The Poetical Works of John Dryden, Vol II | Page 2

passions of his period--he is not to be shielded by the apology
that he has only conformed to the bad age on which he was so
unfortunate as to fall. Prejudice may, indeed, put in such a plea in his
defence; but the inevitable eye of common sense, distinguishing
between necessity and choice, between coarseness and corruption,
between a man's passively yielding to and actively inviting and
encouraging the currents of false taste and immorality which he must
encounter, will find that plea nugatory, and bring in against the author a
verdict of guilty.

Now this, we fear, is exactly the case of Dryden. He was neither a
"barbarian" nor a "Scythian." He was a conscious artist, not a high
though helpless reflector of his age. He had not, we think, like his
relative, Swift, originally any diseased delight in filth for its own sake;
was not--shall we say?--a natural, but an artificial Yahoo. He wielded a
power over the public mind, approaching the absolute, and which he
could have turned to virtuous, instead of vicious account--at first, it
might have been amidst considerable resistance and obloquy, but
ultimately with triumphant success. This, however, he never attempted,
and must therefore be classed, in this respect, with such writers as
Byron, whose powers gilded their pollutions, less than their pollutions
degraded and defiled their powers; nay, perhaps he should be ranked
even lower than the noble bard, whose obscenities are not so gross, and
who had, besides, to account for them the double palliations of passion
and of despair.
In these remarks we refer principally to Dryden's plays; for his poems,
as we remarked in the Life, are (with the exception of a few of the
Prologues, which we print under protest) in a great measure free from
impurity. We pass gladly to consider him in his genius and his poetical
works. The most obvious, and among the most remarkable
characteristics of his poetic style, are its wondrous elasticity and ease of
movement. There is never for an instant any real or apparent effort, any
straining for effect, any of that "double, double, toil and trouble," by
which many even of the weird cauldrons in which Genius forms her
creations are disturbed and bedimmed. That power of doing everything
with perfect and conscious ease, which Dugald Stewart has ascribed to
Barrow and to Horsley in prose, distinguished Dryden in poetry.
Whether he discusses the deep questions of fate and foreknowledge in
"Religio Laici," or lashes Shaftesbury in the "Medal," or pours a torrent
of contempt on Shadwell in "MacFlecknoe," or describes the fire of
London in the "Annus Mirabilis," or soars into lyric enthusiasm in his
"Ode on the Death of Mrs Killigrew," and "Alexander's Feast," or
paints a tournament in "Palamon and Arcite," or a fairy dance in the
"Flower and the Leaf,"--he is always at home, and always aware that he
is. His consciousness of his own powers amounts to exultation. He is
like the steed who glories in that tremendous gallop which affects the

spectator with fear. Indeed, we never can separate our conception of
Dryden's vigorous and vaulting style from the image of a noble horse,
devouring the dust of the field, clearing obstacles at a bound, taking up
long leagues as a little thing, and the very strength and speed of whose
motion give it at a distance the appearance of smoothness. Pope speaks
of his
"Long resounding march, and energy divine."
Perhaps "ease divine" had been words more characteristic of that
almost superhuman power of language by which he makes the most
obstinate materials pliant, melts down difficulties as if by the touch of
magic, and, to resume the former figure, comes into the goal without a
hair turned on his mane, or a single sweat-drop confessing effort or
extraordinary exertion. We know no poet since Homer who can be
compared to Dryden in this respect, except Scott, who occasionally, in
"Marmion," and the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," exhibits the same
impetuous ease and fiery fluent movement. Scott does not, however, in
general, carry the same weight as the other; and the species of verse he
uses, in comparison to the heroic rhyme of Dryden, gives you often the
impression of a hard trot, rather than of a "long-resounding" and
magnificent gallop. Scott exhibits in his poetry the soul of a warrior;
but it is of a warrior of the Border--somewhat savage and coarse.
Dryden can, for the nonce at least, assume the appearance, and display
the spirit, of a knight of ancient chivalry--gallant, accomplished,
elegant, and gay.
Next to this poet's astonishing ease, spirit, and elastic vigour, may be
ranked his clear, sharp intellect. He may be called more a logician than
a poet. He reasons often, and always acutely, and his rhyme, instead of