derness. He wrote a scene, in the spirit with which a man would set about to unravel a puzzle. Otway was a poet who wept over, and bathed his productions in his tears. Dryden would feel a self-satisfied delight, as he brought to a close some of, what he would think the most striking passages of his plays, -a satisfaction something similar to that of a mathematician who observes his investigation proceeding favourably to the solution of the problem before him. In general, he avoids dwelling upon a pathetic incident of his play; when he feels the necessity of it, and attempts to be affecting, he becomes common-place. We cannot give our readers a better idea of the extent of Dryden's inability

"To ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears,"

than by quoting the prison scene in Cleomenes, by which a truly pathetic poet must, if he had chosen the subject, have excited emotions too painful to bear. It will be seen how Dryden has succeeded:

Cleom. No food: and this the third arising sun:
But what have I to do with telling suns,

And measuring time? that runs no more for me!
Yet sure the gods are good: I wou'd think So,
If they wou'd give me leave;

But Virtue in distress, and Vice in triumph,
Make atheists of mankind.

Enter Cratesiclea.

What comfort, mother?

Crat. A soul, not conscious to itself of ill,
Undaunted courage, and a master-mind:

No comfort else but death,

Who, like a lazy master, stands aloof,

And leaves his work to the slow hands of famine.
Cleom. All I would ask of Heav'n

Is, but to die alone; a single ruin:

But to die o'er and o'er, in each of you,

With my own hunger pinch'd, but pierc'd with your's!
Crat. Grieve not for me!

Cleom. What! not for you, my mother!

I'm strangely tempted to blaspheme the gods,
For giving me so good, so kind, a parent :

And this is my return, to cause her death

fault.

I stretch'd my bounds as far as I could go,

To shun the sight of what I cannot help;

A flower withering on the stalk for want

Of nourishment from Earth, and showers from Heaven:
All I can give thee is but rain of eyes.-

[Wiping his eyes.

Cleor. Alas! I have not wherewithal to weep:
My eyes grow dim, and stiffen'd up with drought,
Can hardly roll and walk their feeble round:
Indeed- -I am faint.

Crat. And so am I-Heaven knows! However,
In pity of 'em both, I keep it secret;
Nor shall he see me fall-

[Aside.

[Exit Cratesiclea.

Cleom. How does your helpless infant?
Cleor. It wants the breast, its kindly nourishment:
And I have none to give from these dry cisterns,
Which, unsupply'd themselves, can yield no more:
It pull'd and pull'd but now, but nothing came.
At last it drew so hard, that the blood follow'd:
And that red milk I found upon its lips,
Which made me swoon with fear.

Cleom. Go in and rest thee,

And hush the child asleep.

Look down, ye gods

Look, Hercules, thou author of my race,
And jog thy father Jove, that he may look

On his neglected work of human-kind;

Tell him- -I do not curse him: but devotion

Will cool in after-times, if none but good men suffer-
What! another increase of grief?

Cleon. O Father!

Enter Cleonidas.

Cleom. Why dost thou call me by so kind a name?
A father! that implies presiding care,

Cheerful to give-willing himself to want

Whate'er thy needs require!

Cleon. A little food!

Have you none, father? one poor hungry morsel:

Or give me leave to die—as I desir'd;

For without your consent, Heaven knows I dare not."

This absence of the power of swaying the feelings of the heart is a lamentable deficiency; and when taken into consideration, together with the bad taste of the worthless age, and Dryden's dependance for support on public opinion, may account for the ill success which he has had with posterity as a dramatic wri

ter. Nothing but the most perverted ingenuity could defend, or the most morbid state of public taste applaud, the system of rhyming plays,-yet it was precisely those which gained the greatest meed of applause, at the time of their representation, and which Dryden himself has defended, in compositions of unequalled force and brilliancy. We will quote the following passage, from one of his prefaces, as it illustrates the topics we have just alluded to, the taste of the town, and because it displays the felicity with which Dryden could make the worse appear the better cause.

"Whether heroick verse ought to be admitted into serious plays is not now to be disputed, it is already in possession of the stage, and I dare confidently affirm, that very few tragedies, in this age, shall be received without it. All the arguments which are formed against it can amount to no more than this, that it is not so near conversation as prose, and therefore not so natural. But it is very clear to all who understand poetry, that serious plays ought not to imitate conversation too nearly. If nothing were to be raised above that level, the foundation of poetry would be destroyed. And if once you admit of a latitude, that thoughts may be exalted, and that images and actions may be raised above the life, and described in measure without rhyme, that leads you insensibly from your own principles to mine: you are already so far onward of your way, that you have forsaken the imitation of ordinary converse. You are gone beyond it; and to continue where you are, is to lodge in the open fields, betwixt two inns. You have lost that which you call natural, and have not acquired the last perfection of art. But it was only custom which cozened us so long; we thought, because Shakespear and Fletcher went no farther, that there the pillars of poetry were to be erected. That, because they excellently described passion without rhyme, therefore rhyme was not capable of describing it. But time has now convinced most men of that error. 'Tis indeed so difficult to write verse, that the adversaries of it have a good plea against many, who undertook that task without being formed by art or nature for it. Yet, even they who have written worst in it, would have written worse without it: they have cozened many with their sound, who never took the pains to examine their sense. In fine, they have succeeded; tho' 'tis true they have more dishonoured rhyme by their good success, than they have done by their ill. But I am willing to let fall this argument: 'tis free for every man to write, or not to write, in verse, as he judges it to be, or not to be, his talent; or as he imagines the audience will receive it."

It is very true, that the prevalence of a bad taste in poetry, in the court, and among the people at large, might have had a serious tendency to debase the genius of the writers of the age. But this is hardly sufficient to account for the absurdities of which, in general, the plays of Dryden are composed. The turgid and inflated stuff, which is put into the mouth of almost

every character, can only be attributed to a marvellous want of judgment and right-feeling in Dryden himself; audacious boastings, bold and bragging blasphemies, fire-breathing threats to do impossibilities, abound every where. The art of sinking, or the true and genuine bathos, is taught no where so well as in the plays of Dryden. That whole speeches should consist of ranting, might be attributed to an attempt at the sublime, by a feeble imagination and a warm temperament; but when we find a series of beautiful lines terminate in some base image, or in some ridiculous, familiar, or bombastic, allusion, we do not accuse the poet of poverty, but of a bad use of riches. Instances of this nature abound; take the following beautiful description of the execution of St. Catharine, and Maximin's answer.

Val.- -Your pity comes too late.

Betwixt her guards she seem'd by bride-men led,
Her cheeks with cheerful blushes were o'erspread,
When, smiling, to the axe she bow'd her head.
Just at the stroke-

Ætherial musick did her death prepare,

Like joyful sounds of spousals in the air.

A radiant light did her crown'd temples gild,
And all the place with fragrant scents was fill'd;
The balmy mist came thick'ning to the ground,
And sacred silence cover'd all around.

But when (its work perform'd) the cloud withdrew,
And day restor❜d us to each other's view,

I sought her head, to bring it on my spear:
In vain I sought it, for it was not there.
No part remain'd, but from afar our sight
Discover'd, in the air, long tracks of light;
Of charming notes we heard the last rebounds;
And musick dying in remoter sounds.

Max. And dost thou think

This lame account fit for a love-sick king?
Go-from the other world a better bring.

}

[Kills him, then sets his foot on him, and speaks on.

When in my breast two mighty passions strove,

Thou hadst err'd better in obeying bve.
"Tis true, that way thy death had folow'd too,
But I had then been less displeas'd than now.
Now I must live unquiet for thy sake;
And this poor recompence is all I take.

[Spurns the body.

It seems almost impossible that any man should write lines like those we are about to quote, and not be aware of their egregious absurdity.

1

"Max. What had the gods to do with me or mine? Did I molest your heav'n?

Why should you then make Maximin your foe,

Who paid you tribute, which he need not do?
Your altars I with smoke of gums did crown:
For which you lean'd your hungry nostrils down,
All daily gaping for my incense there,

More than your sun could draw you in a year.
And you for this these plagues on me have sent;
But by the gods, (by Maximin, I meant)
Henceforth I, and my world,

Hostility with you and your's declare.

Look to it, gods: for you th' aggressors are,
Keep you your rain and sun-shine in your skies,
And I'll keep back my flame and sacrifice.
Your trade of heav'n shall soon be at a stand,
And all your goods lie dead upon your hand."

Or take the scene immediately following, which will come behind no fustian to be met with in Tom Thumb, or elsewhere:

Plac. Thus, tyrant, since the gods th' aggressors are,

Thus by this stroke they have begun the war.

[Stabbing him.

[Maximin struggles with him, and gets the dagger from

him.

Max. Thus I return the strokes which they have given ;
[Stabbing Placidius.

Thus, traitor, thus, and thus I would to heaven.

[Placidius falls, and the Emperor staggers after him, and sits
down upon him; the Guards come to help the Emperor.
Max. Stand off, and let me, ere my strength be gone,

Take my last pleasure of revenge, alone.

Enter a Centurion.

Cent. Arm, arm, the camp is in a mutiny;

For Rome and liberty the Soldiers cry.

Porphyrius mov'd their pity, as he went
To rescue Berenice from punishment,

And now he heads theirnew-attempted crime.

Max. Now I am down, the Gods have watch'd their time.

You think

To save your credit, feeble deities;

But I will give myself the strength to rise.

It wonnot be

[He strives to get up, and being up, staggers.