ere was thus a
reason for speaking somewhat especially of Dryden's character as a
tragedian in drawing his character as a critic. But indeed the man, the
critic, and the poet, are one, and must be characterized as a whole; only
you may choose which aspect shall be principal. In studying his works you
are struck, throughout, with a mind loosely disciplined in its great
intellectual powers. In his critical writings, principles hastily proposed
from partial consideration, are set up and forgotten. He intends largely,
but a thousand causes restrain and lame the execution. Milton, in
unsettled times, maintained his inward tranquillity of soul--and "dwelt
apart." Dryden, in times oscillating indeed and various, yet quieter and
safer, discloses private disturbance. His own bark appears to be borne on
continually on a restless, violent, whirling, and tossing stream. It never
sleeps in brightness on its own calm and bright shadow. An unhappy
biography weaves itself into the history of the inly dwelling Genius.

His treatment of "The Tempest" shows that he wanted intelligence of
highest passion and imagination. One powerful mind must have discernment
of another; and he speaks best of Shakspeare when most generally. Then we
might believe that he understood him in all the greatness of his might;
but our belief cannot support itself among the many outrages offered by
him to nature, in a blind or wanton desecration of her holiest revealments
to her inspired priest. In the sense stated above, his transformation of
"The Tempest," is an implicit criticism of "The Tempest." And, assuredly,
there is no great rashness of theorizing in him who finds in this
barbarous murder, evidence to a lack of apprehension in Dryden, for some
part of the beauty which he swept away. It would be unjustifiable towards
the man to believe that, for the lowest legitimate end of a
playwright--money--or for the lower, because illegitimate end, the popular
breath of a day amongst a public of a day--he voluntarily ruined one of
the most delicate amongst the beautiful creations with which the divine
muse, his own patroness, had enlarged and adorned the bright world of
mind--ruined it down to the depraved, the degraded, the debased, the
grovelling, the vulgar taste of a corrupt court and town. "The Inchanted
Island" is a dolorous document ungainsayable, to the appreciation, in
particulars, by that Dryden who could, in generals, laud Shakspeare so
well--of that Shaksp