ESSAY- ON LTON 1 PR 35SI .Viz \§MA nH'ifi CAlMYf LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. ChapJ..l\r Copyright No..-_ &£J)ji UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. fymtye digital) Classics MACAULAY'S ESSAY ON MILTON EDI TED, H'/TH INTRODUCTION, NOTES, ETC. BY ALBERT PERRY WALKER, M.A. MASTER, AND TEACHER OF ENGLISH AND HISTORY, IN THE ENGLISH HIGH SCHOOL, BOSTON D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS 1900 £855 TWO COFlti DECEIVED, Ubrtnr of C«ngr««% Office of th« JUN 7 - 1900 BegUUr of CooyrtfMfc a, / t ] iat ^jg ma stery over " what the essayist has to say " 4 & j s mos t rea( iily obtained by tracing the original process of thought pursued by the author in constructing his essay, — by analyzing what he has synthesised. But it is to be noted that a good topical analysis must not only express the successive thoughts, but also exhibit their logical relations. Such an outline as the one framed by Carlyle, to be published in connection with his Life of Bums, 1 illustrates very forcibly the irregular and fragmen- tary habit of thinking which constitutes a distinct fault in Carlyle's mental procedure, and consequently in his literary work. Such an outline can do little to aid the reader in securing a structural view of the essay; for the main divisions of thought, the relation of sub- ordinate to primary ideas, and the development of an idea from a preceding one are not exhibited either by the form or by the phrase- ology of the outline with sufficient clearness to render it valuable as an aid to the memory. But a correct analytical study of Value literary structure is doubly disciplinary, — it fits the pupil, . , when in the attitude of a listener, to receive the thoughts method. ' . > . which great authors have to convey, and, when in the attitude of a speaker, to impart his ideas, and both with a clarity and com- 1 See Carlyle's Life of Burns, Edited by A. J. George. (Heath.) MILTON. xin prehensive reach of thought unknown before. For in the former case, through this habit of observing successive changes of subject and their logical connection, his mind follows lectures, debates, and all spoken discourse with perfect grasp of the whole and its com- ponent parts, and he is able to reproduce them with great fulness and accuracy ; while in the latter case (since like begets like) his own forms of expression begin to exhibit the same clear, orderly, systematic qualities which he has found to be characteristic of the work of all good writers. In view of the large amount of ground to be covered, and the necessarily limited time that can be given to this phase e . of study, it is hardly likely that pupils can find time to perfect ^ bQQk a detailed analysis of the entire text of one of Macaulay's and ^.^ essays. For this reason, and in order to make the pupil's use> initiation into this study of structure quite simple, enabling him to grasp readily the proper method of structural analysis, the text has been partially analyzed by the editor, enough analytical work, however, being left undone to allow practice by the pupil, who should prepare a detailed analysis of the essay, in which, by suitable indentation, the relation of each subordinate topic to some more comprehensive one should be indicated. When this analysis has been satisfactorily completed, the student will have in his pos- session a compacted framework or skeleton of Macaulay's subject- matter, to which, through the process of mental association, he can easily attach the specific facts and judgments which constitute Macaulay's contribution to the reader's knowledge of the person or subject under discussion. (c) Form. Macaulay is noteworthy for his limited use of superficial ornament. He employs similes, metaphors, and the more ornamenti artificial figures of speech very sparely. It will be found that he rarely makes use of these figures (as do the poets) for the pur- pose of creating beautiful pictures in the mind. His similes are merely devices for securing clearness and vigor of impression. The comparisons are drawn almost wholly from historical and literary xiv MILTON. sources, not from the imaginary scenes to which the poet commonly has recourse. But he is enabled, by his prodigious memory, so easily to recall the details of such facts that he repeatedly makes the mistake of assuming a like power in his readers, and thus his illus- trations are sometimes more obscure than the point upon which they assume to throw light. So numerous are his historical allusions that the student is not recommended to attempt to trace them in detail. 1 In the dress of his Essays, Macaulay relies for elegance not upon the jewels of speech, but upon the form and texture of ornament. , , . , ; his work. In his paragraphs, the opening sentences either clearly announce the subject, or serve as transitional passages from one topic to another. Unity is preserved with scrupulous care. He employs long and short sentences in judicious alternation. He makes use most frequently of the " periodic " structure, in which the thought is held in suspense for an appreciable time, in order that it may then be carried onward and upward to a dramatic climax. He also delights in the " balanced " sentence. Indeed, the love of contrast was developed in him so strongly as almost to consti- tute a fault; and it is to be feared that occasionally his opinion, or at least the expression of his opinion, was determined by the possi- bility of setting forth some brilliant rhetorical antithesis. 4. Fruits of this Method of Study. An li -a- ^ f°^ ows fr° m these observations that one of the fruits of tion to the the study of Macaulay's Essays should be the vitalizing of the study of pupil's knowledge of rhetorical principles. In them he may rhetoric. study, not passages artirically constructed by a pedagogue to exemplify a rule of procedure, but the living, effective messages framed by a man for the purpose of interesting and convincing 1 The question of how thoroughly pupils should be expected to in- vestigate the allusions contained in a literary work is so much a matter of dispute that the editor is tempted to utter a word of advice or caution. In Macaulay's works the allusions are abundant and recondite. They consist largely of matters of special knowledge, quite outside of any general literary equipment ; and in his case, at least, the student^ of secondary school grade should not expend time and strength in investi- MILTON. xv his fellow-men — the written product, from which through obser- vation the rules of effective expression may be derived. If through Macaulay's example the pupil should be inspired to endeavor to make his own written expression more coherent, orderly, direct, clear, vigorous, the study of these essays would need no further justification. If, in addition to this, his power of retaining and using historical information should be strengthened, if his mind should be stored with vividly conceived scenes and characters highly significant in the history of his race, and if above all, his aesthetic nature should be wakened to respond to the charm which good literature exerts over the cultivated mind, so that he might enter into a more complete life through his study of good litera- ture, — then only would he have utilized to the full the opportuni- ties for culture which these Essays present. gating an allusion if the expression of which it forms a part is clearly understood in its meaning and its bearing upon the subject of discussion. Of all the lines of investigation suggested by any of Macaulay's Essays, the most profitable is not the investigation of allusions, but the reading of illustrative passages from the works of the author who is the subject of criticism. SKETCH OF ENGLISH HISTORY, i 608-1688. 1. The English Government. Form of At the time of Milton's birth, Elizabeth, the last of the govern- Tudor monarchs of England, had been dead five years. The ment. fabric of government which she bequeathed to her successors, the Stuart monarchs, was essentially feudal in form. The principle of heredity governed the descent of the crown, and the nation was divided into three social classes, on lines determined by feudal con- ditions : the nobility (or peerage), the lesser aristocracy (or knight- hood), and the commons. The legislative power resided in Parliament, the upper house of which contained all hereditary nobles (" Lords Temporal ") and all archbishops and bishops of the national church ("Lords Spiritual"), while the lower house contained representa- tives from each county (" Knights of the Shire ") and from each lesser political unit or borough (" burgesses"). Owing to a system of restrictions on suffrage and to the fact that the land was owned largely by nobles whose tenants were entirely subservient to ppom lv. t h e j r w i s hes, the election of many members was wholly a members. . ' . , matter of form, they being merely the appointees of the owner of the borough. The executive work of the government was intrusted by e ing s ^ monarc j 1 to officials appointed by him on the ground of ministers. ...... r . . , . ■ . . . , their ability, or of their subservience to his wishes, or too often of their personal acceptability alone. The Privy Council had been originally a small body of the ~ ., most eminent nobles, who were summoned by the monarch Council. . . , ' . ' to give him special advice upon matters of state policy. Included in it were the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Lord Chief Justice, the Lord Treasurer, the two Archbishops of the State Church (see p. xvii), the Lord Steward, the Lord Chamberlain, the xvi MILTON. xvii Earl Marshal, etc. Thus it contained elements from the departments of Finance, Justice, etc., and a permanent group of high executive officers, mostly appointive, but some {e.g. archbishops) members by virtue of their office. It modified the king's arbitrary power by refusing the seal (see Index) to royal orders of which it disapproved, but as its members were almost all subject to removal from their offices, it presented no insurmountable obstacle to the king's will. The Privy Council had risen to great importance under Powers the Tudors, first by gaining control of certain territory, and of the later by assuming the right to issue proclamations, to create Council, courts, and to exercise judicial powers in cases of supreme impor- tance in the state. 1 Thus the Stuart monarchs found in the Privy Council a strong weapon of tyranny when it was subservient to the Crown, and a powerful barrier to tyranny when ranged in defence of the established rights of the nation. Among the political changes which had been brought The Stcitc about during the reign of the Tudors had been a revolt r , , from the government of the Church of Rome, resulting in the establishment of a new ecclesiastical organization (the Church of England) as a department of the state. Parljament had enacted laws to the effect (i) that the creed of this church should consist of "thirty-nine articles" (or statements of religious dogma), then first formulated; (2) that its supreme government should reside in the monarch, as chief executive; (3) that its worship should conform to a prescribed ritual, then first composed; (4) that its membership should include all the citizens of the state; and (5) that its property and revenues should be administered through the agency of the state. Adherence to this church and conform- f ity with its practice had been made universally compulsory. But this revolt under the Tudors had been merely one expression of a general spirit of independence that prevailed throughout the nation. Many Englishmen still adhered to the authority of the Roman Church, many disagreed with some of the f ^, e n . religious theories contained in the Thirty-nine Articles. senters •• Thus there arose a large body of disaffected people, who 1 While thus engaged it was called the Court of High Commission. xviii MILTON. strove in one way or another against the State Church. One body (the Puritans) developed within the pale of the church, through the action of clergymen who, while accepting in the main the results of the recent revolt, wished to " purify " the doctrines of the church of what they considered to be errors, and to " purify " its worship of many rites and practices inherited from the Roman Catholic regime. These Puritans, the Catholics, and divers other persons of independent views, constituted a body of rebels against the authority of the state in religious matters; thus a group of sects (" Dissenters ") appears in England, suffering greatly from the persecutions of state officials, but recruiting their numbers steadily, especially from the ranks of the commoners. At first, most of the Puritans looked with favor upon a democratic re . s y~ form of church government, which had been evolved by terians. ° John Calvin, in Geneva, in which the churches, instead of being controlled by the state officials, would be united in a sort of federation, and governed by representative bodies, called " Presby- teries." Many others advocated extreme individualism in religion — the voluntary formation of single churches, wholly self- , controlled. Thus arose the two great Protestant dissenting sects of Presbyterians and Independents (known alike as " Non-conformists " to the ordinances of the state in religious matters), the latter of which ultimately attracted to itself the most aggressive Puritans, and gained an ascendency in public affairs. 1 2. The Early Stuart Monarchs, i 603-1 649. The reign of the Tudors in England having come to an end by the death of Elizabeth, the " Virgin Queen," last of the direct line, the succession devolved upon Tames Stuart (Tames I. of Eng- To mpc T J land), the great-grandson of her father's sister Margaret, P rsonal w ^° ^ a d marr i e d the king of Scotland. Thus, between union of I ^°3 an< ^ I 7°7' tne same monarchs reigned over the king- England doms of England and of Scotland, although the kingdoms and were wholly distinct, each being governed according to its Scotland. own fundamental constitution through its own Parliament. 1 See p. xx. MILTON. x i x A peculiarity of the early Stuart monarchs of England was their adherence to the doctrine of "the divine right of " Divine kings." This doctrine, in brief, was that an hereditary " ght " of monarchy is a divinely instituted form of government; that S ' a monarch is, therefore, responsible to God alone for the way in which he governs his realm ; and that, while he should aim to rule solely for the good of his subjects, they have no right to bid defiance to his edicts or to reject him when his government becomes ob- noxious to them.. Very early in his reign James showed his arbitrary temper by his determination, in spite of strong popular disapproval, to enforce the Act of Uniformity (see p. xvii) upon all Puritans and Catholics. This tyranny gave rise to the abortive Gunpowder Gun P ow - Plot to assassinate the king and the leaders of the State der Plot ' Church by blowing up the Houses of Parliament at the opening session on November 5, 1605, a day which has since been celebrated with rejoicings for the salvation of the monarch and the church. To his dogged insistence upon the theory of divine right the second Stuart monarch, Charles I., ultimately sacrificed T y rann y of his life. He quarrelled continuously with his Parliament in Charles L regard to the revenues and expenditures of the nation. He was compelled to summon Parliaments in order to procure money to carry out his schemes in regard to European politics, which involved wars with foreign nations ; but finding that each Parliament reso- lutely insisted upon securing a redress of wrongs inflicted by the monarch upon the nation, he dismissed two of these almost as soon as they were assembled. The third Parliament attempted to delimit the field of battle by presenting a statement of fundamental principles governing the relations of the king and the people, The called the Petition of Right, whose import can be expressed as Petition follows: "It is illegal for the king (1) to levy money arbi- Rlght * trarily; (2) to imprison arbitrarily; (3) to billet soldiers on citi- zens; (4) to apply martial law to civil cases." By ratifying this petition, Charles appeared to admit the claims of its authors ; but he continued to exact money illegally, and a new protest by Parlia- ment was followed by its dissolution. of xx MILTON. For eleven years the king governed without a Parliament, em- ploying such devices as the sale of monopolies, forced loans, and the levying of ship-money. This, which was theoretically money. , ,.,..,. , . the tax levied in times of war upon seaports for their own defence, was now levied upon every town in the kingdom in times of peace. John Hampden tested its legality by refusing to pay his tax of twenty shillings, but the courts decided against him. The attempt to procure an income through arbitrary taxation proving a failure, the king was forced again to summon a Parliament in 1640. This body speedily passed a bill depriving the king of his power of dissolving Parliament, and thus assured itself of a long tenure of power, that ultimately won for it the name of the Long Parliament Parliament " To these political causes of alienation between monarch and people the intensifying element of religious differences had not been wanting. Through his minister, Laud, Archbishop of Canter- bury, Charles had endeavored to crush out Puritanism within the church, to increase in every way possible the features in which the English and the Roman churches stood on common ground, and to extend the domain of the Established Church over both his king- doms, to the utter rooting out of Presbyterianism. This last attempt alienated practically the entire Scotch nation from his cause, and led to their adoption of the famous " Solemn League and Covenant " to defend the Presbyterian religion. The king's repeated acts of tyranny finally provoked a civil Execu- W ar between the monarch, upheld by most of the nobility, Charles I anc * tne ^ ower House of Parliament. This House at first was dominated by members of the Presbyterian faith, but the Independents (see p. xviii), getting control of the army, expelled by force the Presbyterian members, and thereby' made possible a solution of the difficulties satisfactory to themselves. Having been condemned to death by a court especially created by the House of Commons to try him, the king was executed on the thirtieth of January, 1649. The monarchical and aristrocratic elernents were eliminated from the government and the popular representative body, the House of Commons, in its diminished form, assumed entire control of the nation. MILTON. xxi 3. The Puritan Regime, 1649-1660. Oliver Cromwell, the most forceful character in the Com- mons and the army, speedily made his way to complete control q n of affairs through his masterly handling of the army in sup- pressing all uprisings of the adherents of the late king. The few fea- tures which remained operative from the former constitution were done away with, and after a disturbed period of govern- lr | s t rument _ . ,. „, „ .... . of Govern- ment by inefficient Parliaments, Cromwell arbitrarily assumed ment the direction of affairs, and a new written constitution, called the Instrument of Government, was adopted in 1653. Under this constitution the supreme executive power was vested in Cromwell under the title of Lord Protector. Four years later the value of his strong arm in holding the turbulent factors under control was so clearly recognized, that Parliament in the Humble Petition and Advice, recommending certain changes in the constitu- ^ um , , • • r ■,- , Petition tion, invited him to accept the title and dignity of King; but anc j Advice this he refused to do. The Puritan movement had rested upon two supports, popular indignation against the incorrigible absolutism of p ur j tan j sm Charles I., and the development of the army as a weapon of defence against this tyranny, — a weapon swayed by religious fanat- icism, and wielded and tempered by a leader who was a military genius and a master of men. The movement never comprised in its adherents the majority of the nation; the masses merely acqui- esced in it. Therefore, it could not survive the storm of indigna- tion that followed Charles's execution, the subsidence of the spirit of rebellion against monarchy now that its immediate provoking cause was removed, the reaction of hope that Charles's heir might not have inherited his political vices, and finally the death of Cromwell and the disintegration of his weapon, the army, through lack of use. Oliver Cromwell died September 3, 1658. His son and successor, Richard Cromwell, was no statesman, and the toration, turbulent and warring faction in the state gave him so much I ^ Q trouble, that he was soon glad to resign the reins of govern- ment. A war between different portions of the army was imminent, xxii MILTON. but Monk, general of the Scottish division, marched to London, called together a Parliament (giving it all the technical legality possible by summoning to it all the persons who had been legally elected to the last Parliament summoned by Charles L), and pro- cured the restoration of the feudal organization under the govern- ment of the legal heir to the throne (Charles II., son of the Charles who had been executed), and also the restoration of the Protestant religion as it had existed at the accession of Charles I. The character of the luxurious and dissolute court of Moials oi Charles II. Macaulay has sketched in a single paragraph Charles II ( see ^ 7^)* ^ ne literature of the period took its tone from the prevailing manners of the court. The first decade, it is true, gave to the world Milton's Paradise Lost. But the purity and elevation of his work is contrasted with a licentiousness and levity in the other writers of the period that even their brilliant talents, often approaching genius, cannot render tolerable. The greatest writer, and the only one whose works have continued to command the esteem of the public, was John Dryden, whose work Uiyden s comprised dramas, religious poems, translations, and satires Absalom . ,. . , , . , ... . . . , on the political and social conditions of the times. Absalom Ahitophel. and Ahitophel, the foremost of English satires, dealt with the Catholic agitation which then absorbed court and country. In this poem the names are borrowed from that instance in the history of Israel when Ahitophel aided Absalom, favorite son of David, King of Israel, to rebel against his father. Dryden depicted the Duke of Monmouth, Protestant candidate for the throne, as the favorite Absalom, and the Duke of Shaftesbury, head of the anti- Catholic incendiaries, as Ahitophel, defeated conspirator and traitor, driven by exposure to flight and speedy death (see p. xxiv). 4. The Middle Stuart Monarchs, 1660-1688. At the restoration of the Stuarts, in 1660, an act of indemnity for offences committed during the late struggle was passed, but the regicides were especially exempted from its operation. The Policy of resentment against them went so far that in January, 1661, Charles II. eyen ^ t j ea j k 0( jies f Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshavv MILTON. xxiii were taken from their tombs and hung at Tyburn. This extreme reaction against democracy and the Puritan religion brought about a frantic zeal for the maintenance of the state religion. Laws were passed aiming to restrict officers in P „ municipal positions to adherents of the State Church; and ^^ the creed of that church was so rigidly enforced upon clergy- men and teachers in the universities that two thousand of their number were forced to give up their positions. These formed the nucleus of what became later a powerful body of Non-conformists. Anothercause conspired with the dread of repeating the disastrous experiment of Puritanism, to create this stringent defence of the integrity of the state religion, — the fear of a relapse to Catholicism. The king was secretly pledged to restore that ,. .11 Catholic religion in England whenever it was practicable. His brother a ~: tat : on James, Duke of York, prospective heir to the throne, was professedly a Catholic. As the first step toward the conversion of England, the king tried to purchase toleration for Catholicism by offering toleration of dissenters, who otherwise were forbidden to meet as congregations for religious worship in groups of more than five. Parliament not only compelled the king to withdraw his offer, but also decreed that all government officers as well as ,, , ' 1 est Act, municipal officers must be communicants in the State Church. This forced out of office the king's brother James, who was at the head of the navy, and many of the king's leading ministers resigned. Five years later a rascal named Titus Oates made public an . , alleged plot of the Catholics to murder the king, with the „ object of clearing a way for the immediate succession of James to the throne, and the subsequent reestablishment of the Catholic religion in England. The Earl of Shaftesbury, an unscru- pulous politician, who had lately lost the favor both of the king and of the champions of Protestantism, determined to recover his lost influence in the national councils by fomenting the terrors created by this revelation. Other persons were induced, by love of notoriety or by the large rewards offered for information, to corroborate and enlarge upon the statements made by Oates, and Shaftesbury suc- ceeded in convincing the nation that it had just escaped a Catholic V xxiv MILTON. revolution. Many peers, and even the queen herself, were implicated in these charges. Two thousand suspects were sent to prison ; guards controlled the streets of London. In the height of this excitement Parliament framed a bill to exclude Catholics from both Houses of Parliament. In the existing temper of the people, it was deemed wise that the Duke of York should withdraw from the king- „ " dom; and the panic could be allayed only by the introduction of a bill called the " Exclusion Bill," to exclude the Duke of York from the succession to the throne. But the testimony produced by Shaftesbury, at last exaggerated beyond the credulity of even so excited a populace, reacted against him; and the court party was able temporarily to check the passage of the bill, and later to drive Shaftesbury into exile. The failure of the exclusionists had been in part the result of their divided counsels; for most of their number had wished the suc- cession to devolve upon the Princess Mary, the oldest child of fames II., while Shaftesbury had determined that it should Monmouth. „ „ _ , _ ,, , .„ . . fall upon the Duke of Monmouth, an illegitimate son of Charles II., who posed as the champion of Protestantism, and claimed to be rightful heir to the throne by virtue of an alleged secret marriage between his mother and the king. To strengthen his cause, Shaftesbury had endeavored to marshal the country against the court, and had formed a committee to procure petitions to the king to assemble Parliament, for he believed that in the present temper of the nation that body would be subservient to his wishes. The Parliament thus summoned had been dissolved in a few „ ,. months, another Parliament being called to meet in Oxford, i^i 1*1 1 3 m f*n t 6g ' aloof from the noise of the turbulent capital. Thither the king repaired, accompanied by a body of his guards. Shaftes- bury and his adherents also came to the meeting accompanied by troops. This partisan Parliament, ignoring all constitutional re- straints in their attacks on the court party, and rejecting all inter- mediate courses proposed by the moderates, had insisted on the absolute exclusion of James from the succession, and had attempted to revive the burned-out fires of the Popish Plot agitation; but the king, shrewdly relying on the excesses of the Parliament to justify his course to the nation, had dissolved it with its work still undone. MILTON. xxv This success of the court in its contest with Shaftesbury was in turn shaken by a new plot formed by the exclusionists. " R ^ e The plan provided for securing a Protestant sovereign by the p, l\. e 6g assassination of both Charles and James, as they passed a farm-house in Hertfordshire, called the Rye House, belonging to one of the conspirators, on their way from Newmarket to London; but their journey was delayed, the plot was subsequently betrayed, and the conspirators paid the penalty of their crime upon the scaffold. The failure of this plot and the odium which it brought upon the anti-court party (Whigs) removed for the time all Accessi °n opposition to the succession of the Duke of York. On the jt J ames death of Charles II. in 1685 his claim to the throne of Eng- land was undisputed, except by Monmouth, who attempted Execution to raise the west of England in the defence of his claims, but of Mon- was defeated at Sedgemoor, captured, and executed. mouth. The religious excitement continued unabated during the reign of James II. Matters reached a climax in 1688, three R / V °io tion years after James s accession to the throne. He attempted by an edict to abrogate laws against Catholicism which had » Declara- been passed to secure beyond all question the dominance of tion of the Protestant religion. This edict, illegal in itself, was made Liberty of more obnoxious to the clergy by an order directing them to ( ~'? n ~ read it in their several churches on a certain date. Thus science * they were compelled, as it seemed to them, to share in the • Trial of the overthrow of their own church. Seven of the Bishops of the Blsho P s - State Church ventured to petition the king not to enforce his order, and he, in a passion at this questioning of the royal prerogative, threw them into prison. The courts did not sustain him in his tyranny, but public sentiment was so outraged by his act that a group of seven ministers and statesmen determined to put an end to the struggle with the Stuarts by inviting the husband of James's elder daughter (who was stadtholder of the Dutch Republic) to interfere for the protection of the liberties of England. This man, William, Prince of Orange, landed in the west of England with a military expedition on November 5, 1688, and marched upon London, meeting with only a formal and faint-hearted resistance xxvi MILTON. from the people, who were alienated from James by repeated acts of tyranny. James fled to France, and William, since he could not legally summon a Parliament, issued writs for the election of a " Convention." This body declared that by virtue of recent events "the throne had thereby become vacant"; and by its authority, in February, 1689, the Prince of Orange was crowned as King William III., after having given his formal assent to a statement of the fun- damental principles of the English Monarchy, presented to Declaia- j lim ^ ^ conven ti n under the guidance of the body of Rights " Ministers who had assumed the direction of affairs. These statesmen were determined not only to endure no longer the tyranny of James Stuart, but also to secure such recognition of the fundamental rights which the Stuarts had persistently denied them as should leave no ground for further dispute with any monarch. The principles enunciated in this statement were afterward incor- porated into the series of laws which were enacted by Parliament under the name of the " Bill of Rights." The statement itself, called the " Declaration of Rights," is, next to " Magna Charta," the most important document in English history. The succession to the throne was now fixed by act of Parliament upon James's Act of c . younger daughter, Anne, and her heirs; these failing, it was to pass to the descendants of his cousin Sophia, who had married the Prince of the German State of Hanover. Chronological Table of the Notable Events referred to in the Essay on Milton. 1603. 1605. 1608. 1616. 1618. 1625. 1629. 1631. i632i 1634. 1637- 1637. 1638. 1640. 1642. 1643. 1649. 1649. 1651. 1653- ^657- 1657. 1660. 1660. 1660. 1665. 1667. 1670. 1671. 1672. 1673- 1674. 1678. 1679. 1681. 1683. 1685. 1685. 1688. 1688. 1688. 1689. POLITICAL HISTORY. Accession of James I. Gunpowder Plot. Accession of Charles I. Cromwell's first speech in Pari. First " Ship Money " Writ. Long Parliament assembled. Outbreak of Civil War. Accession of Louis XIV. in France. Independents seize control of Parliament. Execution of Charles I. Establishment of the Common- [ WEALTH. Establishment of the Protecto- rate. The Hitmble Petition and Ad- vice. Death of Cromwell. Discord. Restoration of Charles II. Corporation Act. Act of Uniformity. Secret treaty, Test Act. Charles II. and [Louis XIV. Popish Plot. Exclusion Bill. Oxford Parliament. Rye House Plot. Accession of James II. Monmouth's rebellion. April, Declaration for Liberty May, [of Conscience. June, Trial of the Bishops. June, Invitation to William of Orange. November, Landing of William. December, Flight of James II. February, Accession of William III. and Mary under the Declaration of Rights. December, Bill of Rights. LITERARY HISTORY. Milton b., December 9. Shakespeare d. Cowley b. Moliere b. Milton enters Cambridge University. Milton writes Ode on the Nativity. Dryden b. Milton writes L' Allegro, II Penseroso. Milton writes Comus. Milton writes Lycidas. Ben Jonson d. Milton travels on the Continent. Milton, settled in London, defends, in [pamphlets, the rights of the people. Milton becomes Latin Secretary, and [continues his pamphlets. Milton writes the Defensio. Milton begins Paradise Lost. Milton finishes Paradise Lost. Cowley d. Swift b. Congreve b. Milton writes Paradise Regained and Addison b. [Samson Agonistes. Milton d. Pope b. BIBLIOGRAPHY. MACAULAY. Chiefly Biographical. Life of Macaulay. i. By G. O. Trevelyan. (2 vols., Harpers.) 2. By J. Cotter Morison. English Men of Letters Series. (Harpers.) 3. By C. H. Jones. (Appleton.) Chiefly Critical. Essays on Macaulay's Literary Work. 1. By Walter Bagehot. In Literary Studies, Vol. II. 2. By Leslie Stephen. In Hours in a Library, Vol. III. 3. By Matthew Arnold. In Mixed Essays. General Criticism. In Minto's Manual of English Prose, pp. 87-130; Taine's History of English Literature, III., pp. 256-294; and Clark's A Study of English Prose Writers, pp. 420-454. MILTON. Chiefly Biographical. Life of Milton. 1. By David Masson. (6 vols., Macmillan.) 2. By Mark Pattison. English Men of Letters Series. (Har- pers.) 3. By Richard Garnett. (Scribner.) 4. By Stopford A. Brooke. Classical Writers Series. (Ap- pleton.) Chiefly Critical. Essays on Milton. 1. By Matthew Arnold. I n Es says in Criticism, Second Series. 2. By Walter Bagehot. In Literary Studies, Vol. I. 3. By Edward Dowden. In Transcripts and Studies. 4. By Jamas Russell Lowell. In Among my Books or Prose Works, Vol. IV. xxviii BIBLIOGRAPHY. xxix DESCRIPTIVE LIST OF MILTON'S WORKS MENTIONED IN THIS ESSAY. L Allegro (about 1632) is a poem in 152 lines of iambic tetrameter, describing the varied pleasures of a single day as they would pre- sent themselves to the mind of a man in an Open, merry-hearted mood. // Penseroso (about 1632) is a companion poem in the same form, describing in rather more detail the pleasures that present them- selves to the contemplative, serious-minded man, during the same period of time. Cotnus (1634) is a masque, treating of the escape of a lady from the trap set for her by an enchanter, Comus ; an escape made possible through her strength of character and her faith in God. It was composed for the Earl of Bridgewater, and was played at Ludlow Castle, Wales, at Michaelmas time, 1634. Animadversions upon the Remonstrant's Defence against Smectymnuus (1641) was an attack upon the High-Church party, who were battling against Puritanism. Their champion, Bishop Hall, is the " Remonstrant " referred to, he having issued a pamphlet called Humble Remonstrance to the High Court of Parliament. To this five Puritan divines had replied in the pamphlet Smectymnuus, and Hall had issued a rejoinder. Milton's pamphlet, although powerful, was outdone by another from his pen a few months later, The Reason of Church Government urged against Prelaty (1641), although both presented with extraordinary force the arguments of the Puritans against the extension of the Episcopal form of church government. The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce Restored, to the good of both Sexes (1643). The Judgment of Martin Bucee concerning Divorce (1644). Tetrachordon ( 1 644) . Colasterion (1644). These four books treat of the principles of marriage and divorce as formulated by Milton from his own interpretation of the Scriptures. This was, in brief, that the conception of marriage as a sacrament was an invention of the priesthood, having no sanction in Scripture or reason ; and that, therefore, divorce should be the remedy for any incompatibility of temper that might develop between husband and wife. The action of the authorities in regard to his first pamphlet on divorce led to the publication of his Areopagitica, A Speech of Mr. John Milton for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing, to the Parliament of England (1644), "the most popular xxx BIBLIOGRAPHY. and eloquent, if not the greatest, of all Milton's prose writings." It attacked the " censorship " system, which required all books to be licensed by one of the official censors, and to be registered in the books of the Stationers' Company. Milton, by his neglect of these technicalities in the first pamphlet, had laid himself open to attack, but he sturdily refused to have the Areopagitica either licensed or registered. Eikonoclastes was a pamphlet written to neutralize the effect on the popular mind of a work called Eikon Basilike, which had lately appeared and won extensive circulation. The title (meaning " Royal Image ") indicates its nature. Although purporting to be a chronicle written by Charles I., detailing his sufferings at the hands of his rebellious people, it was really a spurious document, composed by enthusiastic Jacobites; and Milton's pamphlet was intended to destroy the favorable conception of the king which the Eikon was designed to create. The Jacobites renewed the combat by engaging the noted scholar Salmasius, of Leyden, to produce in Latin a Defencio Regia pro Carolo I., and Milton was deputed to reply to this in his Pro Populo Anglicano Defensio (1651), a book whose exposition of the cause of the Parliament proved a bulwark of defence against the Jacobite agitation. The Jacobites once more appealed to the public with their Regli Sanguinis Clamor ad Ccelum adversus Parricidas Angllcanos, and again Milton responded with his Pro Populo Anglicano Defensio Secunda (1654). No other works of importance appeared before the publication of his Paradise Lost (1667), the character of which is sufficiently indicated in this Essay. The supplementary work, Paradise Regained (1671), treats of the temptation of Christ- during his forty days' fast in the wilderness. The theme proved difficult to treat because of the lack of action in the experiences described, the heroism displayed being exhibited in winning spiritual rather than physical victories, and most of the movement occurring in scenes introduced as visions, not as actual occurrences. The same year with this volume appeared Samson Agonistes (1671), a dramatic ode founded on the captivity of the Hebrew Samson, and his triumph over his enemies in the hour of death. The only posthumous work of any importance is the De Doctrina Christiana, written late in his life, and sufficiently described in the opening paragraphs of this Essay. ESSAY ON MILTON. {Edinburgh Review, August, 1825.) Joannis Miltojii, Angli, de Doctrina Christiana libri duo posthumi. A Treatise on Christian Doctrine, compiled from the Holy Scriptures alone. By John Milton, translated from the Original by Charles R. Sumner, M.A., &c. &c. 1825. 1. Towards the close of the year 1823, Mr. Lemon, deputy-keeper of the state papers, in the course of his -researches among the presses of his office, met with a Milton a large Latin manuscript. With it were found cor- Ms - 5 rected copies of the foreign despatches written by Milton, while he filled the office of Secretary, 1 and several papers relating to the Popish Trials 2 and the Rye-house Plot. 3 The whole was wrapped up in an envelope, superscribed To Mr. Skinner, Merchant. On examination, the large 10 manuscript proved to be the long lost Essay on the Doc- trines of Christianity, which, according to Wood and Toland, Milton finished after the Restoration, 4 and de- posited with Cyriac Skinner. Skinner, it is well known, held the same political opinions with his illustrious friend. 15 It is therefore probable, as Mr. Lemon conjectures, that he may have fallen under the suspicions of the govern- ment during that persecution of the Whigs which fol- 1 p. xxvii. 2 p. xxiii. 3 p. xxv. 4 p. xxi. 2 MILTON. lowed the dissolution of the Oxford parliament, 1 and that, in consequence of a general seizure of his papers, this work may have been brought to the office in which it has been found. But whatever the adventures of the manuscript may have been, 2 no doubt can exist that it is 5 a genuine relic of the great poet. 2. Mr. Sumner, who was commanded by his Majesty to edit and translate the treatise, has acquitted himself its transla- °^ ms tas ^ * n a manner honourable to his talents tion into and to his character. His version is not indeed 10 English. yer y eag y or e i e g ant . b ut . j t i s entitled to the praise of clearness and fidelity. His notes abound with inter- esting quotations, and have the rare merit of really eluci- dating the text. The preface is evidently the work of a sensible and candid man, firm in his own religious opin- 15 ions, and tolerant towards those of others. 3. The book itself will not add much to the fame of Milton. It is, like all his Latin works, well written, though not exactly in the style of the prize essays of Oxford and Cambridge. ^There is no elaborate 20 imitation of classical antiquity, no scrupulous purity, none -~©f the ceremonial cleanness which characterises the dic- tion of our academical Pharisees. 2 The author does not attempt to polish and brighten his composition into the Ciceronian ° gloss and brilliancy. He does not, in short, 25 sacrifice sense and spirit to pedantic refinements. The nature of his subject compelled him to use many words " That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp." 3 1 p. xxiv. 2 Note, p. 73. 3 See Milton's Minor Poems (Heath), Sonnet VI., MILTON. 3 But he writes with as much ease and freedom as if Latin were his mother tongue ; and where he is least happy, his failure seems to arise from the carelessness of a native, not from the ignorance of a foreigner. We 5 may apply to him what Denham ° with great felicity says of Cowley. He wears the garb, but not the clothes of the ancients. 1 4-r-3 , hroughout the volume are discernible the traces of a powerful and independent mind, emancipated from io the influence of authority, and devoted to the search of truth. Milton professes to form his system from the Bible alone ; and his digest of scriptural texts is certainly among the best that have appeared. But he is not always so happy in his inferences as in his citations. 15 »^£. Some of the heterodox doctrines which he avows seem to have excited considerable amazement, particu- larly his Arianism, and his theory on the subject i ts here- of polygamy. 1 Yet we can scarcely conceive that sies - any person could have read the Paradise Lost without 20 suspecting him of the former ; nor do we think that any reader, acquainted with the historyof his life, ought to be much startled at the latter. y*fne opinions which he ?' yfias' expressed respecting the nature of the Deity, the 'eternity of matter, and the observation of the Sabbath, 1 25 might, we think, have caused more just surprise. 6. But we will not go into the discussion of these points. The book, were it far more orthodox or Its obso _ far more heretical than it is, would not much edify lete char- or corrupt the present generation. The men of acter ' 30 our time are not to be converted or perverted by quartos. 1 Note, p. 73. 4 MILTON. A few more days, and this essay will follow the Defensio Popidi 1 to the dust and silence of the upper shelf. The name of its author, and the remarkable circumstances attending its publication, will secure to it a certain degree of attention. For a month or two it will occupy a few 5 minutes of chat in every drawing-room, and a few columns in every magazine ; and it will then, to borrow the elegant language of the play-bills, be withdrawn, to make room for the forthcoming novelties. 7. We wish, however, to avail ourselves of the interest, 10 transient as it may be, which this work has excited, ^he its relation dexterous Capuchins never choose to preach on to this the life and miracles of a saint, till they have awak- . essay. ened the devotional feelings of their auditors by exhibiting some relic of him, a thread of his garment, a 15 lock of his hair, or a drop of his bloqdJ On the same prin- ciple, we intend to take advantage of the late interesting discovery, and, while this memorial of a great and good man is still in the hands of all, to say something of his moral and intellectual qualities. (Nor, we are convinced, 20 will the severest of our readers blame us if, on an occasion like the present, we turn for a short time from the topics of the day, to commemorate, in all love and reverence, the genius and virtues of John Milton, the poet, the states- man, the philosopher, the glory of English literature, the 25 champion and the martyr of English liberty. 8. It is by his poetry that Milton is best known; and it is of his poetry that we wish first to speak. , By the general suffrage of the civilised world, his place has 1 Index, " Salmasius." MILTON. 5 been assigned among the greatest masters of the art. His detractors, however, though outvoted, have not been silenced. There are many critics, and some of great name, who contrive in the same breath to extol the Milton s 5 poems and to decry the poet. The works they fame rests acknowledge, considered in themselves, may be onhi s classed among the noblest productions of the poe ry ' human mind. 'VCut they will not allow the author to rank with those great men who, born in the infancy of civili- idsation, supplied, by their own powers, the want of iiip^^^ v struction, and, though destitute of models themselves, ! b eque athed to posterity models which defy imitation. Milton, it is said, inherited what his predecessors created ; he lived in an enlightened age ; he received a finished 15 education ; and we must therefore, if we would form a just estimate of his powers, make large deductions in consideration of these advantages. , 9. We venture to say, on the contrary, paradoxical as the remark may appear, that no poet has ever had to 20 struggle with more unfavourable circumstances than His poetry Milton. He doubted, as he has himself owned, notaprod- whether he had not been born "an age too late."" uctofthe For this notion Johnson has thought fit to make him the butt of much clumsy ridicule. 1 The poet, we believe, 25 understood the nature of his art better than the critic. He knew that his poetical genius derived no advantage from the civilisation which surrounded him, or from the learning which he had acquired ; and he looked back with something like regret to the ruder age of simple 30 words and vivid impressions. 1 Note, p. 74. 6 MILTON. 10. We think that, as civilisation advances, poetry almost necessarily declines. Therefore, though we fer- vently admire those great works of imagination which (Theses.) have appeared in dark ages, we do not admire i. Civiiiza- them the more because they have appeared in 5 tagonistic" dark a g es - On the contrary, we hold that the most to poetry, wonderful and splendid proof of genius is a great poem produced in a civilised age. We cannot under- stand why those who believe in that most orthodox article of literary faith, that the earliest poets are generally the 10 best, should wonder at the rule as if it were the excep- tion. Surely the uniformity of the phenomenon indicates a corresponding uniformity in the cause. ii. The fact is, that common observers reason from the progress of the experimental sciences to that of the 15 imitative arts. The improvement of the former 2. Science accompa- * s gradual and slow. Ages are spent in collecting nies civili- materials, ages more in separating and combining them. Even when a system has been formed, there is still something to add, to alter, or to reject. Every 20 generation enjoys the use of a vast hoard bequeathed to it by antiquity, and transmits that hoard, augmented by fresh acquisitions, to future ages. In these pursuits, therefore, the first speculators lie under great disad- vantages, and, even when they fail, are entitled to praise. 25 Their pupils, with far inferior intellectual powers, speedily surpass them in actual attainments. Every girl who has read Mrs. Marcet's little dialogues on Political Economy could teach Montague l or Walpole many lessons in finance. Any intelligent man may now, by resolutely 30 1 Index, " Halifax." MILTON. 7 applying himself for a few years to mathematics, learn more than the great Newton knew after half a century of study and meditation. 12. But it is not thus with music, with painting, or 5 with sculpture. Still less is it thus with poetry. The progress of refinement rarely supplies these arts with better objects of imitation. It may indeed dine as improve the instruments which are necessary to Clvlllzatl °n . . . r , . . , advances, the mechanical operations of the musician, the io sculptor, and the painter^But language, the machine of the poet, is best fitted for his purpose in its rudest state. Nations, like individuals, first perceive, and then abstract. They advance from particular images to general terms. Hence the vocabulary of an enlightened society is philo- 15 sophical, that of a half-civilised people is poetical. 13. This change in the language of men is partly the cause and partly the effect of a corresponding change in the nature of their intellectual operations, of a (Demon- change by which science gains and poetry loses, stration.) 20 Generalisation is necessary to the advancement of J^^^ knowledge, but particularity is indispensable to the # general- creations of the imagination. In proportion as lzatlon - men know more and think more, they look less at indi- viduals and more at classes. They therefore make better 25 theories and worse poems. They give us vague phrases instead of images, and personified qualities instead of men. They may be better able to analyse human nature than their predecessors. But analysis is not the business of the poet. His office is to portray, not to dissect. He 30 may believe in a moral sense, like Shaftesbury ; he may refer all human actions to self-interest, like Helvetius ; or 8 MILTON. he may never think about the matter at all. His creed on such subjects will no more influence his poetry, properly so called, than the notions which a painter may have \ conceived respecting the lachrymal glands, or the ciKi> culation of the blood, will affect the tears of his Niohe/ 5 or the blushes of his Aurora. If Shakespeare had written a book on the motives of human actions, it is by no means certain that it would have been a good one. It is extremely improbable that it would have contained half so much able reasoning on the subject as is to be found 10 in the Fable of the Bees.° But could Mandeville have created an Iago ?" \Vell as he knew how to resolve char- acters into their elements, would he have been able to combine those elements in such a manner as to make up a man, a real, living, individual man? 15 X4? Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind, if Poetr an- an y tnm g which gives so much pleasure ought to tithetical be called unsoundness. .> By poetry we mean not to reason. a jj wr jti n g in verse, nor even all good writing 20 in verse. Our definition excludes many metrical com- positions which, on other grounds, deserve the high- est praise. /§y poetry we mean the art of employing words in such a manner as to produce an illusion on. the imagination, the art of doing by means of Words what the 25 painter does by means of colours^ 7 Thus the greatest of poets has described it, in lines universally admired for the vigour and felicity of their diction, and still more valuable on account of the just notion which they convey of the art in which he excelled : 3° MILTON. " As imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name." * 5 15. These are the fruits of the " fine frenzy " which he ascribes to the poet, — a fine frenzy doubtless, but still a frenzy. Truth, indeed, is essential to poetry ; but p oetry it is the truth of madnessy The reasonings are just ; demands but the premises are falser After the first supposi- cre u 1 y ' 10 tions have been made, everything ought to be consistent ; but those first suppositions require a degree of credulity which almost amounts to a partial and temporary de- rangement of the intellect. Hence of all people children are the most imaginative. They abandon themselves 15 without reserve to every illusion. Every image which is strongly presented to their mental eye produces on them the effect of reality. (No man, whatever his sensibility may be, is ever affected by Hamlet or Lear,° as a little girl is affected by the story of poor Red Riding-hood. 20 She knows that it is all false, that wolves cannot speak, that there are no wolves in England. Yet in spite of her knowledge she believes ; she weeps ; she trembles ; she dares not go into a dark room lest she should feel the teeth of the monster at her throat. Such is the 25 despotism of the imagination over uncultivated minds. 16. In a rude state of society men are children with a greater variety of ideas. It is therefore in sion!) C "po- such a state of society that we may expect to find etry flour- the poetical temperament in its highest perfection, primitive 30 In an enlightened age there will be much intelli- society. Midsummer Nighfs Dream, V. io MILTON. gence, much science, much philosophy, abundance of just classification and subtle analysis, abundance of wit and eloquence, abundance of verses, and even of good ones ; but little poetry. Men will judge and compare ; but they will not create. They will talk about the old poets, 5 and comment on them, and to a certain degree enjoy them. But they will scarcely be able to conceive the effect which poetry produced on their ruder ancestors, the agony, the ecstasy, the plenitude of belief. The Greek Rhap^odists, according to Plato, could scarce to recite Homer without falling into convulsions. The Mohawk hardly feels the scalping-knife while he shouts his death-song. The power which the ancient bards of Wales and Germany exercised over their auditors seems to modern readers almost miraculous. Such feelings are 15 very rare in a civilised community, and most rare among those who participate most in its improvements. They linger longest among the peasantry. 1 7. Poetry produces an illusion on the eye of the mind, as a magic-lantern produces an illusion on the eye of the 20 body. And, as the magic-lantern acts best in a (Thesis.) n / ' rr & . Poetry re- dark room, poetry effects its purpose most com- lies upon pletely in a dark age. (£s the light of knowledge breaks in upon its exhibitions, as the outlines of certainty become more and more definite and the shades 25 of probability more and more distinct, the hues and linea- ments of the phantoms which it calls up grow fainter and fainter^ We cannot unite the incompatible advantages of reality and deception, the clear discernment of truth and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction. 30 18. He who, in an enlightened and literary society, MILTON. ii aspires to be a great poet, must first become a little child. He must take to pieces the whole web of his mind. He must unlearn much of that knowledge which has per- ■ haps constituted hitherto his chief title to superiority. (Appiica- c His very talents will be a hindrance to him. His t i lon -) Clv ' ■> J . lhzation difficulties will be proportioned to his proficiency in destroys the pursuits which are fashionable among his con -illusion. temporaries ; and that proficiency will in general be pro- portioned to the vigour and activity of his mind. And it 10 is well if, after all his sacrifices and exertions, his works do not resemble a lisping man or a modern ruin. We have seen in our own time great talents, intense labour, and long meditation, employed in this struggle against the spirit of the age, and employed, we will not say absolutely 15 in vain, but with dubious success and feeble applause. 19. If these reasonings be just, no poet has ever triumphed over greater difficulties v than Milton. He received a learned education : he was a profound Milton's and elegant classical scholar : he had studied all the culture. 20 mysteries of Rabbinical literature: he was intimately acquainted with every language of modern Europe,, from which either pleasure or information was then to be derived. He was perhaps the only great poet of later times who has been distinguished by the excellence of 25 his Latin verse. The genius of Petraxck ° was scarcely of the first order ; and his poems in the ancient language, though much praised by those who have never read them, are wretched compositions. Cowley, with all his admirable wit and ingenuity, had little imagination : nor 30 indeed do we think his classical diction comparable to that of Milton. The authority of Johnson is against us 12 MILTON. on this point. 1 But Johnson had studied the bad writers of the middle ages till he had become utterly insensible to the Augustan elegance, and was as ill qualified to judge between two Latin styles as a habitual drunkard to set up for a wine-taster. 5 20. Versification in a dead language is an exotic, a far-fetched, costly, sickly, imitation of that which else- „. . where may be found in healthful and spontaneous umph perfection. The soils on which this rarity flour- over con- i s h es are m general as ill suited to the production 10 ditions, in ° r the Latin of vigorous native poetry as the flower-pots of a poems. hot-house to the growth of oaks. That the author of the Paradise Lost should have written the Epistle to Manso was truly wonderful. " Never before were such marked originality and such exquisite mimicry 15 found together. Indeed in all the Latin poems of Mil- ton the artificial manner indispensable to such works is admirably preserved, while, at the same time, his genius gives to them a peculiar charm, an air of nobleness and freedom, which distinguishes them from all other writ- 20 ings of the same class. They remind us of the amuse- ments of those angelic warriors who composed the cohort of Gabriel : . " About him exercised heroic games The unarmed youth of heaven. But o'er their heads 2 5 Celestial armoury, shield, helm, and spear, Hung high, with diamond naming and with gold." * We cannot look upon the sportive exercises for which the genius of Milton ungirds itself, without catching a 1 Note, p. 74. * Paradise Lost, IV. 551—554. MILTON. 13 glimpse of the gorgeous and terrible panoply which it is accustomed to wear. The strength of his imagination triumphed over every obstacle. So intense and ardent was the fire of his mind, that it not only was not suffo- 5 cated beneath the weight of its fuel, but penetrated the whole superincumbent mass with its own heat and radiance. 21. It is not our intention to attempt anything like a complete examination of the poetry of Milton. The 10 public has long been agreed as to the merit of the Im most remarkable passages, the incomparable har- tanceofhis mony of the numbers, and the excellence of that work * style which no rival has been able to equal, and no parodist to degrade, which displays in their highest per- 15 fection the idiomatic powers of the English tongue, and' to which every ancient and every modern language has contributed something of grace, of energy, or of music. In the vast field of criticism on which we are entering, innumerable reapers have already put their sickles. Yet 20 the harvest is so abundant that the negligent search of a straggling gleaner may be rewarded with a sheaf. 22. The most striking characteristic of the poetry of Milton is the extreme remoteness of the associations by means of which it acts on the reader. Its effect is „• * rilS 25 produced, not so much by what it expresses, as by literary what it suggests ; not so much by the ideas which method - ""St directly conveys, as by other ideas which are con- nected with them. He electrifies the mind through con- ductors. The most unimaginative man must understand 30 the Iliad. Homer gives him no choice, and requires 14 MILTON. from him no exertion, but takes the whole upon himself, and sets the images in so clear a light, that it is impos- sible to be blind to them. The works of Milton cannot be comprehended or enjoyed, unless the mind of the reader co-operate with that of the writer. He does not 5 paint a finished picture, or play for a mere passive lis- tener. He sketches, and leaves others to fill up the out- line. He strikes the key-note, and expects his hearer to make out the melody. 23. We often hear of the magical influence of poetry. 10 The expression in general means nothing; but, applied Its effec- to the writings of Milton, it is most appropriate. tiveness. jjj s poetry acts like an incantation. Its merit lies less in its obvious meaning than in its occult power. There would seem, at first sight, to be no more in his 15 words than in other words. But they are words of en- chantment. No sooner are they pronounced, than the past is present and the distant near. New forms of beauty start at once into existence, and all the burial- places of the memory give up their dead. Change the 2 ° structure of the sentence ; substitute one synonyme for another, and the whole effect is destroyed. The spell loses its power ; and he who should then hope to conjure with it would find himself as much mistaken as Cassim inf the Arabian tale, when he stood crying, " Open Wheat," 25 "Open Barley," to the door which obeyed no soundBut "Open Sesame." The miserable failure of Dryden 1 in his attempt to translate into his own diction some parts of the Paradise Lost, is a remarkable instance of this. 30 1 Index, " Dryden," end. MILTON. . 15 24. In support of these observations we may remark, that scarcely any passages in the poems of Milton are more generally known or more frequently repeated „ . 1 j 1 Corrobora- than those which are little more than muster-rolls tion of 5 of names. 1 They are not always more appropriate above ' or more melodious than other names. But they are charmed names. Every one of them is the first link in a long chain of associated ideas. Like the dwelling-place of our infancy revisited in manhood, like the song of our 10 country heard in a strange land, they produce upon us an effect wholly independent of their intrinsic value. One transports us back to a remote period of history. Another places us among the novel scenes and manners of a distant region. A third evokes all the dear classical 15 recollections of childhood, the schoolroom, the dog-eared Virgil, the holiday, and the prize. A fourth brings be- fore us the splendid phantoms of chivalrous romance, the trophied lists, the embroidered housings, the quaint de- vices, the haunted forests, the enchanted gardens, the 20 achievements of enamoured knights, and the smiles of rescued princesses. 25. In none of the works of Milton is his peculiar manner more happily displayed than in the- Allegro and the Penseroso. 1 It is impossible to conceive that u Allegro 25 the mechanism of language can be brought to a and // more exquisite degree of perfection. These poems Penseroso - differ from others as attar of roses differs from ordinary rose water, the close-packed essence from the thin diluted mixture. They are indeed not so much poems, as col- 30 lections of hints, from each of which the reader is to 1 See Paradise Lost, I. 576-587 ; II. 659-667. 16 MILTON. make out a poem for himself. Every epithet is a text for a stanza. 26. The Comus and the Samson Agonistes are works which, though of very different merit, offer some marked Comus and points of resemblance. Both are lyric poems in 5 Samson t h e f orm f pi avs . There are perhaps no two kinds as lyric ' °f composition so essentially dissimilar as the drama dramas. anc j t ne ode. The business of the dramatist is to keep himself out of sight, and to let nothing appear but his characters. As soon as he attracts notice to his per- 10 sonal feelings, the illusion is broken. The effect is as unpleasant as that which is produced on the stage by the voice of a prompter or the entrance of a scene-shifter. Hence it was, that the tragedies of Byron were his least ' successful performances. They resemble those pasteboard 15 pictures invented by the friend of children, Mr. New- berry, in which a single moveable head goes round twenty different bodies, so that the same face looks out upon us successively, from the uniform of a hussar, the furs of a judge, and the rags of a beggar. In all the 20 characters, patriots and tyrants, haters and lovers, the frown and sneer of Harold 1 were discernible in an in- stant. But -this species of egotism, though fatal to the drama, is the inspiration of the ode. It is the part of the lyric poet to abandon himself, without reserve, to his 20 own emotions. 27. Between these hostile elements many great men have endeavoured to effect an amalgamation, but never with complete success. The Greek Drama, on the model of which the Samson was written, 2 sprang from the Ode. 3° 1 Index, " Byron." 2 Note, p. 74. MILTON. 17 The dialogue was ingrafted on the chorus, and naturally partook of its character. The genius of the greatest of the Athenian dramatists co-operated with the The Greek circumstances under which tragedy made its first prototypes 5 appearance. ^schylus was, head and heart, a °^ the Sam ' lyric poet. In his time, the Greeks had far more in- tercourse with the East than in the days of Homer ; and they had not yet acquired that immense superiority in war, in science, and in the arts, which, in the following 10 generation, led them to treat the Asiatics with contempt. From the narrative of Herodotus it should seem that they still looked up, with the veneration of disciples, to Egypt and Assyria. At this period, accordingly, it was natural that the literature of Greece should be tinctured 15 with the Oriental style. And that style, we think, is discernible in the works of Pindar and ^schylus. The latter often reminds us of the Hebrew writers. The book of Job, indeed, in conduct and diction, bears a considerable resemblance to some of his dramas. ,'Con- 20 sidered as plays, his works are absurd ; considered as choruses, they are above all praise^ ^If, for instance, we examine the address of Clytemn estra to A gamemnon on his return, or the description of the seven Argive chiefs, 1 by the principles of dramatic writing, we shall instantly 25 condemn them as monstrous. But if we forget the characters, and think only of the poetry, we shall admit that it has never been surpassed in energy and magnifi- cence. Sophocles made the Greek drama as dramatic as was consistent with its original form. His portraits of 30 men have a sort of similarity ; but it is the similarity not 1 Index, " yEschylus." 18 MILTON. of a painting, but of a bas-relief, i It suggests a resem- blance ; but it does not produce an illusion^ Euripides attempted to carry the reform further. But it was a task far beyond his powers, perhaps beyond any powers. In- stead of correcting what was bad, he destroyed what was 5 excellent. He substituted crutches for stilts, bad ser- mons for good odes. 28. Milton, it is well known, admired Euripides highly, much more highly tljan, in our opinion, Euripides de- Its limita- served. Indeed the caresses which this partiality 10 tions. leads our countryman to bestow on " sad Electra's 1 poet," 2 sometimes remind us of the beautiful Queen of Fairy-land kissing the long ears of Bottom. At all events, there can be no doubt that this veneration for the Athe- nian, whether just or not, was injurious to the Samson 15 Agonistes. Had Milton taken /Eschylus for his model, he would have given himself up to the lyric inspiration, and poured out profusely all the treasures of his mind, without bestowing a thought on those dramatic pro- prieties which the nature of the work rendered it impos- 20 sible to preserve. In the attempt to reconcile. things in their own nature inconsistent, he has failed, as every one else must have failed. We cannot identify ourselves with the characters, as in a good play. We cannot identify ourselves with the poet, as in a good ode. The conflict- 25 ing ingredients, like an acid and an alkali mixed, neutral- ize each other. We are by no means insensible to the merits of this celebrated piece, to the severe dignity of the style, the graceful and pathetic solemnity of the open- 1 Index, " Euripides." 2 See Milton's Minor Poems (Heath), Sonnet III. MILTON. 19 ing speech, or the- wild and barbaric melody which gives so striking an effect to the choral passages. But we think it, we confess, the least successful effort of the genius of Milton. 5 29. The Comus is framed on the model of the Italian Masque, as the Samson is framed on the model of the Greek Tragedy. It is certainly the noblest per- command formance of .the kind which exists in any language. the Italian It is as far superior to the Faithful Shepherdess, as 10 the Faithful Shepherdess is to the Aminta, or the Aminta to the Pastor Fido.° It was well for Milton that he had here no Euripides to mislead him. He understood and loved the literature of modern Italy. But he did not feel for it the same veneration which he entertained for the 15 remains of Athenian and Roman poetry, consecrated by so many lofty and endearing recollections. The faults, moreover, of his Italian predecessors .were of a kind to which his mind had a deadly antipathy. He could stoop to a plain style, sometimes even to a bald style ; but false 20 brilliancy was his utter aversion. His muse had no objec- tion to a russet attire ; but she turned with disgust from the finery of Guarini, as tawdry and as paltry as the rags of a chimney-sweeper on May-day. Whatever orna- ments she wears are of massive gold, not only dazzling to 25 the sight, but capable of standing the severest test of the crucible. 30. Milton attended in the Comus to the distinction which he neglected in the Samson. He made his Lyr ic eie- Masque what it ought to be, essentially lyrical, and ments of 30 dramatic only in semblance. He has not attempted a fruitless struggle against a defect inherent in the nature 20 MILTON. of that species of composition ; and he has therefore succeeded, wherever success was not impossible. The speeches must be read as majestic soliloquies; and he who so reads them will be enraptured with their elo- quence, their sublimity, and their music. The inter- 5 ruptions of the dialogue, however, impose a constraint upon the writer, and break the illusion of the reader. The finest passages are those which are lyric in form as well as in spirit. " I should much commend," says the excellent Sir Henry Wotton in a letter to Milton, " the 10 tragical part if the lyrical did not ravish me with a cer- tain Dorique delicacy in your songs and odes, whereunto, I must plainly confess to you, I have seen yet nothing parallel in our language." The criticism was just. It is when Milton escapes from the shackles of the dialogue, 15 when he is discharged from the labour of uniting two incongruous styles, when he is at liberty to indulge his choral raptures without reserve, that he rises even above himself. Then, like his own good Genius bursting from the earthly form and weeds of Thyrsis, he stands forth 20 in celestial freedom and beauty 1 ; he seems to cry exultingly, " Now my task is smoothly done, I can fly or I can run," 2 to skim the earth, to soar above the clouds, to bathe 25 in the Elysian dew of the rainbow, and to inhale the balmy smells of nard and cassia, which the musky wings of the zephyr scatter through the cedared alleys of the Hesperides. 1 Note, p. 74. 2 Comus, 1012, 1013. MILTON. 21 31. There are several of the minor poems of Milton on which we would willingly make a few remarks. Still more willingly would we enter into a detailed ex- Paradise amination of that admirable poem, the Paradise Rc ^ ained - 5 Regained, which, strangely enough, is scarcely ever men- tioned except as an instance of the blindness of the parental affection which men of letters bear towards the offspring of their intellects. That Milton was mistaken in preferring this work, excellent as it is, to the Paradise 10 Lost, we readily admit. But we are sure that the supe- riority of the Paradise Lost to the Paradise Regained is not more decided, than the superiority of the Paradise Regained to every poem which has since made its appearance. But our limits prevent us from discussing 15 the point at length. We hasten on to that extraordinary production which the general suffrage of critics has placed in the highest class of human compositions. 32. The only poem of modern times which can be compared with the Paradise Lost is the Divine Comedy. 20 The subject of Milton, in some points, resembled p arac u se that of Dante ; but he has treated it in a widely Lost different manner. We cannot, we think, better illustrate our opinion respecting our own great poet, than by con- trasting him with the father of Tuscan literature. 25 33. The poetry of Milton differs from that of Dante, as the hieroglyphics of Egypt differed from the _ J l oj l Dante and picture-writing of Mexico. The images which Milton; Dante employs speak for themselves ; they stand contrasts simply for what they are. Those of Milton have a W ork. 30 signification which is often discernible only to r - Similes - the initiated. Their value depends less on what they 22 MILTON. directly represent than on what they remotely suggest. However strange, however grotesque, may be the appear- ance which Dante undertakes to describe, he never shrinks from describing it. He gives us the shape, the colour, the sound, the smell, the taste ; he counts the 5 numbers ; he measures the size. His similes are the illustrations of a traveller. Unlike those of other poets, and especially of Milton, they are introduced in a plain, business-like manner ; not for the sake of any beauty in the objects from which they are drawn ; not 10 for the sake of any ornament which they may impart to the poem ; but simply in order to make the meaning of the writer as clear to the reader as it is to himself. The ruins of the precipice which led from the sixth to the seventh circle of hell 1 were like those of the rock 15 which fell into the Adige on the south of Trent. The cataract of Phlegethon was like that of Aqua Cheta at the monastery of St. Benedict. The place where the heretics were confined in burning tombs resembled the vast cemetery of Aries. 20 34. Now let us compare with the exact details of Dante the dim intimations of Milton. We will cite a few ex- amples. The English poet has never thought of 2. Details. ta k m g- t h e - measure of Satan. He gives us merely a vague idea of vast bulk. In one passage the fiend lies 25 stretched out huge in length, floating many a rood, equal in size to the earth-born enemies of Jove, or to the sea-monster which the mariner mistakes for an island. 2 When he addresses himself to battle against the guardian angels, he stands like TenerirTe or Atlas : his stature 30 1 Note, pp. 75, 76. 2 Note, p. 77. MILTON. 23 reaches the sky. 1 Contrast with these descriptions the lines in which Dante has described the gigantic spectre of Nimrod. "His face seemed to me as long and as broad as the ball of St. Peter's at Rome ; and his other 5 limbs were in proportion ; so that the bank, which con- cealed him from the waist downwards, nevertheless showed so much of him, that three tall Germans would in vain have attempted to reach to his hair." 2 We are sensible that we do no justice to the admirable style of the Floren- 10 tine poet. But Mr. Cary's translation is not at hand ; and our version, however rude, is sufficient to illustrate our meaning. 35 . Once more, compare the lazar-house in the eleventh book of the Paradise Lost with the last ward of Male- i5bolge in Dante. 2 Milton avoids the loathsome de- ni us tration tails, and takes refuge in indistinct but solemn and of ( 2 )- tremendous imagery, Despair hurrying from couch to couch to mock the wretches with his attendance ; Death shaking his dart over them, but, in spite of sup- 20 plications, delaying to strike. What says Dante ? " There was such a moan there as there would be if all the sick who, between July and September, are in the hospitals of Valdichiana, and of the Tuscan swamps, and of Sar- dinia, were in one pit together ; and such a stench was 25 issuing forth as is wont to issue from decayed limbs." 36. We will not take upon ourselves the invidious office of settling precedency between two such writers. Each in his own department is incomparable ; and 3 personal each, we may remark, has wisely, or fortunately, narration. 30 taken a subject adapted to exhibit his peculiar talent 1 Note, p. 77. 2 Note, p. 78. 24 MILTON. to the greatest advantage. The Divine Comedy is a personal narrative. Dante is the eye-witness and ear-wit- ness of. that which he relates. He is the very man who has heard the tormented spirits crying out for the second death, 1 who has read the dusky characters on the portal 5 within which there is no hope, 1 who has hidden his face from the terrors of the Gorgon, 1 who has fled from the hooks and the seething pitch of Barbariccia and Draghi- gnazzo. 1 His own hands have grasped the shaggy sides of Lucifer. 1 His own feet have climbed the mountain of 10 expiation. 1 His own brow has been marked by the puri- fying angel. 1 The reader would throw aside such a tale in incredulous disgust, unless it were told with the strongest air of veracity, with a sobriety even in its horrors, with the greatest precision and multiplicity in 15 its details. The narrative of Milton in this respect differs from that of Dante, as the adventures of Amadis differ from those of Gulliver. 2 The author of Amadis would have made his book ridiculous if he had introduced those minute particulars which give such a charm to the work 20 of Swift, the nautical observations, the affected delicacy about names, the official documents transcribed at full length, and all the unmeaning gossip and scandal of the court, springing out of nothing, and tending to nothing. We are not shocked at being told that a man who lived, 25 nobody knows when, saw many very strange sights, and we can easily abandon ourselves to the illusion of the ro- mance. But when Lemuel Gulliver, surgeon, now actually resident at Rotherhithe, tells us of pygmies and giants, flying islands, and philosophising horses, nothing but such 30 1 Note, pp. 78, 79. 2 Index, "Swift." V MILTON. 25 circumstantial touches could produce for a single moment a deception on the imagination. 37. Of all the poets who have introduced into their works the agency of supernatural beings, Milton has suc- 5 ceeded best. Here Dante decidedly yields to him : The and as this is a point on which many rash and ill- Super- considered judgments have been pronounced, we feel inclined to dwell on it a little longer. The most fatal error which a poet can possibly commit in the 10 management of his machinery, is that of attempting to philosophise too much. Milton has been often censured for ascribing to spirits many functions of which spirits must be incapable. But these objections, though sanc- tioned by eminent names, originate, we venture to say, 15 in profound ignorance of the art of poetry. 38. What is spirit? What are our own minds, the portion of spirit with which we are best acquainted ? We observe certain phenomena. We cannot explain , 1 Its expres- them into material causes. We therefore infer that S ion neces- 20 there exists something which is not material. But sanl y b y symbols. of this something we have no idea. We can define it only by negatives. We can reason about it only by symbols. We use the word ; but we have no image of the thing ; and the business of poetry is with images, and 25 not with words. The poet uses words indeed ; but they are merely the instruments of his art, not its objects. They are the materials which he is to dispose in such a manner as to present a picture to the mental eye. And if they are not so disposed, they are no more entitled to 30 be called poetry than a bale of canvas and a box of colours to be called a painting. 26 MILTON. 39. Logicians may reason about abstractions. But the great mass of men must have images. The strong ten- Proof from dency of the multitude in all ages and nations to religion. idolatry can be explained on no other principle. The first inhabitants of Greece, there is reason to believe, 5 worshipped one invisible Deity. But the necessity of having something more definite to adore produced, in a few centuries, the innumerable crowd of Gods and God- desses. In like manner the ancient Persians thought it impious to exhibit the Creator under a human form. 10 Yet even these transferred to the Sun the worship which, in speculation, they considered due only to the Supreme Mind. The History of the Jews is the record of a con- tinued struggle between pure Theism, supported by the most terrible sanctions, and the strangely fascinating de- 15 sire of having some visible and tangible object of ado- ration. Perhaps none of the secondary causes which Gibbon has assigned for the rapidity with which Chris- tianity spread over the world, while Judaism scarcely ever acquired a proselyte, operated more powerfully than 20 this feeling. God, the uncreated, the incomprehensible, the invisible, attracted few worshippers. A philosopher might admire so noble a conception : but the crowd turned away in disgust from words which presented no image to their minds. It was before Deity embodied in 25 a human form, walking among men, partaking of their infirmities, leaning on their bosoms, weeping over their graves, slumbering in the manger, bleeding on the cross, that the prejudices of the Synagogue, and the doubts of the Academy, and the pride of the Portico, and the fasces 30 of the Lictor, and the swords of thirty legions, were hum- MILTON. 27 bled in the dust. 1 Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the principle which had assisted it began to corrupt it. It became a new Paganism. Patron saints assumed the offices of household gods. St. George took 5 the place of Mars. St. Elmo consoled the mariner for the loss of Castor and Pollux. The Virgin Mother and Cecilia succeeded to Venus and the Muses. The fas- cination of. sex and loveliness was again joined to that of celestial dignity ; and the homage of chivalry was blended 10 with that of religion. Reformers have often made a stand against these feelings ; but never with more than apparent and partial success. The men who demolished the images in Cathedrals have not always been able to demolish those which were enshrined in their minds. It would 15 not be difficult to show that in politics the same rule holds good. Doctrines, we are afraid, must generally be embodied before they can excite a strong public feeling. The multitude is more easily interested for the most un- meaning badge, or the most insignificant name, than for 20 the most important principle. 40. From these considerations., we infer that no poet, who should affect that metaphysical accuracy for the want of which Milton has been blamed, would p roo f f rom escape a disgraceful failure. Still, however, there P oe tjy. 25 was another extreme which, though far less dangerous, was also to be avoided. The imaginations of men are in a great measure under the control of their opinions. The most exquisite art of poetical colouring can produce no illusion, when it is employed to represent that which 30 is at once perceived to be incongruous and absurd. 1 Note, p. 79. 28 MILTON. Milton wrote in an age of philosophers and theologians. It was necessary, therefore, for him to abstain from giving such a shock to their understandings as might break the charm which it was his object to throw over their imagi- nations. This is the real explanation of the indistinctness 5 and inconsistency with which he has often been reproached. Dr. Johnson acknowledges that it was absolutely neces- sary that the spirits should be clothed with material forms. "But," says he, "the poet should have secured the con- sistency of his system by keeping immateriality out ofio sight, and seducing the reader to drop it from his thoughts." This is easily said ; but what if Milton could not seduce his readers to drop immateriality from their thoughts? What if the contrary opinion had taken so full a possession of the minds of men as to leave no room 15 even for the half belief which poetry requires ? Such we suspect to have been the case. It was impossible for the poet to adopt altogether the material or the immaterial system. He therefore took his stand on the debatable ground. He left the whole in ambiguity. He has 20 doubtless, by so doing, laid himself open to the charge of inconsistency. But, though philosophically in the wrong, we cannot but believe that he was poetically in the right. This task, which almost any other writer would have found impracticable, was easy to him. The 25 peculiar art which he possessed of communicating his meaning circuitously through a long succession of asso- ciated ideas, and of intimating more than he expressed, enabled him to disguise those incongruities which he could not avoid. 30 41. Poetry which relates to the beings of another MILTON. 29 world ought to be at once mysterious and picturesque. That of Milton is so. That of Dante is picturesque indeed beyond any that ever was written. Its e ^ m Dante' effect approaches to that produced by the pencil or devils. 5 the chisel. But it is picturesque to the exclusion of all mystery. This is a fault on the right side, a fault inseparable from the plan of Dante's poem, which, as we have already observed, rendered the utmost accuracy of description necessary. Still it is a fault. The super- 10 natural agents excite an interest ; but it is not the interest which is proper to supernatural agents. We feel that we could talk to the ghosts and daemons without any emotion of unearthly awe. We could, like Don Juan,° ask them to supper, and eat heartily in their company. Dante's 15 angels are good men with wings. His devils are spiteful ugly executioners. His dead men are merely living men in strange situations. The scene which passes between the poet and Farinata is justly celebrated. 1 Still, Farinata in the burning tomb is exactly what Farinata would have 20 been at an auto dafe.° Nothing can be more touching than the first interview of Dante and Beatrice. Yet what is it, but a lovely woman chiding, with sweet austere composure, the lover for whose affection she is grateful, but whose vices she reprobates? The feelings which give 25 the passage its charm would suit the streets of Florence as well as the summit of the Mount of Purgatory. 1 42. The spirits of Milton are unlike those of almost all other writers. His fiends, in particular, are wonderful creations. They are not metaphysical abstractions. Milton's 30 They are not wicked men. They are not ugly devils. 1 Note, p. 80. * 30 MILTON. beasts. They have no horns, no tails, none of the fee- faw-fum of Tasso° and Klopstock. They have just enough in common with human nature to be intelligible to human beings. Their characters are, like their forms, marked by a certain dim resemblance to those of men, 5 but exaggerated to gigantic dimensions, and veiled in mysterious gloom. 43. Perhaps the gods and demons of ^Eschylus may best bear a comparison with the angels and devils of /Eschy- Milton. The style of the Athenian had, as we 10 lus's devils. h ave remarked, something of the Oriental char- acter ; and the same peculiarity may be traced in his mythology. It has nothing of the amenity and elegance which we generally find in the superstitions of Greece. All is rugged, barbaric, and colossal. The legends of 15 vEschylus seem to harmonise less with the fragrant groves and graceful porticoes in which his countrymen paid their vows to the God of Light and Goddess of Desire, than with those huge and grotesque labyrinths of eternal granite in which Egypt enshrined her mystic 20 Osiris, or in which Hindostan still bows down to her seven-headed idols. His favourite gods are those of the elder generation, the sons of heaven and earth, com- pared with whom Jupiter himself was a stripling and an upstart, the gigantic Titans, and the inexorable Furies. 25 Foremost among his creations of this class stands Pro- metheus, half fiend, half redeemer, the friend of man, the sullen and implacable enemy of heaven. Prometheus bears undoubtedly a considerable resemblance to the Satan of Milton. In both we find the same impatience 3° of control, the same ferocity, the same unconquerable MILTON. 31 pride. In both characters also are mingled, though in very different proportions, some kind and generous feel- ings. Prometheus, however, is hardly superhuman enough. He talks too much of his chains and his uneasy posture : 5 he is rather too much depressed and agitated. His resolution seems to depend on the knowledge which he possesses that he holds the fate of his torturer in his hands, and that the hour of his release will surely come. But Satan is a creature of another sphere. The might 10 of his intellectual nature is victorious over the extremity of pain. Amidst agonies which cannot be conceived without horror, he deliberates, resolves, and even exults. Against the sword of Michael, against the thunder of Jehovah, against the flaming lake, and the marl burning 15 with solid fire, against the prospect of an eternity of unintermitted misery, his spirit bears up unbroken, rest- ing on its own innate energies, requiring no support from anything external, nor even from hope itself. 1 44. To return for a moment to the parallel which we 20 have been attempting to draw between Milton and Dante, we would add that the poetry of these great men Contrast in has in a considerable degree taken its character from, their char- their moral qualities. They are not egotists. They acters - rarely obtrude their idiosyncrasies on their readers. They 25 have nothing in common with those modern beggars for fame, who extort a pittance from the compassion of the inexperienced by exposing the nakedness and sores of their minds. Yet it would be difficult to name two writers whose works have been more completely, though 30 undesignedly, coloured by their personal feelings. 1 Note, p. 80. 32 MILTON. 45. The character of Milton was peculiarly distin- guished by loftiness of spirit ; that of Dante by intensity Character of feeling. In every line of the Divine Comedy of Dante. we discern the asperity which is produced by pride struggling with misery. There is perhaps no work in the 5 world so deeply and uniformly sorrowful. The melancholy of Dante was no fantastic caprice. It was not, as far as at this distance of time can be judged, the effect of external circumstances. It was from within. Neither love nor glory, neither the conflicts of earth nor the hope of 10 heaven could dispel it. It turned every consolation and every pleasure into its own nature. It resembled that noxious Sardinian soil of which the intense bitter- ness is said to have been perceptible even in its honey. His mind was, in the noble language of the Hebrew poet, 15 " a land of darkness, as darkness itself, and where the light was as darkness I Ml The gloom of his character dis- colours all the passions of men, and all the face of nature, and tinges with its own livid hue the flowers of Paradise and the glories of the eternal throne. All the portraits 20 of him are singularly characteristic. No person can look on the features, noble even to ruggedness, the dark fur- rows of the cheek, the haggard and woful stare of the eye, the sullen and contemptuous curve of the lip, and doubt that they belong to a man too proud and too sen- 25 sitive to be happy. 46. Milton was, like Dante, a statesman and a lover ; and, like Dante, he had been unfortunate in ambition and in love. He had survived his health and his Character of Miiton. sight, the comforts of his home, and the prosperity 30 Job X. 22. MILTON. 33 of his party. Of the great men by whom he had been distinguished at his entrance into life, some had been taken away from the evil to come ; some had carried into foreign climates their unconquerable hatred of oppres- 5 sion ; some were pining in dungeons ; and some had poured forth their blood on scaffolds. 1 Venal and licentious scribblers, with just sufficient talent to clothe the thoughts of a pandar in the style of a bellman, were now the favourite writers of the Sovereign and of the io public. 1 It was a loathsome herd, which could be com- pared to nothing so fitly as to the rabble of Comus: gro- tesque monsters, half bestial, half human, dropping' with wine, bloated with gluttony, and reeling in obscene dances. Amidst these that fair Muse was placed, like the chaste 15 lady of the Masque, lofty, spotless, and serene, to be chattered at, and pointed at, and grinned at, by the whole rout of Satyrs and Goblins. 1 If ever despondency and asperity could be excused in any man, they might have been excused in Milton. But the strength of his 20 mind overcame every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor age, nor penury, nor domestic afflictions, nor political disappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor neglect, had power to disturb his sedate and majes- tic patience. His spirits do not seem to have been 25 high, but they were singularly equable. His temper was serious, perhaps stern; but it was a temper which no sufferings could render sullen or fretful. Such as it was when, on the eve of great events, he returned from his travels, in the prime of health and manly beauty, 3° loaded with literary distinctions, and glowing with patri- 1 Note, p. 81. 34 MILTON. otic hopes, 1 such it continued to be, when, after having experienced every calamity which is incident to our nature, old, poor, sightless, and disgraced, he retired to his hovel to die. 47. Hence it was that, though he wrote the Paradise 5 Lost at a time of life when images of beauty and tender- His char- ness are in general beginning to fade, even from acter ex- those minds in which they have not been effaced Paradise by anxiety and disappointment, he adorned it LosL with all that is most lovely and delightful in the 10 physical and in the moral world. Neither Theocritus nor Ariosto had a finer or a more healthful sense of the pleasantness of external objects, or loved better to luxu- riate amidst sunbeams and flowers, the songs of nightin- gales, the juice of summer fruits, and the coolness of 15 shady fountains. His conception of love unites all the voluptuousness of the Oriental haram, and all the gal- lantry of the chivalric tournament, with all the pure and quiet affection of an English fireside. His poetry reminds us of the miracles of Alpine scenery. Nooks and dells, 20 beautiful as fairy-land, are embosomed in its most rugged and gigantic elevations. The roses and myrtles bloom unchilled on the verge of the avalanche. 48. Traces, indeed, of the peculiar character of Milton may be found in all his works ; but it is most strongly 25 The displayed in the Sonnets. Those remarkable poems Sonnets. nave been undervalued by critics who have not understood their nature. They have no epigrammatic point. There is none of the ingenuity of Filicaja in the thought, none of the hard and brilliant enamel of Pe- 30 1 See outline of Milton's life, p. xxvii. <• 2 3 > Ul td ?S 1 O * > MILTON. 35 trarch in the style. They are simple but majestic records of the feelings of the poet; as little tricked out for the public eye as his diary would have been. A vic- tory, 1 an expected attack upon the city, 2 a momentary fit 5 of depression or exultation, 3 a jest thrown out against one of his books, 4 a dream which, for a short time restored to him that beautiful face over which the grave had closed for ever, 5 led him to musings which, without effort, shaped themselves into verse.* The unity of sentiment and io severity of style which characterise these little pieces remind us of the Greek Anthology, ° or perhaps still more of the Collects of the English Liturgy. The noble poem on the Massacres of Piedmont 6 is strictly a collect in verse. 15 49. The Sonnets are more or less striking, according as the occasions which gave birth to them are more or less interesting. But they are, almost without ex- Their ception, dignified by a sobriety and greatness of typical mind to which we know not where to look for a character - 20 parallel. It would, indeed, be scarcely safe to draw any decided inferences as to the character of a writer from passages directly egotistical. But the qualities which we have ascribed to Milton, though perhaps most strongly marked in those parts of his works which treat of his per- 25 sonal feelings, are distinguishable in every page, and im- part to all his writings, prose and poetry, English, Latin, and Italian, a strong family likeness. * See Milton's Minor Poems (Heath) : 1 Sonnet XII; 2 Son- net III ; 3 Sonnet XV ; 4 Sonnet VI ; 5 Sonnet XVIII ; 6 Sonnet XVI. 36 MILTON. 50. His public conduct was such as was to be expected from a man of a spirit so high and of an intellect so pow- n ••*■ , erful. He lived at one of the most memorable rolitical conditions eras in the history of mankind, at the very crisis of in 1608-74. tne g rea t conflict between Oromasdes and Ari- 5 manes, liberty and despotism, reason and prejudice. That great battle was fought for no single generation, for no single land. The destinies of the human race were staked on the same cast with the freedom of the English people. Then were first proclaimed those mighty prin- 10 ciples which have since worked their way into the depths of the American forests, which have roused Greece from the slavery and degradation of two thousand years, 1 and . which, from one end of Europe to the other, have kindled an unquenchable fire in the hearts of the oppressed, and 15 loosed the knees of the oppressors with an unwonted fear. 51. Of those principles, then struggling for their infant existence, Milton was the most devoted and eloquent The annai- nterarv champion. We need not say how much we 20 ists of the admire his public conduct. But we cannot disguise period. f rom ourse i ves that a large portion of his country- men still think it unjustifiable. The civil war, indeed, has been more discussed, and is less understood, than any event in English history. The friends of liberty laboured 25 under the disadvantage of which the lion in the fable com- plained so bitterly. 2 Though they were the conquerors, their enemies were the painters. As a body, the Round- heads had done their utmost to decry and ruin litera- ture ; and literature was even with them, as, in 'the long 30 1 Note, p. 82. 2 Note, p. 83. MILTON 37 run, it always is with its enemies. The best book on their side of the question is the charming narrative of Mrs. Hutchinson. May's History of the Parliament is good ; but it breaks off at the most interesting crisis of the 5 struggle. The performance of Ludlow is foolish and violent ; and most of the later writers who have espoused the same cause, Oldmixon for instance, and Catherine Macaulay, have, to say the least, been more distinguished by zeal than either by candour or by skill. On the other io side are the most authoritative and the most popular his- torical works in our language, that of Clarendon, and that of Hume." The former is not only ably written and full of valuable information, but has also an air of dignity and sincerity which makes even the prejudices and errors 15 with which it abounds respectable. Hume, from whose fascinating narrative the great mass of the reading public are still contented to take their opinions, hated religion so much that he hated liberty for having been allied with religion, and has pleaded the cause of tyranny with the 20 dexterity of an advocate while affecting the impartiality of a judge. 52. The public conduct of Milton must be approved or condemned according as the resistance of the people to Charles the First shall appear to be justifiable or / Thesjs ^ 25 criminal. We shall therefore make no apology for " Kinship dedicating a few pages to the discussion of that ° f J. 1 ?* 5 Re ~ , fe 1 ° belhon and interesting and most important question. We shall the Revo- not argue it on general grounds. We shall not lution -" recur to those primary principles from which the claim 30 of any government to the obedience of its subjects is to be deduced. We are entitled to that vantage ground ; 38 MILTON but we will relinquish it. We are, on this point, so con- fident of superiority, that we are not unwilling to imitate the ostentatious generosity of those ancient knights, who vowed to joust without helmet or shield against all ene- mies, and to give their antagonists the advantage of sun 5 and wind. We will take the naked constitutional ques- tion. We confidently affirm, that every reason which can be urged in favour of the Revolution of 1688 * may be urged with at least equal force in favour of what is called the Great Rebellion. 2 10 53. In one respect, only, we think, can the warmest admirers of Charles venture to say that he was a better Argument sovereign than his son. He was not, in name and 1. Charles's profession, a Papist ; we say in name and profes- re lgion. s - Qn ^ k ecause k ot h Charles himself and his creature 15 Laud, 3 while they abjured the innocent badges of Popery, retained all its worst vices, a complete subjection of rea- son to authority, a weak preference of form to substance, a childish passion for mummeries, an idolatrous venera- tion for the priestly character, and, above all, a merciless 20 intolerance. 4 This, however, we waive. We will concede that Charles was a good Protestant; but we say that his Protestantism does not make the slightest distinction between his case and that of James. 54. The principles of the Revolution have often been 25 grossly misrepresented, and never more than in the Common course of the present year. There is a certain class sentatfon" °^ men > wno > while they profess to hold in reverence of the issue, the great names and great actions of . former times, 1 Int., p. xxv. 2 lb., p. xx. 3 See p. xx, and Index, " Laud." 4 Note, p. 83. MILTON. 39 never look at them for any other purpose than in order to find in them some excuse for existing abuses. 1 In every venerable precedent they pass by what is essen- tial, and take only what is accidental : they keep out of 5 sight what is beneficial, and hold up to public imitation all that is defective. If, in any part of any great example, there be anything unsound, these flesh-flies detect it with an unerring instinct, and dart upon it with a ravenous delight. If some good end has been attained in spite of io them, they feel, with their prototype, that " Their labour must be to pervert that end, And out of good still to find means of evil." 2 55. To the blessings which England has derived from the Revolution these people are utterly insensible. The 15 expulsion of a tyrant, the solemn recognition of r popular rights, liberty, security, toleration, all go not re- for nothing with them. One sect there was, which, ligion - from unfortunate temporary causes, it was thought neces- sary to keep under close restraint. 1 One part of the 20 empire there was so unhappily circumstanced, that at that time its misery was necessary to our happiness, and its slavery to our freedom. These are the parts of the Revolution which the politicians of whom we speak, love to contemplate, and which seem to them not indeed to 2> vindicate, but in some degree to palliate, the good which it has produced. Talk to them of Naples, of Spain, or of South America. 1 They stand forth zealots for the doctrine of Divine Right, 3 which has now come back to 1 Note, p. 83. 2 Paradise Lost, i. 164. 3 Int. p. xix, A 40 MILTON. us, like a thief from transportation, under the alias of Legitimacy. But mention the miseries of Ireland. Then William is a hero. Then Somers ° and Shrewsbury ° are great men. Then the Revolution is a glorious era. The very same persons who, in this country, never omit an 5 opportunity of reviving every wretched Jacobite ° slander respecting the Whigs 1 of that period, have no sooner crossed St. George's Channel, than they begin to fill their bumpers to the glorious and immortal memory. They may truly boast that they look not at men, but at meas- 10 ures. So that evil be done, they care not who does it ; the arbitrary Charles, or the liberal William, Ferdinand the Catholic, or Frederic the Protestant. 2 On such occasions their deadliest opponents may reckon upon their candid construction. The bold assertions of these 15 people have of late impressed a large portion of the pub- lic with an opinion that James the Second was expelled simply because he was a Catholic, and that the Revolu- tion was essentially a Protestant Revolution. 56. But this certainty was not the case; nor can any 20 person who has acquired more knowledge of the history issue was of those times than is to be found in Goldsmith's tyranny. Abridgment believe that, if James had held his own religious opinions without wishing to make prose- lytes, or if, wishing even to make proselytes, he had 25 contented himself with exerting only his constitutional influence for that purpose, the Prince of Orange l would ever have been invited over. Our ancestors, we suppose, knew their own meaning ; and, if we may believe them, their hostility was primarily not to popery, but to tyranny. 30 1 Int., p. xxv. 2 Note, p. 84. MILTON. 41 They did not drive out a tyrant because he was a Catho lie ; but they excluded Catholics from the crown, because they thought them likely to be tyrants. The ground on which they, in their famous resolution, 1 declared the 5 throne vacant, was this, " that James had broken the fundamental laws of the kingdom." Every man, there- fore, who approves of the Revolution of 1688 must hold that the breach of fundamental laws on the part of the sovereign justifies resistance. The question, then, is 10 this : Had Charles the First broken the fundamental laws of England ? 57. No person can answer in the negative, unless he refuses credit, not merely to all the accusations brought against Charles by his opponents, but to the nar- Charles' 15 ratives of the warmest Royalists, and to the con- a tyrant, fessions of the King himself. If there be any truth in any historian of any party who has related the events of that reign, the conduct of Charles, from his accession to the meeting of the Long Parliament, 2 had been a con- 2otinued course of oppression and treachery. Let those who applaud the Revolution, and condemn the Rebellion, mention one act of James the Second to which a parallel is not to be found in the history of his father. Let them lay their fingers on a single article in the Declaration of 25 Right, 1 presented by the two Houses to William and Mary, which Charles is not acknowledged to have vio- lated. He had, according to the testimony of his own friends, usurped the functions of the legislature, raised taxes without the consent of parliament, and quartered 30 troops on the people in the most illegal and vexatious 1 Int., p. xxvi. 2 Int., p. xx. 42 MILTON. manner. Not a single session of parliament had passed without some unconstitutional attack on the freedom of debate ; the right of petition was grossly violated ; arbitrary judgments, exorbitant fines, and unwarranted imprisonments, were grievances of daily occurrence. If 5 these things do not justify resistance, the Revolution was treason ; if they do, the Great Rebellion was laudable. 58. But, it is said, why not adopt milder measures? Why, after the King had consented to so many reforms, and an in- anc * renounced so many oppressive prerogatives, 10 corrigible did the parliament continue to rise in their de- tyrant, mands at the risk of provoking a civil war? The ship money 1 had been given up. The Star Chamber had been abolished. Provision had been made for the frequent convocation and secure deliberation of parlia- 15 ments. Why not pursue an end confessedly good by peaceable and regular means? We recur again to the analogy of the Revolution. Why was James driven from the throne? Why was he not retained upon conditions? He too had offered to call a free parliament and to sub- 20 mit to its decision all the matters in dispute. Yet we are in the habit of praising our forefathers, who preferred a revolution, a disputed succession, a dynasty of strangers, twenty years of foreign and intestine war, a standing army, and a national debt, 2 to the rule, however re- 25 stricted, of a tried and proved tyrant. The Long Par- liament acted on the same principle, and is entitled to the same praise. They could not trust the King. He had no doubt passed salutary laws ; but what assurance was there that he would not break them? He had 30 1 Int., p. xx. 2 Note, p. 84. CHARLES I MILTON. 43 renounced oppressive prerogatives ; but where was the security that he would not resume them? The nation had to deal with a man whom no tie could bind, a man who made and broke promises with equal facility, a man 5 whose honour had been a hundred times pawned, and never redeemed. 59. Here, indeed, the Long Parliament stands on still stronger ground than the Convention of 1688. 1 No action of James can be compared to the conduct even 10 of Charles with respect to the Petition of Right. 2 worse than The Lords and Commons present him with a bill J ames in which the constitutional limits of his power are marked out. He hesitates ; he evades ; at last he bargains to give his assent for five subsidies. The bill receives his 15 solemn assent ; the subsidies are voted ; but no sooner is the tyrant relieved, than he returns at once to all the arbitrary measures which he had bound himself to abandon, and violates all the clauses of the very Act which he had been paid to pass. 20 60. For more than ten years the people had seen the rights which were theirs by a double claim, by im- memorial inheritance and by recent purchase, in 1 fringed by the perfidious king who had recognised beiiionwas, them. At length circumstances compelled Charles therefore, 25 to summon another parliament : another chance was given to our fathers : were they to throw it away as they had thrown away the former? Were they again to be cozened by le Rot le veut? Were they again to advance their money on pledges which had been for- 30 feited over and over again ? Were they to lay a second 1 Int., p. xxvi. 2 lb., p. xix. 3 Note, p. 84. 44 MILTON. Petition of Right at the foot of the throne, to grant another lavish aid in exchange for another unmeaning ceremony, and then to take their departure, till, after ten years more of fraud and oppression, their prince should again require a supply, and again repay it with 5 a perjury? They were compelled to choose whether they would trust a tyrant or conquer him. We think that they chose wisely and nobly. 61. The advocates of Charles, like the advocates of other malefactors against whom overwhelming evidence 10 Argument * s produced, generally decline all controversy about 2. Charles's the facts, and content themselves with calling tes- He'had*' timony to character. He had so many private virtues, virtues ! And had James the Second no private virtues? Was even Oliver Cromwell, 1 his bitterest ene- 15 mies themselves being judges, destitute of private virtues ? And what, after all, are the virtues ascribed to Charles? A religious zeal, not more sincere than that of his son, and fully as weak and narrow-minded, and a few of the ordinary household decencies which half the tombstones 20 in England claim for those who lie beneath them. A good father ! A good husband ! Ample apologies indeed for fifteen years of persecution, tyranny, and falsehood ! 62. We charge him with having broken his corona- tion oath; and we are told that he kept his marriage 25 vow ! We accuse him of having given up his but he had . . . < _ greater people to the merciless inflictions 01 the most vices. hot-headed and hard-hearted of prelates 2 ; and the defence is, that he took his little son on his knee and kissed him ! We censure him for having violated 30 1 Int., p. xxi. 2 Index, " Laud." MILTON. 45 the articles of the Petition of Right, after having, for good and valuable consideration, promised to observe them ; and we are informed that he was accustomed to hear prayers at six o'clock in the morning ! It is to 5 such considerations as these, together with his Vandyke ° dress, his handsome face, and his peaked beard, that he owes, we verily believe, most of his popularity with the present generation. 63. For ourselves, we own that we do not understand 10 the common phrase, a good man, but a bad king. We can as easily conceive a good man and an unnatural The in _ father, or a good man and a treacherous friend, ciple in- We cannot, in estimating the character of an indi- volved - vidual, leave out of our consideration his conduct in 15 the most important of all human relations ; and if in that relation we find him to have been selfish, cruel, and deceitful, we shall take the liberty to call him a bad man, in spite of all his temperance 'at table, and all his regularity at chapel. 20 64. We cannot refrain from adding a few words re- specting a topic on which the defenders of Charles are fond of dwelling. If, they say, he governed his people ill, he at least governed them after the ^T^ 6 ^. example of his predecessors. If he violated their lowed prec- 25 privileges, it was because those privileges had not edent -" been accurately defined. No act of oppression has ever been imputed to him which has not a parallel in the annals of the Tudors. This point Hume ° has laboured, with an art which is as discreditable in a historical work 30 as it would be admirable in a forensic address. 1 The 1 See Hume's History of England, Appendix III (to Chap. XLIV). 46 MILTON. answer is short, clear, and decisive. Charles had assented to the Petition of Right. He had renounced the oppres- sive powers said to have been exercised by his prede- cessors, and he had renounced them for money. 1 He was not entitled to set up his antiquated claims against 5 his own recent release. 65. These arguments are so obvious, that it may seem superfluous to dwell upon them. But those who have observed how much the events of that time are misrepresented and misunderstood, will not blame 10 us for stating the case simply. It is a case of which the simplest statement is the strongest. 66. The enemies of the Parliament, indeed, rarely choose to take issue on the great points of the question. They content themselves with exposing some of the 15 Argument J . 4. Ex- crimes and follies to which public commotions cesses of necessarilv give birth. They bewail the unmerited the Rebels fate of Strafford. They execrate the lawless vio- lence of the army. They laugh at the Scriptural names of the preachers. Major-generals fleecing their districts ; 20 soldiers revelling on the spoils of a ruined peasantry ; upstarts, enriched by the public plunder, taking possession of the hospitable firesides and hereditary trees of the old gentry ; boys' smashing the beautiful windows of cathe- drals ; Quakers riding naked through the market-place ; 25 Fifth-monarchy-men ° shouting for King Jesus ; agitators lecturing from the tops of tubs on the fate of Agag ° ; — all these, they tell us, were the offspring of the Great Rebellion. 2 67. Be it so. We are not careful to answer in this 30 1 Note, p. 85. 2 Int., p. xxi. MILTON. 47 matter. These charges, were they infinitely more im- portant, would not alter our opinion of an event which alone has made us to differ from the slaves who These were crouch beneath despotic sceptres. 1 Many evils, necessary 5 no doubt, were produced by the civil war. They evi s * were the price of our liberty. Has the acquisition been worth the sacrifice? It is the nature of the Devil of tyranny to tear and -rend the body which he leaves. Are the miseries of continued possession less horrible than 10 the struggles of the tremendous exorcism ? 63. If it were possible that a people brought up under an intolerant and arbitrary system could subvert that system without acts of cruelty and folly, half the _ J j j ■> They were objections to despotic power would be removed, fruits of 15 We should, in that case, be compelled to acknowl- t y rann y- edge that it at least produces no pernicious effects on the intellectual and moral character of a nation. We deplore the outrages which accompany revolutions. But the more violent the outrages, the more assured we feel 20 that a revolution was necessary. The violence of those outrages will always be proportioned to the ferocity and ignorance of the people ; and the ferocity and ignorance of the people will be proportioned to the oppression and degradation under which they have been accustomed to 25 live. Thus it was in our civil war. The heads of the church and state reaped only that which they had sown. The government had prohibited free discussion : it had done its best to keep the people unacquainted with their duties and their rights. The retribution was just and 30 natural. If our rulers suffered from popular ignorance, 1 Note, p. 85. 48 MILTON. it was because they had themselves taken away the key of knowledge. If they were assailed with blind fftry, it was because they had exacted an equally blind sub- mission. 69. It is the character of such revolutions that we 5 always see the worst of them at first. Till men have They were been for some time free, they know not how to use transitory, their freedom. The natives of wine countries are generally sober. In climates where wine is a rarity in- temperance abounds. A newly liberated people may be 10 compared to a northern army encamped on the Rhine or the Xeres.° It is said that, when soldiers in such a situation first find themselves able to indulge without restraint in such a rare and expensive luxury, nothing is to be seen but intoxication. Soon, however, plenty teaches 15 discretion ; and, after wine has been for a few months their daily fare, they become more temperate than they had ever been in their own country. In the same manner, the final and permanent fruits of liberty are wisdom, moderation, and mercy. Its immediate effects are often 20 atrocious crimes, conflicting errors, scepticism on points the most clear, dogmatism on points the most mysterious. It is just at this crisis that its enemies love to exhibit it. , They pull down the scaffolding from the half-finished edifice : they point to the flying dust, the falling bricks, 25 ' the comfortless rooms, the frightful irregularity of the whole appearance ; and then ask in scorn where the promised splendour and comfort is to be found. If such miserable sophisms were to prevail there would never be a good house or a good government in the 30 world. MILTON. 49 70. Ariosto tells a pretty story J of a fairy, who, by some mysterious law of her nature, was condemned to appear at certain seasons in the form of a foul and poison- Th are ous snake. Those who injured her during the the mask of 5 period of her disguise were for ever excluded from Llbert y- participation in the blessings which she bestowed. But to those who, in spite of her loathsome aspect, pitied and protected her, she afterwards revealed herself in the beautiful and celestial form which was natural to her, 10 accompanied their steps, granted all their wishes, filled their houses with wealth, made them happy in love and victorious in war. Such a spirit is Liberty. At times she takes the form of a hateful reptile. She grovels, she hisses, she stings. 2 But woe to those who in disgust shall 15 venture to crush her ! And happy are those who, hav- ing dared to receive her in her degraded and frightful shape, shall at length be rewarded by her in the time of her beauty and her glory ! 71. There is only one cure for the evils which newly 20 acquired freedom produces : and that cure is freedom. When a prisoner first leaves his cell he cannot The bear the light of day : he is unable to discriminate .cured by colours, or recognise faces. But the remedy is, not Llbert y> to remand him into his dungeon, but to accustom him 25 to the rays of the sun. The blaze of truth and liberty may at first dazzle and bewilder nations which have become half blind in the house of bondage. But let them gaze on, and they will soon be able to bear it. In a few years men learn to reason. The extreme violence 30 of opinions subsides. Hostile theories correct each 1 Orlando Furioso, Canto XLIII. 2 Note, p. 85. 50 MILTON. other. The scattered elements of truth cease to con- tend, and begin to coalesce. And at length a system of justice and order is educed out of the chaos. 72. Many politicians of our time are in the habit of lay- ing it down as a self-evident proposition, that no people 5 and not ought to be free till they are fit to use their free- otherwise. d om . The maxim is worthy of the fool in the old story, who resolved not to go into the water till he had learnt to swim. If men are to wait for liberty till they become wise and good in slavery, they may indeed wait 10 for ever. 73. Therefore it is that we decidedly approve of the conduct of Milton and the other wise and good men who, Execution in spite of much that was ridiculous and hateful in of Charles fa e conduct of their associates, stood firmly by the 15 theoreti- TTT , caiiy justi- cause of Public Liberty. We are not aware that fiabie, the poet has been charged with personal participa- tion in any of the blameable excesses of that time. The favourite topic of his enemies is the line of conduct which he pursued with regard to the execution of the 20 King. Of that celebrated proceeding we by no means approve. Still we must say, in justice to the many emi- nent persons who concurred in it, and in justice more particularly to the eminent person who defended it, that nothing can be more absurd than the imputations which, 25 for the last hundred and sixty years, it has been the fashion to cast upon the Regicides. 1 We have, through- out, abstained from appealing to first principles. We will not appeal to them now. We recur again -to the 1 Note, p. 85. MILTON. 51 parallel case of the Revolution. What essential distinc- tion can be drawn between the execution of the father and the deposition of the son? What constitutional maxim is there which applies to the former and not to 5 the latter? The King can do no wrong. If so, James was as innocent as Charles could have been. The min- ister only ought to be responsible for the acts of the Sovereign. If so, why not impeach Jefferies ° and retain James ? The person of a king is sacred. Was the per- icson of James considered sacred at the Boyne°? To dis- charge cannon against an army in which a King is known to be posted is to approach pretty near to regicide. Charles, too, it should always be remembered, was put- to death by men who had been exasperated by the hos- 15 tilities of several years, and who had never been bound to him by any other tie than that which was common to them with all their fellow-citizens. Those who drove James from his throne, who seduce"d his army, who alienated his friends, who first imprisoned him in his 20 palace, and then turned him out of it, who broke in upon his very slumbers by imperious messages, who pursued him with fire and sword from one part of .the empire to another, who hanged, drew, and quartered his adherents, and attainted his innocent heir, were his 25 nephew and his two daughters. 1 When we reflect on all these things, we are at a loss to conceive how the same persons who, on the fifth of November, 1 thank God for wonderfully conducting his servant William, and for making all opposition fall before him until he became 30 our King and Governor, can, on the thirtieth of Janu- 1 Note, p. 85. 52 MILTON. ary, 1 contrive to be afraid that the blood of the Royal Martyr may be visited on themselves and their children. 74. We disapprove, we repeat, of the execution of Charles ; not because the constitution exempts the King .. from responsibility, for we know that all such max- 5 caiiya ims, however excellent, have their exceptions; nor blunder. because we feel any peculiar interest in his character, for we think that his sentence describes him with perfect justice as " a tyrant, a traitor, a murderer, and a public enemy " ; but because we are convinced that the measure 10 was most injurious to the cause of freedom. He whom it removed was a captive and a hostage : his heir, to whom the allegiance of every Royalist was instantly transferred, was at large. The Presbyterians 2 could never have been perfectly reconciled to the father : they had no such 15 rootedr enmity to the son. The great body of the peo- ple, also, contemplated that proceeding with feelings which, however unreasonable, no government could safely venture to outrage. 75. But though we think the conduct of the Regicides 20 blameable, that of Milton appears to us in a very differ- „., , ent light. The deed was done. It could not be Milton s o attitude undone. The evil was incurred ; and the object justifiable. wag tQ ren( j er it as small as possible. We censure the ,chiefs of the army for not yielding to the popular 25 opinion; but we cannot censure Milton for wishing to change that opinion. The very feeling which would have restrained us from committing the act would have led us, after it had been committed, to defend it against the ravings of servility and superstition. For the sake 30 1 Note, p. 85. 2 Int., p. xviii and p. xx. MILTON. 53 of public liberty, we wish that the thing had not been done, while the people disapproved of it. But, for the sake of public liberty, we should also have wished the people to approve of it when it was done. If anything more 5 were wanting to the justification of Milton, the book of Salmasius would furnish it. That miserable perfor- mance is now with justice considered only as a beacon to word-catchers who wish to become statesmen. The celeb- rity of the man who refuted it, the " JEnese magni dex- io tra," 1 gives it all its fame with the present generation. In that age the state of things was different. It was not then fully understood how vast an interval separates the mere classical scholar from the political philosopher. Nor can it be doubted that a treatise which, bearing the 15 name of so eminent a critic, attacked the fundamental principles of all free governments, must, if suffered to remain unanswered, have produced a most pernicious effect on the public mind. 76. We wish to add a few words relative to another 20 subject, on which the enemies of Milton delight to dwell, his conduct during the administration of the Pro- His atti- tector. 2 That an enthusiastic votary of liberty tude rr ! -i- 'towards should accept office under a military usurper Cromwel seems, no doubt, at first sight, extraordinary. But all 25 the circumstances in which the country was then placed were extraordinary. The ambition of Oliver was of no vulgar kind. He never seems to have coveted despotic power. He at first fought sincerely and manfully for the Parliament, and never deserted it, till it had deserted its 30 duty. If he dissolved it by force, 2 it was not till he found 1 Note, p. 85. 2 Int., p. xxi. 54 MILTON. that the few members who remained after so many deaths, secessions, and expulsions, were desirous to appropriate to themselves a power which they held only in trust, and to inflict upon England the curse of a Venetian oligarchy. But even when thus placed by violence at the head of 5 affairs, he did not assume unlimited power. He gave the country a constitution far more perfect than any which had at that time been known in the world. He reformed the representative system in a manner which has extorted praise even from Lord Clarendon. For himself he de- 10 manded indeed the first place in the commonwealth ; but with powers scarcely so great as those of a Dutch stadt- holder, or an American president. He gave the Parlia- ment a voice in the appointment of ministers, and left to it the whole legislative authority, not even reserving to 15 himself a veto on its enactments ; and he did not require that the chief magistracy should be hereditary in his fam- ily. Thus far, we think, if the circumstances of the time and the opportunities which he had of aggrandising him- self be fairly considered, he will net lose by comparison 20 with Washington or Bolivar. Had his moderation been met by corresponding moderation, there is no reason to think that he would have overstepped the line which he had traced for himself. But when he found that his parliaments questioned the authority under which they 25 met, and that he was in danger of being deprived of the restricted power which was absolutely necessary to his personal safety, then, it must be acknowledged, he adopted a more arbitrary policy. 77. Yet, though we believe that the intentions of 30 Cromwell were at first honest, though we believe that com- mendable. MILTON. 55 he was driven from the noble course which he had marked out for himself by the almost irresistible force of cir- cumstances, though we admire, in common with i twasprac all men of all parties, the ability and energy of his ticaily 5 splendid administration, we are not pleading for ar bitrary and lawless power, even in his hands. We know that a good constitution is infinitely better than the best despot. But we suspect, that at the time of which we speak, the violence of religious and political enmities io rendered a stable and happy settlement next to impossi- ble. The choice lay, not between Cromwell and liberty, but between Cromwell and the Stuarts. That Milton chose well, no man can doubt who fairly compares the events of the Protectorate with those of the thirty years 15 which succeeded it, the darkest and most disgraceful in the English annals. Cromwell was evidently laying, though in an irregular manner, the foundations of an admirable system. Never before had religious liberty and the freedom of discussion been enjoyed in a greater 20 degree. Never had the national honour been better upheld abroad, or the seat of justice better filled at home. And it was rarely that any opposition which stopped short of open rebellion provoked the resentment of the liberal and magnanimous usurper. The institu- 25 tions which he had established, as set down in the In- strument of Government, 1 and the Humble Petition and Advice, 1 were excellent. His practice, it is true, too often departed from the theory of these institutions. But, had he lived a few years longer, it is probable that 30 his institutions would have survived him, and that his 1 Int., p. xxi. 56 MILTON. arbitrary practice would have died with him. His power had not been consecrated by ancient prejudices. It was upheld only by his great personal qualities. Little, therefore, was to be dreaded from a second protector, unless he were also a second Oliver Cromwell. The 5 events which followed his decease are the most complete vindication of those who exerted themselves to uphold his authority. His death dissolved the whole frame of society. The army rose against the parliament, the dif- ferent corps of the army against each other. Sect raved 10 against sect. Party plotted against party. The Presby- terians, in their eagerness to be revenged on the Inde- pendents, sacrificed their own liberty, and deserted all their old principles. Without casting one glance on the past, or requiring one stipulation for the future, they threw 15 down their freedom at the feet of the most frivolous and heartless of tyrants. 78. Then came those days, never to be recalled with- out a blush, the days of servitude without loyalty, and sensuality without love, of dwarfish talents and gigantic 20 p ff m vi ces j the paradise of cold hearts and narrow minds, later condi- the golden age of the coward, the bigot, and the tIons * slave. The King cringed to his rival that he might trample on his people, sank into a viceroy of France, and pocketed, with complacent infamy, her degrading insults, 25 and her more degrading gold. The caresses of harlots, and the jests of buffoons, regulated the policy of the state. The government had just ability enough to deceive, and just religion enough to persecute. The principles of liberty were the scoff of every grinning courtier, and the 30 Anathema Maranatha of every fawning dean. In every high MILTON. 57 place, worship was paid to Charles and James, Belial ° and Moloch ° ; and England propitiated those obscene and cruel idols with the blood of her best and bravest chil- dren. Crime succeeded to crime, and disgrace to dis- 5 grace, till the race accursed of God and man was a second time driven forth, to wander on the face of the earth, and to be a by- word and a shaking of the head to the nations. ^79. Most of the remarks which we have hitherto made 10 on the public character of Milton, apply to him only as one of a large body. We shall proceed to notice some Parties of the peculiarities which distinguished him from during the his contemporaries. And, for that purpose, it is Rebfelhon - necessary to take a short survey of the parties into which 15 the political world was at that time divided. We must premise, that our observations are intended to apply only to those who adhered, from a sincere preference, to one or to the other side. In days of public commotion, every faction, like an Oriental army, is attended by a crowd of 20 camp-followers, an useless and heartless rabble, who prowl round its line of march in the hope of picking up some- thing under its protection, but desert it in the day of battle, and often join to exterminate it after a defeat. England, at the time of which we are treating, abounded 25 with fickle and selfish politicians, who transferred their support to every government as it rose, who kissed the hand of the King in 1640, and spat in his face in 1649, who shouted with equal glee when Cromwell was inaugu- rated in Westminster Hall, and when he was dug up to 30 be hanged at Tyburn, 1 who dined on calves' heads, or 1 Int., p. xxii. 58 MILTON. stuck up oak-branches, 1 as circumstances altered, without the slightest shame or repugnance. These we leave out of the account. We take our estimate of parties from those who really deserve to be called partisans. 80. We would speak first of the Puritans, 2 the most 5 remarkable body of men, perhaps, which the world has The Puri- ever produced. The odious and ridiculous parts tans. f tne j r character lie on the surface. He' that runs Their re- . , , . . puted char- mav rea d them ; nor have there been wanting acter - attentive and malicious observers to point them 10 out. For many years after the Restoration, they were the theme of unmeasured invective and derision. They were exposed to the utmost licentiousness of the press and of the stage, at the time when the press and the stage were most licentious. They were not men of let- 1 S ters ; they were, as a body, unpopular ; they could not defend themselves ; and the public would not take them under its protection. They were therefore abandoned, without reserve, to the tender mercies of the satirists and dramatists. The ostentatious simplicity of their dress, 20 their sour aspect, their nasal twang, their stiff posture, their long graces, their Hebrew names, the Scriptural phrases which they introduced on every occasion, their contempt of human learning, their detestation of polite amusements, were indeed fair game for the laughers. 3 25 But it is not from the laughers alone that the philosophy of history is to be learnt. And he who approaches this subject should carefully guard against the influence of 1 Note, p. 85. 2 Int., p. xviii. 3 Note, p. 86. MILTON. 59 that potent ridicule which has already misled so many excellent writers. " Ecco il fonte del riso, ed ecco il no Che mortali perigli in se contiene : 5 Hor qui tener a fren nostro desio, Ed esser cauti molto a noi conviene." * 1 81. Those who roused the people to resistance, who directed their measures through a long series of eventful years, who ' formed, out of the most unpromising Their real 10 materials, the finest army that Europe had ever character, seen, who trampled down King, Church, and Aristocracy, who, in the short intervals of domestic sedition and re- bellion, made the name of England terrible to every nation on the face of the earth, were no vulgar fanatics. 15 Most of their absurdities were mere external badges, like the signs of freemasonry, or the dresses of friars. We regret that these badges were not more attractive. We regret that a body to whose courage *and talents mankind has owed inestimable obligations had not the lofty ele- 2ogance which distinguished some of the adherents of Charles the First, or the easy good-breeding for which the court of Charles the Second was celebrated. But, if we must make our cho'ice, we shall, like Bassanio ° in the play, turn from the specious caskets which contain only 25 the Death's head and the Fool's head, and fix on the plain leaden chest which conceals the treasure. 82. The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests. Not content m . . Their m- 30 with acknowledging, in general terms, an overruling centives. 1 Note, p. 86. * La Gerusalemme Liberate, XV. 57. 60 MILTON. Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power nothing was too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt 5 the ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on his intolerable bright- ness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence 10 originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The difference between the greatest and the meanest of man- kind seemed to vanish, when compared with the bound- less interval which separated the whole race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. They recog- 15 nised no title to superiority but his favour ; and, confident of that favour, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names were 20 not found in the registers of heralds, they were recorded in the Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands; their diadems crowns of glory 25 which should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt : for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime lan- guage, nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and 3° priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very MILTON. 61 meanest of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits of light and darkness looked with anxious interest, who had been destined, before heaven 5 and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away. Events which short-sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes, had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. 10 For his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the Evangelist, and the harp of the prophet. He had been wrested by no common deliverer from the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly 15 sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been dark- ened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had risen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring God. 1 83. Thus the Puritan was made up of two different 20 men, the one all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion, the other proud, calm, inflexible, saga- cious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker : but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement, he prayed with convul- 25 sions, and groans, and tears. He was half-maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane,° he thought him- 30 self intrusted with the sceptre of the millennial year. 1 1 Note, p. 86. 62 MILTON. Like Fleetwood, he cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible trace behind them. People who saw 5 nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate or in the field of battle. These fanatics 10 brought to civil and military affairs a coolness of judg- ment and an immutability of purpose which some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal, but which were in fact the necessary effects of it. The intensity of their feelings on one subject made them 15 tranquil on every other. One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred, ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors and pleasure its charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. En- 20 thusiasm had made them Stoics, had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion and prejudice, and raised them above the influence of danger and of corruption. It sometimes, might lead them to pursue unwise ends, but never to choose unwise means. They went through 25 the world, like Sir Artegal's iron man Talus with his flail, crushing and trampling down oppressors, mingling with human beings, but having neither part nor lot in human infirmities, insensible to fatigue, to pleasure, and to pain, not to be pierced by any weapon, not' to be 30 withstood by any barrier. MILTON. 63 84. Such we believe to have been the character of the Puritans. We perceive the absurdity of their man- ners. We dislike the sullen gloom of their domestic ... , T7 . Summary habits. We acknowledge that the tone of their of their 5 minds was often injured by straining after things