It was his unanticipated loyalty to royalty that led Charles II. to appoint him laureate to succeed Davenant, at the same time creating a post of literary honor and financial profit—historiographer—receiving £100 for each position. His honors cost him dearly in public favor. It was currently believed that he renounced the cause of the people for court favors, and Puritanism for self-advancement, and for a score of years he lost in popularity all that he won of financial ease and royal distinction. His greatness consisted in the sublime tact with which he used the opportunity that disfavor brought him to immortalize himself in verse. The Duke of Buckingham, the people’s favorite, ridiculed the laureate in scathing rhyme, which called forth vociferous applause from all the lesser poets whom envy and jealousy led to bitter hatred of the favorite of the court. Dryden had the grit and genius to hurl the masterpiece of his age at the whole range of critics under the title of “Absalom and Achitophel,” and by sheer superiority of brilliancy and wit dethroned Buckingham and seated himself on the throne of popular favor. A specimen of his characterization may not be amiss. “Some of their chiefs were princes of the land; In the first rank of these did Zimri stand. A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind’s epitome. Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts and nothing long; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chemist, fiddler, statesman and buffoon, Then _all_ for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Beside ten thousand freaks that died in thinking, Blest madman, who could every hour employ With something new to wish or to enjoy. Railing and praising were his usual themes, And both to show his judgment in extremes. So over violent or over civil, That every man with him was God or devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art, Nothing went unrewarded but desert. He laughed himself from court, then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne’er be chief. Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left.” Dryden was the first well-paid poet England ever had. For the translation of his fables he received £300, while for translating Virgil he received the fabulous sum of £1,200. His most distinguished poem is his “Ode to St. Cecilia,” which he wrote at the age of seventy, at a single all-night sitting. In the evening hour the thought occurred to him and he could not drop his pen until at dawn the last word was on paper.