hat his poetry is, on the whole, free from it. In our
critical paper, prefixed to the Second Volume, we intend to examine the
question, how far an author's faults are, or are not, to be charged upon
his age.

His next poem was "Annus Mirabilis," published in 1667, and counted
justly one of his most vigorous, though also one of the faultiest of his
poems. It includes glowing, although somewhat quaint and fantastic,
descriptions of the Dutch War and the Great Fire in London. In 1668, by
the death of Sir William Davenant, the post of Poet-Laureate became
vacant, and Dryden was appointed to it. He was also appointed
historiographer-royal. The salary of these two offices amounted to L200
a year, besides the famous annual butt of canary, while his profits from
the theatre were equivalent to L300. His whole income was thus, at the
very least, equal to a thousand pounds of our money--a great sum for a
poet in that or in any age. He published, the same year, an Essay on
"Dramatic Poetry," vindicating his own practice of rhymed heroic verse
in plays;--a stupid French innovation, which all the ingenuity of a
Dryden defended in vain. It was cast into the shape of a dialogue,--the
Duke of Dorset being one of the respondents,--and formed the first
specimen of Dryden's easy, rambling, but most vivid, vigorous, and
entertaining prose. No one was ever more ready than he to render reasons
for his writings,--for their faults as well as merits,--and to show by
more ingenious arguments, that, if they failed, they _ought_ to have
succeeded.

At this time we may consider Dryden's prosperity, although not his
powers, to have culminated. He had a handsome income, a run of
unparalleled popularity as a playwright; he was Poet-Laureate, a
favourite at court, and on terms of intimacy with many of the nobility,
and many of the eminent men of letters. The public would have at that
time bid high for his very snuff-papers, and were thankful for whatever
garbage he chose to throw at them from the stage. How different his
position from that of the great blind old man, at this time residing in
Bunhill-fields in obscurity and sorrow, and preparing to put off his
tabernacle, and take his flight to the Heavens of God! The one heard
every night the "claps of multitudes,"--the other the whispers of
angels, saying to his soul, "Sister-spirit, come away." The one was
revelling in reputation,--the other was listening to the far-off echoes
of a coming fame as wi