as will not give the audience leave to mind the writing; and I doubt

not but the candid reader will forgive the faults, when he considers,

that the great design was to entertain the town with variety of music,

curious dancing, splendid scenes, and machines; and that I do not, nor

ever did intend, to value myself upon the writing of this play."

Shadwell, however, had no right to plead, that this affected contempt

of his own lyric poetry ought to have disarmed the criticism of Dryden;

because, in the very same preface, he sets out by insinuating, that he

could easily have beaten our author on his own strong ground of rhyme,

had he thought such a contest worth winning. So much, at least, may be

inferred from the following declaration:

"In a good-natured country, I doubt not but this, my first essay in

rhyme, would be at least forgiven, especially when I promise to offend

no more in this kind; but I am sensible that here I must encounter a

great many difficulties. In the first place, (though I expect more

candour from the best writers in rhyme,) the more moderate of them (who

have yet a numerous party, good judges being very scarce) are very

much offended with me, for leaving my own province of comedy, to invade

their dominion of rhyme: but, methinks, they might be satisfied, since

I have made but a small incursion, and am resolved to retire. And, were

I never so powerful, they should escape me, as the northern people did

the Romans; their craggy barren territories being not worth conquering."

Note IX.

_----Pale with envy, Singleton forswore

The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore,

And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more._--P. 435.

Singleton was a musical performer of some eminence, and is mentioned as

such in one of Shadwell's comedies.--"'Sbud, they are the best music

in England: there's the best shawm and bandore, and a fellow that acts

Tom of Bedlam to a miracle; and they sing _Charon, oh, gentle Charon!_

and, _Come, my Daphne_, better than Singleton and Clayton did."--_Bury

Fair_, Act III. Scene I. Villerius, the grand master of the knights

hospitallers, is a principal character in "The Siege of Rhodes," an

opera by Sir William D'Avenant, where great part of the dialogue is in

a sort of lyrical recitative; in the execution of which Singleton seems

to have been celebrated. The first speech of this valorous chief of the

order of St John runs thus:

Arm, arm! let our drums beat,

To all our outguards, a retreat;

And to our main-guards add

Files double lined; from the parade

Send horse to drive the fields,

Prevent what ripening summer yields;

To all the foe would save

Set fire, or give a secret grave.

The combination of the lute and sword, which Dryden alludes to,

is ridiculed in "The Rehearsal," where Bayes informs his critical

friends, that his whole battle is to be represented by two persons;

"for I make 'em both come forth in armour cap-a-pee, with their swords

drawn, and hung with a scarlet ribband at their wrists, (which, you

know, represents fighting enough,) each of them holding a lute in his

hand.--_Smith._ How, sir; instead of a buckler?--_Bayes._ O Lord, O

Lord! instead of a buckler! Pray, sir, do you ask no more questions.

I make 'em, sir, play the battle in _recitativo_; and here's the

conceit: Just at the very same instant that one sings, the other,

sir, recovers you his sword, and puts himself into a warlike posture;

so that you have at once your ear entertained with music and good

language, and your eye satisfied with the garb and accoutrements of

war."--_Rehearsal_, Act V. The adverse generals enter accordingly,

and perform a sort of duet, great part of which is a parody upon the

lyrical dialogue of Villerius and the Soldan Solyman, in the "Siege of

Rhodes."

Note X.

_Ancient Decker._--P. 436.

Decker, who did not altogether deserve the disgraceful classification

which Dryden has here assigned to him, was a writer of the reign of

James I., and the antagonist of Jonson. I suspect Dryden knew, or at

least recollected, little more of him, than that he was ridiculed,

by his more renowned adversary, under the character of Crispinus,

in "The Poetaster." Indeed, nothing can be more unfortunate to an

inferior wit, than to be engaged in controversy with an author of

established reputation; since, though he may maintain his ground with

his contemporaries, posterity will always judge of him by the character

assigned in the writings of his antagonist. Decker was admitted to

write in conjunction with Webster, Ford, Brome, and even Massinger;

and though he was only employed to fill up the inferior scenes, he

certainly displays some theatrical talent. Indeed he was judged, by

many of his own time, to have retaliated Jonson's satire with success,

in "The Untrussing of the Humorous Poet;" where Ben is designed under

the character of Horace Junior. Besides, Decker possessed some tragic

powers: "The Honest Whore," which is altogether his own production, has

several scenes of great merit.

Note XI.

_But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;

Humorists, and Hypocrites, it should produce,

Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce._--P. 436.

Shadwell translated, or rather imitated, Moliere's "L'Avare," under the

title of "The Miser." In Langbaine's opinion, he has greatly improved

upon his original; but in this, as in other cases, the critic is

probably singular. "The Miser" was printed in 1672.

"The Humorists" was a play professedly written to expose the reigning

vices of the age; but as it was supposed to contain many direct

personal allusions, it was unfavourably received by the audience.

Shadwell, by way, I suppose, of insinuating to the readers an accurate

notion of the characters, or humours, which he means to represent, is,

in this and other pieces, at great pains to give a long and minute

account of each individual in the _dramatis personæ_. Thus we have have

in "The Humorists,"

"_Crazy,_--One that is in pox, in debt, and all the misfortunes that

can be; and, in the midst of all, in love with most women, and thinks

most women in love with him.

"_Drybob,_--A fantastic coxcomb, that makes it his business to speak

fine things and wit, as he thinks; and always takes notice, or makes

others take notice, of any thing he thinks well said.

"_Brisk,_--A brisk, airy, fantastic, singing, dancing coxcomb, that

sets up for a well-bred man, and a man of honour; but mistakes in

every thing, and values himself only upon the vanity and foppery of

gentlemen."

I do not know what to make of the "Hypocrites." Shadwell wrote no play

so entitled; nor is it likely he gave any assistance to Medbourne, who

translated the famous "Tartuffe" of Moliere, for they were of different

opinions in religion and politics. Perhaps Dryden means the characters

of the Irish priest and Tory chaplain in "The Lancashire Witches."

Raymond is a character in "The Humorists," described in the _dramatis

personæ_ as a "gentleman of wit and honour." Bruce a similar person in

"The Virtuoso," characterized as a "gentleman of wit and sense." In

these, and in all other characters where wit and an easy style were

requisite, Shadwell failed totally. His forte lay in broad, strong

comic painting.

Note XII.

_Ogleby._--P. 436.

This gentleman, whose name, thanks to our author and Pope, has

become almost proverbial for a bad poet, was originally a Scottish

dancing-master, when probably Scottish dancing was not so fashionable

as at present, and afterwards master of the revels in Ireland. He

translated "The Iliad," "The Odyssey," "The Æneid," and "Æsop's

Fables," into verse; and his versions were splendidly adorned with

sculpture. He also wrote three epic poems, one of which was fortunately

burned in the fire of London. Moreover, he conducted the ceremony of

Charles the Second's coronation,[448] and erected a theatre in Dublin.

Note XII.

"_Love's Kingdom._"--P. 437.

This was a play of Flecknoe's. The full title is, "Love's Kingdom,

a Pastoral Tragi-Comedy; not as it was acted at the theatre, near

Lincoln's-Inn, but as it was written, and since corrected by Richard

Flecknoe; with a short treatise of the English stage, &c. by the same

author. London, printed by R. Wood for the author, 1664."

The author's account of this piece, in the advertisement, is, "For

the plot, it is neat and handsome, and the language soft and gentle,

suitable to the persons who speak; neither on the ground, nor in the

clouds, but just like the stage, somewhat elevated above the common. In

neither no stiffness, and, I hope, no impertinence nor extravagance,

into which your young writers are too apt to run, who, whilst they

know not well what to do, and are anxious to do enough, most commonly

overdo."

THE PROLOGUE.

_Spoken by Venus from the Clouds._

If ever you have heard of Venus' name,

Goddess of beauty, I that Venus am;

Who have to day descended from my sphere,

To welcome you unto "Love's Kingdom" here;

Or rather to my sphere am come, since I

Am present no where more nor in the sky,

Nor any island in the world than this,

That wholly from the world divided is:

For Cupid, you behold him here in me,

(For there where beauty is, Love needs must be,)

Or you may yet more easily descry

Him 'mong the ladies, in each amorous eye;

And 'mongst the gallants may as easily trace

Him to their bosoms from each beauteous face.

May then, fair ladies, you

Find all your servants true;

And, gallants, may you find

The ladies all as kind,

As by your noble favours you declare

How much you friends unto "Love's Kingdom" are;

Of which yourselves compose so great a part,

In your fair eyes, and in your loving heart.

This specimen of "Love's Kingdom" is extracted from the "_Censura

Literaria_," No. IX.; to which publication it was communicated by Mr

Preston of Dublin. To "Love's Kingdom" Flecknoe subjoined a Discourse

on the English Stage, which is sometimes quoted as authority.

Note XIII.

_Let Virtuosos in five years be writ,

Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit._--P. 438.

Shadwell's comedy called "The Virtuoso," was first acted in 1676 with

great applause. It is by no means destitute of merit; though, as in all

his other pieces, it is to be found rather in the walk of coarse humour

than of elegance, or wit.

The character of Sir Nicholas Gimcrack, the Virtuoso, whose time was

spent in discoveries, although he had never invented any thing so

useful as an engine to pare a cream cheese with, is very ludicrous. I

cannot, however, but notice, that some of the discoveries, which are

ridiculed with so much humour, as the composition of various kinds of

air, for example, have been realized by the philosophers of this age.

As the whole piece seems intended as a satire on the researches of

the Royal Society, its scope could not be very pleasing to Dryden, a

zealous member of that learned body; even if he could have forgiven

some hits levelled against him personally in the preface and the

epilogue, which have been quoted in the introduction to Mac-Flecknoe.

Note XIV.

_Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,

Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;

Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit._--P. 438.

The plays of Sir George Etherege were much admired during the end of

the 17th and beginning of the 18th century, till the refinement of

taste condemned their indecency and immorality. Sir George himself was

a courtier of the first rank in the gay court of Charles II. Our author

has addressed an epistle to him, when he was Resident at Ratisbon.

Etherege followed King James to France, according to one account; but

others say he was killed at Ratisbon by a fall down stairs, after he

had been drinking freely. Sir Fopling Flutter, Dorimant, and Loveit,

are characters in his well-known comedy, "The Man of Mode." Cully and

Cockwood occur in "Love in a Tub," another of his plays.

Note XV.

_But let no alien Sedley interpose,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose._--P. 438.

The first edition bears Sydney, which is evidently a mistake.

Shadwell's comedy of "Epsom Wells" was very successful; which was

imputed by his enemies to the assistance he received from the witty

Sir Charles Sedley. This he attempts to refute in the following lines

of the second prologue, spoken when the piece was represented before

the king and queen at Whitehall:

If this for him had been by others done,

After this honour sure they'd claim their own.

But it is nevertheless certain, that Shadwell acknowledges obligations

of the nature supposed, in the Dedication of the "True Widow" to Sir

Charles Sedley. "No success whatever," he there says, "could have made

me alter my opinion of this comedy, which had the benefit of your

correction and alteration, and the honour of your approbation. And I

heartily wish you had given yourself the trouble to have reviewed all

my plays, as they came inaccurately, and in haste, from my hands: it

would have been more to my advantage than the assistance of Scipio and

Lelius was to Terence; and I should have thought it at least as much

to my honour, since, by the effects, I find I cannot but esteem you

as much above both of them in wit, as either of them was above you in

place of the state."

There was a general opinion current, that Shadwell received assistance

in his most successful pieces. A libel of the times, the reference

to which I have mislaid, mentions with contempt the dulness of his

"unassisted scenes."

Note XVI.

_Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,

And does thy northern dedications fill._--P. 438.

Sir Formal Trifle is a florid conceited orator in "The Virtuoso," whose

character is drawn and brought out with no inconsiderable portion of

humour. Dryden intimates, that his coxcomical inflated style attends

Shadwell himself upon the most serious occasions, and particularly in

his dedications to the Duke and Duchess of Newcastle, to whom he has

inscribed several of his plays. Hence Dryden, in the "Vindication of

the Duke of Guise," calls him the Northern Dedicator. The truth is,

that Shadwell's prose was inflated and embarrassed; and his adulation

comes aukwardly from him, as appears from the opening of the dedication

of that very play, "The Virtuoso," to the Duke of Newcastle.

"So long as your grace persists in obliging, I must go on in

acknowledging; nor can I let any opportunity pass of telling the world

how much I am favoured by you, or any occasion slip of assuring your

grace, that all the actions of my life shall be dedicated to your

service; who, by your noble patronage, your generosity and kindness,

and your continual bounty, have made me wholly your creature: nor can

I forbear to declare, that I am more obliged to your grace than to

all mankind. And my misfortune is, I can make no other return, but a

declaration of my grateful attachment."

Note XVII.

_Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,

By arrogating Jonson's hostile name._--P. 439.

Shadwell, as appears from many passages of his prologues and prefaces,

and as we have had repeated occasion to notice, affected to consider

Ben Jonson as the object of his emulation. There were indeed many

points of resemblance between them, both as authors and men. In

their habits, a life spent in taverns, and in their persons, huge

corpulence, probably acquired by habits of sensual indulgence, much

coarseness of manners, and an ungentlemanly vulgarity of dialect,

seem to have distinguished both the original and the imitator. As a

dramatist, although Shadwell falls short of the learned vigour and deep

erudition of Ben Jonson, his dry hard comic painting entitles him to

be considered as an inferior artist of the same school. Dryden more

particularly resented Shadwell's reiterated and affected praises of

Jonson, because he had himself censured that writer in the epilogue

to the "Conquest of Granada," and in the critical defence of that

poem.[449] Hence he considered Shadwell's ranking himself under

Jonson's banners as a sort of personal defiance. But Dryden more

particularly alludes to the following ebullition of admiration, which

occurs in the epilogue to Shadwell's "Humorists:"

The mighty prince of poets, learned Ben,

Who alone dived into the minds of men;

Saw all their wanderings, all their follies knew,

And all their vain fantastic passions drew

In images so lively and so true,

That there each humorist himself might view.

Yet only lashed the errors of the times,

And ne'er exposed the persons, but the crimes;

And never cared for private frowns, when he

Did but chastise public iniquity:

He feared no pimp, no pick-pocket, or drab;

He feared no bravo, nor no ruffian's stab:

'Twas he alone true humours understood,

And with great wit and judgment made them good.

A humour is the bias of the mind,

By which with violence 'tis one way inclined;

It makes our actions lean on one side still,

And in all changes that way bends the will.

This--------

He only knew and represented right.

Thus none, but mighty Jonson, e'er could write.

Expect not then, since that most flourishing age

Of Ben, to see true humour on the stage.

All that have since been writ, if they be scanned,

Are but faint copies from that master's hand.

Our poet now, amongst those petty things,

Alas! his too weak trifling humour brings;

As much beneath the worst in Jonson's plays,

As his great merit is above our praise.

For could he imitate that great author right,

He would with ease all poets else outwrite.

But to outgo all other men, would be,

O noble Ben! less than to follow thee.

Dryden, in the text, turns the idea of bias into ridicule; for its

original application being to the leaden weight disposed in the centre

of a bowl, which inclines its course in rolling, he alleges, that the

only bias which can influence Shadwell is his predominant stupidity.

Note XIX.

_Leave writing plays, and chuse for thy command,

Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.

There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise,

And torture one poor word ten thousand ways._--P. 440.

Among other efforts of gentle dulness, may be noticed the singular

fashion which prevailed during the earlier period of the 17th century,

of writing in such changes of measure, that by the different length

and arrangement of the lines, the poem was made to resemble an egg,

an altar, a pair of wings, a cross, or some other fanciful figure.

This laborious kind of trifling was much akin to the anagrams and

acrostics. Those who are curious to read, or rather to see, a specimen

of such whimsies, (for they are rather addressed to the eye than the

understanding,) may find a dirge of Mr George Withers, arranged into

the figure of a rhomboid, in Ellis's "Specimens of the Early English

Poets," Vol. III. p. 100. They are mentioned with anagrams, acrostics,

rebuses, and other exercises of false wit, in the "Spectator," No. 63.

END OF THE TENTH VOLUME.

Edinburgh,

Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 445: An anonymous poet ascribes the estimation in which he

was held to his poetical propensities:

Verse the famed Flecknoe raised, the muses' sport,

From drudging for the stage to drudge at court.

]

[Footnote 446: Epistle dedicatory to "Bury-fair," addressed to the Earl

of Dorset.]

[Footnote 447: See the inscription intended for his monument in

Westminster Abbey, by his son Sir John Shadwell, in the Life prefixed

to _Shadwell's Works_. But it was altered before it was placed in the

Abbey, and a blunder in the date seems to have crept in.--See CIBBER'S

_Lives of the Poets_, Vol. III. p. 49.]

[Footnote 448: See Vol. IX. p. 61.]

[Footnote 449: See Vol. IV. p. 211, &c.]

* * * * *

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| Transcriber notes: |

| |

| P.46. 'priciples' chanaged to 'principles', as in other volume. |

| P.78. Added footnote after 'manly train' as the anchor is missing |

| and seems to go here. |

| P.82. Note V, link should be P. 69, not P. 68 changed. |

| P.82. Note VI, link should be P. 74, not P. 73 changed. |

| Footnote 57: Added 'Note VI.', as the link is missing. |

| Footnote 174: 'Note XI.', should read 'Note XII.', changed. |

| Footnote 175: 'Note XII.', should read 'Note XIII.', changed. |

| Footnote 178: 'Note XIII.', should read 'Note XIV.', changed. |

| P.119. 'enequal' is 'unequal' in another volume, changed. |

| P.169. 'Rosolving' is 'Resolving' in another volume, changed. |

| Footnote 208: Should reaad 'Note XIII', not 'Note XII', changed. |

| P.394. Footnote 'Pensylvania' changed to 'Pennsylvania'. |

| P.457. Note XIX needs to be XIII, changed. |

| Footnote 60: Should read 'Note VII', not 'Note VIII', changed. |

| Corrected various punctuation. |

| Underscore indicates italics _like this_. |

| |

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