and giving me your mature thoughts upon it. Nothing ever came more seasonably to me than your letter, which I received on Wednesday se'nnight, the very night before I was to have given my final answer to the King the next morning. I thank you for it: it helped very much to settle and determine my wavering mind. I weighed all you wrote, both your advice and your arguments, having not only an assurance of your true friendship and good-will for me, but a very great regard and deference for your judgment and opinion. I cannot but own the weight of that consideration which you are pleased to urge me withal; I mean the visible marks of a more than ordinary providence of God in this thing; that the King, who likes not either to importune or to be denied, should after so obstinate a declining of the thing on my part, still persist to press it upon me with so much kindness, and with that earnestness of persuasion which it does not become me to mention. I wish I could think the King had a superior direction in this, as I verily believe he hath in some other things of much greater importance. The next morning I went to Kensington full of fear, but yet determined what was fit for me to do. I met the King coming out of his closet, and asking if his coach was ready. He took me aside, and I told him, that, in obedience to his Majesty's command, I had considered of the thing as well as I could, and came to give him my answer. I perceived his Majesty was going out, and therefore desired him to appoint me another time, which he did on the Saturday morning after. Then I came again, and he took me into his closet, where I told him, that I could not but have a deepsense of his Majesty's great grace and favour to me, not only to offer me the best thing he had to give, but to press it so earnestly upon me. I said, I would not presume to argue the matter any farther, but I hoped he would give me leave to be still his humble and earnest petitioner to spare me in that thing. He answered, he would do so if he could, but he knew not what to do if I refused it. Upon that I told him, that I tendered my life to him, and did humbly devote it to be disposed of as he thought fit. He was graciously pleased to say, it was the best news had come to him this great while. I did not kneel down to kiss his hand, for without that I doubt I am too sure of it; but requested of him, that he would defer the declaration of it, and let it be a secret for some time. He said he thought it might not be amiss to defer it till the

Parliament was up. I begged farther of him, that he would not make me a wedge to drive out the present Archbishop: that some time before I was nominated his Majesty would be pleased to declare in Council, that since his lenity had not had any better effect, he would wait no more, but would dispose of their places. This I told him I humbly desired, that I might not be thought to do any thing harsh, or which might reflect upon me: and now that his Majesty had thought fit to advance me to this station, my reputation was become his interest. He said he was sensible of it, and thought it reasonable to do as I desired. I craved leave of him to mention one thing more, which in justice to my family, especially to my wife, I ought to do: that I should be more than undone by the great and necessary charge of coming into this place; and must therefore be an humble petitioner to his Majesty, that if it should please God to take me out of the world, that I may unavoidably leave my wife a beggar, he would not suffer her to be so; and that he would graciously be pleased to consider, that the widow of an Archbishop of Canterbury (which would now be an odd figure in England) could not decently be supported by so little as would have contented her very well if I had died a Dean. To this he gave a very gracious answer, I promise you to take care of her.'

Just as I had finished the last sentence, another very kind letter from your Ladyship was brought to me, wherein I find your tender concern for me, which I can never sufficiently acknowledge. But you say the die is not cast, and I must now make the best I can of what I lately thought was the worst that could have happened to me. I thank God I am more cheerful than I expected, and comfort myself as I can with this hope, that the providence of God, to which I have submitted my own will in this matter, will graciously assist me to discharge in some measure, the duty he hath called me to. I did not acquaint my good friend, who wrote to you, with all that had passed, because it was intended to be a secret which I am sure is safe in your hands. I only told him, that his Majesty did not intend, as yet, to dispose of this place; but when he did it, I was afraid it would be hard for me to escape. The King, I believe, has only acquainted the Queen with it, who, as she came out of the closet on Sunday last, commanded me to wait upon her after dinner, which I did; and after she had dis

coursed about other business (which was to desire my opinion of a treatise sent her in manuscript out of Holland, tending to the reconciliation of our differences in England), she told me, that the King had with great joy acquainted her with a secret concerning me, whereof she was no less glad; using many gracious expressions, and confirming his Majesty's promises concerning my wife. But I am sensible this is an intolerable letter, especially concerning one's-self. I had almost forgot to mention Mr Vaughan's business as soon as he brought your Ladyship's letter hither to me, I wrote immediately to Whitehall, and got the business stop't. The Bishop of St. David's had written up for some minister of a great town but a small living in that diocese, that it might be bestowed on him for his pains in that great town. The pretence is fair, but if the Minister is no better a man than the bishop, I am sure he is not worthy of it. I have been twice to wait on my Lord Nottingham about it, but missed of him. When I have inquired farther into it, if the thing be fit to be done, I will do my best for Mr Vaughan. And I beg of your Ladyship to make no difficulty of commanding my poor service upon any occasion, for I am always truly glad of the opportunity. I cannot forbear to repeat my humble thanks for your great concernment for me in this affair.

That God would multiply his best blessings upon your Ladyship and your children, and make them great blessings and comforts to you, is the daily prayer of, Madam, your most obliged humble servant.

XCII.

This John Dennis is the man so familiar to the reader of Pope's satires. He was one of the most formidable critics of our Augustan age. The present letter is in answer to one he had addressed to Dryden a few days before, in which he had spoken very enthusiastically of the great poet's genius.

Dryden's kindly and genial temper is very pleasantly illustrated in this reply to his young admirer, though he alludes with some bitterness to the attacks which had been so unjustly made on his private character. The letter is interesting also for the critical remarks with which it is interspersed.

John Dryden to John Dennis.

[March, 1693-4.]

My Dear Mr. Dennis,-When I read a letter so full of my commendations as your last, I cannot but consider you as the

master of a vast treasure, who having more than enough for yourself, are forc'd to ebb out upon your friends. You have indeed the best right to give them, since you have them in propriety; but they are no more mine when I receive them, than the light of the moon can be allowed to be her own, who shines but by the reflexion of her brother. Your own poetry is a more powerful example, to prove that the modern writers may enter into comparison with the ancients, than any which Perrault could produce in France; yet neither he, nor you, who are a better critick, can persuade me, that there is any room left for a solid commendation at this time of day, at least for me.

If I undertake the translation of Virgil, the little which I can perform will shew at least, that no man is fit to write after him, in a barbarous modern tongue. Neither will his machines be of any service to a Christian poet. We see how ineffectually they have been try'd by Tasso, and by Ariosto. "Tis using them too dully, if we only make devils of his gods: as if, for example, I would raise a storm, and make use of Æolus, with this only difference of calling him Prince of the air; what invention of mine would there be in this? or who would not see Virgil through me; only the same trick play'd over again by a bungling juggler? Boileau has well observed, that it is an easy matter in a Christian poem, for God to bring the Devil to reason. I think I have given a better hint for new machines in my preface to Juvenal; where I have particularly recommended two subjects, one of King Arthur's conquest of the Saxons, and the other of the Black Prince in his conquest of Spain. But the Guardian Angels of Monarchies and Kingdoms are not to be touch'd by every hand: a man must be deeply conversant in the Platonick philosophy, to deal with them; and therefore I may reasonably expect that no poet of our age will presume to handle those machines, for fear of discovering his own. ignorance; or if he should, he might perhaps be ingrateful enough not to own me for his benefactour.

After I have confess'd thus much of our modern heroick poetry, I cannot but conclude with Mr. Rymer, that our English comedy is far beyond any thing of the Ancients and notwithstanding our irregularities, so is our tragedy. Shakspeare had a genius for it; and we know, in spite of Mr. Rymer, that genius alone is a greater virtue (if I may so call it) than all other qualifications put

together. You see what success this learned critick has found in the world, after his blaspheming Shakspeare. Almost all the faults which he has discover'd are truly there; yet who will read Mr. Rymer, or not read Shakspeare? For my own part I reverence Mr. Rymer's learning, but I detest his ill-nature and his arrogance. I indeed, and such as I, have reason to be afraid of him, but Shakspeare has not.

There is another part of poetry, in which the English stand almost upon an equal foot with the Ancients; and it is that which we call Pindarique; introduced, but not perfected, by our famous Mr. Cowley and of this, Sir, you are certainly one of the greatest masters. You have the sublimity of sense as well as sound, and know how far the boldness of a poet may lawfully extend. I could wish you would cultivate this kind of Ode; and reduce it either to the same measures which Pindar used, or give new measures of your own. For, as it is, it looks like a vast track of land newly discover'd: the soil is wonderfully fruitful, but unmanur'd; overstock'd with inhabitants, but almost all savages, without laws, arts, arms, or policy.

I remember, poor Nat. Lee, who was then upon the verge of madness, yet made a sober and a witty answer to a bad poet, who told him, It was an easie thing to write like a madman: No, said he, it is very difficult to write like a madman, but it is a very easy matter to write like a fool. Otway and he are safe by death from all attacks, but we poor poets militant (to use Mr. Cowley's expression) are at the mercy of wretched scribblers: and when they cannot fasten upon our verses, they fall upon our morals, our principles of state and religion. For my principles of religion, I will not justifie them to you: I know yours are far different. For the same reason I shall say nothing of my principles of state. I believe you in yours follow the dictates of your reason, as I in mine do those of my conscience.

I am

If I thought my self in an errour, I would retract it. sure that I suffer for them; and Milton makes even the Devil say, that no creature is in love with pain. For my morals betwixt man and man, I am not to be my own judge. I appeal to the world, if I have deceiv'd or defrauded any man; and for my private conversation, they who see me every day can be the best witnesses, whether or not it be blameless and inoffensive. Hitherto I have