In the energy and volume of his writings, Oldham closely resembles Dryden. This resemblance, it should be observed, is exempt from a suspicion of imitation, as Oldham really preceded Dryden in the pieces in which it exists, the Satires on the Jesuits having been written two years before the appearance of Absalom and Achitophel, the first of Dryden's satires. Even were it otherwise, his vehemence betrays a temperament too eager of utterance to wait upon the study of models. Whatever is in him, therefore, of excellence or failure, has at least the merit of unimpeachable originality. The ruggedness of his versification—evidence alike of carelessness in art, and of the rude strength that resists restraints—did not escape the friendly criticism of Dryden, who excuses it under the plea that Satire does not need the refinements of skilfully-balanced numbers. Another apology for these pieces may be found in the nature of their subjects, and the disposition of the times to which they were addressed. Their boldness secured them immediate audience, and their ruggedness gave them a rougher edge, like that of a jagged hatchet that mangles its victims. But Oldham's indifference to the structure of his lines appears chiefly in the Satires where he is carried away by the impetuosity of his feelings. In two or three of his minor pieces he shows himself capable of a more melodious treatment.[1] It must be confessed, however, that the title bestowed upon him by Dryden of the
- ↑ Oldham was not insensible to the charge of metrical harshness, and in one of his prefaces he defends himself on the ground that he was more occupied with the argument than the vehicle. 'I confess,' he says, 'I did not so much mind the cadence as the sense and expressiveness of my words, and therefore chose not those which were best disposed for placing themselves in rhyme, but rather the most keen and taunt, as being the most suitable to my argument. And certainly no one that pretends to distinguish the several colours of poetry would expect that Juvenal, when he is lashing vice and villany, should flow so smoothly as Ovid or Tibullus, when they are describing amours and gallantries, and have nothing to disturb and ruffle the evenness of their style.' This vindication of his ruggedness reveals one of his most conspicuous merits—his choice of language, which is at once familiar and striking, and everywhere the faithful representative of impulsive ardour and strong convictions.
