Volume 9 / Part 1 — TO THE READER.
Reading edition
It is not my intention to make an apology for my poem; some will think it needs no excuse, and others will receive none. The design I am sure is honest; but he who draws his pen for one party, must expect to make enemies of the other. For wit and fool, are consequents of Whig and Tory;[217] and every man is a knave or an ass to the contrary side. There is a treasury of merits in the fanatic church, as well as in the popish; and a pennyworth to be had of saintship, honesty, and poetry, for the lewd, the factious, and the blockheads; but the longest chapter in Deuteronomy has not curses enough for an Anti-Bromingham.[218] My comfort is, their manifest prejudice to my cause will render their judgment of less authority against me. Yet, if a poem have genius, it will force its own reception in the world; for there is a sweetness in good verse, which tickles even while it hurts; and no man can be heartily angry with him who pleases him against his will. The commendation of adversaries is the greatest triumph of a writer, because it never comes unless extorted. But I can be satisfied on more easy terms; if I happen to please the more moderate sort, I shall be sure of an honest party, and, in all probability, of the best judges; for the least concerned are commonly the least corrupt. And I confess I have laid in for those, by rebating the satire, where justice would allow it, from carrying too sharp an edge. They who can criticise so weakly, as to imagine I have done my worst, may be convinced, at their own cost, that I can write severely, with more ease than I can gently. I have but laughed at some men's follies, when I could have declaimed against their vices; and other men's virtues I have commended, as freely as I have taxed their crimes. And now, if you are a malicious reader, I expect you should return upon me, that I affect to be thought more impartial than I am; but if men are not to be judged by their professions, God forgive you commonwealth's-men for professing so plausibly for the government! You cannot be so unconscionable as to charge me for not subscribing my name; for that would reflect too grossly upon your own party, who never dare, though they have the advantage of a jury to secure them. If you like not my poem, the fault may possibly be in my writing; though it is hard for an author to judge against himself: but more probably it is in your morals, which cannot bear the truth of it. The violent on both sides will condemn the character of Absalom, as either too favourably or too hardly drawn. But they are not the violent whom I desire to please. The fault on the right hand is to extenuate, palliate, and indulge; and, to confess freely, I have endeavoured to commit it. Besides the respect which I owe his birth, I have a greater for his heroic virtues; and David himself could not be more tender of the young man's life, than I would be of his reputation. But since the most excellent natures are always the most easy, and, as being such, are the soonest perverted by ill counsels, especially when baited with fame and glory, it is no more a wonder that he withstood not the temptations of Achitophel, than it was for Adam not to have resisted the two devils, the serpent and the woman. The conclusion of the story I purposely forbore to prosecute, because I could not obtain from myself to shew Absalom unfortunate. The frame of it was cut out but for a picture to the waist; and if the draught be so far true, it is as much as I designed.
Were I the inventor, who am only the historian, I should certainly conclude the piece, with the reconcilement of Absalom to David. And who knows but this may come to pass? Things were not brought to an extremity where I left the story; there seems yet to be room left for a composure; hereafter there may be only for pity. I have not so much as an uncharitable wish against Achitophel, but am content to be accused of a good-natured error, and to hope with Origen, that the devil himself may at last be saved. For which reason, in this poem, he is neither brought to set his house in order, nor to dispose of his person afterwards as he in wisdom shall think fit. God is infinitely merciful; and his vicegerent is only not so, because he is not infinite.
The true end of satire is the amendment of vices by correction. And he, who writes honestly, is no more an enemy to the offender, than the physician to the patient, when he prescribes harsh remedies to an inveterate disease; for those are only in order to prevent the chirurgeon's work of an Ense rescindendum, which I wish not to my very enemies. To conclude all; if the body politic have any analogy to the natural, in my weak judgment, an act of oblivion were as necessary in a hot distempered state, as an opiate would be in a raging fever.
RECOMMENDATORY VERSES.
The following Recommendatory Verses, Dryden thought worthy of being prefixed to the later editions of his "Absalom and Achitophel," for which reason they are here retained. It will be observed, that they all mention the author as unknown. This, however, we are not to understand literally; since it is obvious, from the contemporary libels, that Dryden was well known for the author. But, till he placed his name in the title page, his friends were not to affect to know more than that told them; as it is impolite to recognize a person who affects a disguise.
TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR OF THIS EXCELLENT POEM.
Take it as earnest of a faith renewed, Your theme is vast, your verse divinely good: } { Where, though the Nine their beauteous stroaks repeat, { And the turned lines on golden anvils beat, { It looks as if they strook them at a heat. } { So all serenely great, so just refined, { Like angels love to humane seed enclined, { It starts a giant, and exalts the kind. 'Tis spirit seen, whose fiery atoms roul, So brightly fierce, each syllable's a soul. 'Tis miniature of man, but he's all heart; 'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art; To whom even the Phanatics altars raise, Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise. As if a Milton from the dead arose, Filed off the rust, and the right party chose. Nor, Sir, be shocked at what the gloomy say, Turn not your feet too inward, nor too splay. 'Tis gracious all, and great; push on your theme, Lean your grieved head on David's diadem. David, that rebel Israel's envy moved, David, by God and all good men beloved. The beauties of your Absalom excell; But more the charms of charming Annabel; Of Annabel, than May's first morn more bright, Chearfull as summer's noon, and chast as winter's night. Of Annabel the muses dearest theme, Of Annabel the angel of my dream. Thus let a broken eloquence attend, And to your master-piece these shadows send.
TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR OF THIS ADMIRABLE POEM.
I thought,—forgive my sin,—the boasted fire Of poets' souls did long ago expire; Of folly or of madness did accuse The wretch that thought himself possest with muse; Laughed at the God within, that did inspire With more than human thoughts the tuneful quire; But sure 'tis more than fancy, or the dream Of rhimers slumbring by the muses stream. Some livelier spark of heaven, and more refined From earthly dross, fills the great poet's mind. Witness these mighty and immortal lines, Through each of which th' informing genius shines. Scarce a diviner flame inspired the king, Of whom thy muse does so sublimely sing. Not David's self could in a nobler verse His gloriously offending son rehearse, Though in his breast the prophet's fury met The father's fondness, and the poet's wit. Here all consent in wonder and in praise, And to the unknown poet altars raise. Which thou must needs accept with equal joy, As when Ænæas heard the wars of Troy, Wrapt up himself in darkness and unseen, Extolled with wonder by the Tyrian Queen. Sure thou already art secure of fame, Nor want'st new glories to exalt thy name; What father else would have refused to own So great a son as god-like Absalon? R. D.
TO THE CONCEALED AUTHOR OF THIS INCOMPARABLE POEM.
Hail heaven-born muse! hail every sacred page! The glory of our isle and of our age. } { The inspiring sun to Albion draws more nigh, { The north at length teems with a work to vie { With Homer's flame and Virgil's majesty. } { While Pindus lofty heights our poet sought, { (His ravisht mind with vast ideas fraught,) { Our language failed beneath his rising thought; } { This checks not his attempt, for Maro's mines, { He drains of all their gold t'adorn his lines; { Through each of which the Mantuan Genius shines. The rock obeyed the powerful Hebrew guide, Her flinty breast, dissolved into a tide; Thus on our stubborn language he prevails, And makes the Helicon in which he sails. The dialect, as well as sense, invents, And, with his poem, a new speech presents. Hail then thou matchless bard, thou great unknown, That give your country fame, yet shun your own! In vain—for every where your praise you find, And not to meet it, you must shun mankind. } { Your loyal theme each loyal reader draws, { And even the factious give your verse applause, { Whose lightning strikes to ground their idol cause. The cause for whose dear sake they drank a flood Of civil gore, nor spared the royal-blood; The cause whose growth to crush, our prelates wrote In vain, almost in vain our Heroes fought. Yet by one stab of your keen satyr dies; Before your sacred lines their shattered Dagon lies. Oh! If unworthy we appear to know The sire, to whom this lovely birth we owe; Denyed our ready homage to express, And can at best but thankfull be by guess; This hope remains,—May David's god-like mind, (For him 'twas wrote) the unknown author find; And, having found, shower equal favours down, On wit so vast as could oblige a crown. N. T.
Some scribbler of the day also, thinking Dryden's meaning not sufficiently clear, wrote "Absalon's ix worthies, or a key to a late book, or poem, entitled AB, and AC," marked by Mr Luttrell, as bought, 10 March 1682-3. It concludes with the following address.
TO THE AUTHOR OF THAT INCOMPARABLE POEM ABOVE MENTIONED.
Homer, amazed, resigns the hill to you, And stands i'the crowd, amidst the panting crew; Virgil and Horace dare not shew their face, And long admired Juv'nal quits his place; For this one mighty poem hath done more Than all those poets could have done before. Satyr, or statesman, poet, or divine, Thou any thing, thou every thing thats fine, Thy lines will make young Absalon relent; And, though 'tis hard, Achitophel repent; And stop—as thou has done—— Thus once thy rival muse, on Cooper's hill, With the true story would not Fatme[220] kill. No politics exclude repentance quite; Despair makes rebels obstinately fight; 'Tis well when errors do for mercy call; Unbloody conquests are the best of all. Methinks I see a numerous mixed croud Of seduced patriots crying out aloud For grace, to royal David. He, with tears, Holds forth his sceptre, to prevent their fears, And bids them welcome to his tender breast: Thus may the people, thus the king be blest. Then tunes his harp, thy praises to rehearse, Who owes his son and subjects to thy verse.