A GRANDFATHER'S STORY-BOOK; or, TALES and LEGENDS, by a POOR SCHOLAR.
"_Dryden may be properly considered as the father of English criticism, as the writer who first taught us to determine upon principles the merit of composition._"--Samuel JOHNSON.
No one of the early prose testimonies to the genius of Shakspere has been more admired than that which bears the signature of John Dryden. I must transcribe it, accessible as it is elsewhere, for the sake of its juxtaposition with a less-known metrical specimen of the same nature.
"He [Shakspere] was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily: when he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is every where alike; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great when some great occasion is presented to him: no man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of poets,
_'Quantùm lenta solent inter viburna cupressi.'_"
John DRYDEN, _Of dramatick poesie, an essay_. London, 1668. 4to. p. 47.
The metrical specimen shall now take its place. Though printed somewhat later than the other, it has a much better chance of being accepted as a rarity in literature.
"In country beauties as we often see Something that takes in their simplicity, Yet while they charm they know not they are fair, And take without their spreading of the snare-- Such artless beauty lies in _Shakespear's_ wit; 'Twas well in spite of him whate'r he writ. His excellencies came, and were not sought, His words like casual atoms made a thought; Drew up themselves in rank and file, and writ, He wondering how the devil it were, such wit. Thus, like the drunken tinker in his play, He grew a prince, and never knew which way. He did not know what trope or figure meant, But to persuade is to be eloquent; So in this _Cæsar_ which this day you see, _Tully_ ne'er spoke as he makes _Anthony_. Those then that tax his learning are to blame, He knew the thing, but did not know the name; Great _Iohnson_ did that ignorance adore, And though he envied much, admir'd him more. The faultless _Iohnson_ equally writ well; _Shakespear_ made faults--but then did more excel. One close at guard like some old fencer lay, T'other more open, but he shew'd more play. In imitation _Iohnson's_ wit was shown, Heaven made _his_ men, but _Shakespear_ made his own. Wise _Iohnson's_ talent in observing lay, But others' follies still made up his play. He drew the like in each elaborate line, But _Shakespear_ like a master did design. _Iohnson_ with skill dissected human kind, And show'd their faults, that they their faults might find; But then, as all anatomists must do, He to the meanest of mankind did go, And took from gibbets such as he would show. Both are so great, that he must boldly dare Who both of them does judge, and both compare; If amongst poets one more bold there be, The man that dare attempt in either way, is he."