BOOKS.

JOHN DRYDEN.* [Commute/ma]

IP anyone were to inquire what place Dryden to•day holds in general esteem, the phrase Slat magni nominis umbra would perhaps afford the truest answer. He is still" a great name," still an imposing figure, but it is after a shadowy fashion. He is rather memory than a reality, and belongs rather to history than to life. Yet it was of Dryden that Pope wrote that "he could select from him better specimens of every mode of poetry than any other English author could supply"; Johnson says that "to him we owe the improvement, perhaps the completion, of our metre, the refinement of our language, and much of the correctness of our sentiments "; Gray, in his Progress of Poesy, ranks him as "the equal of Shakespeare and of Milton" ; while Scott in the "Advertisement" to his edition assigns him "at least the third place" among our English classics, repeating almost the same words in the concluding sentence of his "Life," where he speaks of Dryden as "second only" to his two mighty rivals. But Pope, though he affected " to lisp in numbers, for the numbers came," could • &schwas on Dryden. /3) A. W. Verrill, Edited by Marmot Vora+ Fgatridxs: at the Vaiyareity rro,”, 64, net.)

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hardly fail to speak highly of the man who really bequeathed to him the rhyming couplet; to Johnson he was recommended by that clear and stately diction which was so akin to his own; while Gray and Scott, in so far as they do not merely echo a conventional tradition, not only clash with the common judgment of our time, but seem also to beat variance with the standards of a true taste. For Shakespeare and Milton stand, we think, wholly apart from Dryden. Theirs is chiefly a world of dreams and fancies where they see visions and listen to the music of the spheres ; his is a world of political and religious controversy, of discussion on criticism and argument about the laws of metre. No one can think of Dryden as a dreamer, or, on the other hand, of Milton as a judicious critic and of Shakespeare as debating the proper measure for tragedy. The two types of mind are wholly diverse, and, however we may define" poetry," therecan be little doubt which of the two is more "poetic," For though the question whether " art " or " genius " is more needed to the making of a poem is a very old one, the real answer has never been uncertain. Indeed, it is with a poem pretty much as it is with ourselves. Just as body and soul are both needed for the making of a man, and yet it is obvious in which of the two his proper excellence is to be found, so, too, a poem depends on art for its outward form, but on inspiration for its existence. Shape it, polish it, adorn it as you will, and it remains only dull clay until there is breathed into it the breath of life. And it is the fatal defect of Dryden that he exalted the elaborating art, but undervalued the animating spirit. He is an unsurpassed master of our English speech ; be purified and ennobled it ; he has set his stamp on it for all time ; but his very greatness as a man of letters seems to have dwarfed his capacity as a poet and rendered him a poor judge of poetic excellence. Take a single instance, Dr. Verrall's eighth lecture opens with these words :— " In 1677, under the title The State of Innocence and Fall of Man, Dryden published a version of Paradise Lost as a rhymed play in five Acts, 'an Opera," and those who turn to it will find such stage directions as these:—

" Semis L—Represents a Chaos, or a confused Mass of Matter ; the Stage is almost wholly dark: A Symphony of warlike Music is heard for sometime; then from the Heavens (which are opened) fall the rebellious Angels, wheeling in Air, and seeming transfixed with Thunderbolts: The bottom of the Stage being opened, receives the Angels, who fall out of sight. Tunes of Victory are played, and an Hymn sung ; Angels discovered above, brandishing their Swords . . . the Scene shifts. . . . The fallen Angels appear on the Lake, lying prostrate," whereupon Lucifer, "raising himself on the Lake," thus begins Is this the seat our conqueror has given P And this the climate we must change for heavent These regions and this realm my wars have got; This mournful empire is the loser's lot In liquid burning., or on dry, to dwell, Is all the sad variety of hell."

The taste of the time, Scott tells us, considered "the versifies, tion of Milton ignoble for its supposed facility," and so Dryden—who did much the same for The Tempest—proceeded to give it dignity after his fashion. He set about improving Milton, and, though he elsewhere says of Milton's work that "the force of nature could no further go," he clearly thought that where nature halted a skilled rhymester might well venture, and so for such an ending as—

"They, hand in hand, with wand'ring steps and slow Through Eden took their solitary way," we have such a substitute as this-

" But, part you hence in peace, and having mourned your sin, For outward Eden lost, find Paradise within."

"Ay, you may tag my verses if you will," is said to have been Milton's grim comment on the performance, and it is impossible not to question whether a writer who could thus maul the noblest poem in our language can have any claim to the highest rank in poetry, or could indeed distinguish between mere intellectual brilliancy and that true fire which is borne, we know not how, from the unextinguished altar of the Muse.

Holding some such views, we read the first page of this volume, in which Dr. Verrall seems without question to place Dryden side by aide with Shakespeare and Milton in a great triumvirate, with a certain largeness of expectation. A writer who gave him such a place, and yet recognized "the compare,

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of literature at the present day," would, we thought, deal with this strange contrast by a full and searching inquiry into its cause. Unhappily our expectation has been wholly disappointed. Dr. Ferrell has put forward a great claim, but be deals only with secondary issues. He sets out apparently to show that Dryden was a consummate poet, but he only proves that he was a most excellent artist. He has essays on " The Epistles," "The Quatrain Poems," "Absalom and Achitophel," and "The Religious Poems," nor does he fail in that literary criticism—ever fresh, lively, and invigorating—of which he is a master, and be shows convincingly why students of the development of English literature should give to these works their close attention. tilt. he does not show those of us who are only lovers of poetry why we should take them to our heart. And, indeed, why should we? Even the best of them—" Absalom and Achitophel "—never stirs our emotions, and at most tickles, as it were, the intelligence with the finished point of its epigrams and the subtle malignancy of its satire

And who would ever read the "Annus " for its own sake? And what as to "The Hind and the Panther" ? Mr. Balfour in a very notable address has lately dwelt on the "wonder" of its workmanship; and about that there can be no question. But has it in it anything of the true soul of poetry ? Did any one ever read it and feel a quickened pulse or a new glow of life P We certainly think not ; for with all its excellences it yet wants all living inspiration. It does not come from the heart, and therefore it cannot touch the heart. It is called a "religious poem," but never was there such a misnomer. Religious poetry can Only be the outcome of religious fervour, and in such fervour Dryden was wholly wanting. When the Puritans were in power he wrote an Ode to Cromwell; under Charles IL he supported a vague and fashionable Deism ; when James ascended the throne he became a Roman Catholic. That he may not have been dishonest is credible—and Dr. Venal' generously supports this view—but to say that he ever felt the glow of enthusiasm is to exceed the measure of possible belief. His religious convictions were, one may justly say, lukewarm, and his "religious poems" merit at their best the same epithet, while not unfrequently they are nauseating. "0 happy regions Italy and Spain !" is the exclamation of this new proselyte when he thinks how those favoured lands are free from heresy. "The jolly Luther" is the artistic opening of another paragraph, and he reproaches him with taking "a lesson" from Mahomet and promoting the Reformation only because he "Bethought him of a wife ere half-way gone," while he thus writes of the Nonconformists :— "More haughty than the rest, the wolfish race Appear with belly Gaunt and famish'd face Never was so deforni'd a beast of Grace.

His ragged tail betwixt his leggs he wears Close clap'd for shame; but his rough crest he rears,

And pricks up his predestinating ears."

Yet assuredly to write thus is at once to degrade art, to outrage religion, and to turn the Muse into a prostitute. And oh, the pity of it all ! For, despite his faults, Dryden as a great writer compels our admiration. His prose is masterly; it is equally strong and simple; he always uses the exact word, and "every word," as Johnson says, "seems to drop by chance though it falls into its proper place," while oven the most fulsome of his dedications becomes almost ennobled by the dignity of the language. And in poetry, if he gave us little else of the first rank, he at least gave us his great Odes. They are not only of the highest historical importance, for "from them derives the work in this line of Gray, Collins, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Tennyson," but they are almost supreme as poetry. In them art is wedded to inspiration; Dryden for once forgets the trivialities of politics and controversy, gives free range to his powers, and shows us what he might have

been:— “Timothens placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre : The trembling notes ascend the' sky And heavenly joys inspire."

But, alas ! he too often creeps, or is content to soar only as high as some happy phrase can bear him. Nor is the reason, perhaps, far to seek. For Dryden was always comparatively poor, or, at least, in want of money, and he had to earn his living by his pen in an age when Paradise Loaf was sold for a M hand." If he wrote bad tragedies, it ebould be

remembered that be had to please the courtiers of Charles IL, and we should, perhaps, wonder less that his verses are so rarely lofty than that they are so often admirable. Read this agreement drawn up the year before his death "I do hereby promise to pay John Dryden, Esq„ or order, on the 20th of March, 1699, the sum of two hundred and fifty guineas, in consideration of ten thousand verses, which the said John Dryden, Esq., is to dallier to me, Jacob Tonson, when finished, whereof seven thousand reifies, More or less, are already in the said Jacob Tonson's possession."

Does it not surely explain much P The order was indeed fulfilled the "ten thouland verses" were duly delivered; and they were the volume of _Fables, one of the best of Dryden's works. But is it in any way possible that verses so produced can ever attain to the distinction of great poetry P It only remains to add that in all that relates to DrYdeti's art, to the technical excellence of his work, thefie lectures are of the highest vain°. They are, indeed; only "notes" for lectures, and death prevented the fuller work that might have been hoped for ; but they are none the less rich in that pene- trating and vivacione criticism in which their author was almost unsurpassed. Every student of literature will welcome them with gratitude; but not we think, without some regret that on the great issue of Dryden'e true place in English. poetry so admirable a critic is almost Wholly silent.