matured mind--of his waning
life; and they show a rare instance of a talent so steadfastly and
perseveringly self-improved, as that, in life's seventh decennium, the
growth of Art overweighed the detriment of Time. But, in good truth, no
detriment of time is here perceptible; youthful fire and accomplished
skill have the air of being met in these remarkable pieces. Chaucer, in
his last and greatest labour, the _Canterbury Tales_, first effectually
creating his own style, and his translator, Dryden, at about the same
years, excelling himself to infuse renovated life into the _Canterbury
Tales_--are brought singularly together.

The age of Chaucer was widely and variously different from that of
Dryden. Knowledge, taste, art, had advanced with strides between the two
dates; and the bleak and stormy English political atmosphere of the
fourteenth century had changed, notwithstanding the commotion of the
later civil war, into a far milder and more settled element when the
seventeenth drew towards close. Genius, likewise, in the two poets, was
distinguished by marked differences. Strength, simplicity, earnestness,
human affection, characterize Chaucer. Dryden has plenty of strength,
too, but it shows itself differently. The strength of Chaucer is called
out by the requisition of the subject, and is measured to the call.
Dryden bounds and exults in his nervous vigour, like a strong steed
broke loose. Exuberant power and rejoicing freedom mark Dryden
versifying--a smooth flow, a prompt fertility, a prodigal splendour of
words and images. Old Chaucer, therefore, having passed through the
hands of Dryden, is no longer old Chaucer--no longer Chaucer. But the
well-chosen, and well-disposed, and well-told tale, full of masculine
sense, lively with humour, made present with painting--for all this
Chaucer brings to Dryden--becomes, by nothing more than the
disantiquating and the different hand, a new poem.

Place the two side by side, and whilst you feel that a total change has
been effected, you shall not always easily assign the secret of the
change wrought. There then comes into view, it must be owned, something
like an unpractised awkwardness in the gait of the great elder bard,
which you less willingly believe, or to which you shut your eyes, when
you have him by himself to yourself. The step of Dryden is rapid, and
has perfect decision. He knows, with every spring he takes, where he
shall alight. Now Chaucer, you would often sa