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to Shakspeare's plot, namely, that of a man who had never seen a woman, that by this means these two characters of innocence and love might the more illustrate and commend each other. I confess that from the very first moment it so pleased me, that I never writ any thing with more delight." Sir Walter says it seems to have been undertaken chiefly with a view to give room for scenical decoration, and that Dryden's share in the alteration was probably little more than the care of adapting it to the stage. But Dryden's own words contradict that supposition, and he further tells us that his writings received D'Avenant's daily amendments; "and that is the reason why it is not so faulty as the rest, which I have done without the help and correction of so judicious a friend." They wrote together at the same desk. And Dryden found D'Avenant of "so quick a fancy, that nothing was proposed to him on which he would not suddenly produce a thought, extremely pleasant and surprising. * * His imagination was such as could not easily enter into any other man." It had been easy enough, he adds, to have arrogated more to himself than was his due in the writing of the play; but "besides the worthlessness of the action, which deterred me from it, (there being nothing so base as to rob the dead of his reputation,) I am satisfied I could never have received so much honour in being thought the author of any poem, how excellent soever — as I shall from the joining of my imperfections with the merit and name of Shakspeare and Sir William D'Avenant." From all this, and more of the same sort, 'tis plain that Dryden's share in the composition was at least equal to — we should say, much greater than — D'Avenant's.

      You must not meddle with Miranda — for she is all our own. Yet we cheerfully introduce you to her sister, Dorinda, and leave you all alone by yourselves for an hour's flirtation. Hush! she is describing the ship!

      "This floating Ram did bear his horns above,

      And tied with ribands, ruffling in the wind:

      Sometimes he nodded down his head awhile,

      And then the waves did heave him to the moon,

      He climbing to the top of all the billows;

      And then again he curtsied down so low

      I could not see him. Till at last, all sidelong

      With a great crack, his belly burst in pieces."

      We had but once before handled this performance — some threescore and ten years ago, when a man of middle age. We dimly remember being amused in our astonishment. Now that we are beginning to get a little old, we are, perhaps, growing too fastidious; yet surely it is something very shocking. Portsmouth Poll and Plymouth Sall — sisters originating at Yarmouth — when brought into comparison with Miranda and Dorinda of the enchanted island, to our imagination seem idealized into Vestal virgins. True, they were famous — when not half seas over — for keeping a quiet tongue in their mouths: with them mum was the word. Only when drunk as blazes, poor things, did they, by word or gesture, offend modesty's most sacred laws. But D'Avenant's and Dryden's daughters are such leering and lascivious drabs, so dreadfully addicted to innuendoes and doubles entendres of the most alarming character, that, high as is our opinion of the intrepidity of British seamen, we should not fear to back the two at odds against a full-manned jolly-boat from a frigate in the offing sent in to fill her water-casks. Caliban himself — and what a Caliban he has become! — fights shy of the plenireps. Why — if it must be so — we give our arm to his sister Sycorax, a "fearsome dear" no doubt, but what better could one expect in a misbegotten monster? Oh, the confounding mysteries of self-degrading genius!

      In the preface to "An Evening's Love; or, the Mock Astrologer," we again meet with some criticism on Shakspeare. We learn from it that Dryden had formed the ambitious design of writing on the difference betwixt the plays of his own age and those of his predecessors on the English stage, in order to show in what parts of "dramatic poesy we were excelled by Ben Jonson — I mean, humour and contrivance of comedy; and in what we may justly claim precedence of Shakspeare and Fletcher! namely, in heroic plays." He had, moreover, proposed to treat "of the improvement of our language since Fletcher's and Jonson's days, and, consequently, of our refining the courtship, raillery, and conversation of plays." In great attempts 'tis glorious even to fail; and assuredly had Dryden essayed all this, his failure would have been complete. "I would," said he, with his usual ignorance of his own and his age's worst sins and defects, "have the characters well chosen, and kept distant from interfering with each other, which is more than Fletcher or Shakspeare did! * * I think there is no folly so great in any part of our age, as the superfluity and waste of wit was in some of our predecessors, particularly Fletcher and Shakspeare." Refining the courtship, raillery, and conversation of plays! We cannot, perhaps, truly say very much in praise of those qualities in Ben's comedies, admirable as they are, and superior, in all respects, a thousand times over to the best of Dryden's and of his contemporaries'; but wilfully blind indeed, or worse, must the man who could thus write have been to the matchless grace, vivacity, delicacy, prodigality, and poetry of Shakspeare's comedy, which as far transcends all the happiest creations of other men's wit, as the pervading pathos and sublimity of his tragedy all their happiest inspirations from the holy fountain of ennobling or pitying tears.

      In its day, the following Epilogue caused a great hubbub —

      "They, who have best succeeded on the stage,

      Have still conform'd their genius to their age.

      Thus Jonson did mechanic humours show,

      When men were dull, and conversation low.

      Then comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse:

      Cobb's tankard was a jest, and Otter's horse.

      And, as their comedy, their love was mean;

      Except by chance, in some one labour'd scene,

      Which must atone for an ill-written play.

      They rose, but at their height could seldom stay:

      Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;

      And they have kept it since by being dead.

      But, were they now to write, when critics weigh

      Each line, and every word, throughout a play,

      None of them, no not Jonson in his height,

      Could pass without allowing grains for weight.

      Think it not envy that these truths are told —

      Our poet's not malicious, though he's bold.

      'Tis not to brand them that their faults are shown,

      But by their errors, to excuse his own.

      If love and honour now are higher raised,

      'Tis not the poet, but the age is praised.

      Wit's now arrived to a more high degree;

      Our native language more refined and free;

      Our ladies and our men now speak more wit,

      In conversation, than those poets writ.

      Then, one of these is, consequently, true;

      That what this poet writes comes short of you,

      And imitates you ill (which most he fears,)

      Or else his writing is not worse than theirs.

      Yet, though you judge (as sure the critics will)

      That some before him writ with greater skill,

      In this one praise he has their fame surpast,

      To please an age more gallant than the last."

      Dryden was called over the coals for this sacrilegious Epilogue by persons ill qualified for censors — among others, by my Lord Rochester — and was

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