[]

THE LIFE OF MILTON, IN THREE PARTS.

TO WHICH ARE ADDED, CONJECTURES ON THE ORIGIN OF PARADISE LOST: WITH AN APPENDIX.

BY WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

[...],
[...].
HESIOD. THEOGONIA, V. 953.
Magnarum virium eſt tractare ſacra tam ſplendide, ſimplicia tam erudite, inculta tam polite, retruſa tam dilucide, a ſenſu communi abhorrentia tam populariter, periculoſa tam libere, ſevera tam plauſibiliter. Et tamen hunc virum, quem ne ſummi quidem queant aſſequi, non verentur calumniari et mediocres. ERASMUS.

LONDON: Printed for T. CADELL, Junior, and W. DAVIES, (Succeſſors to Mr. CADELL) in the Strand.

M.DCC.XCVI.

[]

THE LIFE OF MILTON, BY WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

THE SECOND EDITION, CONSIDERABLY ENLARGED.

Effigiem conor efficere, quae hoc diuturnior erit, quo verior, melior, abſolutior fuerit

PLIN. EPIST. Lib. 3. Ep. 10.

DEDICATION TO THE REV. JOSEPH WARTON, D. D. &c.

[]
MY PLEASANT AND RESPECTABLE FRIEND!

IN prefixing your name to this volume, I feel and confeſs the double influence of an affectionate and of an ambitious deſire to honour you and myſelf. Our loſt and lamented Friend GIBBON has told us, I think very truly, in dedicating a juvenile work to his Father, that there are but two kinds of Dedications, which can do honour either to the Patron or the Author—the firſt ariſing from literary eſteem, the ſecond from perſonal affection. If either of theſe two characteriſtics may be ſufficient to give propriety to a Dedication, I have little to apprehend for the preſent, which has certainly the advantage of uniting the two.

The kind and friendly manner in which you commended the firſt edition of this Life might alone have induced me to inſcribe a more ample copy of it to that literary [vi] veteran, whoſe applauſe is ſo juſtly dear to me. I have additional inducements in recollecting your animated and enlightened regard for the glory of MILTON. It is pleaſing to addreſs a ſympathetic friend on a ſubject that intereſts the fancy and the heart. I remember, with peculiar gratification, the liberality and frankneſs, with which you lamented to me the extreme ſeverity of the late Mr. Warton, in deſcribing the controverſial writings of Milton. I honour the rare integrity of your mind, my candid friend, which took the part of injured genius and probity againſt the prejudices of a brother, eminent as a ſcholar, and entitled alſo, in many points of view, to your love and admiration. I ſympathize with you moſt cordially in regretting the ſeverity to which I allude, ſo little to be expected from the general temper of the critic, and from that affectionate ſpirit, with which he had vindicated the poetry of Milton from the miſrepreſentations of cold and callous auſterity. But Mr. Warton had fallen into a miſtake, which has betrayed other well-diſpoſed minds into an unreaſonable abhorrence of Milton's proſe; I mean the miſtake of regarding it as having a tendency to ſubvert our exiſting government. Can any man juſtly think it has ſuch a tendency, who recollects that no government, ſimilar to that which the Revolution eſtabliſhed for England, exiſted when Milton wrote. His impaſſioned yet diſintereſted ardour for reformation was [vii] excited by thoſe groſs abuſes of power, which that new ſettlement of the ſtate very happily corrected.

Your learned and good-natured brother, my dear friend, was not the only man of learning and good-nature, who indulged a prejudice, that to us appears very extravagant, to give it the gentleſt appellation. A literary Paladine (if I may borrow from romance a title of diſtinction to honour a very powerful hiſtorian) even Gibbon himſelf, whom we both admired and loved for his literary and for his ſocial accompliſhments, ſurpaſſed, I think, on this topic, the ſeverity of Mr. Warton, and held it hardly compatible with the duty of a good citizen to re-publiſh, in the preſent times, the proſe of Milton, as he apprehended it might be productive of public evil. For my own part, although I ſincerely reſpected the highly cultivated mind that harboured this apprehenſion, yet the apprehenſion itſelf appeared to me ſomewhat ſimilar to the fear of Falſtaff, when he ſays, ‘I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead.’ As the proſe of Milton had a reference to the diſtracted period in which it aroſe, its arguments, if they could by any means be pointed againſt our exiſting government, are ſurely as incapable of inflicting a wound, as completely dead for all the purpoſes of hoſtility, as the noble Percy is repreſented, when he excites the ludicrous terror of Sir John: but while I preſume to deſcribe the proſe of Milton as [viii] inanimate in one point of view, let me have the juſtice to add, that it frequently breathes ſo warm a ſpirit of genuine eloquence and philanthropy, that I am perſuaded the prophecy of its great author concerning it will be gradually accompliſhed; its defects and its merits will be more temperately and juſtly eſtimated in a future age than they have hitherto been. The prejudices ſo recently entertained againſt it, by the two eminent writers I have mentioned, were entertained at a period when a very extraordinary panic poſſeſſed and overclouded many of the moſt elevated and enlightened minds of this kingdom— a period when a retired ſtudent could hardly amuſe himſelf with peruſing the nervous republican writers of the laſt century, without being ſuſpected of framing deadly machinations againſt the monarchs of the preſent day; and when the principles of a Jacobin were very blindly imputed to a truly Engliſh writer of acknowledged genius, and of the pureſt reputation, who is, perhaps, of all men living, the moſt perfectly blameleſs in his ſentiments of government, morality, and religion. But, happily for the credit of our national underſtanding, and our national courage, the panic to which I allude has ſpeedily paſſed away, and a man of letters may now, I preſume, as ſafely and irreproachably peruſe or reprint the great republican writers of England, as he might tranſlate or elucidate the political viſions of Plato, a writer whom Milton paſſionately [ix] admired, and to whom he bore, I think, in many points, a very ſtriking reſemblance. Perhaps they both poſſeſſed too large a portion of fancy and enthuſiaſm to make good practical ſtateſmen; the viſionaries of public virtue have ſeldom ſucceeded in the management of dominion, and in politics it has long been a prevailing creed to believe, that goverment is like gold, and muſt not be faſhioned for extenſive uſe without the alloy of corruption. But I mean not to burthen you, my lively friend, with political reflections, or with a long diſſertation on the great maſs of Milton's proſe; you, whoſe ſtudies are ſo various and extenſive, are ſufficiently familiar with thoſe ſingular compoſitions; and I am not a little gratified in the aſſurance that you think as I do, both of their blemiſhes and their beauties, and approve the uſe that I have made of them in my endeavours to elucidate the life and character of their author. Much as we reſpected the claſſical erudition and the taſte of your lamented brother, I am confident that we can neither of us ſubſcribe to the cenſure he has paſſed on the Latin ſtyle of Milton, who, to my apprehenſion, is often moſt admirably eloquent in that language, and particularly ſo in the paſſage I have cited from his character of Bradſhaw; a character in which I have known very acrimonious enemies to the name of the man commended very candidly acknowledge the eloquence of the eulogiſt. Some rigorous idolaters of the unhappy race of Stuart may yet cenſure me even for this diſpaſſionate [x] revival of ſuch a character; but you, my liberal friend to the freedom of literary diſcuſſion, you will ſuggeſt to me, that the minds of our countrymen in general aſpire to Roman magnanimity, in rendering juſtice to great qualities in men, who were occaſionally the objects of public deteſtation, and you join with me in admiring that example of ſuch magnanimity, to which I particularly allude. Nothing is more honourable to ancient Rome, than her generoſity in allowing a ſtatue of Hannibal to be raiſed and admired within the walls of the very city, which it was the ambition of his life to diſtreſs and deſtroy.

In emulation of that ſpirit, which delights to honour the excellencies of an illuſtrious antagoniſt, I have endeavoured to preſerve in my own mind, and to expreſs on every proper occaſion, my unſhaken regard for the rare faculties and virtues of a late extraordinary biographer, whom it has been my lot to encounter continually as a very bitter, and ſometimes, I think, an inſidious enemy to the great poet, whoſe memory I have fervently wiſhed to reſcue from indignity and detraction. The aſperity of Johnſon towards Milton has often ſtruck the fond admirers of the poet in various points of view; in one moment it excites laughter, in another indignation; now it reminds us of the weapon of Goliah as deſcribed by Cowley;

A ſword ſo great, that it was only fit
To cut off his great head that came with it;

[xi] now it prompts us to exclaim, in the words of an angry Roman:

Nec bellua tetrior ulla eſt
Quam ſervi rabies in libera colla furentis.

I have felt, I confeſs, theſe different emotions of reſentment in peruſing the various ſarcaſms of the auſtere critic againſt the object of my poetical idolatry, but I have tried, and I hope with ſome ſucceſs, to correct the animoſity they muſt naturally excite, by turning to the more temperate works of that very copious and admirable writer, particularly to his exquiſite paper in the Rambler (No 54) on the deaths and aſperity of literary men. It is hardly poſſible, I think, to read the paper I have mentioned without loſing, for ſome time at leaſt, all ſenſations of diſpleaſure towards the eloquent, the tender moraliſt, and reflecting, with a ſort of friendly ſatisfaction, that, as long as the language of England exiſts, the name of JOHNSON will remain, and deſerve to remain, ‘Magnum et memorabile nomen.’

As long as eloquence and morality are objects of public regard, we muſt revere that great mental phyſician, who has given to us all, infirm mortals as the beſt of us are, ſuch admirable preſcriptions for the regimen of mind, and we ſhould rather ſpeak in ſorrow than in anger, when we are forced to recollect, that, like other phyſicians, [xii] however able and perfect in theory, he failed to correct the infirmity of his own morbid ſpirit. You, my dear Warton, whom an oppoſite temperament has made a critic of a more airy and cheerful complection, you are one of the beſt witneſſes that I could poſſibly produce, if I had any occaſion to prove that my ideas of Johnſon's malevolent prejudices againſt Milton are not the offsprings of a fancy equally prejudiced itſelf againſt the great author, whoſe prejudices I have preſumed to oppoſe; you, my dear friend, have heard the harſh critic advance in converſation an opinion againſt Milton, even more ſevere than the many detractive ſarcaſms with which his life of the great poet abounds; you have heard him declaim againſt the admiration excited by the poetry of Milton, and affirm it to be nothing more than the cant (to uſe his own favourite phraſe) of affected ſenſibility.

I have preſumed to ſay, that Johnſon ſometimes appears as an inſidious enemy to the poet. Is there not ſome degree of inſidious hoſtility in his introducing into his dictionary, under the article Sonnet, the very ſonnet of Milton, which an enemy would certainly chuſe, who wiſhed to repreſent Milton as a writer of verſes entitled to ſcorn and deriſion? You will immediately recollect that I allude to the ſonnet which begins thus: ‘A book was writ of late called Tetrachordon.’

[xiii]The ſonnet is, in truth, contemptible enough, if we ſuppoſe that Milton intended it as a ſerious compoſition; but I apprehend it was an idle luſus poeticus, and either meant as a ludicrous parody on ſome other ſonnet, which has ſunk into oblivion, or merely written as a trifling paſtime, to ſhew that it is poſſible to compoſe a ſonnet with words moſt unfriendly to rhyme. However this may be, it was barbarous ſurely towards Milton (and, I might add, towards the poetry of England) to exhibit this unhappy little production, in ſo conſpicuous a manner, as a ſpecimen of Engliſh ſonnets. Yet I perceive it is poſſible to give a milder interpretation of Johnſon's deſign in his diſplay of this unfortunate ſonnet; and as I moſt ſincerely wiſh not to charge him with more malevolence towards Milton than he really exerted, I will obſerve on this occaſion, that as he had little, or rather no reliſh for ſonnets, which the ſtern logician ſeems to have deſpiſed as perplexing trifles (difficiles nugae) he might only mean to deter young poetical ſtudents from a kind of verſe that he diſliked, by leading them to remark, how the greateſt of our poets had failed in this petty compoſition. You, who perfectly know how much more inclined I am to praiſe than to cenſure, will give me full credit for my ſincerity in ſaying, that I wiſh to acquit Johnſon of malevolence in every article where my reaſon will allow me to do ſo. I have been under the painful neceſſity of [xiv] diſplaying continually, in the following work, the various examples of his ſeverity to Milton. Nothing is more apt to excite our ſpleen than a ſtroke of injuſtice againſt an author whom we love and revere; but I ſhould be ſorry to find myſelf infected by the acrimony which I was obliged to diſplay, and I ſhould be equally ſorry to run into an oppoſite failing, and to indulge a ſpirit of obloquy, like Mrs. Candour, in the School for Scandal, with all the grimaces of affected good nature. I have, ſpoken, therefore my own feelings, without bitterneſs and without timidity. I cannot ſay that I ſpeak of Johnſon ‘ſine ira et ſtudio,’ as Tacitus ſaid of other great men (very differently great!) for, in truth, I feel towards the ſame object thoſe two oppoſite ſources of prejudice and partiality: as a critical biographer of the poets he often excites my tranſient indignation; but as an eloquent teacher of morality he fills me with more laſting reverence and affection.

His lives of the poets will probably give birth, in this or the next century, to a work of literary retaliation. Whenever a poet ariſes with as large a portion of ſpleen towards the critical writers of paſt ages, as Johnſon indulged towards the poets in his poetical biography, the literature of England will be enriched with "the Lives of the Critics," a work from which you, my dear Warton, will have little to apprehend; you, whoſe eſſay teaches, as [xv] the critical biographer very truly and liberally obſerved, ‘how the brow of criticiſm may be ſmoothed, and how ſhe may be enabled, with all her ſeverity, to attract and delight.’

Yet to ſhew how apt a writer of verſes is to accuſe a profeſt critic of ſeverity, we may both recollect, that when I had occaſion to ſpeak of your entertaining and inſtructive Eſſay on Pope, I ſcrupled not to conſider the main ſcope of it a little too ſevere; and in truth, my dear friend, I think ſo ſtill; becauſe it is the aim of that charming Eſſay to prove, that Pope poſſeſſed not thoſe very high poetical talents, for which the world, though ſufficiently inclined to diſcover and magnify his defects, had allowed him credit. You conſider him as the poet of reaſon, and intimate that "he ſtooped to truth, and moralized his ſong," from a want of native powers to ſupport a long flight in the higher province of fancy. To me, I confeſs, his Rape of the Lock appears a ſufficient proof that he poſſeſſed, in a ſuperlative degree, the faculty in which you would reduce him to a ſecondary rank; he choſe, indeed, in many of his productions, to be the poet of reaſon rather than of fancy; but I apprehend his choice was influenced by an idea (I believe a miſtaken idea) that moral ſatire is the ſpecies of poetry by which a poet of modern times may render the greateſt ſervice to mankind. But if in one article you have been not ſo kind, as I could wiſh, to the [xvi] poet of morality, I rejoice in recollecting, that you are on the point of making him conſiderable amends, and of fulfilling a prediction of mine, by removing from the pages of Pope a great portion of the lumber with which they were amply loaded by Warburton. You will ſoon, I truſt, prove to the literary world, as you perfectly proved to me ſome years ago, that the poet has ſuffered not a little from the abſurdities of his arrogant annotator. It is hardly poſſible for a man of letters, who affectionately venerates the name of Milton, and recollects ſome expreſſions of Warburton concerning his poetry and his moral character, to ſpeak of that ſupercilious prelate without catching ſome portion of his own ſcornful ſpirit: you will immediately perceive that I allude to his having beſtowed upon Milton the opprobrious title of a time-ſerver*. Do you recollect, my dear learned critic, extenſive as your ſtudies have [xvii] been; do you recollect, in the wide range of ancient and modern defamation, a more unpardonable abuſe of language? Milton, a poet of the moſt powerful, and, perhaps, the moſt independent mind that was ever given to a mere mortal, inſulted with the appellation of a time-ſerver; and by whom? by Warburton, whoſe writings, and whoſe fortune—but I will not copy the contemptuous prelate in his favourite exerciſe of reviling the literary characters, whoſe opinions were different from his own; his habit of indulging a contemptuous and dogmatical ſpirit has already drawn upon his name and writings the natural puniſhment of ſuch verbal intemperance; and the mitred follower of his fame and fortune, who has lately endeavoured to prop his reputation by a tenderly partial, but a very imperfect life of his precipitate and quarrelſome patron, has rather leſſened, perhaps, his own credit, than increaſed that of his maſter, by that affected coldneſs of contempt with which he deſcribes, or rather disfigures, the illuſtrious chaſtiſer of Warburtonian inſolence, the more accompliſhed critic, of whom you eminent ſcholars of Winton are very juſtly proud; I mean the eloquent and graceful LOWTII.

But as I am not fond of literary ſtrife, however dignified and diſtinguiſhed the antagoniſts may be, I will haſten to extricate myſelf from this little group of contentious critics; for it muſt be matter of regret to every ſincere [xviii] votary of peace and benevolence to obſerve, that the field of literature is too frequently a field of cruelty, which almoſt realizes the hyperbolical expreſſion of Lucan, and exhibits ‘Pluſquam civilia bella;’ where men, whoſe kindred ſtudies ſhould humanize their temper, and unite them in the ties of fraternal regard, are too apt to exert all their faculties in ferociouſly mangling each other; where we ſometimes behold the friendſhip of years diſſolved in a moment, and converted into furious hoſtility, which, though it does not endanger, yet never fails to embitter life; and perhaps the ſource of ſuch contention,

teterrima belli
Cauſa—

inſtead of being a fair and faithleſs Helen, is nothing more than a particle of grammar in a dead language. O that the ſpleen-correcting powers of mild and friendly ridicule could annihilate ſuch hoſtilities!—Cannot you, my dear Warton, who have the weight and authority of a pacific Neſtor in this tumultuous field, cannot you ſuggeſt effectual lenitives for the genus irritabile ſcriptorum. The celebrated Saxon painter Mengs has, I think, given us all an admirable him of this kind in writing to an ingenious but petulant Frenchman, who had provoked him by [xix] ſpeaking contemptuouſly of his learned and enthuſiaſtic friend Winkelman. Se io poſſedeſſi il talento di ſcriver bene (ſays the modeſt painter) vorrei eſporre ragioni, e fatti, e inſegnar coſe utili ſenza perdermi a contradir veruno poiche mi ſembra, che ſi poſſan fare buoni libri ſenza dire, che il tale, o il tul ſogetto s' inganna; e finalmente ſe ella mi puo dimoſtrare, che la maldicenza ſia coſa honeſta, allora io converrò che importa molto poco il modo, con cui ſi attacca la riputazione del proſſimo: e aggiungo che il ſarcaſmo e l' inſulto ſono la peggior maniera di mormorare, e di biaſimare donde riſulta ſempre il maggior danno a chi lo uſa.—Opere di Mengs, tomo primo, p. 243.

Theſe admonitions are excellent, and want only the good example of the monitor to make them complete; but Mengs, unfortunately, in his profeſſional writings, has ſpoken of Reynolds in a manner that groſsly violates his own doctrine; ſo difficult is it, my good Doctor, to find a pacific preacher and his practice in perfect harmony with each other.

To feeling and fervent ſpirits there can hardly be any provocation more apt to excite aſperity of language, than an inſult offered to an object of their eſteem and veneration. In writing upon Milton, and thoſe who, to my apprehenſion, have inſulted his name with contumelious ſeverity, I may have been hurried beyond the bias of my [xx] temper, which is, I truſt, neither iraſcible nor cenſorious; but I will imitate ſome well meaning catholic writers, and making you, my dear Warton, my inquiſitor as well as my patron, I will here very honeſtly ſay to you, Si quid dixerim contra ſpiritum caritatis evangelicae indictum volo.

Let me now haſten to apologize to you, as I think I ought, for ſuch deficiencies as your nice diſcernment cannot fail to obſerve in the work I addreſs to you. You remember that Plutarch, the amiable prince of ancient biographers, has very juſtly mentioned the advantage ariſing to a writer from reſiding in a city amply furniſhed with books;—it is my lot, you know, to live in a little ſequeſtered village, and I chuſe to do ſo for the reaſon which attached the good-natured Plutarch to his native Cheronaea, that it may not become leſs. Had it ſuited me to devote much time and labour to extenſive reſearches in the public and private libraries of London, it is poſſible that I might have diſcovered ſome latent anecdotes relating to Milton; yet after the patient inquiries of the intelligent and indefatigable Dr. Birch, and after the ſignal diſcovery of your more ſucceſsful brother, little novelty could be expected to reward the toil of ſuch inveſtigation; and perhaps a writer too eager to make new diſcoveries on this beaten ground, might be hurried by ſuch eagerneſs into the cenſurable temerity of Peek the antiquarian, who, [xxi] in his memoirs of the great poet, has affixed the name of Milton to a portrait and a poem that do not belong to him.

Though my work has been executed in a retired village of England, my enquiries have extended far beyond the limits of our own country, by the aid of ſome intelligent and obliging friends, who had the kindneſs to ſearch for me the great libraries of Paris and Rome, in the hope of diſcovering ſome neglected compoſition, or latent anecdote, that might be uſeful to a biographer of Milton. The ſucceſs of theſe reſearches has not been equal to the kindneſs and the zeal of the intelligent enquirers; but an unexpected favour from a literary friend, who is known to me only by his writings, has enabled me to throw, perhaps, a new ray of light on that inviting ſubject of conjecture, the real origin of Milton's greateſt performance.

In the diſſertation, which I have annexed to this life of the poet, you will find ſome account of an Italian dr [...]m on the inhabitants of Paradiſe, which, though it riſes not to the poetical ſpirit of Andreini, may have [...]d ſome influence, I apprehend, on the fancy of Milton. You will alſo find, that I have followed your example, in recommending your old acquaintance Andreini [...]o the notice of the public. He happened to engage my attention, when the health of my revered friend, Mr. Cowper, [xxii] allowed him to be my gueſt; and, after our more ſerious morning ſtudies, it afforded us a pleaſant relaxation and amuſement to throw ſome parts of the Adamo into Engliſh, in a rapid yet metrical tranſlation. In this joint work, or rather paſtime, it would be needleſs, if it were poſſible, to diſtinguiſh the lines of the united tranſlators, as the verſion had no higher aim than to gratify the curioſity of the Engliſh reader, without aſpiring to praiſe. A very different character is due to that verſion of Milton's Latin poetry, which my excellent friend has finiſhed with ſuch care and felicity, that even from the ſeparate ſpecimens of it, with which this life is embelliſhed, you, my dear Warton, and every delicate judge of poetry, will, I am confident, eſteem it an abſolute model of poetical tranſlation. For the honour of Milton, and for that of his moſt worthy interpreter, I hope that the whole of this admirable performance may be ſoon imparted to the public, as I truſt that returning health will happily reſtore its incomparable author to his ſuſpended ſtudies; an event that may affect the moral intereſt and the mental delight of all the world—for rarely, very rarely indeed, has heaven beſtowed on any individual ſuch an ample, ſuch a variegated portion of true poetical genius, and never did it add greater purity of heart to that divine yet perilous talent, to guide and ſanctify its exertion. Thoſe who are beſt acquainted with the writings and the virtues of my [xxiii] ineſtimable friend, muſt be moſt fervent in their hopes, that in the courſe and the cloſe of his poetical career he may reſemble his great and favourite predeceſſors, Homer and Milton; their ſpirits were cheered and illuminated in the decline of life by a freſh portion of poetical power; and if in their latter productions they roſe not to the full force and ſplendor of their meridian glory, they yet enchanted mankind with the ſweetneſs and ſerenity of their deſcending light.

Literature, which Cicero has ſo eloquently deſcribed as the friend of every period and condition of human exiſtence, is peculiarly the friend of age; a truth of which you, my dear Warton, are a very lively illuſtration—you, who at a ſeaſon of life when unlettered mortals generally murmur againſt the world, are miniſtering to its inſtruction and its pleaſure by continuing to write with temper, vivacity, and grace.

That you may long retain and diſplay this happy aſſemblage of endowments, ſo rare in a critical veteran, is the cordial wiſh of many, and particularly the wiſh of your very ſincere and affectionate friend,

W. H.

THE LIFE OF MILTON.

[]

PART I.

L' ETA PRECORSE, E LA SPERANZA; E PRESTI
PAREANO I FIOR, QUANDO N' USCIRO I FRUTTI.
TASSO.

THE character of MILTON has been ſcrutinized with all the minuteneſs of inveſtigation, which oppoſite paſſions could ſuggeſt. The virulent antagoniſt and the enraptured idolater have purſued his ſteps with equal pertinacity: nor have we wanted men of learning and virtue, who, devoid of prejudice and enthuſiaſm, both in politics and in poetry, have endeavoured to weigh his merits exactly in the balance of truth and reaſon.

What new light then can be thrown upon a life, whoſe incidents have been ſo eagerly collected, and ſo frequently retailed? What novelty of remark can be expected in a review of poems, whoſe beauties and blemiſhes have been elaborately examined in critical diſſertations, that almoſt rival in excellence the poetry they diſcuſs? Aſſuredly but little; yet there remains, perhaps, one method of giving a [2] degree of intereſt and illuſtration to the life of Milton, which it has not hitherto received; a method which his accompliſhed friend of Italy, the Marquis of Villa, in ſome meaſure adopted in his intereſting life of Taſſo; and which two engaging biographers of later date, the Abbé de Sade and Mr. Maſon, have carried to greater perfection in their reſpective memoirs of Petrarch and of Gray. By weaving into their narrative ſelections of verſe and proſe from the various writings of thoſe they wiſhed to commemorate, each of theſe affectionate memorialiſts may be ſaid to have taught the poet he loved "to become his own biographer;" an experiment that may, perhaps, be tried on Milton with the happieſt effect! as in his works, and particularly in thoſe that are at preſent the lead known, he has ſpoken frequently of himſelf.—Not from vanity, a failing too cold and low for his ardent and elevated mind; but, in advanced life, from motives of juſtice and honour, to defend himſelf againſt the poiſoned arrows of ſlander; and, in his younger days, from that tenderneſs and ſimplicity of heart, which lead a youthful poet to make his own affections and amuſements the chief ſubjects of his ſong.

The great aim of the ſubſequent account is to render full and perfect juſtice to the general character of Milton. His manners and caſt of mind, in various periods of life, may appear in a new and agreeable light, from the following collection and arrangement of the many little ſketches, which his own hand has occaſionally given us, of his paſſions and purſuits. Several of theſe, indeed, have been fondly aſſembled by Toland or Richardſon; men, who, different as they [3] were in their general ſentiments and principles, yet ſympathized completely in their zeal for the renown of Milton; delighting to dwell on his character with ‘that ſhadow of friendſhip, that complacency and ardour of attachment, which, as Pope has obſerved in ſpeaking of Homer, we naturally feel for the great geniuſes of former time.’—But thoſe who have endeavoured to illuſtrate the perſonal hiſtory of the great Engliſh Author, by exhibiting paſſages from ſome of his neglected works, have almoſt confined themſelves to ſelections from his proſe.

There is an ampler field for the ſtudy of his early temper and turn of mind in his Latin and Italian Poetry: here the heart and ſpirit of Milton are diſplayed with all the frankneſs of youth. I ſelect what has a peculiar tendency to ſhew, in the cleareſt light, his native diſpoſition, becauſe his character as a man appears to have been greatly miſtaken. I am under no fear that the frequency or length of ſuch citations may be expoſed to cenſure, having the pleaſure and advantage of preſenting them to the Engliſh reader in the elegant and ſpirited verſion of a poet and a friend—with pride and delight I add the name of Cowper. This gentleman, who is prepared to oblige the world with a complete tranſlation of Milton's Latin and Italian poetry, has kindly favoured me with the liberty of tranſcribing, from his admirable work, whatever I wiſh to inſert in this narrative. Since I am indebted to Milton for a friendſhip, which I regard as honourable in the higheſt degree, may I be indulged in the hope of leaving a laſting memorial of it in theſe pages.

[4]A book, devoted to the honour of Milton, may admit, I hope, without impropriety, the praiſes due to a living author, who is become his poetical interpreter; an office which the ſpirit of the divine bard may be gratified in his having aſſumed; for, aſſuredly, my friend bears no common reſemblance to his moſt illuſtrious predeceſſor, not only in the energy and hallowed uſe of poetical talents, but in that beneficent fervour and purity of heart, which entitle the great poet to as large a portion of affectionate eſteem, as he has long poſſeſſed of admiration.

JOHN MILTON was born in London, on the 9th of December, 1608, at the houſe of his father, in Bread-ſtreet, and baptized on the 20th of the ſame month. His chriſtian name deſcended to him from his grandfather. The family, once opulent proprietors of Milton, in Oxfordſhire, loſt that eſtate in the civil wars of York and Lancaſter, and was indebted, perhaps, to adverſity for much higher diſtinction than opulence can beſtow. John, the grandfather of the poet, became deputy ranger in the foreſt of Shotover, not far from Oxford; and intending to educate his ſon as a gentleman, he placed him at Chriſt-Church, in that univerſity; but being himſelf a rigid Papiſt, he diſinherited the young and devout ſcholar, for an attachment to the doctrines of the Reformation, and reduced him to the neceſſity of quitting the path of literature for a leſs honourable but more lucrative profeſſion.

The diſcarded ſtudent applied himſelf to the employment of a ſcrivener, which has varied with the variations of life and [5] manners. A ſcrivener, in remoter ages, is ſuppoſed to have been a mere tranſcriber; but at the period we ſpeak of, his occupation united the two profitable branches of drawing contracts and of lending money. The emoluments of this profeſſion enabled the father of Milton to beſtow moſt abundantly on his ſon thoſe advantages of education, which had been cruelly withdrawn from himſelf. The poet was happy in both his parents; and to the merits of both he has borne affectionate and honourable teſtimony. The maiden name of his mother has been diſputed; but it ſeems reaſonable to credit the account of Philips, her grandſon, the earlieſt biographer of Milton, who had the advantage of living with him as a relation and a diſciple.

Her name, according to this author, who ſpeaks highly of her virtue, was Caſton, and her family derived from Wales. Milton, in mentioning his own origin, with a decent pride, in reply to one of his revilers, aſſerts, that his mother was a woman of exemplary character, and peculiarly diſtinguiſhed by her extenſive charity*. The parental kindneſs and the talents of his father he has celebrated in a Latin poem, which cannot be too warmly admired, as a monument of filial tenderneſs, and poetical enthuſiaſm. It is probable, that the ſevere manner in which that indulgent father had been driven from the purſuits of learning induced him to exert uncommon liberality and ardour in the education of his ſon. Though immerſed himſelf in a lucrative occupation, he ſeems to have retained great elegance of mind, and to have [6] amuſed himſelf with literature and muſic; to the latter he applied ſo ſucceſsfully, that, according to Dr. Burney, the accompliſhed hiſtorian of that captivating art, "he became a voluminous compoſer, equal in ſcience, if not in genius, to the beſt muſicians of his age." Nor did his talents paſs without celebrity or reward. Philips relates, that for one of his devotional compoſitions in forty parts, he was honoured with a gold chain and medal by a Poliſh prince, to whom he preſented it. This mark of diſtinction was frequently conferred on men, who roſe to great excellence in different arts and ſciences: perhaps the ambition of young Milton was firſt awakened by theſe gifts of honour beſtowed upon his father*.

A parent, who could enliven the drudgery of a dull profeſſion by a variety of elegant purſuits, muſt have been happy to diſcern, and eager to cheriſh, the firſt dawning of genius in his child. In this point of view we may contemplate with peculiar delight the infantine portrait of Milton, by that elegant and faithful artiſt, Cornelius Janſen. Aubrey, the antiquarian, obſerving in his manuſcript memoirs of our [7] author, that he was ten years old when this picture was drawn, affirms that "he was then a poet." This expreſſion may lead us to imagine, that the portrait was executed to encourage the infant author; and if ſo, it might operate as a powerful incentive to his future exertion. The permanent bias of an active ſpirit often originates in the petty incidents of childhood; and as no human mind ever glowed with a more intenſe, or with a purer flame of literary ambition, than the mind of Milton, it may not be unpleaſing to conjecture how it firſt caught the ſparks, that gradually mounted to a blaze of unrivalled vehemence and ſplendor.

His education, as Dr. Newton has well obſerved, united the oppoſite advantages of private and public inſtruction. Of his early paſſion for letters he has left the following record, in his ſecond defence*: "My father deſtined me from my infancy to the ſtudy of polite literature, which I embraced with ſuch avidity, that from the age of twelve, I hardly ever retired from my books before midnight. This proved the firſt ſource of injury to my eyes, whoſe natural weakneſs was attended with frequent pains of the head; but as all theſe diſadvantages could not repreſs my ardour for learning, my father took care to have me inſtructed by various preceptors both at home and at ſchool." His domeſtic tutor was Thomas Young, of Eſſex, who, being obliged to quit his country on account of religious opinions, became miniſter [8] to the Engliſh merchants at Hamburgh. It was probably from this learned and conſcientious man, that Milton caught not only his paſſion for literature, but that ſteadineſs and unconquerable integrity of character, by which he was diſtinguiſhed through all the viciſſitudes of a tempeſtuous life. His reverential gratitude and affection towards this preceptor are recorded in two Latin epiſtles*, and a Latin elegy addreſſed [9] to him: they ſuggeſt a moſt favourable idea of the poet's native diſpoſition, and furniſh an effectual antidote to the poiſon of that moſt injurious aſſertion, that "he hated all whom he was required to obey."—Could untractable pride be the characteriſtic of a mind, which has expreſſed its regard for a diſciplinarian ſufficiently rigid, with a tenderneſs ſo conſpicuous in the following verſes of the fourth Elegy?

Vivit ibi antiquae clarus pietatis honore,
Praeſul, chriſticolas paſcere doctus oves;
Ille quidem eſt animae pluſquam pars altera noſtrae,
Dimidio vitae vivere cogor ego.
Hei mihi quot pelagi, quot montes interjecti,
Me faciunt aliâ parte carere mei!
Charior ille mihi, quam tu, doctiſſime Graium,
Cliniadi, pronepos qui Telamonis erat;
Quamque Stagyrites generoſo magnus alumno,
Quem peperit Lybico Chaonis alma Jovi.
Qualis Amyntorides, qualis Phylirëius heros
Myrmidonum regi, talis et ille mihi.
Primus ego Aonios illo praeunte receſſus
Luſtrabam, et bifidi ſacra vireta jugi,
Pierioſque hauſi latices, Clioque favente,
Caſtalio ſparſi laeta ter ora mero.

[10]
There lives, deep learn'd, and primitively juſt,
A faithful ſteward of his Chriſtian truſt;
My friend, and favourite inmate of my heart,
That now is forc'd to want its better part.
What mountains now, and ſeas, alas! how wide!
Me from my other, dearer ſelf divide!
Dear as the ſage, renown'd for moral truth,
To the prime ſpirit of the Attic youth!
Dear as the Stagyrite to Ammon's ſon,
His pupil, who diſdain'd the world he won!
Nor ſo did Chiron, or ſo Phoenix ſhine,
In young Achilles' eyes, as he in mine:
Firſt led by him, thro' ſweet Aonian ſhade,
Each ſacred haunt of Pindus I ſurvey'd;
Explor'd the fountain, and the Muſe my guide,
Thrice ſteep'd my lips in the Caſtalian tide.

And again, in expreſſing his regret upon the length of their ſeparation:

Nec dum ejus licuit mihi lumina paſcere vultu,
Aut linguae dulces aure bibiſſe ſonos.

Nor yet his friendly features feaſt my ſight,
Nor his ſweet accents my fond ear delight.

As the tenderneſs of the young poet is admirably diſplayed in the beginning of this Elegy, his more acknowledged characteriſtic, religious fortitude, is not leſs admirable in the cloſe of it.

[11]
At tu ſume animos, nec ſpes cadat anxia curis,
Nec tua concutiat decolor oſſa metus.
Sis etenim quamvis fulgentibus obſitus armis,
Intententque tibi millia tela necem,
At nullis vel inerme latus violabitur armis,
Deque tuo cuſpis nulla cruore bibet;
Namque eris ipſe dei radiante ſub aegide tutus,
Ille tibi cuſtos, et pugil ille tibi:
Et tu (quod ſupereſt miſeris) ſperare memento,
Et tu magnanimo pectore vince mala;
Nec dubites quandoque frui melioribus annis,
Atque iterum patrios poſſe videre lares.
But thou, take courage, ſtrive againſt deſpair,
Shake not with dread, nor nouriſh anxious care.
What tho' grim war on every ſide appears,
And thou art menac'd by a thouſand ſpears,
Not one ſhall drink thy blood, not one offend
Ev'n the defenceleſs boſom of my friend;
For thee the aegis of thy God ſhall hide;
Jehovah's ſelf ſhall combat on thy ſide;
Thou, therefore, as the moſt afflicted may,
Still hope, and triumph o'er thy evil day;
Truſt thou ſhalt yet behold a happier time,
And yet again enjoy thy native clime.

The reader, inclined to ſymphatiſe in the joys of Milton, will be gratified in being informed, that his preceptor, whoſe exile and poverty he pathetically lamented, and whoſe proſperous return he predicted, was in a few years reſtored [12] to his country, and became Maſter of Jeſus College, in Cambridge.

As the year in which he quitted England (1623) correſponds with the fifteenth year of his pupil's age, it is probable that Milton was placed, at that time, under the care of Mr. Gill and his ſon; the former, chief maſter of St. Paul's ſchool, the latter, his aſſiſtant, and afterwards his ſucceſſor. It is remarkable, that Milton, who has been ſo uncandidly repreſented as an uncontroulable ſpirit, and a ſpurner of all juſt authority, ſeems to have contracted a tender attachment to more than one diſciplinarian concerned in his education. He is ſaid to have been the favourite ſcholar of the younger Gill; and he has left traces of their friendſhip in three Latin epiſtles, that expreſs the higheſt eſteem for the literary character and poetical talents of his inſtructor.

On the 12th of February, 1624, he was entered, not as as a ſizar, which ſome of his biographers have erroneouſly aſſerted, but as a penſioner of Chriſt's College, in Cambridge. "At this time," ſays Doctor Johnſon, ‘he was eminently ſkilled in the Latin tongue, and he himſelf, by annexing the dates to his firſt compoſitions, a boaſt of which the learned Politian had given him an example, ſeems to commend the carlineſs of his own proficiency to the notice of poſterity; but the products of his vernal fertility have been ſurpaſſed by many, and particularly by his contemporary, Cowley. Of the powers of the mind it is difficult to form an eſtimate; many have excelled Milton in their firſt eſſays, who never roſe to works like Paradiſe Loſt.’

[13]This is the firſt of many remarks, replete with detraction, in which an illuſtrious author has indulged his ſpleen againſt Milton, in a life of the poet, where an ill-ſubdued propenſity to cenſure is ever combating with a neceſſity to commend. The partiſans of the powerful critic, from a natural partiality to their departed maſter, affect to conſider his malignity as exiſting only in the prejudices of thoſe who endeavour to counteract his injuſtice. A biographer of Milton ought therefore to regard it as his indiſpenſible duty to ſhow how far this malignity is diffuſed through a long ſeries of obſervations, which affect the reputation both of the poet and the man; a duty that muſt be painful in proportion to the ſincerity of our eſteem for literary genius; ſince, different as they were in their principles, their manners, and their writings, both the poet and his critical biographer are aſſuredly entitled to the praiſe of exalted genius. Perhaps in the republic of letters there never exiſted two writers more deſervedly diſtinguiſhed, not only for the energy of their mental faculties, but for a generous and devout deſire to benefit mankind by their exertion.

Yet it muſt be lamented, and by the lovers of Milton in particular, that a moraliſt, who has given us, in the Rambler, ſuch ſublime leſſons for the diſcipline of the heart and mind, ſhould be unable to preſerve his own from that acrimonious ſpirit of detraction, which led him to depreciate, to the utmoſt of his power, the rare abilities, and perhaps the ſtill rarer integrity, of Milton. It may be ſaid, that the truly eloquent and ſplendid encomium, which he has beſtowed on the great work of the poet, ought to exempt [14] him from ſuch a charge. The ſingular beauties and effect of this eulogy ſhall be mentioned in the proper place, and with all the applauſe they merit; but here it is juſt to recollect, that the praiſe of the encomiaſt is nearly confined to the ſentence he paſſes as a critic; his more diffuſive detraction may be traced in almoſt every page of the biographer: not to encounter it on its firſt appearance, and wherever it is viſible and important, would be to fail in that juſtice and regard towards the character of Milton, which he, perhaps, of all men, has moſt eminently deſerved.

In the preceding citation it is evidently the purpoſe of Dr. Johnſon to degrade Milton below Cowley, and many other poets, diſtinguiſhed by juvenile compoſitions; but Mr. Warton has, with great taſte and judgment, expoſed the error of Dr. Johnſon, in preferring the Latin poetry of Cowley to that of Milton. An eminent foreign critic has beſtowed that high praiſe on the juvenile productions of our author, which his prejudiced countryman is inclined to deny. Morhoff has affirmed, with equal truth and liberality, that the verſes, which Milton produced in his childhood, diſcover both the fire and judgment of maturer life: a commendation that no impartial reader will be inclined to extenuate, who peruſes the ſpirited epiſtle to his exiled preceptor, compoſed in his eighteenth year. Some of his Engliſh verſes bear an earlier date. The firſt of his juvenile productions, in the language which he was deſtined to ennoble, is a paraphraſe of the hundred and fourteenth pſalm; it was executed at the age of fifteen, and diſcovers a power that Dryden, and other more preſumptuous critics, have [15] unjuſtly denied to Milton, the power of moving with facility in the fetters of rhyme: this power is ſtill more conſpicuous in the poem he wrote at the age of ſeventeen, on the death of his ſiſter's child; a compoſition peculiarly entitled to the notice of thoſe, who love to contemplate the early dawn of poetical genius. In this performance, puerile as it is in every ſenſe of the word, the intelligent reader may yet diſcern, as in the bud, all the ſtriking characteriſtics of Milton; his affectionate ſenſibility, his ſuperior imagination, and all that native tendency to devotional enthuſiaſm,

Which ſets the heart on fire,
To ſpurn the ſordid world, and unto Heav'n aſpire.

Admirably trained as the youth of the poet was to acquire academical honour by the union of induſtry and talents, he ſeems to have experienced at Cambridge a chequered fortune, very ſimilar to his deſtiny in the world. It appears from ſome remarkable paſſages in the Latin exerciſes, which he recited in his College, that he was at firſt an object of partial ſeverity, and afterwards of general admiration, He had differed in opinion concerning a plan of academical ſtudies with ſome perſons of authority in his college, and thus excited their diſpleaſure. He ſpeaks of them as highly incenſed againſt him; but expreſſes, with the moſt liberal ſenſibility, his ſurpriſe, delight, and gratitude, in finding that his enemies forgot their animoſity to honour him with unexpected applauſe.

An idle ſtory has been circulated concerning his treatment in College. "I am aſhamed," ſays Dr. Johnſon, "to relate [16] what I fear is true, that Milton was the laſt ſtudent in either Univerſity that ſuffered the public indignity of corporal puniſhment." In confirmation of this incident, which appears improbable, though ſupported by Mr. Warton, the biographical critic alledges the following paſſage from the firſt Elegy:

Jam nec arundiferum mihi cura reviſere Camum,
Nec dudum vetiti me laris angit amor;
Nec duri libet uſque minas perferre magiſtri,
Caeteraque ingenio non ſubeunda meo.

Nor zeal nor duty now my ſteps impel
To reedy Cam and my forbidden cell;
'Tis time that I a pedant's threats diſdain,
And fly from wrongs my ſoul will ne'er ſuſtain.

Dr. Johnſon conſiders theſe expreſſions as an abſolute proof, that Milton was obliged to undergo this indignity; but they may ſuggeſt a very different idea. From all the light we can obtain concerning this anecdote, it ſeems moſt probable, that Milton was threatened, indeed, with what he conſidered as a puniſhment, not only diſhonourable but unmerited; that his manly ſpirit diſdained to ſubmit to it; and that he was therefore obliged to acquieſce in a ſhort exile from Cambridge.

In ſpeaking of his academical life, it is neceſſary to obviate another remark of a ſimilar tendency.

"There is reaſon," ſays Johnſon, "to ſuſpect that he was regarded in his college with no great fondneſs." To counteract [17] this invidious inſinuation we are furniſhed with a reply, made by Milton himſelf, to this very calumny, originally fabricated by one of his contemporaries; a calumny, which he had ſo fully refuted, that it ought to have revived no more! He begins with thanking his reviler for the aſperſion: "It has given me," he ſays, ‘an apt occaſion to acknowledge publicly, with all grateful mind, that more than ordinary favour and reſpect, which I found, above any of my equals, at the hand of thoſe courteous and learned men, the Fellows of that College, wherein I ſpent ſome years; who, at my parting, after I had taken two degrees, as the manner is, ſignified many ways how much better it would content them that I would ſtay, as by many letters, full of kindneſs and loving reſpect, both before that time and long after, I was aſſured of their ſingular good affection towards me.—Proſe Works, vol. 1, p. 15.

The Latin poems of Milton are yet entitled to more of our attention; becauſe they exhibit lively proofs, that he poſſeſſed both tenderneſs and enthuſiaſm, thoſe primary conſtituents of a poet, at an early period of life, and in the higheſt degree: they have additional value, from making us acquainted with ſeveral intereſting particulars of his youth, and many of his opinions, which muſt have had conſiderable influence on his moral character.

His ſixth Elegy, addreſſed to his boſom friend, Charles Diodati, ſeems to be founded on the idea, which he may be ſaid to have verified in his own conduct, that ſtrict habits of temperance and virtue are highly conducive to the perfection of great poetical powers. To poets of a lighter claſs [18] he recommends, with graceful pleaſantry, much convivial enjoyment; but for thoſe who aſpire to Epic renown, he preſcribes even the ſimple regimen of Pythagoras.

Ille quidem parce, Samii pro more magiſtri,
Vivat, et innocuos praebeat herba cibos;
Stet prope fagineo pellucida lympha catillo,
Sobriaque e puro pocula fonte bibat.
Additur huic ſceleriſque vacans, et caſta juventus,
Et rigidi mores, et ſine labe manus.
Qualis veſte nitens ſacra, et luſtralibus undis,
Surgis ad infenſos, augur, iture Deos.
Simply let theſe, like him of Samos, live;
Let herbs to them a bloodleſs banquet give;
In beechen goblets let their beverage ſhine;
Cool from the cryſtal ſpring their ſober wine:
Their youth ſhould paſs in innocence, ſecure
From ſtain licentious, and in manners pure;
Pure as Heaven's miniſter, arrayed in white,
Propitiating the gods with luſtral rite.

In his Elegy on the Spring, our poet expreſſes the fervent emotions of his fancy in terms, that may be almoſt regarded as a prophetic deſcription of his ſublimeſt work:

Jam mihi mens liquidi raptatur in ardua caeli,
Perque vagas nubes corpore liber eo;
Intuiturque animus toto quid agatur Olympo,
Nec fugiunt oculos Tartara caeca meos.

[19]
I mount, and, undepreſſed by cumbrous clay,
Thro' cloudy regions win my eaſy way;
My ſpirit ſearches all the realms of light,
And no Tartarean depths elude my ſight.

With theſe verſes it may be pleaſing to compare a ſimilar paſſage in his Engliſh vacation exerciſe, where, addreſſing his native language, as applied to an inconſiderable purpoſe, he adds,

Yet I had rather, if I were to chuſe,
Thy ſervice in ſome graver ſubject uſe;
Such as may make thee ſearch thy coffers round,
Before thou clothe my fancy in fit ſound;
Such, where the deep tranſported mind may ſoar
Above the wheeling poles, and at Heav'n's door
Look in, and ſee each bliſsful deity,
How he before the thunderous throne doth lie.

"It is worth the curious reader's attention to obſerve how much the Paradiſe Loſt correſponds with this prophetic wiſh," ſays Mr. Thyer, one of the moſt intelligent and liberal of Engliſh commentators.

The young poet, who thus expreſſed his ambition, was then in his nineteenth year. At the age of twenty-one (the period of his life when that pleaſing portrait of him was executed, which the Speaker Onſlow obtained from the executors of his widow) he compoſed his Ode on the Nativity; a poem that ſurpaſſes in fancy and devotional fire a compoſition on the ſame ſubject by that celebrated and devout poet of Spain, Lopez de Vega.

[20]The moſt trifling performances of Milton are ſo ſingular, that we may regret even the loſs of the verſes alluded to by Aubrey, as the offspring of his childhood. Perhaps no juvenile author ever diſplayed, with ſuch early force,

The ſpirit of a youth
Who means to be of note.

His mind, even in his boyiſh days, ſeems to have glowed, like the fancy and furnace of an alchymiſt, with inceſſant hope and preparation for aſtoniſhing productions.

Such auſterity and moroſeneſs have been falſely attributed to Milton, that a reader, acquainted with him only as he appears in the page of Johnſon, muſt ſuppoſe him little formed for love; but his poetry in general, and eſpecially the compoſitions we are now ſpeaking of, may convince us, that he felt, with the moſt exquiſite ſenſibility, the magic of beauty, and all the force of female attraction. His ſeventh Elegy exhibits a lively picture of his firſt paſſion; he repreſents himſelf as captivated by an unknown fair, who, though he ſaw her but for a moment, made a deep impreſſion on his heart.

Protinus inſoliti ſubierunt corda furores,
Uror amans intus, flammaque totus eram.
Interea miſero quae jam mihi ſola placebat,
Ablata eſt oculis non reditura meis.
Aſt ego progredior tacite querebundus, et excors,
Et dubius volui ſaepe referre pedem.
Findor et haec remanet: ſequitur pars altera votum,
Raptaque tam ſubito gaudia flere juvat.

[21]
A fever, new to me, of fierce deſire
Now ſeiz'd my ſoul, and I was all on fire;
But ſhe the while, whom only I adore,
Was gone, and vaniſh'd to appear no more:
In ſilent ſorrow I purſue my way;
I pauſe, I turn, proceed, yet wiſh to ſtay;
And while I follow her in thought, bemoan
With tears my ſoul's delight ſo quickly flown.

The juvenile poet then addreſſes himſelf to love, with a requeſt that beautifully expreſſes all the inquietude, and all the irreſolution, of hopeleſs attachment.

Deme meos tandem, verum nec deme, furores;
Neſcio cur, miſer eſt ſuaviter omnis amans.
Remove, no, grant me ſtill this raging woe;
Sweet is the wretchedneſs that lovers know.

After having contemplated the youthful fancy of Milton under the influence of a ſudden and vehement affection, let us ſurvey him in a different point of view, and admire the purity and vigour of mind, which he exerted at the age of twenty-three, in meditation on his paſt and his future days.

To a friend, who had remonſtrated with him on his delay to enter upon active life, he aſcribes that delay to an intenſe deſire of rendering himſelf more fit for it. ‘Yet (he ſays) that you may ſee that I am ſomething ſuſpicious of myſelfe, and doe take notice of a certain belatedneſſe in me, I am [22] the bolder to ſend you ſome of my night-ward thoughts, ſome while ſince, becauſe they come in not altogether unfitly, made up in a Petrarchian ſtanza, which I told you of:’

How ſoon hath time, the ſubtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My haſting days fly on with full career,
But my late ſpring no bud or bloſſom ſhew'th.
Perhaps my ſemblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv'd ſo near,
And inward ripeneſs doth much leſs appear,
That ſome more timely happy ſpirits indu'th.
Yet be it leſs or more, or ſoon or ſlow,
It ſhall be ſtill in ſtricteſt meaſure even
To that ſame lot, however mean or high,
Towards which time leads me, and the will of heaven;
All is, if I have grace to uſe it ſo,
As ever in my great taſk maſter's eye.

This ſonnet may be regarded, perhaps, as a refutation of that injurious criticiſm, which has aſſerted, "the beſt ſonnets of Milton are entitled only to this negative commendation, that they are not bad;" but it has a ſuperior value, which induced me to introduce it here, as it ſeems to reveal the ruling principle, which gave bias and energy to the mind and conduct of Milton; I mean the habit, which he ſo early adopted, of conſidering himſelf ‘As ever in his great taſk maſter's eye.’

[23]It was, perhaps, the force and permanency with which this perſuaſion was impreſſed on his heart, that enabled him to aſcend the ſublimeſt heights, both of genius and of virtue.

When Milton began his courſe of academical ſtudy, he had views of ſoon entering the church, to "whoſe ſervice," he ſays, ‘by the intentions of my parents and friends, I was deſtined of a child, and in mine own reſolutions.’ It was a religious ſcruple that prevented him from taking orders; and though his mode of thinking may be deemed erroneous, there is a refined and hallowed probity in his conduct on this occaſion, that is entitled to the higheſt eſteem; particularly when we conſider, that although he declined the office of a miniſter, he devoted himſelf, with intenſe application, to what he conſidered as the intereſt of true religion. The ſincerity and fervour with which he ſpeaks on this topic muſt be applauded by every candid perſon, however differing from him on points that relate to our religious eſtabliſhment.

‘For me (ſays this zealous and diſintereſted advocate for ſimple chriſtianity) I have determined to lay up, as the beſt treaſure and ſolace of a good old age, if God vouchſafe it me, the honeſt liberty of free ſpeech from my youth, where I ſhall think it available in ſo dear a concernment as the church's good.’ In the polemical writings of Milton there is a merit to which few polemics can pretend; they were the pure dictates of conſcience, and produced by the ſacrifice of his favourite purſuits: this he has ſtated in the following very forcible and intereſting language:

[24]Concerning therefore this wayward ſubject againſt prelaty, the touching whereof is ſo diſtaſteful and diſquietous to a number of men, as by what hath been ſaid I may deſerve of charitable readers to be credited, that neither envy nor gall hath entered me upon this controverſy, but the enforcement of conſcience only, and a preventive fear, leſt the omitting of this duty ſhould be againſt me, when I would ſtore up to myſelf the good proviſion of peaceful hours: ſo leſt it ſhould be ſtill imputed to be, as I have found it hath been, that ſome ſelf pleaſing humour of vain glory has incited me to conteſt with men of high eſtimation, now while green years are upon my head; from this needleſs ſurmiſal I ſhall hope to diſſuade the intelligent and equal auditor, if I can but ſay ſucceſsfully, that which in this exigent behoves me, although I would be heard, only if it might be, by the elegant and learned reader, to whom principally for a while I ſhall beg leave I may addreſs myſelf: to him it will be no new thing, though I tell him, that if I hunted after praiſe by the oſtentation of wit and learning, I ſhould not write thus out of mine own ſeaſon, when I have neither yet completed to my mind the full circle of my private ſtudies (although I complain not of any inſufficiency to the matter in hand) or were I ready to my wiſhes, it were a folly to commit any thing elaborately compoſed to the careleſs and interrupted liſtening of theſe tumultuous times. Next, if I were wiſe only to my own ends, I would certainly take ſuch a ſubject, as of itſelf might catch applauſe; whereas this has all the diſadvantages on the contrary; [25] and ſuch a ſubject, as the publiſhing where of might be delayed at pleaſure, and time enough to pencil it over with all the curious touches of art, even to the perfection of a faultleſs picture; when, as in this argument, the not deferring is of great moment to the good ſpeeding, that if ſolidity have leiſure to do her office, art cannot have much. Laſtly, I ſhould not chuſe this manner of writing, wherein, knowing myſelf inferior to myſelf, led by the genial power of nature to another taſk, I have the uſe, as I may account, but of my left hand. Proſe Works, vol. I. page 62.

Such is the delineation that our author has given us of his own mind and motives in his treatiſe on Church Government, which the mention of his early deſign to take orders has led me to anticipate.

Having paſſed ſeven years in Cambridge, and taken his two degrees, that of batchelor, in 1628, and that of maſter, in 1632, he was admitted to the ſame degree at Oxford, in 1635. On quitting an academical life, he was, according to his own teſtimony, regretted by the fellows of his college; but he regarded the houſe of his father as a retreat favourable to his literary purſuits, and, at the age of twenty-four, he gladly ſhared the [...]ural retirement, in which his parents ha [...] recently ſettled, [...] Horton, in Buckinghamſhire: here he devoted himſelf, for five years, to ſtudy, with that ardour and perſeverance, to which, as he ſays himſelf, in a letter to his friend, Charles Diodati, his nature forcibly inclined him. The letter I [...]m ſpeaking of was written in the laſt year of his reſidence under the roof of his father, [26] and exhibits a lively picture of his progreſs in learning, his paſſion for virtue, and his hope of renown.

"To give you an account of my ſtudies," he ſays, "I have brought down the affairs of the Greeks, in a continued courſe of reading, to the period in which they ceaſed to be Greeks. I have long been engaged in the obſcurer parts of Italian hiſtory, under the Lombards, the Franks, and the Germans, to the time in which liberty was granted them by the emperor Rodolphus; from this point I think it beſt to purſue, in ſeparate hiſtories, the exploits of each particular city*."

He ſhews himſelf, in this letter, moſt paſſionately attached to the Platonic philoſophy: "As to other points, what God may have determined for me, I know not; but this I know, that if he ever inſtilled an intenſe love of moral beauty into the breaſt ot any man, he has inſtilled it into mine: Ceres, in the fable, purſued not her daughter with a greater keenneſs of enquiry, than I, day and night, the idea of perfection. Hence, wherever I find a man deſpiſing the falſe eſtimates of the vulgar, and daring to aſpire, in ſentiment, language, and conduct, to what the higheſt wiſdom, through every age, has taught us as moſt excellent, to him I unite myſelf by a ſort of neceſſary attachment; and if I am ſo influenced by nature or deſtiny, that by no exertion or labours of my own I may exalt myſelf to this ſummit of worth and honour, yet no powers of heaven or earth will hinder me from looking with reverence and affection upon thoſe, who have thoroughly [27] attained this glory, or appear engaged in the ſucceſsful purſuit of it.

"You enquire, with a kind of ſolicitude, even into my thoughts.—Hear then, Diodati, but let me whiſper in your ear, that I may not bluſh at my reply—I think (ſo help me Heaven) of immortality. You enquire alſo, what I am about? I nurſe my wings, and meditate a flight; but my Pegaſus riſes as yet on very tender pinions. Let us be humbly wiſe!*"

This very intereſting epiſtle, in which Milton pours forth his heart to the favourite friend of his youth, may convince every candid reader, that he poſſeſſed, in no common degree, two qualities very rarely united, ambitious ardour of mind and unaffected modeſty. The poet, who ſpeaks with ſuch graceful humility of his literary atchievements, had at this time written Comus, a compoſition that abundantly diſplays the variety and compaſs of his poetical powers. After he had delineated, with equal excellence, the frolics [28] of gaiety and the triumphs of virtue, paſſing with exquiſite tranſition from the moſt ſportive to the ſublimeſt tones of poetry, he might have ſpoken more confidently of his own productions without a particle of arrogance.

We know not exactly what poems he compoſed during his reſidence at Horton. The Arcades ſeems to have been one of his early compoſitions, and it was intended as a compliment to his fair neighbour, the accompliſhed Counteſs Dowager of Derby; ſhe was the ſixth daughter of Sir John Spencer, and allied to Spencer the poet, who, with his uſual modeſty and tenderneſs, has celebrated her under the title of Amarillis. At the houſe of this lady, near Uxbridge, Milton is ſaid to have been a frequent viſitor. The Earl of Bridgewater, before whom, and by whoſe children, Comus was repreſented, had married a daughter of Ferdinando Earl of Derby, and thus, as Mr. Warton obſerves, it was for the ſame family that Milton wrote both the Arcades and Comus. It is probable that the pleaſure, which the Arcades afforded to the young relations of the Counteſs, gave riſe to Comus, as Lawes, the muſical friend of Milton, in dedicating the maſk to the young Lord Brackley, her grandſon, ſays, "this poem, which received its firſt occaſion of birth from yourſelf and others of your noble family, and much honour from your own perſon in the performance."

Theſe expreſſions of Lawes allude, perhaps, to the real incident, which is ſaid to have ſupplied the ſubject of Comus, and may ſeem to confirm an anecdote related by Mr. Warton, from a manuſcript of Oldys; that the young and noble performers in this celebrated drama were really involved in [29] adventures very ſimilar to their theatrical ſituation; that in viſiting their relations, in Herefordſhire, they were benighted in a foreſt, and the lady Alice Egerton actually loſt.

Whatever might be the origin of the maſk, the modeſty of the youthful poet appears very conſpicuous in the following words of Lawes's dedication: ‘Although not openly acknowledged by the author, yet it is a legitimate offſpring, ſo lovely and ſo much deſired, that the often copying of it hath tired my pen, to give my ſeveral friends ſatisfaction, and brought me to a neceſſity of producing it to the public view.’

Milton diſcovered a ſimilar diffidence reſpecting his Lycidas, which was written while he reſided with his father, in November, 1637. This exquiſite poem, which, as Mr. Warton juſtly obſerves, ‘muſt have been either ſolicited as a favour by thoſe whom the poet had leſt in his college, or was a voluntary contribution of friendſhip ſent to them from the country,’ appeared firſt in the academical collection of verſes on the death of Mr. Edward King, and was ſubſcribed only with the initials of its author.

An animated and benevolent veteran of criticiſm, Doctor Warton, has conſidered a reliſh for the Lycidas as a teſt of true taſte in poetry; and it certainly is a teſt, which no lover of Milton will be inclined to diſpute; though it muſt exclude from the liſt of accompliſhed critics that intemperate cenſor of the great poet, who has endeavoured to deſtroy the reputation of his celebrated monody with the moſt inſulting expreſſions of ſarcaſtic contempt; expreſſions that no reader of a ſpirit truly poetical can peruſe without mingled [30] emotions of indignation and of pity! But the charms of Lycidas are of a texture too firm to be annihilated by the breath of deriſion; and though Doctor Johnſon has declared the poem to be utterly deſtitute both of nature and of art, it will aſſuredly continue to be admired as long as tenderneſs, imagination, and harmony, are regarded as genuine ſources of poetical delight.

The effect of this favourite compoſition is exactly ſuch as the poet intended to produce; it firſt engages the heart with the ſimplicity of juſt and natural ſorrow, and then proceeds to elevate the mind with magnificent images, ennobled by affectionate and devotional enthuſiaſm.

The beauties of this pathetic and ſublime monody are ſufficiently obvious; but the reader, who compares it with a poem on the ſame ſubject by Cleveland, once the popular rival of Milton, may derive pleaſure from perceiving how infinitely our favourite poet has excelled, on this occaſion, an eminent antagoniſt.

Though we find no circumſtances, that may aſcertain the date of the Allegro and Penſoroſo, it ſeems probable, that thoſe two enchanting pictures of rural life, and of the diverſified delights ariſing from a contemplative mind, were compoſed at Horton. It was, perhaps, in the ſame ſituation, ſo favourable to poetical exertions, that Milton wrote the incomparable Latin poem addreſſed to his father. There are, indeed, ſome expreſſions in this performance, which may favour an opinion that it ought to bear an earlier date; but it has ſuch ſtrength and manlineſs of ſentiment, as incline me to ſuppoſe it written at this period; an idea that ſeems [31] almoſt confirmed by the lines, that ſpeak of his application to French and Italian, after the completion of his claſſical ſtudies.

Whatever date may be aſſigned to it, the compoſition deſerves our particular regard, ſince, of all his poems, it does the higheſt honour to his heart.

With what energy and tenderneſs is his filial gratitude expreſſed in the following graceful exordium:

Nunc mea Pierios cupiam per pectora ſontes
Irriguas torquere vias, totumque per ora
Volvere laxatum gemino de vertice rivum,
Ut tenues oblita ſonos, audacibus alis
Surgat in officium v [...]erandi muſa parentis.
Hoc utcunque tibi gratum, pater optime carmen
Exiguum meditatur opus: nec novimus ipſi
Aptius a nobis quae poſſint munera donis
Reſpondere tuis, quamvis nec maxima poſſint
Reſpondere tuis, nedum ut par gratia donis
Eſſe queat, vacuis quae redditur arida verbis.

O that Picria's ſpring would thro' my breaſt
Pour it's inſpiring influence, and ruſh
No rill, b [...]t rather an o'er-flowing flood!
That for my venerable father's ſake,
All meaner themes renounc'd, my muſe, on wings
Of duty borne, might reach a loftier ſtrain!
For thee, my father, howſoe'er it pleaſe,
She frames this ſlender work; nor know I aught
[32]That may thy gifts more ſuitably requite;
Tho' to requite them ſuitably would aſk
Returns much nobler, and ſurpaſſing far
The meagre gifts of verbal gratitude.

How elegant is the praiſe he beſtows on the muſical talents of his father, and how pleaſing the exulting and affectionate ſpirit with which he ſpeaks of their ſocial and kindred ſtudies!

Nec tu perge, precor, ſacras contemnere Muſas,
Nec vanas inopeſque puta, quarum ipſe peritus
Munere, mille ſonos numeros componis ad aptos,
Millibus et vocem modulis variare canoram
Doctus, Arionii merito ſis nominis haeres.
Nunc tibi quid mirum, ſi me genuiſſe poetam
Contigerit, charo ſi tam prope ſanguine juncti,
Cognatas artes, ſtudiumque affine ſequamur?
Ipſe volens Phoebus ſe diſpertire duobus,
Altera dona mihi, dedit altera dona parenti;
Dividuumque deum, genitorque puerque, tenemus.
Tu tamen ut ſimules teneras odiſſe camaenas,
Non odiſſe reor; neque enim, pater, ire jubebas
Qua via lata patet, qua pronior area lucri,
Certaque condendi fulget ſpes aurea nummi:
Nec rapis ad leges, male cuſtoditaque gentis
Jura, nec inſulſis dumnas clamoribus aures;
Sed magis excultam cupiens diteſcere mentem,
Me procul urbano ſtrepitu, ſeceſſibus altis
Abductum, Aoniae jucunda per otia ripae,
Phoebaeo lateri comitem ſinis ire beatum.
[33]
Nor thou perſiſt, I pray thee, ſtill to ſlight
The ſacred Nine, and to imagine vain
And uſeleſs, powers, by whom inſpir'd, thyſelf,
Art ſkilful to aſſociate verſe with airs
Harmonious, and to give the human voice
A thouſand modulations! Heir by right
Indiſputable of Arion's fame!
Now ſay! What wonder is it if a ſon
Of thine delight in verſe; if, ſo conjoin'd
In cloſe affinity, we ſympathiſe
In ſocial arts, and kindred ſtudies ſweet:
Such diſtribution of himſelf to us
Was Phoebus' choice; thou haſt thy gift, and I
Mine alſo, and between us we receive,
Father and ſon, the whole inſpiring God.
No! howſoe'er the ſemblance thou aſſume
Of hate, thou hateſt not the gentle muſe,
My father! for thou never bad'ſt me tread
The beaten path and broad, that leads right on
To opulence; nor didſt condemn thy ſon
To the inſipid clamours of the bar,
To laws voluminous and ill obſerv'd;
But wiſhing to enrich me more, to fill
My mind with treaſure, ledſt me far away
From civic din to deep retreats, to banks
And ſtreams Aonian, and with free conſent
Didſt place me happy at Apollo's ſide.

The poet ſeems to have had a prophetic view of the ſingular calumnies, that awaited his reputation, and to have [34] anticipated his triumph, over all his adverſaries, in the following magnanimous exclamation:

Eſte procul vigiles curae! procul eſte querelae!
Invidiaeque acies tranſverſo tortilis hirquo!
Saeva nec anguiferos extende calumnia rictus:
In me triſte nihil, foediſſima turba, poteſtis,
Nec veſtri ſum juris ego; ſecuraque tutus
Pectora, vinerio gradiar ſublimis ab ictu.

Away then, ſleepleſs care! complaint away!
And envy "with thy jealous leer malign;"
Nor let the monſter calumny ſhoot forth
Her venom'd tongue at me! Deteſted foes!
Ye all are impotent againſt my peace;
For I am privileg'd, and bear my breaſt
Safe, and too high for your viperian wound.

After this high ton'd burſt of confidence and indignation, how ſweetly the poet ſinks again into the tender notes of gratitude, in the cloſe of this truly filial compoſition!

At tibi, chare pater, poſtquam non aequa merenti
Poſſe referre datur, nec dona rependere factis,
Sit memoraſſe ſatis, repetitaque munere grato
Percenſere animo, fidaeque reponere menti.
Et vos, O noſtri juvenilia carmina, luſus,
Si modo perpetuos ſperare audebitis annos,
Et domini ſupereſſe rogo, lucemque tueri,
Nec ſpiſſo rapient oblivia nigra ſub orco;
[35]Forſitan has laudes, decantatumque parentis
Nomen, ad exemplum, ſero ſervabitis aevo.
But thou, my father, ſince to render thanks
Equivalent, and to requite by deeds
Thy liberality, exceeds my power,
Suffice it that I thus record thy gifts,
And bear them treaſur'd in a grateful mind.
Ye too, the favourite paſtime of my youth,
My voluntary numbers, if ye dare
To hope longevity, and to ſurvive
Your maſter's funeral, not ſoon abſorb'd
In the oblivious Lethaean gulph,
Shall to futurity perhaps convey
This theme, and by theſe praiſes of my fire
Improve the fathers of a diſtant age.

"He began now," ſays Johnſon, ‘to grow weary of the country, and had ſome purpoſe of taking chambers in the inns of court.’

This wearineſs appears to have exiſted only in the fancy of his biographer. During the five years that Milton reſided with his parents, in Buckinghamſhire, he had occaſional lodgings in London, which he viſited, as he informs us himſelf, for the purpoſe of buying books, and improving himſelf in mathematics and in muſic, at that time his favourite amuſements. The letter, which intimates his intention of taking chambers in the inns of court, was not written [36] from the country, as his biographer ſeems to have ſuppoſed; it is dated from London, and only expreſſes, that his quarters there appeared to him awkward and inconvenient*.

On the death of his mother, who died in April, 1637, and is buried in the chancel of Horton church, he obtained his father's permiſſion to gratify his eager deſire of viſiting the continent, a permiſſion the more readily granted, perhaps, as one of his motives for viſiting Italy was to form a collection of Italian muſic.

Having received ſome directions for his travels from the celebrated Sir Henry Wotton, he went, with a ſingle ſervant, to Paris, in 1638; he was there honoured by the notice of Lord Scudamore, the Engliſh ambaſſador, who, at his earneſt deſire, gave him an introduction to Grotius, then reſiding at Paris as the miniſter of Sweden.

Curioſity is naturally excited by the idea of a conference between two perſons ſo eminent and accompliſhed. It has been conjectured, that Milton might conceive his firſt deſign of writing a tragedy on the baniſhment of Adam from this interview with Grotius; but if the Adamus Exſul of the Swediſh ambaſſador were a ſubject of their diſcourſe, it is probable its author muſt have ſpoken of it but ſlightly, as a juvenile compoſition, ſince he does ſo in a letter to his friend Voſſius, in 1616, concerning a new edition of his [37] poetry, from which he particularly excluded this ſacred drama, as too puerile, in his own judgment, to be re-publiſhed*.

The letters of Grotius, voluminous and circumſtantial as they are, afford no traces of this intereſting viſit; but they lead me to imagine, that the point, which the learned ambaſſador moſt warmly recommended to Milton, on his departure for Italy, was, to pay the kindeſt attention in his power to the ſufferings of Galileo, then perſecuted as a priſoner by the inquiſition in Florence.

In a letter to Voſſius, dated in the very month when Milton was probably introduced to Grotius, that liberal friend to ſcience and humanity ſpeaks thus of Galileo: "This old man, to whom the univerſe is ſo deeply indebted, worn out with maladies, and ſtill more with anguiſh of mind, give us little reaſon to hope, that his life can be long; common prudence, therefore, ſuggeſts to us to make the utmoſt of the time, while we can yet avail ourſelves of ſuch an inſtructor." Milton was, of all travellers, the moſt likely to ſeize a hint of this kind with avidity, and expreſſions in Paradiſe Loſt have led an Italian biographer of the poet to ſuppoſe, that while he reſided at Florence he caught from Galileo, or his diſciples, ſome ideas approaching towards the Newtonian philoſophy. He has informed us himſelf, that he really ſaw the illuſtrious ſcientific priſoner of the inquiſition, [38] and it ſeems not unreaſonable to conclude, that he was in ſome degree indebted to his conference with Grotius for that mournful gratification.

From Paris our author proceeded to Italy, embarking at Nice for Genoa. After a curſory view of Leghorn and Piſa, he ſettled for two months at Florence; a city, which he particularly regarded for the elegance of its language, and the men of genius it had produced; here, as he informs us, he became familiar with many perſons diſtinguiſhed by their rank and learning; and here, probably, he began to form thoſe great, but unſettled, projects of future compoſition, which were to prove the ſources of his glory, and of which he thus ſpeaks himſelf:

In the private academies of Italy, whither I was favoured to reſort, perceiving that ſome trifles I had in memory, compoſed at under twenty, or thereabout (for the manner is, that every one muſt give ſome proof of his wit and reading there) met with acceptance above what was looked for, and other things, which I had ſhifted, in ſcarcity of books and conveniency, to patch up amongſt them, were received with written encomiums, which the Italian is not forward to beſtow on men of this ſide the Alps, I began thus far to aſſent both to them, and divers of my friends here at home, and not leſs to an inward prompting, which now grew daily upon me, that by labour and intent ſtudy, (which I take to be my portion in this life) joined with the ſtrong propenſity of nature, I might, perhaps, leave ſomething ſo written to after-times as they ſhould not willingly let it die. Theſe [39] thoughts at once poſſeſſed me, and theſe other, that if I were certain to write as men buy leaſes, for three lives and downward, there ought no regard to be ſooner had than to God's glory, by the honour and inſtruction of my country; for which cauſe, and not only for that I knew it would be hard to arrive at the ſecond rank among the Latins, I applied myſelf to that reſolution, which Arioſto followed againſt the perſuaſions of Bembo, to fix all the induſtry and art I could unite to the adorning of my native tongue; not to make verbal curioſities the end, (that were a toilſome vanity) but to be an interpreter and relater of the beſt and ſageſt things among mine own citizens throughout this iſland in the mother dialect; that what the greateſt and choiceſt wits of Athens, Rome, or modern Italy, and thoſe Hebrews of old, did for their country, I in my proportion, with this over and above of being a Chriſtian, might do for mine, not caring to be once named abroad, though, perhaps, I could attain to that, but content with theſe Britiſh iſlands as my world. Proſe Works, vol. 1. p. 62.

It is delightful to contemplate ſuch a character as Milton, thus cheriſhing, in his own mind, the ſeeds of future greatneſs, and animating his youthful ſpirit with viſions of renown, that time has realized and extended beyond his moſt ſanguine wiſhes.

He appears, on every occaſion, a ſincere and fervent lover of his country, and expreſſes, in one of his Latin Poems, the [40] ſame patriotic idea, that he ſhould be ſatisfied with glory confined to theſe Iſlands.

Mi ſatis ampla
Merces, et mihi grande decus (ſim ignotus in aevum
Tum licet, externo penituſque inglorius orbi)
Si me flava comas legat Uſa, et potor Alauni,
Vorticibuſque frequens Abra, et nemus omne Treantae,
Et Thameſis meus ante omnes, et fuſca metallis
Tamara, et extremis me diſcant Orcades undis.
Epitaphium Damonis.
And it ſhall well ſuffice me, and ſhall be
Fame and proud recompence enough for me,
If Uſa golden hair'd my verſe may learn;
If Alain, bending o'er his cryſtal urn,
Swift whirling Abra, Trent's o'erſhadow'd ſtream,
If, lovelier far than all in my eſteem,
Thames, and the Tamar ting'd with mineral hues,
And northern Orcades, regard my muſe.

In tracing the literary ambition of Milton from the firſt conception of his great purpoſes to their accompliſhment, we ſeem to participate in the triumph of his genius, which, though it aſpired only to the praiſe of theſe Britiſh iſlands, is already grown an object of univerſal admiration, and may find hereafter, in the weſtern world, the ampleſt theatre of his glory.

Dr. Johnſon takes occaſion, from the paſſage in which Milton ſpeaks of the literary projects he conceived in Italy, [41] to remark, that ‘he had a lofty and ſteady confidence in himſelf, perhaps not without ſome contempt of others.’ The latter part of this obſervation is evidently invidious; it is completely refuted by the various commendations, which the graceful and engaging manners or the poetical traveller received from the Italians: a contemptuous ſpirit, indeed, appears utterly incompatible with the native diſpoſition of Milton, whoſe generous enthuſiaſm led him to conceive the fondeſt veneration for all, who were diſtinguiſhed by genius or virtue; a diſpoſition, which he has expreſſed in the ſtrongeſt terms, as the reader may recollect, in a letter, already cited, to his friend Diodati! His prejudiced biographer endeavours to prove, that his ſpirit was contemptuous, by obſerving, that he was frugal of his praiſe. The argument is particularly defective, as applied to Milton on his travels; ſince the praiſes he beſtowed on thoſe accompliſhed foreigners, who were kind to him, are liberal in the higheſt degree, and apparently dictated by the heart.

After a ſhort viſit to Sienna, he reſided two months in Rome, enjoying the moſt refined ſociety, which that city could afford. By the favour of Holſtenius, the well known librarian of the Vatican (whoſe kindneſs to him he has recorded in a Latin Epiſtle equally grateful and elegant) he was recommended to the notice of Cardinal Barberini, who honoured him with the moſt flattering attention; it was at the concerts of the Cardinal that he was captivated by the charms of Leonora Baroni, whoſe extraordinary muſical powers he has celebrated in Latin verſe, and whom he is ſuppoſed to addreſs as a lover in his Italian poetry. The moſt [42] eloquent of the paſſions, which is ſaid to convert almoſt every man who feels it into a poet, induced the imagination of Milton to try its powers in a foreign language, whoſe difficulties he ſeems to have perfectly ſubdued by the united aids of genius and of love.

His Italian ſonnets have been liberally commended by natives of Italy, and one of them contains a ſketch of his own character, ſo ſpirited and ſingular as to claim a place in this narrative.

Giovane piano, e ſemplicetto amante
Poi che fuggir me ſteſſo in dubbio ſono,
Madonna a voi del mio cuor l' humil dono
Farò divoto; io certo a prove tante
L' hebbi fedele, intrepido, coſtante,
De penſieri leggiadri accorto, e buono;
Quando rugge il gran mondo, e ſcocca il tuono,
S' arma di ſe, e d' intero diamante;
Tanto del forſe, e d' invidia ſicuro,
Di timori, e ſperanze, al popol uſe,
Quanto d' ingegno, e d' alto valor vago,
E di cetra ſonora, e delle muſe:
Sol troverete in tal parte men duro,
Ove' amor miſe l' inſanabil ago.
Enamour'd, artleſs, young, on foreign ground,
Uncertain whether from myſelf to fly,
To thee, dear lady, with an humble ſigh,
Let me devote my heart, which I have found
[43]By certain proofs, not few, intrepid, ſound,
Good, and addicted to conceptions high:
When tempeſt ſhakes the world, and fires the ſky,
It reſts in adamant, ſelf wrapt around,
As ſafe from envy and from outrage rude,
From hopes and fears that vulgar minds abuſe,
As fond of genius, and fixt ſolitude,
Of the reſounding lyre, and every muſe:
Weak you will find it in one only part,
Now pierc'd by love's immedicable dart.

It was at Rome that Milton was complimented, in Latin verſe, by Selvaggi and Salſilli: his reply to the latter, then ſuffering from a ſevere malady, is ſo remarkable for its elegance, tenderneſs, and ſpirit, that Mr. Warton praiſes it as one of the fineſt lyrical compoſitions, which the Latin poetry of modern times can exhibit.

The circumſtances that happened to our author in his travels, and, indeed, the moſt ſtriking particulars of his life, are related by himſelf, in his "Second Defence." He there tells us, that in paſſing from Rome to Naples his fellow-traveller was a hermit, who introduced him to Baptiſta Manſo, Marquis of Villa, an accompliſhed nobleman, and ſingularly diſtinguiſhed as the friend and the biographer of two eminent poets, Taſſo and Marini; they have both left poetical memorials of their eſteem for the Marquis, who acquired his title as a ſoldier in the ſervice of Spain, but retiring early, with conſiderable wealth, to Naples, his native [44] city, he founded there a literary academy, and lived in ſplendor as its preſident.

This graceful and venerable hero, whoſe politeneſs and learning had been fondly celebrated by Taſſo, in a dialogue on friendſhip, that bears the name of Manſo, was near eighty when Milton become his gueſt: he ſeems to have been endeared to the imagination of our poet by the liberal and affectionate tribute he had paid to the memory of his illuſtrious poetical friends; a tribute very feelingly deſcribed by Milton in the following lines, addreſſed to the noble and generous biographer—they ſpeak firſt of Marini:

Ille itidem moriens tibi ſoli debita vates
Oſſa, tibi ſoli, ſupremaque vota reliquit:
Nec manes pietas tua chara fefellit amici;
Vidimus arridentem operoſo ex aere poetam:
Nec ſatis hoc viſum eſt in utrumque; et nec pia ceſſant
Officia in tumulo; cupis integros rapere orco,
Qua potes, atque avidas Parcarum eludere leges:
Amborum genus, et varia ſub ſorte peractum,
Deſcribis vitam, moreſque, et dona Minervae,
Aemulus illius, Mycalen qui natus ad altam,
Rettulit Aeolii vitam facundus Homeri.

To thee alone the poet would entruſt
His lateſt vows, to thee alone his duſt:
And thou with punctual piety haſt paid,
In labour'd braſs, thy tribute to his ſhade;
Nor this contented thee; thy zeal would ſave
Thy bards uninjur'd from the whelming grave;
[45]In more induring hiſtory to live
An endleſs life is alſo thine to give;
And thou haſt given it them; and deigned to teach
The manners, fortunes, lives, and gifts of each,
Rival to him, whoſe pen, to nature true,
The life of Homer eloquently drew!

If the two Latin verſes, in which this amiable old man expreſſed his admiration of the young Engliſh bard, deſerve the name of a "ſorry diſtich," which Johnſon beſtows upon them, they ſtill preſent Milton to our fancy in a moſt favourable light. A traveller, ſo little diſtinguiſhed by birth or opulence, would hardly have obtained ſuch a compliment from a nobleman of Manſo's experience, age, and dignity, had he not been peculiarly formed to engage the good opinion and courteſy of ſtrangers, by the expreſſive comelineſs of his perſon, the elegance of his manners, and the charm of his converſation.

In Manſo, ſays Milton, I found a moſt friendly guide, who ſhewed me himſelf the curioſities of Naples, and the palace of the Viceroy. He came more than once to viſit me, while I continued in that city; and when I left it, he earneſtly excuſed himſelf, that although he greatly wiſhed to render me more good offices, he was unable to do ſo in Naples, becauſe in my religion I had diſdained all diſguiſe*

[46]Pleaſing and honourable as the civilities were that our young countryman received from this Neſtor of Italy, he has amply repaid them in a poem, which, to the honour of Engliſh gratitude and Engliſh genius, we may juſtly pronounce ſuperior to the compliments beſtowed on this engaging character by the two celebrated poets, who wrote in his own language, and were peculiarly attached to him.

Of the five ſonnets, indeed, that Taſſo addreſſed to his courteous and liberal friend, two are very beautiful; but even theſe are ſurpaſſed, both in energy and tenderneſs, by the following concluſion of a poem, inſcribed to Manſo, by Milton.

Diis dilecte ſenex, te Jupiter aequus oportet
Naſcentem, et miti luſtrarit lumine Phoebus,
Atlantiſque nepos; neque enim, niſi charus ab ortu
Diis ſuperis, poterit magno faviſſe poetae:
Hinc longaeva tibi lento ſub flore ſenectus
Vernat, et Aeſonios lucratur vivida fuſos;
Nondum deciduos ſervans tibi frontis honores,
Ingeniumque vigens, et adultum mentis acumen.
O mihi ſic mea ſors talem concedat amicum,
Phoebaeos decoraſſe viros qui tam bene norit,
Siquando indigenas revocabo in carmina reges,
Arturumque etiam ſub terris bella moventem!
Aut dicam invictae ſociali foedere menſae
Magnanimos heroas; et O modo ſpiritus adſit,
Frangam Saxonicas Britonum ſub marte phalanges!
Tandem ubi non tacitae permenſus tempora vitae,
[47]Annorumque ſatur, cineri ſua jura relinquam,
Ille mihi lecto madidis aſtaret ocellis,
Aſtanti ſat erit ſi dicam ſim tibi curae:
Ille meos artus, liventi morte ſolutos,
Curaret parva componi molliter urna;
Forſitan et noſtros ducat de marmore vultus,
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnaſſide lauri
Fronde comas; at ego ſecura pace quieſcam.
Tum quoque, ſi qua fides, ſi praemia certa bonorum,
Ipſe ego coelicolum ſemotus in aethera divum,
Quo labor et mens pura vehunt, atque ignea virtus,
Secreti haec aliquâ mundi de parte videbo,
Quantum fata ſinunt: et tota mente ſerenum
Ridens, purpureo ſuffundar lumine vultus,
Et ſimul aetherio plaudam mihi laetus olympo.
Well may we think, O dear to all above,
Thy birth diſtinguiſh'd by the ſmile of Jove,
And that Apollo ſhed his kindlieſt power,
And Maia's ſon, on that propitious hour;
Since only minds ſo born can comprehend
A poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend:
Hence on thy yet unfaded cheek appears
The lingering freſhneſs of thy greener years;
Hence in thy front and features we admire
Nature unwither'd, and a mind entire.
O might ſo true a friend to me belong,
So ſkill'd to grace the votaries of ſong,
Should I recall hereafter into rhyme
The kings and heroes of my native clime,
[48]Arthur the chief, who even now prepares
In ſubterraneous being future wars,
With all his martial knights to be reſtor'd,
Each to his ſeat around the fed'ral board;
And O! if ſpirit fail me not, diſperſe
Our Saxon plunderers in triumphant verſe;
Then after all, when with the paſt content,
A life I finiſh, not in ſilence ſpent,
Should he, kind mourner, o'er my death bed bend,
I ſhall but need to ſay "be ſtill my friend!"
He, faithful to my duſt, with kind concern,
Shall place it gently in a modeſt urn;
He too, perhaps, ſhall bid the marble breathe
To honour me, and with the graceful wreath,
Or of Parnaſſus, or the Paphian Iſle,
Shall bind my brows—but I ſhall reſt the while.
Then alſo, if the fruits of faith endure,
And virtue's promis'd recompence be ſure,
Borne to thoſe ſeats, to which the bleſt aſpire,
By purity of ſoul and virtuous fire,
Theſe rites, as fate permits, I ſhall ſurvey
With eyes illumin'd by celeſtial day,
And, every cloud from my pure ſpirit driven,
Joy in the bright beatitude of heaven.

The preceding verſes have various claims to attention; they exhibit a lively picture of the literary project that occupied the mind of Milton at this period; they forcibly prove with what vehemence of deſire he panted for poetical [49] immortality, and for the ſuperior rewards of a laborious life, devoted to piety and virtue.

His acquaintance with Manſo may be regarded as the moſt fortunate incident of his foreign excurſion. Nothing could have a greater tendency to preſerve and ſtrengthen the ſeeds of poetic enterprize in the mind of the young traveller, than, his familiarity with this eminent and engaging perſonage, the boſom friend of Taſſo; the friend who had cheriſhed that great and afflicted poet under his roof in a ſeaſon of his mental calamity, had reſtored his health, re-animated his fancy, and given a religious turn to the lateſt efforts of his majeſtic muſe. The very life of Taſſo, which this noble biographer had written with the copious and minute fidelity of perſonal knowledge, and with the ardour of affectionate enthuſiaſm, might be ſufficient to give new energy to Milton's early paſſion for poetical renown: his converſation had, probably, a ſtill greater tendency to produce this effect. Circumſtances remote, and apparently of little moment, have often a marvellous influence on the works of imagination; nor is it too wild a conjecture to ſuppoſe, that the zeal of Manſo, in ſpeaking to Milton of his departed friend, might give force and permanence to that literary ambition, which ultimately rendered his aſpiring gueſt the great rival of Taſſo, and, in the eſtimation of Engliſhmen, his ſuperior.

From Naples it was the deſign of Milton to paſs into Sicily and Greece; but receiving intelligence of the civil war in England, he felt it inconſiſtent with his principles to wander [50] abroad, even for the improvement of his mind, while his countrymen were contending for liberty at home.

In preparing for his return to Rome, he was cautioned againſt it by ſome mercantile friends, whoſe letters intimated, that he had much to apprehend from the machinations of Engliſh jeſuits, if he appeared again in that city; they were incenſed againſt him by the freedom of his diſcourſe on topics of religion: "I had made it a rule (ſays Milton) never to ſtart a religious ſubject in this country; but if I were queſtioned on my faith, never to diſſemble, whatever I might ſuffer. I returned, nevertheleſs, to Rome," continues the undaunted traveller, "and, whenever I was interrogated, I attempted no diſguiſe: if any one attacked my principles, I defended the true religion in the very city of the pope, and, during almoſt two months, with as much freedom as I had uſed before. By the protection of God I returned ſafe again to Florence, re-viſiting friends, who received me as gladly as if I had been reſtored to my native home*."

After a ſecond reſidence of almoſt two months in Florence, whence he made an excurſion to Lucca, a place [51] endeared to him by having produced the anceſtors of his favourite friend Diodati, he extended his travels through Bologna and Ferrara to Venice. Here, he remained a month, and having ſent hence a collection of books, and particularly of muſic, by ſea, he proceeded himſelf through Verona and Milan to Geneva. In this city he was particularly gratified by the ſociety and kindneſs of John Diodati, uncle of his young friend, whoſe untimely death he lamented in a Latin poem, of which we ſhall ſoon have occaſion to ſpeak. Returning by his former road through France, he reached England at a period that ſeems to have made a ſtrong impreſſion on his mind, when the king was waging, in favour of epiſcopacy, his unproſperous war with the Scots. The time of Milton's abſence from his native country exceeded not, by his own account, a year and three months.

In the relation that he gives himſelf of his return, the name of Geneva recalling to his mind one of the moſt ſlanderous of his political adverſaries, he animates his narrative by a ſolemn appeal to heaven on his unſpotted integrity; he proteſts that, during his reſidence in foreign ſcenes, where licentiouſneſs was univerſal, his own conduct was perfectly irreproachable*. I dwell the more zealouſly on whatever may elucidate the moral character of Milton, becauſe, even among thoſe who love and revere him, the ſplendor of the poet has in ſome meaſure eclipſed the merit of the man; but in [52] proportion as the particulars of his life are ſtudied with intelligence and candour, his virtue will become, as it ought to be, the friendly rival of his genius, and receive its due ſhare of admiration and eſteem. Men, indeed, of narrow minds, and of ſervile principles, will for ever attempt to depreciate a character ſo abſolutely the reverſe of their own; but liberal ſpirits, who allow to others that freedom of ſentiment, which they vindicate for themſelves, however they diſapprove or oppoſe the opinions of the ſectary and the republican, will render honourable and affectionate juſtice to the patriotic benevolence, the induſtry, and the courage, with which Milton endeavoured to promote what he ſincerely and fervently regarded as the true intereſt of his country.

We have now attended him to the middle ſtage of his life, at which it may not be improper to pauſe, and make a few remarks on the years that are paſſed, and thoſe that are yet in proſpect. We behold him, at the age of thirty-two, recalled to England, from a foreign excurſion of improvement and delight, by a manly ſenſe of what he owed to his country in a ſeaſon of difficulty and danger. His thoughts and conduct on this occaſion are the more noble and becoming, as all his preceding years had been employed in forming, for the moſt important purpoſes, a firm and lofty mind, and in furniſhing it abundantly with whatever might be uſeful and honourable to himſelf and others, in the various exigencies and viciſſitudes both of private and public life. We have traced him through a long courſe of infantine, academical, domeſtic, and foreign ſtudy; we have ſeen him diſtinguiſhed by application, docility, and genius; uncommonly attached [53] to his inſtructors, and moſt amiably grateful to his parents; in friendſhip, ardent and ſteady; in love, though tender not intemperate; as a poet, ſenſible of his rare mental endowments, yet peculiarly modeſt in regard to his own productions; enamoured of glory, yet as ready to beſtow as anxious to merit praiſe; in his perſon and manners ſo faſhioned to prepoſſeſs all men in his favour, that even foreigners gave him credit for thoſe high literary atchievements, which were to ſhed peculiar luſtre on his latter days, and conſidered him already as a man, of whom his country might be proud.

With ſuch accompliſhments, and ſuch expectations in his behalf, Milton returned to England. The ſubſequent portion of his life, however gloomy and tempeſtuous, will be found to correſpond, at leaſt in the cloſe of it, with the radiant promiſe of his youth. We ſhall ſee him deſerting his favourite haunts of Parnaſſus to enter the thorny paths of eccleſiaſtical and political diſſention: his principles as a diſputant will be condemned and approved, according to the prevalence of oppoſite and irreconcilable opinions, that fluctuate in the world; but his upright conſiſtency of conduct deſerves applauſe from all honeſt and candid men of every perſuaſion. The Muſe, indeed, who had bleſt him with ſingular endowments, and given him ſo lively a ſenſe of his being conſtituted a poet by nature, that when he wrote not verſe, he had the uſe (to borrow his own forcible expreſſion) "but of his left hand;" the Muſe alone might have a right to reproach him with having acted againſt inward conviction; but could his muſe have viſibly appeared to reprove his deſertion of her ſervice in a parental remonſtrance, [54] he might have anſwered her, as the young Harry of Shakeſpear anſwers the tender and keen reproof of his royal father,

I will redeem all this,
And in the cloſing of ſome glorious day
Be bold to tell you that I am your ſon.
END OF THE FIRST PART.

PART II.

[55]
‘INCONCUSSA TENENS DUBIO VESTIGIA MUNDO.’LUCAN.

THE narrative may proceed from the information of Milton himſelf. On his return he procured a reſidence in London, ample enough for himſelf and his books, and felt happy in renewing his interrupted ſtudies*. This firſt eſtabliſhment (as we learn from his nephew) was a lodging in St. Bride's Church-yard, where he received, as his diſciples, the two ſons of his ſiſter, John and Edward Philips; the latter is his biographer; but although he has written the life of his illuſtrious relation with a degree of laudable pride and affectionate ſpirit, he does not communicate that abundance of information, which might have been expected from the advantage he poſſeſſed. In one article his pride has a ludicrous effect, as it leads him into an awkward attempt to vindicate his uncle from the fancied opprobrium of having engaged profeſſionally in the education of youth; a profeſſion which, from its utility and importance, [56] from the talents and virtues it requires, is unqueſtionably entitled to reſpect. Philips will not allow that his uncle actually kept a ſchool, as he taught only the ſons of his particular friends. Johnſon ridicules this diſtinction, and ſeems determined to treat Milton as a profeſt ſchoolmaſter, for the ſake of attempting to prove, that he did not ſuſtain the character with advantage, but adopted a vain and prepoſterous plan of education.

"Let me not be cenſured," ſays the Doctor, ‘as pedantic or paradoxical; for if I have Milton againſt me, I have Socrates on my ſide: it was his labour to turn philoſophy from the ſtudy of nature to ſpeculations upon life; but the innovators, whom I oppoſe, are turning off attention from life to nature; they ſeem to think that we are placed here to watch the growth of plants, or the motions of the ſtars; Socrates was rather of opinion, that what we had to learn was, how to do good and avoid evil.’

[...].

This inſidious artifice of repreſenting Milton and Socrates as antagoniſts is peculiarly unfortunate, ſince no man appears to have imbibed the principles of Socratic wiſdom more deeply than our poet; his regard and attachment to them is fervently expreſſed, even in his juvenile letters; the very maxims of moral truth, which he is accuſed of counteracting, never ſhone with more luſtre than in the following paſſage of the Paradiſe Loſt:

[57]
But apt the mind or fancy is to rove
Uncheck'd, and of her roving is no end,
Till warn'd, or by experience taught, ſhe learn.
That not to know at large of things remote
From uſe, obſcure and ſubtle, but to know
That, which before us lies in daily life,
Is the prime wiſdom; what is more is fume,
Or emptineſs, or fond impertinence,
And renders us in things that moſt concern,
Unpractis'd, unprepar'd, and ſtill to ſeek.

Theſe beautiful lines are built in ſome meaſure, as Bentley has remarked, upon a verſe of Homer, the very verſe admired by Socrates, which Dr. Johnſon has not ſcrupled to quote, as a part of his ſingular ill-grounded attempt to prove that Milton's ideas of education were in direct oppoſition to thoſe of the great moraliſt of Greece; an attempt that aroſe from a very inoffenſive boaſt of Milton's nephew, who gives a long liſt of books peruſed by the ſcholars of his uncle, which merely proves, that they read more books than are uſually read in our common ſchools; and that their diligent inſtructor thought it adviſable for boys, as they approach towards ſixteen, to blend a little knowledge of the ſciences with their Greek and Latin.

That he taught the familiar and uſeful doctrine of the Attic philoſopher, even in his lighter poetry, we have a pleaſing inſtance in the following lines of his ſonnet to Syriac Skinner, who was one of his ſcholars:

To meaſure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward ſolid good what leads the neareſt way.

[58] But his brief treatiſe, addreſſed to Hartlib, affords, perhaps, the beſt proof that his ideas of moral diſcipline were perfectly in uniſon with thoſe of Socrates; he ſays, in that treatiſe, ‘I call a complete and generous education that, which fits a man to perform juſtly, ſkilfully, and magnanimouſly, all the offices, both private and public, of peace and war.’ Who can define a good education in terms more truly Socratic?

Milton, however, in his attachment to morality, forgot not the claims of religion; his Sundays were devoted to theology, and Johnſon duly praiſes the care, with which he inſtructed his ſcholars in the primary duties of men.

With a critic ſo ſincerely devout as Johnſon unqueſtionably was, we might have hoped that the ſublime piety of our author would have ſecured him from ſarcaſtic attacks; but we have yet to notice two inſults of this kind, which the acrimony of uncorrected ſpleen has laviſhed upon Milton as a preceptor.

"From this wonder-working academy," ſays the biographer, ‘I do not know that there ever proceeded any man very eminent for knowledge; its only genuine product, I believe, is a ſmall hiſtory of poetry, written in Latin by his nephew, of which, perhaps, none of my readers ever heard.’ The contemptuous ſpirit and the inaccuracy of this ſarcaſm are equally remarkable. The ſcholars of Milton were far from being numerous. Can it be juſt to ſpeak with deriſion of a ſmall academy, merely becauſe it raiſes no celebrated author, when we conſider how few of that deſcription every nation produces? We know little of thoſe, [59] who were under the tuition of our poet, except his two nephews; theſe were both writers; and a biographer of Milton ſhould not have utterly forgotten his obligations to Edward Philips, if he allowed no credit to his brother, for the ſpirited Latin treatiſe in which that young man appeared as the defender of his uncle. But the ſtriking inaccuracy of the critic conſiſts in not giving a juſt account of a book that particularly claimed his attention, Philips's Theatrum Poetarum, a book that, under a Latin title, contains in Engliſh a very comprehenſive liſt of poets, ancient and modern, with reflections upon many of them, particularly thoſe of our own nation. It is remarkable that this book was licenſed Sept. 14, 1674, juſt two months before the death of Milton, and printed the following year. The author aſſigns an article both to his uncle and his brother. After enumerating the chief works of the former, he modeſtly ſays, ‘how far he hath revived the majeſty and true decorum of heroic poeſy and tragedy, it will better become a perſon leſs related than myſelf to deliver his judgment.’

Though he here ſuppreſſes a deſire to praiſe his moſt eminent relation, it burſts forth in an amiable manner, when he comes to ſpeak of his brother; for he calls him, ‘the maternal nephew and diſciple of an author of moſt deſerved fame, late deceaſed, being the exacteſt of heroic poets (if the truth were well examined, and it is the opinion of many, both learned and judicious perſons) either of the ancients or moderns, either of our own or whatever nation elſe.’

[60]I tranſcribe with pleaſure this honeſt and ſimple eulogy; it does credit to the intelligence and affection of the poet's diſciple, and it in ſome meaſure vindicates the good ſenſe of our country, by ſhewing that, in the very year of Milton's deceaſe, when ſome writers have ſuppoſed that his poetical merit was almoſt. utterly unknown, there were perſons in the nation, who underſtood his full value.

Let us return to the author in his little academy, and the ſecond ſarcaſtic inſult, which his biographer has beſtowed upon him as the maſter of a ſchool. The lodging in which he ſettled, on his arrival from the continent, was ſoon exchanged for a more ſpacious houſe and garden, in Alderſgate-ſtreet, that ſupplied him with conveniencies for the reception of ſcholars: on this occaſion Johnſon exclaims, ‘let not our veneration for Milton forbid us to look with ſome degree of merriment on great promiſes and ſmall performance; on the man who haſtens home, becauſe his countrymen are contending for their liberty, and, when he reaches the ſcene of action, vapours away his patriotiſm in a private boarding-ſchool.’

To excite merriment by rendering Milton ridiculous for having preferred the pen to the ſword was an enterpriſe that ſurpaſſed the powers of Johnſon; the attempt affords a melancholy proof how far prejudice may miſlead a very vigorous underſtanding. What but the blind hatred of bigotry could have tempted one great author to deride another, merely for having thought that he might ſerve his country more eſſentially by the rare and highly cultivated faculties of his mind, than by the ordinary ſervice of a [61] ſoldier. But let us hear Milton on this ſubject. We have this obligation to the malice of his contemporaries, that it led him to ſpeak publicly of himſelf, and to relate, in the moſt manly and explicit manner, the real motives of his conduct.

Speaking of the Engliſh people, in the commencement of his Second Defence, he ſays*, ‘it was the juſt vindication of their laws and their religion, that neceſſarily led them into civil war; they have driven ſervitude from them by the moſt honourable arms; in which praiſe, though I can claim no perſonal ſhare, yet I can eaſily defend myſelf from a charge of timidity or indolence, ſhould any ſuch be alledged againſt me; for I have avoided the toil and danger of military life only to render my country aſſiſtance more uſeful, and not leſs to my own peril, exerting a mind never dejected in adverſity, never influenced by unworthy terrors of detraction or of death; ſince from my infancy I had been addicted to literary purſuits, and was ſtronger in mind than in body, declining the [62] duties of a camp, in which every muſcular common man muſt have ſurpaſſed me, I devoted myſelf to that kind of ſervice for which I had the greateſt ability, that, with the better portion of myſelf, I might add all the weight I could to the pleas of my country and to this moſt excellent cauſe.’

He thus juſtifies, on the nobleſt ground, the line of life he purſued. In the ſame compoſition he frankly ſtates the motives which prompted him to execute each particular work that raiſed him to notice in his new field of controverſy; but before we attend to the order in which he treated various public queſtions that he conſidered of high moment to his country, it is juſt to obſerve his fidelity and tenderneſs in firſt diſcharging, as a poet, the duties of private friendſhip.

Before he quitted Florence, Milton received intelligence of the loſs he had to ſuſtain, by the untimely death of Charles Diodati, the favourite aſſociate of his early ſtudies. On his arrival in England, the bitterneſs of ſuch a loſs was felt with redoubled ſenſibility by his affectionate heart, which relieved and gratified itſelf by commemorating the engaging character of the deceaſed, in a poem of conſiderable length, entitled, Epitaphium Damonis, a poem mentioned by Johnſon with ſupercilious contempt, yet poſſeſſing ſuch beauties as render it pre-eminent in that ſpecies of compoſition.

Many poets have lamented a friend of their youth, and a companion of their ſtudies, but no one has ſurpaſſed the affecting tenderneſs with which Milton ſpeaks of his loſt Diodati.

[62]
— Quis mihi fidus
Haerebit lateri comes, ut tu ſaepe ſolebas,
Frigoribus duris, et per loca foeta pruinis,
Aut rapido ſub ſole, ſiti morientibus herbis?
Pectora cui credam? Quis me lenire docebit
Mordaces curas, quis longam fallere noctem
Dulcibus alloquiis, grato cum ſibilat igni
Molle pyrum, et nucibus ſtrepitat focus, et malus Auſter
Miſcet cuncta foris, et deſuper intonat ulmo?
Aut aeſtate, dies medio dum vertitur axe,
Cum Pan aeſculea ſomnum capit abditus umbra,
Quis mihi blanditiaſque tuas, quis tum mihi riſus,
Cecropioſque ſales referet, cultoſque lepores?

Who now my pains and perils ſhall divide
As thou was won't, for ever at my ſide,
Both when the rugged froſt annoy'd our feet,
And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat?
In whom ſhall I confide, whoſe counſel find
A balmy medicine to my troubled mind?
Or whoſe diſcourſe with innocent delight
Shall fill me now, and cheat the wintry night?
While hiſſes on my hearth the pulpy pear,
And black'ning cheſnuts ſtart and crackle there;
While ſtorms abroad, the dreary ſcene o'erwhelm,
And the wind thunders thro' the riven elm?
[64]
Or who, when ſummer ſuns their ſummit reach,
And Pan ſleeps hidden by the ſhelt'ring beech,
Who then ſhall render me thy Attic vein
Of wit, too poliſh'd to inflict a pain?

With the ſpirit of a man moſt able to feel, and moſt worthy to enjoy, the delights of true friendſhip, he deſcribes the rarity of that ineſtimable bleſſing, and the anguiſh we ſuffer from the untimely loſs of it.

Vix ſibi quiſque parem de millibus invenit unum;
Aut ſi ſors dederit tandem non aſpera votis,
Illum inopina dies, qua non ſperaveris hora,
Surripit, aeternum linquens in ſaecula damnum.
Scarce one in thouſands meets a kindred mind;
And if the long-ſought good at laſt he find,
When leaſt he fears it, death his treaſure ſteals,
And gives his heart a wound that nothing heals.

There is, indeed, but one effectual lenitive for wounds of this nature, which Milton happily poſſeſſed in the ſincerity and fervour of his religion. He cloſes his lamentation for his favourite friend, as he had cloſed his Lycidas, with juſt and ſoothing reflections on the purity of life, by which the object of his regret was diſtinguiſhed, and with a ſublime conception of that celeſtial beatitude, which he confidently regarded as the infallible and immediate recompence of departed virtue.

[65]Having paid what was due to friendſhip in his poetical capacity, he devoted his pen to public affairs, and entered on that career of controverſy, which eſtranged him ſo long, and carried him ſo far from thoſe milder and more engaging ſtudies, that nature and education had made the darlings of his mind. If to ſacrifice favourite purſuits that promiſed great glory, purſuits in which acknowledged genius had qualified an ambitious ſpirit to excel; if to ſacrifice theſe to irkſome diſputes, from a ſenſe of what he owed to the exigencies of his country; if ſuch conduct deſerve, as it aſſuredly does, the name of public virtue, it may be as difficult, perhaps, to find an equal to Milton in genuine patriotiſm as in poetical power: for who can be ſaid to have ſacrificed ſo much, or to have ſhewn a firmer affection to the public good? If he miſtook the mode of promoting it; if his ſentiments, both on eccleſiaſtical and civil policy, are ſuch as the majority of our countrymen think it juſt and wiſe to reject, let us give him the credit he deſerves for the merit of his intention; let us reſpect, as we ought to do, the probity of an exalted underſtanding, animated by a fervent, ſteady, and laudable deſire to enlighten mankind, and to render them more virtuous and happy.

In the year 1640, when Milton returned to England, the current of popular opinion ran with great vehemence againſt epiſcopacy. He was prepared to catch the ſpirit of the time, and to become an advocate for eccleſiaſtical reformation, by having peculiar and domeſtic grounds of complaint againſt religious oppreſſion. His favourite preceptor had been reduced to exile, and his father diſinherited, by intolerance [66] and ſuperſtition. He wrote, therefore, with the indignant enthuſiaſm of a man reſenting the injuries of thoſe, who are moſt entitled to his love and veneration. The ardour of his affections conſpired with the warmth of his fancy to enflame him with that puritanical zeal, which blazes ſo intenſely in his controverſial productions: no leſs than four of theſe were publiſhed within two years after his return; and he thus ſpeaks of the motives, that led him to this ſpecies of compoſition, in his Second Defence.

"Being * animated by this univerſal outcry againſt the biſhops, as I perceived that men were taking the true road to liberty, and might proceed with the utmoſt rectitude from theſe beginnings to deliver human life from all baſe ſubjection, if their diſcipline, drawing its ſource from religion, proceeded to morals and political inſtitutions; as I had been trained from my youth to the particular knowledge of what belonged to divine, and what to human juriſdiction; and as [67] I thought I ſhould deſerve to forfeit the power of being uſeful to mankind, if I now failed to aſſiſt my country and the church, and ſo many brethren, who for the ſake of the goſpel were expoſing themſelves to peril, I reſolved, though my thoughts had been pre-engaged by other deſigns, to transfer to this object all my talents and all my application: firſt, therefore, I wrote of reformation in England two books addreſſed to a friend; afterwards, when two biſhops of eminence had aſſerted their cauſe againſt the leading miniſters of the oppoſite party, as I conceived that I could argue, from a love of truth and a ſenſe of chriſtian duty, not leſs forcibly than my antagoniſts (who contended for lucre and their own unjuſt dominion) I anſwered one of them in two books with the following titles, Of Prelatical Epiſcopacy, Of Church Government; and the other, firſt in Animadverſions upon the Remonſtrants Defence againſt Smectymnuus, and ſecondly, in my Apology. As the miniſters were thought hardly equal to their opponent in eloquence, I lent them my aid, and from that time, if they made any farther reply, I was a party concerned."

I have inſerted this paſſage at full length, becauſe it gives us a clear inſight into the motives of Milton on his firſt engaging in controverſy, and diſcovers the high opinion which he entertained, both of the chriſtian purity and the argumentative powers of his own cultivated mind: the two biſhops to whom he alludes were, Hall biſhop of Norwich, famous as our firſt ſatiriſt, and the learned Uſher, primate of Ireland. Hall publiſhed, in 1640, "An humble Remonſtrance to the High Court of Parliament in Behalf of Epiſcopacy"— [68] an anſwer to this appeared written by ſix miniſters, under the title of Smectymnuus, a word caſually formed from the initial letters of their reſpective names. This little band of religious writers included Thomas Young, the beloved preceptor of Milton; ſo that perſonal attachment conſpired with public enthuſiaſm to make our author vehement in his reply to the two biſhops, who failed not to encounter the confederate antagoniſts of their order. He probably recollected the ſufferings of his favourite inſtructor, when he exclaimed in his treatiſe of reformation, "What numbers of faithful and free born Engliſhmen and good chriſtians have been conſtrained to forſake their deareſt home, their friends and kindred, whom nothing but the wide ocean, or the ſavage deſerts of America, could hide and ſhelter from the fury of the biſhops."

However furious the perſecution might be, which excited antipathy and abhorrence in Milton againſt the order of biſhops, it muſt be confeſſed that he frequently ſpeaks with that intemperance of zeal, which defeats its own purpoſe. There are ſome paſſages in his controverſial writings, that muſt be read with concern by his moſt paſſionate admirers; yet even the gloom and ſeverity of theſe are compenſated by ſuch occaſional flaſhes of ardent fancy, of ſound argument, and of ſublime devotion, as may extort commendation even from readers who love not the author.

In his firſt Eccleſiaſtical Treatiſe of Reformation, he makes the following very ſolemn appeal to heaven on his integrity as a writer: ‘And here withal I invoke the immortal deity, revealer and judge of ſecrets, that wherever I have [69] in this book plainly and roundly, though worthily and truly, laid open the faults and blemiſhes of fathers, martyrs, or chriſtian emperors, or have otherways inveighed againſt error and ſuperſtition with vehement expreſſions, I have done it neither out of malice, nor liſt to ſpeak evil, nor any vain glory, but of mere neceſſity, to vindicate the ſpotleſs truth from an ignominious bondage.’

Towards the cloſe of this performance he gives a diſtant myſterious hint of his great and unſettled poetical deſigns, with a very ſtriking mixture of moral, political, and religious enthuſiaſm.

Then, amidſt the hymns and hallelujahs of ſaints, ſome one may, perhaps, be heard offering at high ſtrains, in new and lofty meaſures, to ſing and celebrate thy divine mercies and marvellous judgments in this land throughout all ages.

In his ſubſequent work, on the Reaſon of Church Government, he gratifies us with a more enlarged view of his literary projects, not yet moulded into form, but, like the unarranged elements of creation, now floating at large in his capacious mind.

I tranſcribe the long paſſage alluded to, becauſe it illuſtrates the mental character of Milton, with a mild energy, a ſolemn ſplendor of ſentiment and expreſſion peculiar to himſelf.

Time ſerves not now, and, perhaps, I might ſeem too profuſe to give any certain account of what the mind at home, in the ſpacious circuits of her muſing, hath liberty to propoſe to herſelf, though of higheſt hope and hardeſt [70] attempting; whether that epic form, whereof the two poems of Homer, and thoſe other two of Virgil and Taſſo, are a diffuſe, and the book of Job a brief, model; or whether the rules of Ariſtotle herein are ſtrictly to be kept, or nature to be followed; which in them that know art, and uſe judgment, is no tranſgreſſion, but an enriching of art: and laſtly, what king or knight, before the Conqueſt, might be choſen, in whom to lay the pattern of a chriſtian hero. And as Taſſo gave to a prince of Italy his choice, whether he would command him to write of Godfrey's expedition againſt the infidels, Beliſarius againſt the Goths, or Charlemain againſt the Lombards; if to the inſtinct of nature, and the emboldning of art aught may be truſted, and that there be nothing adverſe in our climate, or the fate of this age, it haply would be no raſhneſs, from an equal diligence and inclination, to preſent the like offer in our antient ſtories. Or whether thoſe dramatic conſtitutions, wherein Sophocles and Euripides reign, ſhall be found more doctrinal and exemplary to a nation—Or, if occaſion ſhall lead, to imitate thoſe magnific odes and hymns, wherein Pindarus and Callimachus are in moſt things worthy. But thoſe frequent ſongs throughout the law and prophets, beyond all theſe, not in their divine argument alone, but in the very critical art of compoſition, may be eaſily made appear over all the kinds of lyric poeſy to be incomparable. Theſe abilities, whereſoever they be found, are the inſpired gift of God, rarely beſtowed, but yet to ſome (though moſt abuſe) in every nation; and are of power, beſides the office of a pulpit, [71] to inbreed and cheriſh in a great people the ſeeds of virtue and public civility, to allay the perturbations of the mind, and ſet the affections in right tune; to celebrate in glorious and lofty hymns the throne and equipage of God's almightineſs, and what he works, and what he ſuffers to be wrought with high providence in his church; to ſing victorious agonies of martyrs and ſaints, the deeds and triumphs of juſt and pious nations doing valiantly through faith againſt the enemies of Chriſt; to deplore the general relapſes of kingdoms and ſtates from juſtice and God's true worſhip. Laſtly, whatſoever in religion is holy and ſublime, in virtue amiable or grave, whatſoever hath paſſion or admiration in all the changes of that, which is called fortune from without, or the wily ſubtleties and refluxes of man's thoughts from within; all theſe things, with a ſolid and treatable ſmoothneſs to paint out and deſcribe, teaching over the whole book of ſanctity and virtue, through all the inſtances of example, with ſuch delight, to thoſe eſpecially of ſoft and delicious temper, who will not ſo much as look upon truth herſelf, unleſs they ſee her elegantly dreſt; that whereas the paths of honeſty and good life appear now rugged and difficult, though they be indeed eaſy and pleaſant, they will then appear to all men both eaſy and pleaſant, though they were rugged and difficult indeed.

The thing which I had to ſay, and thoſe intentions, which have lived within me ever ſince I could conceive myſelf any thing worth to my country, I return to crave excuſe that urgent reaſon hath pluckt from me by an [72] abortive and fore-dated diſcovery; and the accompliſhment of them lies not but in a power above man's to promiſe; but that none hath by more ſtudious ways endeavoured, and with more unwearied ſpirit that none ſhall, that I dare almoſt aver of myſelf, as far as life and free leiſure will extend. Neither do I think it ſhame to covenant with any knowing reader that for ſome few years yet I may go on truſt with him toward the payment of what I am now indebted, as being a work not to be raiſed from the heat of youth, or the vapours of wine, like that which flows at waſte from the pen of ſome vulgar amouriſt, or the trencher fury of a rhyming paraſite; nor to be obtained by the invocation of dame Memory and her ſiren daughters; but by devout prayer to that eternal ſpirit, who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and ſends out his Seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleaſes; to this muſt be added induſtrious and ſelect reading, ſteady obſervation, inſight into all ſeemly and generous arts and affairs; till which in ſome meaſure be compaſſed at mine own peril and coſt I refuſe not to ſuſtain this expectation from as many as are not loth to hazard ſo much credulity upon the beſt pledges that I can give them. Although it nothing content me to have diſcloſed thus much before hand; but that I truſt hereby to make it manifeſt with what ſmall willingneſs I endure to interrupt the purſuit of no leſs hopes than theſe, and leave a calm and pleaſing ſolitarineſs, fed with chearful and confident thoughts, to embark in a troubled ſea of noiſe and hoarſe [73] diſputes, put from beholding the bright countenance of truth, in the quiet and ſtill air of delightful ſtudies.

Mr. Warton, who has cited the laſt ſentence of this very intereſting paſſage, as a proof that Milton, then engaged in controverſy, ſighed for his more congenial purſuits, laments, ‘that the vigorous portion of his life, that thoſe years in which imagination is on the wing, were unworthily and unprofitably waſted on temporary topics.’ Many lovers of poetry will ſympathiſe with this amiable writer in his regret; but others may ſtill entertain very different ſenſations on the ſubject. Allowing for a moment that the controverſial writings of Milton deſerve to be neglected and forgotten, reaſons may yet be found to rejoice, rather than lament, that he exerted his faculties in compoſing them. The occupation, however it might ſuſpend his poetical enterprizes, cheriſhed the ardour and energy of his mind, and, above all, confirmed in him that well founded and upright ſelf-eſteem, to which we are principally indebted for his ſublimeſt production. The works I allude to were, in his own eſtimation, indiſpenſable and meritorious; had he not written them, as he frankly informs us, ‘he would have heard within himſelf, all his life after, of diſcourage and reproach.’ Nothing, perhaps, but this retroſpect on a life paſſed, as his own conſcience aſſured him, in the faithful diſcharge of arduous and irkſome duties, could have afforded to the declining days of Milton that confident vigour of mind, that intenſe and inextinguiſhable fire of imagination, which gave exiſtence and perfection to his Paradiſe Loſt.

[74]He appears to have thought with a celebrated ancient, that perfect morality is neceſſary to the perfection of genius; and that ſublimity in compoſition may be expected only from the man, who has attained the ſublime in the ſteady practice of virtue.

Theſe noble and animating ideas ſeem to have had great influence on his conduct very early in life; for in ſpeaking of the ſtudies and ſentiments of his youth, he ſays,

I was confirmed in this opinion, that he who would not be fruſtrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himſelf to be a true poem; that is, a compoſition and pattern of the honourableſt things; not preſuming to ſing high praiſes of heroic men, or famous cities, unleſs he have in himſelf the experience and the practice of all that which is praiſe worthy.

In reply to the abſurd charge of his leading a diſſolute life, he gives an engaging and ſpirited account of his domeſtic conduct. ‘Thoſe morning haunts are where they ſhould be, at home; not ſleeping or concocting the ſurfeits of an irregular feaſt, but up and ſtirring; in winter often ere the ſound of any bell awake men to labour or to devotion; in ſummer, as oft with the bird that firſt rouſes, or not much tardier, to read good authors, or cauſe them to be read, till the attention be weary, or memory have its full fraught; then with uſeful and generous labours, preſerving the body's health and hardineſs, to render lightſome, clear, and not lumpiſh obedience to the mind.’

[75]Had the proſe works of Milton no merit but that of occaſionally affording us little ſketches of his ſentiments, his manners, and occupations, they would on this account be highly valuable to every reader, whom a paſſionate admiration of the poet has induced to wiſh for all poſſible acquaintance with the man. To gratify ſuch readers, I ſelect very copiouſly from his various works thoſe paſſages that diſplay, in the ſtrongeſt point of view, his moral and domeſtic character. It is my firm belief, that as this is more known, it will become more and more an object of affection and applauſe; yet I am far from ſurveying it with that blind idolatry, which ſees no defect, or with that indiſcreet partiality, which labours to hide the failing it diſcovers; a biographer muſt have ill underſtood the nature of Milton, who could ſuppoſe it poſſible to gratify his ſpirit by homage ſo unworthy; for my own part, I am perſuaded his attachment to truth was as ſincere and fervent as that of the honeſt Montaigne, who ſays, ‘I would come again with all my heart from the other world to give any one the lie, who ſhould report me other than I was, though he did it to honour me.’

I ſhall not therefore attempt to deny or to excuſe the fatiguing heavineſs or the coarſe aſperity of his eccleſiaſtical diſputes. The ſincereſt friends of Milton may here agree with Johnſon, who ſpeaks of his controverſial merriment as diſguſting; but when the critic adds, ſuch is his malignity, that "Hell grows darker at his frown," they muſt abhor [76] this baſe miſapplication, I had almoſt ſaid, this profanation, of Miltonic verſe.

In a controverſial treatiſe that gave riſe to ſuch an imputation, we ſhould expect to find the polemic ſavagely thirſting for the blood of his adverſaries: it is juſt the reverſe. Milton's antagoniſt had, indeed, ſuggeſted to the public, with infernal malignity, that he was a miſcreant, ‘who ought, in the name of Chriſt, to be ſtoned to death.’ This antagoniſt, as Milton ſuppoſed, was a ſon of biſhop Hall," and ſcrupled not to write thus outrageouſly againſt one, who (to uſe the milder words of our author) ‘in all his writing ſpake not that any man's ſkin ſhould be razed.’

"The ſtyle of his piece," ſays Johnſon, in ſpeaking of this apology, ‘is rough, and ſuch, perhaps, is that of his antagoniſt.’ The different degrees of roughneſs that the two writers diſplayed give a ſingular effect to this obſervation of the critic, who confounds the coarſe and intemperate vehemence of the one with the outrageous barbarity of the other. Milton ſometimes wrote with the unguarded and ungraceful aſperity of a man in wrath; but let equity add, that when he did ſo, he was exaſperated by foes, who exerted againſt him all the perſecuting ferocity of a fiend.

The incidents of his life were calculated to put his temper and his fortitude to the moſt arduous trials, and in the ſevereſt of theſe he will be found conſtant and exemplary in the exerciſe of gentle and beneficent virtue. From the thorns of controverſy he was plunged into the ſtill ſharper thorns of connubial diſſenſion. During the Whitſuntide of [77] the year 1643, at the age of thirty-five, he married Mary, the daughter of Richard Powell, a gentleman who reſided at Foreſt Hill, near Shotover, in Oxfordſhire. This ill-ſtarr'd union might ariſe from an infantine acquaintance, as the grandfather of Milton had probably lived very near the ſeat of the Powells. What led to the connection we can only conjecture, but we know it was unhappy, as the lady, after living only a few weeks with her huſband in London, deſerted him, under the decent pretence of paſſing the ſummer months on a viſit to her father, with whom the indulgent poet gave her permiſſion to remain till Michaelmas: during the interval he was engaged in kind attention to his father, whom he now eſtabliſhed under his own roof. The old man had been ſettled at Reading, with his younger ſon Chriſtopher, a lawyer and a royaliſt, but thought it expedient to quit that place on its being taken by Eſſex, the parliamentary general, and found a comfortable aſylum for the reſidue of his long life in the filial piety and tender protection of the poet.

At the time appointed, Milton ſolicited the return of his wife; ſhe did not condeſcend even to anſwer his letter: he repeated his requeſt by a meſſenger, who, to the beſt of my remembrance (ſays Philips) reported, that he was diſmiſſed with ſome ſort of contempt. This proceeding, in all probability (continues the biographer, whoſe ſituation made him the beſt judge of occurrences ſo extraordinary) was grounded ‘upon no other cauſe but this, namely, that the family, being generally addicted to the cavalier party, as they called it, and ſome of them poſſibly engaged in the [78] king's ſervice, who by this time had his head-quarters at Oxford, and was in ſome proſpect of ſucceſs, they began to repent them of having matched the eldeſt daughter of the family to a perſon ſo contrary to them in opinion, and thought it would be a blot in their eſcutcheon whenever that Court came to flouriſh again; however, it ſo incenſed our author, that he thought it would be diſhonourable ever to receive her again after ſuch a repulſe.’

Milton had too tender and too elevated a ſpirit not to feel this affront with double poignancy, as it affected both his happineſs and his dignity; but it was one of his noble characteriſtics to find his mental powers rather invigorated than enfeebled by injury and affliction: he thought it the prerogative of wiſdom to find remedies againſt every evil, however unexpected, by which vice or infirmity can embitter life. In reflecting on his immediate domeſtic trouble, he conceived the generous deſign of making it ſubſervient to the public good. He found that in diſcordant marriage there is miſery, for which he thought there exiſted a very eaſy remedy, and perfectly conſiſtent both with reaſon and religion: with theſe ideas he publiſhed, in 1644, the Doctrine and Diſcipline of Divorce. He addreſſes the work to the Parliament, with great ſpirit and eloquence, and after aſſerting the purity of his precepts, and the beneficence of his deſign, he ſays, with patriotic exultation, ‘let not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live.’

[79]Sanguine as Milton was in the hope of promoting the virtue and happineſs of private life by this publication, the Preſbyterian clergy, notwithſtanding their paſt obligations to the author, endeavoured to perſecute him for the novelty and freedom of his ſentiments." The aſſembly of divines, ‘ſitting at Weſtminſter, impatient, ſays Antony Wood, of having the clergy's juriſdiction, as they reckoned it, invaded, did, inſtead of anſwering or diſproving what thoſe books had aſſerted, cauſe him to be ſummoned before the Houſe of Lords; but that houſe, whether approving the doctrine, or not favouring his accuſers, did ſoon diſmiſs him.’

Milton, whom no oppoſition could intimidate when he believed himſelf engaged in the cauſe of truth and juſtice, endeavoured to ſupport his doctrine by ſubſequent publications; firſt, "The Judgment of Martin Bucer concerning Divorce;" this alſo he addreſſes to the Parliament, and ſays, with his uſual ſpirit, ‘God, it ſeems, intended to prove me, whether I durſt alone take up a rightful cauſe againſt a world of diſeſteem, and found I durſt. My name I did not publiſh, as not willing it ſhould ſway the reader either for me or againſt me; but when I was told that the ſtile (which what it ails to be ſo ſoon diſtinguiſhable I cannot tell) was known by moſt men, and that ſome of the clergy began to inveigh and exclaim on what I was credibly informed they had not read, I took it then for my proper ſeaſon, both to ſhew them a name that could eaſily contemn ſuch an indiſcreet kind of cenſure, and to reinforce the queſtion with a more accurate diligence; that if any of them would be ſo good as to [80] leave railing, and to let us hear ſo much of his learning and chriſtian wiſdom, as will be ſtrictly demanded of him in his anſwering to this problem, care was had he ſhould not ſpend his preparations againſt a nameleſs pamphlet.’

Theſe expreſſions diſplay the frankneſs and fortitude of a noble mind, perfectly conſcious of its own integrity, in diſcuſſing a very delicate point, that materially affects the comfort of human life. This integrity he had indeed proteſted very ſolemnly in his former Addreſs to the Parliament, where, after aſſerting that the ſubject concerned them chiefly as redreſſers of grievances, he proceeds thus, ‘Me it concerns next, having, with much labour and faithful diligence, firſt found out, or at leaſt with a fearleſs communicative candour firſt publiſhed, to the manifeſt good of chriſtendom, that which, calling to witneſs every thing mortal and immortal, I believe unfeignedly to be true.’ The ſolemnity of this proteſtation, confirmed as it was by the ſingular regularity of his morals, and the ſincerity of his zeal as a chriſtian, could not ſecure him from cenſures of every kind, which, vehement as they were, he ſeems to have deſpiſed. His ideas were derided by libertines, and calumniated by hypocrites and bigots; but, ſuperior to ridicule and to ſlander, he proceeded reſolutely in what he thought his duty, by ſhewing how completely his doctrine was conſonant, in his own opinion, to that goſpel, which he had ſedulouſly made not only the favourite ſtudy, but the conſtant guide of his life. With this view he publiſhed, in 1645, his Tetrachordon, expoſitions upon the four chief places of [81] ſcripture, which ſpeak of marriage. He introduces this work by a third Addreſs to the Parliament, and, ſpeaking of their juſtice and candour in diſdaining to think of perſecuting him for his doctrine, according to the inſtigation of his enemies, he expreſſes his gratitude in the following animated terms: ‘For which uprightneſs and incorrupt refuſal of what ye were incenſed to, lords and commons (though it were done to juſtice, not to me, and was a peculiar demonſtration how far your ways are different from the raſh vulgar) beſides thoſe allegiances of oath and duty, which are my public debt to your public labours, I have yet a ſtore of gratitude laid up, which cannot be exhauſted, and ſuch thanks, perhaps, they may live to be, as ſhall more than whiſper to the next ages.’ This ſentence is remarkable in various points of view, but chiefly as it ſhews us that the peculiar eagerneſs and energy with which Milton, at a future period, defended the parliament, originated not only in his paſſionate attachment to freedom, but in his ardent ſenſe of perſonal gratitude to the legiſlature of his country. He was, however, too magnanimous to wiſh for ſhelter under any authority, without vindicating his innocence and the merit of his cauſe; he therefore ſays to the parliament, in ſpeaking of an antagoniſt who, in their preſence, had traduced him from the pulpit, ‘I ſhall take licence by the right of nature, and that liberty wherein I was born, to defend myſelf publicly againſt a printed calumny, and do willingly appeal to thoſe judges to whom I am accuſed.’

[82]The preacher had repreſented the doctrine of divorce as a wicked book, for allowing other cauſes of divorce than Chriſt and his Apoſtles mentioned, and the parliament as ſinners for not puniſhing its authors.

This induces Milton to exclaim with devotional ſpirit, which ſeems predominant in his mind upon every occaſion, ‘Firſt, lords and commons, I pray to that God, before whom ye then were proſtrate, ſo to forgive ye thoſe omiſſions and treſpaſſes, which ye deſire moſt ſhould find forgiveneſs, as I ſhall ſoon ſhew to the world how eaſily ye abſolve yourſelves of that, which this man calls your ſin, and is indeed your wiſdom and nobleneſs, whereof to this day ye have done well not to repent.’

The ſcope of Milton, in his doctrine of divorce, is thus explained by himſelf: ‘This ſhall be the taſk and period of this diſcourſe to prove, firſt, that other reaſons of divorce beſides adultery were by the law of Moſes, and are yet to be allowed by the Chriſtian magiſtrate, as a piece of juſtice, and that the words of Chriſt are not hereby contraried; next that, to prohibit abſolutely any divorce whatſoever, except thoſe which Moſes excepted, is againſt the reaſon of law.’

This doctrine he firſt delivered as the reſult of his own diligent ſtudy of the ſcripture. He afterwards found and declared it conſonant to what many eminent divines of the reformed church, particularly Martin Bucer and Eraſmus, had maintained; laſtly, to grace his opinions with the higheſt human ſupport, he aſſerts, ‘they were ſanctioned by the whole aſſembled authority of England, both church [83] and ſtate, and in thoſe times which are on record for the pureſt and ſincereſt that ever ſhone yet on the Reformation of this land, the time of Edward the Sixth. That worthy prince, having utterly aboliſhed the canon law out of his dominions, as his father did before him, appointed by full vote of parliament a committee of two and thirty choſen men, divines and lawyers, of whom Cranmer the archbiſhop, Peter Martyr, and Walter Haddon, not without the aſſiſtance of Sir John Cheek, the king's tutor, a man at that time accounted the learnedeſt of Engliſhmen, and for piety not inferior, were the chief to frame anew ſome eccleſiaſtical laws, that might be inſtead of what was abrogated. The work with great diligence was finiſhed, and with as great approbation of that reforming age was received, and had been doubtleſs, as the learned preface thereof teſtifies, eſtabliſhed by act of parliament, had not the good king's death ſo ſoon enſuing arreſted the farther growth of religion alſo from that ſeaſon to this. Thoſe laws, thus ſounded on the memorable wiſdom and piety of that religious parliament and ſynod, allow divorce and ſecond marriage not only for adultery and deſertion, but for any capital enmity or plot laid againſt the other's life, and likewiſe for evil and fierce uſage. Nay, the twelfth chapter of that title, by plain conſequence declares, that leſſer contentions, if they be perpetual, may obtain divorce, which is all one really with the poſition by me held in the former treatiſe publiſhed on this argument, herein only differing, that there the cauſe of perpetual ſtrife was put, for example, in the [84] unchangeable diſcord of ſome natures; but in theſe laws, intended us by the beſt of our anceſtors, the effect of continual ſtrife is determined no unjuſt plea of divorce, whether the cauſe be natural or wilful.’

The author exults ſo much in this authority, that he concludes with the following expreſſions of confidence and triumph:

Henceforth let them, who condemn the aſſertion of this book for new and licentious, be ſorry, leſt, while they think to be of the graver ſort, and take on them to be teachers, they expoſe themſelves rather to be pledged up and down by men who intimately know them, to the diſcovery and contempt of their ignorance and preſumption.

I have dwelt the longer on this ſubject, becauſe it occupied ſo deeply the mind and heart of Milton. In theſe treatiſes the energy of his language is very ſtriking; it forcibly proves how keenly he felt the anguiſh of connubial infelicity, and how ardently he laboured to remove from himſelf and others that "ſecret affliction" (to uſe one of his own expreſſive phraſes) ‘of an unconſcionable ſize to human ſtrength.’

He argues, indeed, for what the majority of modern legiſlators and divines have thought inconſiſtent with ſound morality and true religion; but they who deem his arguments inconcluſive, may yet admire the powers and the probity of the advocate. His view of the queſtion is as extenſive and liberal as his intention was pure and benevolent: if a few words of our Saviour, in their literal ſenſe, are [85] againſt him, the ſpirit of the goſpel may be thought, by ſincere Chriſtians, to allow him all the latitude for which he contends; the moſt rigid opponent of his doctrine may be frequently charmed with his rich vein of fervid eloquence and chriſtian philanthropy.

His three publications on divorce were followed by Colaſterion, a reply to a nameleſs anſwer againſt his doctrine. This work is an angry invective, in which he endeavours, but not happily, to overwhelm his antagoniſt with ridicule.

In the account which he gives of his own compoſitions, in his Second Defence, he ſpeaks of his treatiſe on divorce, as forming a part of his progreſſive labour to vindicate liberty in various points of view; he conſidered it in three different ſhapes, eccleſiaſtical, domeſtic, and civil; he thought it of high moment to eſtabliſh a more enlarged ſyſtem of domeſtic liberty, at a time when connubial diſcord was ſo common, in conſequence of civil diſſenſion; when, to uſe his own forcible expreſſion, alluding probably to his particular ſituation, ‘the wife might be found in the camp of the enemy, threatening ruin and ſlaughter to her huſband.’ He ſeems to exult in ſaying, that his doctrine of divorce was more abundantly demonſtrated, about two years after his publication, by the illuſtrious Selden, in his Uxor Hebraea*.

[86]Thoſe who love not Milton, affect to ſpeak ſcornfully of his writings on this ſubject, and intimate, that they were received at firſt with univerſal contempt; but this was far from being the caſe; they were applauded by many, on whoſe judgment the author ſet the higheſt value, though they were made a ſource of indecent mirth by the vulgar; and we may reaſonably conclude, it was this circumſtance that induced him to wiſh he had written them in Latin. To the low ribaldry, with which they were attacked, he alludes in the ſonnet, celebrated for the following admirable lines on the hypocritical or intemperate aſſertors of liberty,

That bawl for freedom in their ſenſeleſs mood,
And full revolt when truth would ſet them free;
Licence they mean, when they cry liberty,
For who loves that, muſt firſt be wiſe and good.

This noble ſentiment he has inculcated more than once in proſe; and as his life was in harmony with his precept, it might have taught his enemies to avoid the groſs abſurdity of repreſenting him as the lover of anarchy and confuſion. [87] Never was a mind better conſtituted, than Milton's, to ſet a juſt value on the prime bleſſings of peace and order; if he ran into political errors, they aroſe not from any fondneſs for ſcenes of turbulence, but rather from his generous credulity reſpecting the virtue of mankind; from believing that many hypocrites, who affected a wiſh to eſtabliſh peace and order in his country, on what he eſteemed the ſureſt foundation, were as ſincere and diſintereſted as himſelf.

‘From this time (ſays Johnſon) it is obſerved, that he became an enemy to the Preſbyterians, whom he had favoured before. He that changes his party by his humour is not much more virtuous than he that changes it by his intereſt; he loves himſelf rather than truth.’ Notwithſtanding the air of morality in this remark, it may be queſtioned, if ever an obſervation was made on any great character more invidious or more unjuſt. When the Preſbyterians were favoured by Milton, they ſpake the language of the oppreſſed; on their being inveſted with power, they forgot their own pleas for liberty of conſcience, and became, in their turn, perſecutors; it was the conſiſtency of virtue, therefore, in Milton, that made him at one time their advocate, and at another their opponent: ſo far from loving himſelf better than truth, he was perhaps of all mortals the leaſt ſelfiſh.—He contended for religion without ſeeking emoluments from the church; he contended for the ſtate without aiming at any civil or military employment: truth and juſtice were the idols of his heart and the ſtudy of his life; if he ſometimes failed of attaining them, it was not becauſe he loved any thing better; it was becauſe he overſhot [88] the object of his ſincere affection from the fondneſs and ardour of his purſuit.

His wife ſtill perſiſted in her deſertion, but he amuſed his mind under the mortification her conduct had occaſioned by frequent viſits to the Lady Margaret Ley, whoſe manners and converſation were peculiarly engaging. Her father, the Earl of Marlborough, had held the higheſt offices in a former reign, and of his virtues ſhe uſed to ſpeak with ſuch filial eloquence as inſpired Milton with a ſonnet in her praiſe.

He continued alſo to manifeſt his firm affection to the public good, by two compoſitions intended to promote it; the little tractate on education, addreſſed to Mr. Hartlib, who had requeſted his thoughts upon that intereſting ſubject, and his Areopagitica, a ſpeech for the liberty of unlicenced printing. The latter has been re-printed, with a ſpirited preface by Thomſon, a poet whom a paſſion for freedom, united to genius, had highly qualified as an editor and eulogiſt of Milton.

Had the author of the Paradiſe Loſt left us no compoſition but his Areopagitica, he would be ſtill entitled to the affectionate veneration of every Engliſhman, who exults in that intellectual light, which is the nobleſt characteriſtic of his country, and for which England is chiefly indebted to the liberty of the preſs. Our conſtant advocate for freedom, in every department of life, vindicated this moſt important privilege with a mind fully ſenſible of its value; he poured all his heart into this vindication, and, to ſpeak of his work in his own energetic language, we may juſtly [89] call it, what he has defined a good book to be, ‘the precious life-blood of a maſter ſpirit, embalmed and treaſured up on purpoſe to a life beyond life.’

His late biographer, inſtead of praiſing Milton for a ſervice ſo honourably rendered to literature, ſeems rather deſirous of annihilating its merit, by directing his ſarcaſtic animoſity againſt the liberty of the preſs. ‘It ſeems not more reaſonable,’ ſays Johnſon, ‘to leave the right of printing unreſtrained, becauſe writers may be afterwards cenſured, than it would be to ſleep with doors unbolted, becauſe by our laws we can hang a thief.’

This is ſervile ſophiſtry; the author's illuſtration of a thief may be turned againſt himſelf. To ſuffer no book to be publiſhed without a licence, is tyranny as abſurd as it would be to ſuffer no traveller to paſs along the highway without producing a certificate that he is not a robber.

Even bad books may have their uſe, as Milton obſerves; and I mention this obſervation, chiefly to ſhew how liberally he introduces a juſt compliment to a great author of his own time, in ſupport of this idea. "What better witneſs," ſays the advocate for unlicenced printing, ‘can ye expect I ſhould produce, than one of your own, now ſitting in parliament, the chief of learned men reputed in this land, Mr. Selden, whoſe volume of natural and national laws proves, not only by great authorities brought together, but by exquiſite reaſons and theorems almoſt mathematically demonſtrative, that all opinions, yea errors, known, read, and collated, are of main ſervice and aſſiſtance towards the ſpeedy attainment of what is trueſt.’ This [90] eulogy alone appears ſufficient to refute a remark unfriendly to Milton, that he was frugal of his praiſe; ſuch frugality will hardly be found united to a benevolent heart and a glowing imagination.

In 1645, his early poems, both Engliſh and Latin, were firſt publiſhed in a little volume by Humphry Moſely, who informs the reader in his advertiſement, that he had obtained them by ſolicitation from the author, regarding him as a ſucceſsful rival of Spencer.

Milton had now paſſed more than three years in that ſingular ſtate of mortification, which the diſobedience of his wife occaſioned. His time had been occupied by the inceſſant exerciſe of his mental powers; but he probably felt with peculiar poignancy ‘A craving void left aching in the breaſt.’ As he entertained ſerious thoughts of enforcing, by his own example, his doctrine of divorce, and of marrying another wife, who might be worthy of the title, he paid his addreſſes to the daughter of Doctor Davies: the father ſeems to have been a convert to Milton's arguments; but the lady had ſcruples. She poſſeſſed, according to Philips, both wit and beauty. A noveliſt could hardly imagine circumſtances more ſingularly diſtreſſing to ſenſibility, than the ſituation of the poet, if, as we may reaſonably conjecture, he was deeply enamoured of this lady; if her father was inclined to accept him as a ſon-in-law; and if the object of his love had no inclination to reject his ſuit, but what aroſe from a dread of his being indiſſolubly united to another.

[91]Perhaps Milton alludes to what he felt on this occaſion in thoſe affecting lines of Paradiſe Loſt, where Adam, prophetically enumerating the miſeries to ariſe from woman, ſays, in cloſing the melancholy liſt, that man ſometimes

His happieſt choice too late
Shall meet, already link'd and wedlock-bound
To a fell adverſary, his hate or ſhame!
Which infinite calamity ſhall cauſe
To human life, and houſehold peace confound.

However ſtrong the ſcruples of his new favourite might have been, it ſeems not improbable that he would have triumphed over them, had not an occurrence, which has the air of an incident in romance, given another turn to the emotions of his heart. While he was converſing with a relation, whom he frequently viſited in St. Martin's-lane, the door of an adjoining apartment was ſuddenly opened: he beheld his repentant wife kneeling at his feet, and imploring his forgiveneſs. After the natural ſtruggles of honeſt pride and juſt reſentment, he forgave and received her, ‘partly from the interceſſion of their common friends, and partly,’ ſays his nephew, ‘from his own generous nature, more inclinable to reconciliation, than to perſeverance in anger and revenge,’

Fenton juſtly remarks, that the ſtrong impreſſion which this interview muſt have made on Milton ‘contributed much to the painting of that pathetic ſcene in Paradiſe Loſt, in which Eve addreſſes herſelf to Adam for pardon [92] and peace;’ the verſes, charming as they are, acquire new charms, when we conſider them as deſcriptive of the poet himſelf and the penitent deſtroyer of his domeſtic comfort.

Her lowly plight
Immovable, till peace obtain'd from fault
Acknowledg'd and deplor'd, in Adam wrought
Commiſeration; ſoon his heart relented
Towards her, his life ſo late and ſole delight,
Now at his feet ſubmiſſive in diſtreſs!
Creature ſo fair his reconcilement ſeeking,
His counſel whom ſhe had diſpleas'd, his aid
As one diſarm'd, his anger all he loſt.

It has been ſaid, that Milton reſembled his own Adam in the comelineſs of his perſon; but he ſeems to have reſembled him ſtill more in much nobler endowments, and particularly in uniting great tenderneſs of heart to equal dignity of mind. Soon after he had pardoned, and lived again with his wife, he afforded an aſylum, in his own houſe, to both her parents, and to their numerous family. They were active royaliſts, and fell into great diſtreſs by the ruin of their party: theſe were the perſons who had not only treated Milton with contemptuous pride, but had imbittered his exiſtence for four years, by inſtigating his wife to perſiſt in deſerting him. The mother, as Wood intimates, was his greateſt enemy, and occaſioned the perverſe conduct of her daughter. The father, though ſumptuous in his mode of life when he firſt received Milton as his ſon-in-law, had [93] never paid the marriage portion of a thouſand pounds, according to his agreement, and was now ſtript of his property by the prevalence of the party he had oppoſed. On perſons thus contumelious and culpable towards him, Milton beſtowed his favour and protection. Can the records of private life exhibit a more magnanimous example of forgiveneſs and beneficence?

At the time of his wife's unexpected return, he was preparing to remove from Alderſgate to a larger houſe in Barbican, with a view of increaſing the number of his ſcholars. It was in this new manſion that he received the forgiven penitent, and provided a refuge for her relations, whom he retained under his roof, according to Fenton, ‘till their affairs were accommodated by his intereſt with the victorious party.’

They left him ſoon after the death of his father, who ended a very long life, in the year 1647, and not without the gratification, peculiarly ſoothing to an affectionate old man, of beſtowing his benediction on a grand-child; for, within the year of Milton's re-union with his wife, his family was increaſed by a daughter, Anne, the eldeſt of his children, born July 29th, 1646.

When his apartments were no longer occupied by the gueſts, whom he had ſo generouſly received, he admitted more ſcholars; but their number was ſmall, and Philips imagines, that he was induced to withdraw himſelf from the buſineſs of education by a proſpect of being appointed adjutant general in Sir William Waller's army: whatever might have been the motive for his change of life, he quitted [94] his large houſe in Barbican for a ſmaller in Holborn, ‘among thoſe (ſays his nephew) that open backwards into Lincoln's Inn Fields,’ where he lived, according to the ſame author, in great privacy, and perpetually engaged in a variety of ſtudies.

Three years elapſed without any new publication from his pen; a ſilence which the various affecting occurrences in his family would naturally produce. In 1649 he publiſhed The Tenure of Kings and Magiſtrates; and in his ſummary account of his own writings, he relates the time and occaſion of this performance. He declares, that without any perſonal malevolence againſt the deceaſed monarch, who had been tried and executed before this publication appeared, it was written to compoſe the minds of the people, diſturbed by the duplicity and turbulence of certain preſbyterian miniſters, who affected to conſider the ſentence againſt the king as contrary to the principles of every proteſtant church, ‘a falſehood (ſays Milton) which, without inveighing againſt Charles, I refuted by the teſtimony of their moſt eminent theologians*.’

[95]His obſervations on the articles of peace between the Earl of Ormond and the Iriſh papiſts appeared in the ſame year; a performance that he probably thought too inconſiderable to enumerate in his own account of what he had publiſhed; it includes, however, ſome remarkably keen ſtrictures on a letter written by Ormond, to tempt Colonel Jones, the governor of Dublin, to deſert the Parliament, who had intruſted him with his command. Ormond, having imputed to the prevailing party in England a deſign to eſtabliſh a perfect Turkiſh tyranny, Milton, with great dexterity, turns the expreſſion againſt Ormond, obſerving, that the deſign of bringing in that tyranny is a monarchical deſign, and not of thoſe who have diſſolved monarchy. ‘Witneſs (ſays he) that conſultation had in the court of France, under Charles the IXth, at Blois, wherein Poncet, a certain court projector, brought in ſecretly by the chancellor Biragha, after many praiſes of the Ottoman government, propoſes ways and means at large, in the preſence of the king, the queen regent, and Anjou the king's brother, how, with beſt expedition and leaſt noiſe, the Turkiſh tyranny might be ſet up in France.’ I tranſcribe the paſſage as an example of Milton's applying hiſtorical anecdotes with peculiar felicity.

He now began to employ himſelf in one of the great works, with which he hoped to enrich his native language. The ſketch that he has drawn of himſelf and his ſtudies, at this period, is ſo intereſting and honourable, that it would [96] be injurious not to tranſlate the Latin expreſſions to which I allude.

*Thus (ſays Milton) as a private citizen, I gratuitouſly gave my aſſiſtance to the church and ſtate; on me, in return, they beſtowed only the common benefit of protection; but my conduct aſſuredly gave me a good conſcience, a good reputation among good men, and this honourable freedom of diſcourſe: others have been buſy in drawing to themſelves unmerited emoluments and honour; no one has ever beheld me ſoliciting any thing, either in perſon or by my friends; I have confined myſelf much at home; and by my own property, though much of it has been withheld from me in this civil tumult, I have ſupported life, however ſparingly, and paid a tax impoſed upon me, not in the moſt equitable proportion.

‘Having now a proſpect of abundant leiſure, I directed my ſtudies to the hiſtory of my country, which I began from its remoteſt ſource, and intended to bring down, if poſſible, in a regular proceſs, to the preſent times. I [97] had executed four books, when, on the ſettlement of the republic, the council of ſtate, then firſt eſtabliſhed by the authority of parliament, called me moſt unexpectedly to its ſervice, and wiſhed to employ me chiefly in its foreign concerns.’ It has not yet, I believe, been aſcertained to whom Milton was particularly indebted for a public appointment. ‘He was (ſays Wood) without any ſeeking of his, by the endeavours of a private acquaintance, who was a member of the new council of ſtate, choſen Latin ſecretary.’ The new council conſiſted of thirty-nine members, including two perſons, whom we may ſuppoſe equally inclined to promote the intereſt of Milton; theſe were Serjeant Bradſhaw and Sir Harry Vane the younger: it ſeems probable that he owed his ſtation of ſecretary to the former, ſince, in his Second Defence, he mentions him as a friend entitled to his particular regard, and draws his character in colours ſo vivid, that the portrait may be thought worthy of preſervation, even by thoſe who have no eſteem for the original.

The character of a man ſo extraordinary, derived from perſonal intimacy, and delineated by a hand ſo powerful, can hardly fail to be intereſting; yet it becomes ſtill more ſo, if we conſider it as a monument of Milton's gratitude to the friend who fixed him in that public ſtation, which gave ſignal exerciſe to the energy of his mind, and firſt made him, as a Latin writer, the admiration of Europe.

Whatever influence gratitude might have on the deſcription, and however different the ideas may be, that are commonly entertained of Bradſhaw, the eulogy beſtowed on him [98] by Milton was certainly ſincere; for though not frugal of his praiſe, yet ſuch was his probity, that it may, I think, be fairly proved, he never beſtowed a particle of applauſe where he did not think it deſerved; a point that I hope to eſtabliſh, by refuting, in the courſe of this narrative, the charge of ſervile flattery, which he is falſely accuſed of having laviſhed upon Cromwell.

To praiſe, indeed, appears to have been an occupation peculiarly ſuited to his ſpirit, which was naturally ſanguine, free from the gloom of ſarcaſtic melancholy, and ever ready to glow with affectionate enthuſiaſm. His character of Bradſhaw may illuſtrate this remark; it is written with peculiar elegance and affection; the following portion of it will be ſufficient to ſhew, not only the fervency of his friendſhip, but his facility and force of pencil in the delineation of character*.

He had, united to the knowledge of law, a liberal diſpoſition, an elevated mind, and irreproachable integrity of [99] morals, neither gloomy nor ſevere, but courteous and mild.

In public councils and labours he is the moſt indefatigable of men, and alone equal to many; in his houſe he, if any man, may be eſteemed hoſpitable and ſplendid, in proportion to his fortune; as a friend faithful in the higheſt degree, and moſt ſurely to be depended upon in every emergency; no man ſooner or more freely acknowledges merit, wherever it may be found; no man rewards it with greater benevolence; he raiſes from indigence at his own coſt, ſometimes men of piety, learning, and talents, ſometimes thoſe brave military men, whoſe proſperity has not been equal to their valour: ſuch perſons, if they are not indigent, he ſtill honours with his regard; it is his nature to proclaim the deſert of others, and to be ſilent on his own.

If the cauſe of any one under oppreſſion is to be openly defended, if the influence or authority of men in power is to be oppoſed, if the ingratitude of the public towards any individual of merit is to be reproved, no want will be found in this man, either of eloquence or courage; nor can any ſufferer wiſh to find, on ſuch occaſions, a patron and a friend more ſuited to his neceſſities, more reſolute, or more accompliſhed; he already poſſeſſes ſuch a friend, and ſuch a patron as no menaces can drive from the line of rectitude, whom neither terrors nor bribes can divert from the duty he is purſuing, or ſhake from his ſettled firmneſs of mind and countenance.

[100]A writer of a ſanguine imagination, who delineates a public character he admires in the glowing colours of affection, has rarely the good fortune to find the perſonage whom he has praiſed acting in perfect conformity to his panegyric; but Milton, in one particular circumſtance, had this rare felicity, in regard to the friend whom he ſo fervently commended; for Bradſhaw reſiſted the tyrannical orders of Cromwell, in the plenitude of his power, with ſuch firmneſs, that we might almoſt ſuppoſe him animated by a deſire to act up to the letter of the eulogy, with which he had been honoured by the eloquence and the eſteem of Milton. This will ſufficiently appear by the following anecdote in Ludlow's Memoirs, who, after ſpeaking of Oliver's uſurpation, and the univerſal terror he inſpired, relates how he himſelf was ſummoned, with Bradſhaw, Sir Henry Vane, and colonel Rich, to appear before the uſurper in council. ‘Cromwell (ſays Ludlow) as ſoon as he ſaw the lord preſident, required him to take out a new commiſſion for his office of chief juſtice of Cheſter, which he refuſed, alledging that he held that place by a grant from the parliament of England, to continue, 'quamdiu ſe bene geſſerit;' and whether he had carried himſelf with that integrity, which his commiſſion exacted, he was ready to ſubmit to a trial by twelve Engliſhmen, to be choſen even by Cromwell himſelf.’

This oppoſition to the uſurper was aſſuredly magnanimous, and the more ſo as Bradſhaw perſiſted in it, and actually went his circuit as chief juſtice without paying any regard to what Cromwell had required. The odium which [101] the preſident juſtly incurred in the trial of Charles ſeems to have prevented even our liberal hiſtorians from recording with candour the great qualities he poſſeſſed: he was undoubtedly not only an intrepid but a ſincere enthuſiaſt in the cauſe of the commonwealth. His diſcourſe on his death-bed is a ſanction to his ſincerity; he regarded it as meritorious to have pronounced ſentence on his king, in thoſe awful moments when he was paſſing himſelf to the tribunal of his God. Whatever we may think of his political tenets, let us render juſtice to the courage and the conſiſtency with which he ſupported them.—The mind of Milton was in uniſon with the high-toned ſpirit of this reſolute friend, and we ſhall ſoon ſee how little ground there is to accuſe the poet of ſervility to Cromwell; but we have firſt to notice the regular ſeries of his political compoſitions.

Soon after his public appointment, he was requeſted by the council to counteract the effect of the celebrated book, entitled, Icon Baſilike, the Royal Image, and in 1649 he publiſhed his Iconoclaſtes, the Image Breaker. The ſagacity of Milton enabled him to diſcover, that the pious work imputed to the deceaſed king was a political artifice to ſerve the cauſe of the royaliſts; but as it was impoſſible for him to obtain ſuch evidence to detect the impoſition as time has ſince produced, he executed a regular reply to the book, as a real production of the king, intimating at the ſame time his ſuſpicion of the fraud.

This reply has recently drawn on the name of Milton much liberal praiſe, and much injurious obloquy, A Scottiſh [102] critic of great eminence, Lord Monboddo, has celebrated the opening of the Iconoclaſtes as a model of Engliſh proſe, or, to uſe his own juſt expreſſions, ‘a ſpecimen of noble and manly eloquence.’ Johnſon, from the ſame work, takes occaſion to inſinuate, that Milton was a diſhoneſt man. A charge ſo ſerious, and from a moraliſt who profeſſed ſuch an attachment to truth, deſerves ſome diſcuſſion. ‘As faction (ſays the unfriendly biographer) ſeldom leaves a man honeſt, however it might find him, Milton is ſuſpected of having interpolated the book called Icon Baſilike, by inſerting a prayer taken from Sidney's Arcadia, and imputing it to the king, whom he charges, in his Iconoclaſtes, with the uſe of this prayer as with a heavy crime, in the indecent language with which proſperity had emboldened the advocates for rebellion to inſult all that is venerable and great.’

A ſimple queſtion will ſhow the want of candour in this attempt to impeach the moral credit of Milton. By whom is he ſuſpected of this diſhoneſty? His ſevere biographer ſinks the name of his own old and diſhonourable aſſociate in depreciating Milton, and does not inform us that it was the infamous Lauder, who, having failed to blaſt the reputation of the poet, with equal impotence and fury purſued his attack againſt the probity of the man in an execrable pamphlet entitled ‘King Charles the Firſt vindicated from the Charge of Plagiariſm brought againſt him by Milton, and Milton himſelf convicted of Forgery.’ Inſtead of naming Lauder, who perſiſted in trying to ſubſtantiate this moſt improbable charge, Johnſon would inſidiouſly lead us to believe, that [103] the reſpectable Dr. Birch ſupported it, though Birch, who had indeed printed, in the appendix to his Life of Milton, the idle ſtory which Lauder urges as a proof of Milton's impoſture, had properly rejected that ſtory from the improved edition of his work, and honourably united with another candid biographer of the poet, the learned biſhop of Briſtol, in declaring that ‘ſuch contemptible evidence is not to be admitted againſt a man, who had a ſoul above being guilty of ſo mean an action.’

There are ſome calumnies ſo utterly deſpicable and abſurd, that to refute them elaborately is almoſt a diſgrace: did not the calumny I am now ſpeaking of belong to this deſcription, it might be here obſerved, that a writer who publiſhed remarks on Johnſon's Life of Milton, in which the aſperity of that biographer is oppoſed with ſuperior aſperity, has proved, with new arguments, the futility of the charge in queſtion. Inſtead of repeating theſe, let me obſerve, that the attempt of Johnſon to revive a baſe and ſufficiently refuted imputation againſt the great author whoſe life he was writing, is one of the moſt extraordinary proofs that literature can exhibit how far the virulence of political hatred may pervert a very powerful mind, even a mind which makes moral truth its principal purſuit, and aſſiduouſly labours to be juſt. This remark is not made in enmity to Johnſon, but to ſhew how cautious the moſt cultivated underſtanding ſhould be in watching the influence of any hoſtile prejudice. Milton himſelf may be alſo urged as an example to enforce the ſame caution; for though he was certainly no impoſtor in imputing the prayer in queſtion to [104] the king, yet his conſidering the king's uſe of it as an offence againſt heaven, is a pitiable abſurdity; an abſurdity as glaring as it would be to affirm, that the divine poet is himſelf profane in aſſigning to a ſpeech of the Almighty, in his poem, the two following verſes:

Son of my boſom, ſon who art alone
My word, my wiſdom, and effectual might—

Becauſe they are partly borrowed from a line in Virgil, addreſſed by a heathen goddeſs to her child: ‘Nate, meae vires, mea magna potentia ſolus.’

The heat of political animoſity could thus throw a miſt over the bright intellects of Milton; yet his Iconoclaſtes, taken all together, is a noble effort of manly reaſon; it uncanonized a fictitious ſaint, who aſſuredly had no pretenſion to the title.

Having thus ſignalized himſelf as the literary antagoniſt of Charles, when the celebrated Salmaſius was hired to arraign the proceedings of England againſt him, every member of the Engliſh council turned his eyes upon Milton as the man from whoſe ſpirit and eloquence his country might expect the moſt able vindication. In 1651, he publiſhed his defence of the people, the moſt elaborate of all his Latin compoſitions; the merits and defects of this ſignal performance might be moſt properly diſcuſſed in a preliminary diſcourſe to the proſe works of Milton; here I ſhall only remark, that in the compoſition of it he gave the moſt ſingular [105] proof of genuine public ſpirit that ever patriot had occaſion to diſplay; ſince, at the time of his engaging in this work, the infirmity in his eyes was ſo alarming, that his phyſicians aſſured him he muſt inevitably loſe them if he perſiſted in his labour. "On this occaſion," (ſays Milton to a ſavage antagoniſt, who had reproached him with blindneſs) *I reflected that many had purchaſed with a ſuperior evil a lighter good, glory with death; to me, on the contrary, greater good was propoſed with an inferior evil; ſo that, by incurring blindneſs alone, I might fulfil the moſt honourable of all duties, which, as it is a more ſolid advantage than glory itſelf, ought to be more eligible in the eſtimation of every man; I reſolved therefore to make what ſhort uſe I might yet have of my eyes as conducive as poſſible to public utility: you ſee what I preferred, and what I loſt, with the principle on which I acted; let ſlanderers therefore ceaſe to talk irreverently on the judgment of God, and to make me the ſubject of their fictions; let them know that I am far from conſidering my lot with [106] ſorrow or repentance; that I perſiſt immovable in my ſentiment; that I neither fancy nor feel the anger of God, but, on the contrary, experience and acknowledge his paternal clemency and kindneſs in my moſt important concerns, in this eſpecially, that, by the comfort and confirmation which he himſelf infuſes into my ſpirit, I acquieſce in his divine pleaſure, continually conſidering rather what he has beſtowed upon me, than what he has denied. Finally, that I would not exchange the conſciouſneſs of my own conduct for their merit, whatever it may be, or part with a remembrance, which is to my own mind a perpetual ſource of tranquillity and ſatisfaction.’

Whenever he is induced to mention himſelf, the purity and vigour of Milton's mind appear in full luſtre, whether he ſpeaks in verſe or in proſe: the preceding paſſage from his Second Defence is conſonant to the ſonnet on his blindneſs, addreſſed to Syriac Skinner, which, though different critics have denied the author to excel in this minute ſpecies of compoſition, has hardly been ſurpaſſed; it deſerves double praiſe for energy of expreſſion and heroiſm of ſentiment.

Cyriac, this three-years day theſe eyes, tho' clear
To outward view of blemiſh or of ſpot,
Bereft of ſight their ſeeing have forgot,
Nor to their idle orbs does day appear,
Or ſun, or moon, or ſtar, throughout the year,
Or man or woman; yet I argue not
Againſt Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate one jot,
[107]Of heart or hope, but ſtill bear up and ſteer
Right onward. What ſupports me doſt thou aſk?
The conſcience, friend, to have loſt them over-ply'd
In liberty's defence, my noble taſk,
Of which all Europe talks from ſide to ſide:
This thought might lead me thro' the world's vain maſk
Content, tho' blind, had I no better guide.

The ambition of Milton was as pure as his genius was ſublime; his firſt object on every occaſion was to merit the approbation of his conſcience and his God; when this moſt important point was ſecured, he ſeems to have indulged the predominant paſſion of great minds, and to have exulted, with a triumph proportioned to his toil, in the celebrity he acquired: he muſt have been inſenſible indeed to public applauſe, had he not felt elated by the ſignal honours which were paid to his name in various countries, as the eloquent defender of the Engliſh nation. "*This I can truly affirm," (ſays Milton, in mentioning the reception of his great political performance) ‘that as ſoon as my defence of the people was publiſhed, and read with avidity, there was not, in our metropolis, any ambaſſador from any ſtate or ſovereign, who did not either congratulate me if we met by chance, or expreſs a deſire to receive me at his houſe, or viſit me at mine.’

[108]Toland relates, that he received from the parliament a preſent of a thouſand pounds for the defence. The author does not include this circumſtance among the many particulars he mentions of himſelf; and if ſuch a reward was ever beſtowed upon him, it muſt have been after the publication of his Second Defence, in which he affirms, that he was content with having diſcharged what he conſidered as an honourable public duty, without aiming at a pecuniary recompence; and that inſtead of having acquired the opulence with which his adverſary reproached him, he received not the ſlighteſt gratuity for that production*. Yet he appears to have been perfectly ſatisfied with the kindneſs of his aſſociates; for, in ſpeaking of his blindneſs, he ſays, that ‘far from being neglected on this account by the higheſt characters in the republic, they conſtantly regarded him with indulgence and favour, not ſeeking to deprive him either of diſtinction or emolument, though his powers of being uſeful were diminiſhed;’ hence he compares himſelf to an ancient Athenian, ſupported by a decree of honour at the expence of the public. Among the foreign compliments he received, the applauſe of [109] Chriſtina afforded him the higheſt gratification; for he regarded it as an honourable proof of what he had ever affirmed, that he was a friend to good ſovereigns, though an enemy to tyrants: he underſtood that the queen of Sweden had made this diſtinction in commending his book, and in the warmth of his gratitude he beſtowed on the northern princeſs a very ſplendid panegyric, of which the ſubſequent conduct of that ſingular and fantaſtic perſonage too clearly proved her unworthy; yet Milton cannot fairly be charged with ſervile adulation. Chriſtina, when he appeared as her eulogiſt, was the idol of the literary world. The candour with which ſhe ſpake as a queen on his defence of the people would naturally ſtrike the author as an engaging proof of her diſcernment and magnanimity; he was alſo gratified in no common degree by the coolneſs with which ſhe treated his adverſary; for Salmaſius, whom ſhe had invited to her court for his erudition, was known to have loſt her favour, when his literary arrogance and imbecility were expoſed and chaſtiſed by the indignant ſpirit or Milton. The wretched Salmaſius, indeed, was utterly overwhelmed in the encounter: he had quitted France, his native country, where he honourably diſdained to purchaſe a penſion by flattering the tyranny of Richlieu, and had ſettled in Leyden as an aſylum of liberty; he ſeemed, therefore, as one of his Pariſian correſpondents obſerved to him, ‘to cancel the merit of his former conduct by writing againſt England.’ Salmaſius was extravagantly vain, and truſted too much to his great reputation as a ſcholar; his antagoniſt, on the contrary, was ſo little known as a Latin writer before the [110] defence appeared, that ſeveral friends adviſed Milton not to hazard his credit againſt a name ſo eminent as that of Salmaſuis, Never did a literary conflict engage the attention of a wider circle; and never did victory declare more decidedly in favour of the party from whom the public had leaſt expectation. Perhaps no author ever acquired a more rapid and extenſive celebrity than Milton gained by this conteſt. Let us however remark, for the intereſt of literature, that the two combatants were both to blame in their reciprocal uſe of weapons utterly unworthy of the great cauſe that each had to ſuſtain; not content to wield the broad and bright ſword of national argument, they both deſcended to uſe the mean and envenomed dagger of perſonal malevolence. They have indeed great authorities of modern time to plead in their excuſe, not to mention the bitter diſputants or antiquity. It was the opinion of Johnſon, and Milton himſelf ſeems to have entertained the ſame idea, that it is allowable in literary contention to ridicule, vilify, and depreciate as much as poſſible the character of an opponent. Surely this doctrine is unworthy of the great names who have endeavoured to ſupport it, both in theory and practice; a doctrine not only morally wrong, but prudentially defective; for a malevolent ſpirit in eloquence is like a dangerous varniſh in painting, which may produce, indeed, a brilliant and forcible effect for a time, but ultimately injures the ſucceſs of the production; a remark that may be verified in peruſing the Latin proſe of Milton, where elegance of language and energy of ſentiment [111] ſuffer not a little from being blended with the tireſome aſperity of perſonal invective.

It is a pleaſing tranſition to return from his enemies to his friends. He had a mind and heart peculiarly alive to the duties and delights of friendſhip, and ſeems to have been peculiarly happy in this important article of human life. In ſpeaking of his blindneſs, he mentions, in the moſt intereſting manner, the aſſiduous and tender attention, which he received on that occaſion from his friends in general; ſome of them he regarded as not inferior in kindneſs to Theſeus and Pylades, the ancient demigods of amity. We have loſt, perhaps, ſome little poems that flowed from the heart of Milton, by their being addreſſed to perſons who, in the viciſſitudes of public fortune, were ſuddenly plunged into obſcurity with the honours they had received. Some of his ſonnets that we poſſeſs did not venture into public till many years after the death of their author for political reaſons; others might be concealed from the ſame motive, and in ſuch concealment they might eaſily periſh. I can hardly believe that he never addreſſed a verſe to Bradſhaw, whom we have ſeen him praiſing ſo eloquently in proſe; and among thoſe whom he mentions with eſteem in his Latin works, there is a leſs known military friend, who ſeems ſtill more likely to have been honoured with ſome tribute of the poet's affection, that time and chance may have deſtroyed; I mean his friend Overton, a ſoldier of eminence in the ſervice of the parliament, whom Milton deſcribes ‘as endeared to him through many years by the ſimilitude of their purſuits, by the ſweetneſs of his manners, [112] and by an intimacy ſurpaſſing even the union of brothers*.’ A character ſo highly and tenderly eſteemed by the poet has a claim to the attention of his biographer. Overton is commended by the frank ingenuous Ludlow as a brave and faithful officer; he is alſo ridiculed in a ballad of the royaliſts as a religious enthuſiaſt. He had a gratuity of 300l. a year conferred on him for his bravery by the parliament, and had riſen to the rank of a major general. Cromwell, apprehenſive that Overton was conſpiring againſt his uſurpation, firſt impriſoned him in the tower, and afterwards confined him in the iſland of Jerſey. A letter, in which Marvel relates to Milton his having preſented to the Protector at Windſor a recent copy of the Second Defence, expreſſes at the ſame time an affectionate curioſity concerning the buſineſs of Overton, who was at that time juſt brought to London by a myſterious order of Cromwell. He did not eſcape from confinement till after the death of Oliver, when, in conſequence of a petition from his ſiſter to the parliament, he obtained his releaſe. Soon after the reſtoration, he was again impriſoned in the Tower with Colonel Deſborow, on a rumour of their being concerned in a treaſonable commotion; but as that rumour ſeems to have been a political device of the royaliſts, contrived to ſtrengthen the new government, he probably regained his freedom, though we know not how his active days were concluded. The anxiety and anguiſh that Milton muſt have indured in the various calamities to which his friends [113] were expoſed on the viciſſitude of public affairs, formed, I apprehend, the ſevereſt ſufferings of his extraordinary life, in which genius and affliction ſeem to have contended for pre-eminence.

Some traces of the ſufferings I allude to, though myſteriouſly veiled, are yet viſible in his poetry, and will be noticed hereafter. Not to anticipate the ſevereſt evil of his deſtiny, let me now ſpeak of a foreign friend, in whoſe lively regard he found only honour and delight, On the publication of his defence, Leonard Philaras, a native of Athens, who had diſtinguiſhed himſelf in Italy, and riſen to the rank of envoy from the duke of Parma to the court of France, conceived a flattering deſire to cultivate the friendſhip of Milton. With this view he ſent him his portrait, with very engaging letters, and the higheſt commendation of the recent defence. The reply of Milton is remarkable for its elegance and ſpirit; after thanking his correſpondent for preſents ſo agreeable, he ſays, *If [114] Alexander in the midſt of his martial toil confeſſed, that he laboured but to gain an eulogy from Athens, I may think myſelf fortunate indeed, and eſteem it as the higheſt honour, to be thus commended by the man in whom alone the genius and virtue of the ancient Athenians ſeem, after ſo long an interval, to revive and flouriſh. As your city has produced many moſt eloquent men, I am perfectly willing to confeſs, that whatever proficiency I have made in literature is chiefly owing to my long and inceſſant ſtudy of their works. Had I acquired from them ſuch powers of language as might enable me to ſtimulate our fleets and armies to deliver Greece, the native ſeat of eloquence, from the tyranny of the Turks (a ſplendid enterprize, for which you almoſt ſeem to implore our aſſiſtance) I would aſſuredly do what would then be among the firſt objects of my deſire; for what did the braveſt or moſt eloquent men of antiquity conſider as more glorious or more worthy of themſelves, than by perſuaſive language or bold exploits to render the Greeks free, and their own legiſlators.’ He cloſes his letter by obſerving very juſtly, that ‘it is firſt neceſſary to kindle in the minds of the modern Greeks the ſpirit and virtue of their anceſtors,’ (politely adding) that ‘if this could be accompliſhed by any man, it might be moſt reaſonably [115] expected from the patriotic enthuſiaſm, and the experience, civil and military, of his accompliſhed correſpondent.’ This letter is dated June, 1652. Milton had ſoon afterwards the gratification of a viſit from this liberal Athenian, who took ſo tender an intereſt in the blindneſs of his friend, that, on his return to Paris, he wrote to him on the ſubject. The following anſwer of Milton relates the particulars of his diſorder, and ſhews at the ſame time with what cheerful magnanimity he ſupported it.

*To Leonard Philaras.

As I have cheriſhed from my childhood (if ever mortal did) a reverential fondneſs for the Grecian name, and [116] for your native Athens in particular, ſo have I continually perſuaded myſelf, that at ſome period I ſhould receive from that city a very ſignal return for my benevolent regard: nor has the ancient genius of your moſt noble country ſailed to realize my preſage; he has given me in you an Attic brother, and one moſt tenderly attached to me. Though I was known to you only by my writings, and though your reſidence was far diſtant from mine, you firſt addreſſed me in the moſt engaging terms by letter; and afterwards coming unexpectedly to London, and viſiting the ſtranger, who had no eyes to ſee you, continued your kindneſs to me under that calamity, which can render me a more eligible friend [117] to no one, and to many, perhaps, may make me an object of diſregard.

Since, therefore, you requeſt me not to reject all hope of recovering my ſight, as you have an intimate friend at Paris, in Thevenot the phyſician, who excels particularly in relieving ocular complaints, and whom you wiſh to conſult concerning my eyes, after receiving from me ſuch an account as may enable him to underſtand the ſource and ſymptoms of my diſorder, I will certainly follow your kind ſuggeſtion, that I may not appear to reject aſſiſtance thus offered me, perhaps providentially.

It is about ten years, I think, ſince I perceived my ſight to grow weak and dim, finding at the ſame time my inteſtines afflicted with flatulence and oppreſſion.

Even in the morning, if I began as uſual to read, my eyes immediately ſuffered pain, and ſeemed to ſhrink from reading, but, after ſome moderate bodily exerciſe, were refreſhed; whenever I looked at a candle I ſaw a ſort of iris around it. Not long afterwards, on the left ſide of my left eye (which began to fail ſome years before the other) a darkneſs aroſe, that hid from me all things on that ſide;—if I chanced to cloſe my right eye, whatever was before me ſeemed diminiſhed.—In the laſt three years, as my remaining eye failed by degrees ſome months before my ſight was utterly gone, all things that I could diſcern, though I moved not myſelf, appeared to ſluctate, now to the right, now to the left. Obſtinate vapours ſeem to have ſettled all over my forehead and my temples, overwhelming my eyes with a ſort of ſleepy heavineſs, eſpecially after food, till the [118] evening; ſo that I frequently recollect the condition of the prophet Phineus in the Argonautics:

Him vapours dark
Envelop'd, and the earth appeared to roll
Beneath him, ſinking in a lifeleſs trance.

But I ſhould not omit to ſay, that while I had ſome little ſight remaining, as ſoon as I went to bed, and reclined on either ſide, a copious light uſed to dart from my cloſed eyes; then, as my ſight grew daily leſs, darker colours ſeemed to burſt forth with vehemence, and a kind of internal noiſe; but now, as if every thing lucid were extinguiſhed, blackneſs, either abſolute or chequered, and interwoven as it were with aſh-colour, is accuſtomed to pour itſelf on my eyes; yet the darkneſs perpetually before them, as well during the night as in the day, ſeems always approaching rather to white than to black, admitting, as the eye rolls, a minute portion of light as through a crevice.

Though from your phyſician ſuch a portion of hope alſo may ariſe, yet, as under an evil that admits no cure, I regulate and tranquilize my mind, often reflecting, that ſince the days of darkneſs allotted to each, as the wiſe man reminds us, are many, hitherto my darkneſs, by the ſingular mercy of God, with the aid of ſtudy, leiſure, and the kind converſation of my friends, is much leſs oppreſſive than the deadly darkneſs to which he alludes. For if, as it is written, man lives not by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God, why ſhould not a [119] man acquieſce even in this? not thinking that he can derive light from his eyes alone, but eſteeming himſelf ſufficiently enlightened by the conduct or providence of God.

As long, therefore, as he looks forward, and provides for me as he does, and leads me backward and forward by the hand, as it were, through my whole life, ſhall I not cheerfully bid my eyes keep holiday, ſince ſuch appears to be his pleaſure? But whatever may be the event of your kindneſs, my dear Philaras, with a mind not leſs reſolute and firm than if I were Lynceus himſelf, I bid you farewell.

*

Leonardo Philarae Atheniena.

Cum ſim a pueritia totius Graeci nominis, tuam umque in primis Athenarum cultor, ſi quis alius, tum una hoc ſemper mihi perſuaſiſſimum habebam, ſore ut illa urbs praeclaram aliquando redd [...]tura vicem eſſet benevolentiae erga ſe m [...]e. Neque defuit ſane tuae patriae nob [...]i [...]ſſim [...] antiquus ille genius aug urio meo; deditque te nobis et germanum Atticum et noſtri amantiſſimum; qui me, ſcriptis duntaxat notum, et locis ipſe disjunctus, humaniſſime per literas compeliens et Londinum poſt [...]a inopinatus adveniens, viſenſque non videntem, etiam in ea calamitate, propter quam conſpectior nemini, deſpect [...]or multis fortaſſis ſin [...], eadem benevolentia proſequaris. Cum itaque author mihi ſi [...], ut viſus recup [...]tandi ſp [...]in omnem ne abjiciam, habere te amicum a [...] neceſſarium tuum Pariſ [...]is Tevenotum medi [...]um, in curandis praeſertim oculis praeſtantiſſimum, quem ſis de nicis lu [...]nbus conſulturus, ſi modo acceperis a me unde is cauſas morbi et ſymtomata poſſit intelligere; ſaciam equidem quod hortaris, ne oblatam undecunque divinitus fortaſſis opem repudiare videar. Decennium, opinor, plus minus eſt, ex quo debilitari atque hebeſcere vitum ſenſi, eodemque tempore lumen, viſc [...]raque om [...]a gravari, flatibuſque vexari; et mane quid [...]r [...], ſi quid pro more legere [...]piſſem, oculi ſtatim penitus dolere, lectionemque refugere, poſt medio [...]r [...]m deinde corp [...]i [...] exercitationem recreari; quam aſp [...]xiſſ [...]m luce [...]nam, i [...]is quaedam viſa eſt redimere: [...]aud ita multo poſt ſiniſtrâ in parte oculi ſiniſtri (is enim oculus aliquot annis prius altera nubilavit) caligo obo [...]ta, quae ad latus illud ſita erant, omnia e [...]pi [...]bat. Anteriora quoque, ſi dexterum forte oculum clauſiſſem, minora viſa ſunt. Deſiciente per hoc fere triennium ſenſim atque paulatim alte [...]o quoque lumine, aliquot ante menſibus quam viſus omnis aboleretur, quae immotus ipſe cernerem, viſa ſunt oninia nunc dextrorſum, nunc ſiniſtrorſum natare; front [...]m totam atque tempora invete [...]ati quidem vapores videntur inſediſſe; qui ſomnol [...]ntà qu [...]d [...]m gravitate oculos, a cibo praeſertim uſque ad veſper [...]m, plerum qu [...] urgent atque deprimun [...]; ut mihi haud raro veniat in mentem Salmydeſſii vatis Phinci in Argonauticis:
[...]
[...]
[...].
Sed neque illud omiſerim, dum adhuc viſùs aliquantulum ſaperrat, ut primum in lecto decubuiſſem meque in alter utrum latus reclinaſſem, conſueviſle copioſam lumen clauſis oculis [...]micare; d [...]inde, imminuto indies viſu, colores perinde obſcuriores cum impetu et fragore quodam intimo exilire; nunc autem, quaſi extincto lucido, merus nigror, aut cineraceo diſtinctus, et quaſi intextus ſolet ſe aſſun ſere: caligo tamen quae perpetuo obſervatur, tam noctu, quam interdiu albenti ſemper quam nigricanti proprior videtur; et volvente ſe oculo aliquantulum lucis quaſi per rimulam admittit. Ex quo tam [...]tſi medico tantundem quoque ſp [...]i poſſi [...] clucere, tamen ut in re plane inſanabili ita me paro atque compono; illudque ſaepe cogito, cum d [...]ſtinati cuiqu [...]di [...]s tenebrarum, quod monet ſapiens multi ſint, meas adhuc tenebras, ſingulari numinis benignitate, inter otium et ſtudia, veceſqu [...] amicorum, et ſalutationes, illis le [...]halibus multo eſſe mitiores. Quod ſi, ut ſcriptum eſt, non ſolo pane vivit homo, ſed omni verbo prodeunte per os Dei, quid eſt, cur quis in hoc itidem non acquieſeat, non ſolis ſe oculis, ſed Dei ductu an providenti [...]e ſatis oculatum eſſe. Sanc duminodo ipſe mihi proſpicit, ipſe mihi providet, quod f [...]cit, meque p [...]r onmem vitam quaſi manu ducit atque deducit, ae ego meos ocul [...]s, quandoquidem ipſi ſic viſum eſt, libens feriari juſſero. Teque, mi Phila [...], quocunque res eccidit, non minus ſorti et con [...]irmato animo, quam ſi Lynceus eſſem, valere jubio.
Proſe Works, Vol. II. p. 577.

We have no reaſon to imagine that Milton received any kind of medical benefit from the friendly intention of this amiable foreigner. Strange as the idea may at firſt appear, perhaps it was better for him, as a man and as a poet, to remain without a cure; for his devout tenderneſs and energy of mind had ſo far converted his calamity into a bleſſing, that it ſeems rather to have promoted than obſtructed both the happineſs of his life and the perfection of his genius. We have ſeen, in the admirable ſonnet on his blindneſs, how his reflections on the conſcientious labour by which he loſt his eyes gave a dignified ſatisfaction to his ſpirit. In one of his proſe works he expreſſes a ſentiment on the ſame ſubject, that ſhews, in the moſt ſtriking point of view, the meekneſs and ſublimity of his devotion. He exults in his misfortune, and feels it endeared to him by the perſuaſion, that to be blind is to be placed more immediately [120] under the conduct and providence of God*: when regarded in this manner, it could not fail to quicken and invigorate his mental powers. Blindneſs, indeed, without the aid of religious enthuſiaſm, has a natural tendency to favour that undiſturbed, intenſe, and continual meditation, which works of magnitude require. Perhaps we ſometimes include in the catalogue of diſadvantages the very circumſtances that have been partly inſtrumental in leading extraordinary men to diſtinction. In examining the lives of illuſtrious ſcholars we may diſcover, that many of them aroſe to glory by the impulſe of perſonal misfortune; Bacon and Pope were deformed; Homer and Milton were blind.

It has been frequently remarked, that the blind are generally cheerful; it is not therefore marvellous that Milton was very far from being diſpirited by the utter extinction of his ſight; but his unconquerable vigour of mind was ſignally diſplayed in continuing to labour under all the pains and inconveniencies of approaching blindneſs, a ſtate peculiarly unfavourable to mental exertion.

[121]From the very eloquent preface to his Defence we learn, that while he was engaged on that compoſition, and eager to throw into it all the force of his exalted mind, ‘his infirmity obliged him to work only by ſtarts, and ſcarce to touch, in ſhort periods of ſtudy broken by hourly interruptions, what he wiſhed to purſue with continued application*.’ In this moſt uneaſy and perilous labour he exerted his failing eyes to the utmoſt, and, to repeat his own triumphant expreſſion,

Loſt them overply'd
In liberty's defence.

His left eye became utterly blind in 1651, the year in which the book that he alludes to was publiſhed, and he loſt the uſe of the other in 1654, the year in which he wrote concerning his blindneſs to his Athenian friend. In this interval he repeatedly changed his abode. As every ſpot inhabited by ſuch a man acquires a ſort of conſecration in the fancy of his admirers, I ſhall here tranſcribe from his nephew the particulars of his reſidence.

‘Firſt he lodged at one Thomſon's, next door to the Bull Head tavern at Charing Croſs, opening into th [...] [122] Spring Garden, which ſeems to have been only a lodging taken till his deſigned apartment in Scotland Yard was prepared for him; for hither he ſoon removed from the aforeſaid place, and here his third child, a ſon, was born, which, through the ill-uſage or bad conſtitution of an ill-choſen nurſe, died an infant. From this apartment, whether he thought it not healthy or otherwiſe convenient for his uſe, or whatever elſe was the reaſon, he ſoon after took a pretty garden-houſe in Petty France, in Weſtminſter, next door to the Lord Scudamore's, and opening into St. James's Park, where he remained no leſs than eight years, namely, from the year 1652 till within a few weeks of King Charles the Second's reſtoration.’

Philips alſo informs us, that while his uncle lodged at Thomſon's he was employed in reviſing and poliſhing the Latin work of his youngeſt nephew John, who, on the publication of a ſevere attack upon Milton, aſcribed to Bramhall, Biſhop of Derry, vindicated his illuſtrious relation, and ſatirized his ſuppoſed adverſary with a keenneſs and vehemence of invective, which induced, perhaps, ſome readers to ſuſpect that the performance was written entirely by Milton. The traces, however, of a young hand are evident in the work; and John Philips, at the time it appeared, 1652, was a youth of nineteen or twenty, eager (as he declares) to engage unſolicited in a compoſition, which, however abounding in juvenile defects, proves him attached to his country, and grateful to his friends.

[123]In 1654, Milton, now utterly blind, appeared again in the field of controverſy, firſt, in his Second Defence of the Engliſh People, and the following year in a defence of himſelf, "Autoris pro ſe Defenſio." The firſt of theſe productions is in truth his own vindication; it is the work in which he ſpeaks moſt abundantly of his own character and conduct; it diſplays that true eloquence of the heart, by which probity and talents are enabled to defeat the malevolence of an inſolent accuſer; it proves that the mind of this wonderful man united to the poetic imagination of Homer the argumentative energy of Demoſthenes.

It muſt however be allowed, that while Milton defended himſelf with the ſpirit of the Grecian orator, in imitating the eloquent Athenian he promiſcuouſly caught both his merits and defects. It is to be regretted, that theſe mighty maſters of rhetoric permitted ſo large an alloy of perſonal virulence to debaſe the dignity of national argument; yet as the great orators of an age more humanized are apt, we ſee, to be hurried into the ſame failing, we may conclude that it is almoſt inſeparable from the weakneſs of nature, and we muſt not expect to find, though we certainly ſhould endeavour to introduce, the charity of the Goſpel in political contention.

If the utmoſt acrimony of invective could in any caſe be juſtified, it might aſſuredly be ſo by the calumnies which hurried both Demoſthenes and Milton into thoſe intemperate expreſſions, which appear in their reſpective vindications like ſpecks of a meaner mineral in a maſs of the richeſt ore. The outrages that called forth the vindictive [124] thunders of the eloquent Athenian are ſufficiently known. The indignation of Milton was awakened by a Latin work, publiſhed at the Hague in 1652, entitled, "Regii Sanguinis Clamor ad Caelum;" The Cry of Royal Blood to Heaven. In this book all the bitter terms of abhorrence and reproach, with which the malignity of paſſion can diſhonour learning, were laviſhed on the eloquent defender of the Engliſh commonwealth. The ſecret author of this ſcurrility was Peter du Moulin, a Proteſtant divine, and ſon of a French author, whom the biographers of his own country deſcribe as a ſatiriſt without taſte and a theologian without temper. Though du Moulin ſeems to have inherited the acrimonious ſpirit of his father, he had not the courage to publiſh himſelf what he had written as the antagoniſt of Milton, but ſent his papers to Salmaſius, who entruſted them to Alexander More, a French proteſtant of Scotch extraction, and a divine, who agreed in his principles with the author of the manuſcript.

Moſt unfortunately for his own future comfort, More publiſhed, without a name, the work of Du Moulin, with a dedication to Charles the Second, under the ſignature of Ulac, the Dutch printer. He decorated the book with a portrait of Charles, and applied at the ſame time to Milton the Virgilian delineation of Polypheme:

Monſtrum horrendum inſorme ingens, cui lumen ademptum.
A monſtrous bulk deform'd, depriv'd of ſight.
DRYDEN.

[125] Never was a ſavage inſult more completely avenged; for Milton, having diſcovered that More was unqueſtionably the publiſher of the work, conſidered him as its author, which, according to legal maxims, he had a right to do, and in return expoſed, with ſuch ſeverity of reproof, the irregular and licentious life of his adverſary, that, loſing his popularity as a preacher, he ſeems to have been overwhelmed with public contempt.

There is a circumſtance hitherto unnoticed in this controverſy, that may be conſidered as a proof of Milton's independent and inflexible ſpirit. More having heard accidentally, from an acquaintance of the Engliſh author, that he was preparing to expoſe him as the editor of the ſcurrilous work he had publiſhed, contrived to make great intereſt in England, firſt, to prevent the appearance, and again, to ſoften the perſonal ſeverity of Milton's Second Defence. The Dutch ambaſſador endeavoured to prevail on Cromwell to ſuppreſs the work. When he found that this was impoſſible, he conveyed to Milton the letters of More, containing a proteſtation that he was not the author of the invective, which had given ſo much offence; the ambaſſador at the ſame time made it his particular requeſt to Milton, that, in anſwering the book, as far as it related to the Engliſh government, he would abſtain from all hoſtility againſt More.—Milton replied, ‘that no unbecoming words ſhould proceed from his pen;’ but his principles would not allow him to ſpare, at any private interceſſion, a public enemy of his country. Theſe particulars are collected from the laſt of our author's political treatiſes in Latin, the defence [126] of himſelf, and they form, I truſt, a favourable introduction to a refutation, which it is time to begin, of the ſevereſt and moſt plauſible charge, that the recent enemies of Milton have urged againſt him; I mean the charge of ſervility and adulation, as the ſycophant of an uſurper.

I will ſtate the charge in the words of his moſt bitter accuſer, and without abridgment, that it may appear in its full force:

Cromwell (ſays Johnſon) had now diſmiſſed the parliament, by the authority of which he had deſtroyed monarchy, and commenced monarch himſelf under the title of protector, but with kingly, and more than kingly, power.—That his authority was lawful never was pretended; he himſelf founded his right only in neceſſity: but Milton, having now taſted the honey of public employment, would not return to hunger and philoſophy, but, continuing to exerciſe his office under a manifeſt uſurpation, betrayed to his power that liberty which he had defended. Nothing can be more juſt than that rebellion ſhould end in ſlavery; that he who had juſtified the murder of the king for ſome acts, which to him ſeemed unlawful, ſhould now ſell his ſervices and his flatteries to a tyrant, of whom it was evident that he could do nothing lawful.

Let us obſerve, for the honour of Milton, that the paragraph, in which he is arraigned with ſo much rancour, contains a political dogma, that, if it were really true, might blaſt the glory of all the illuſtrious characters who are particularly endeared to every Engliſh heart. If nothing can be [127] more juſt than that rebellion ſhould end in ſlavery, why do we revere thoſe anceſtors, who contended againſt kings? why do we not reſign the privileges that we owe to their repeated rebellion? but the dogma is utterly unworthy of an Engliſh moraliſt; for aſſuredly we have the ſanction of truth, reaſon, and experience, in ſaying, that rebellion is morally criminal or meritorious, according to the provocation by which it is excited, and the end it purſues. This doctrine was ſupported even by a ſervant of the imperious Elizabeth. "Sir Thomas Smith" (ſays Milton in his Tenure of Kings and Magiſtrates) ‘a proteſtant and a ſtateſman, in his Commonwealth of England, putting the queſtion, whether it be lawful to riſe againſt a tyrant, anſwers, that the vulgar judge of it according to the event, and the learned according to the purpoſe of them that do it.’ Dr. Johnſon, though one of the learned, here ſhews not that candour which the liberal ſtateſman had deſcribed as the characteriſtic of their judgment. The biographer, uttering himſelf political tenets of the moſt ſervile complexion, accuſes Milton of ſervility; and, in his mode of uſing the words honey and hunger, falls into a petulant meanneſs of expreſſion, that too clearly diſcovers how cordially he deteſted him. But perhaps this deteſtation was the mere effect of political prejudice, the common but unchriſtian abhorrence that a vehement royaliſt thinks it virtue to harbour and to manifeſt againſt a republican. We might indeed eaſily believe that Johnſon's rancour againſt Milton was merely political, had he not appeared as the biographer of another illuſtrious republican; but when we find him repreſenting as honourable [128] in Blake the very principles and conduct which he endeavours to make infamous and contemptible in Milton, can we fail to obſerve, that he renders not the ſame juſtice to the heart of the great republican author which he had nobly rendered to the gallant admiral of the republic. To Blake he generouſly aſſigns the praiſe of intrepidity, honeſty, contempt of wealth, and love of his country. Aſſuredly theſe virtues were as eminent in Milton—and however different their lines in life may appear, the celebrated ſpeech of Blake to his ſeamen, "It is our buſineſs to hinder foreigners from fooling us," by which he juſtified his continuance in his poſt under Cromwell, is ſingularly applicable to Milton, who, as a ſervant engaged by the ſtate to conduct in Latin its foreign correſpondence, might think himſelf as ſtrongly bound in duty and honour as the juſtly applauded admiral, ‘to hinder his country from being fooled by foreigners.’ "But Milton," ſays his uncandid biographer, ‘continuing to exerciſe his office under a manifeſt uſurpation, betrayed to his power that liberty which he had defended.’ Was the uſurpation more manifeſt to Milton than to Blake? Or is it a deeper crime againſt liberty to write the Latin diſpatches, than to fight the naval battles of a nation under the controul of an uſurper? Aſſuredly not: nor had either Blake or Milton the leaſt intention of betraying that liberty, which was equally the darling idol of their elevated and congenial ſpirits; but in finding the learned and eloquent biographer of theſe two immortal worthies ſo friendly to the admiral, and ſo inimical [129] to the author, have we not reaſon to lament and reprove ſuch inconſiſtent hoſtility.

That the Latin ſecretary of the nation deſerved not this bitterneſs of cenſure for remaining in his office may be thought ſufficiently proved by the example of Blake.—If his conduct in this article required farther juſtification, we might recollect with the candid biſhop Newton, that the blameleſs Sir Matthew Hale, the favourite model of integrity, exerciſed under Cromwell the higher office of a judge; but the heavieſt charge againſt Milton is yet unanſwered, the charge of laviſhing the moſt ſervile adulation on the uſurper.

In replying to this moſt plauſible accuſation, let me be indulged in a few remarks, that may vindicate the credit not only of a ſingle poet but of all Parnaſſus. The poetical fraternity have been often accuſed of being ever ready to flatter; but the general charge is in ſome meaſure inconſiſtent with a knowledge of human nature. As poets, generally ſpeaking, have more ſenſibility and leſs prudence than other men, we ſhould naturally expect to find them rather diſtinguiſhed by abundance than by a want of ſincerity; when they are candidly judged, they will generally be found ſo; a poet indeed is as apt to applaud a hero as a lover is to praiſe his miſtreſs, and both, according to the forcible and true expreſſion of Shakeſpear, ‘Are of imagination all compact.’ [130] Their deſcriptions are more faithful to the acuteneſs of their own feelings than to the real qualities of the objects deſcribed. Paradoxical as it may ſound, they are often deficient in truth, in proportion to the exceſs of their ſincerity; the charm or the merit they celebrate is partly the phantom of their own fancy; but they believe it real, while they praiſe it as a reality; and as long as their belief is ſincere, it is unjuſt to accuſe them of adulation. Milton himſelf gives us an excellent touchſtone for the trial of praiſe in the following paſſage of his Areopagitica; ‘there are three principal things, without which all praiſing is but courtſhip and flattery; firſt, when that only is praiſed, which is ſolidly worth praiſe; next, when greateſt likelihoods are brought that ſuch things are truly and really in thoſe perſons to whom they are aſcribed; the other, when he who praiſes, by ſhewing that ſuch his actual perſuaſion is of whom he writes, can demonſtrate that he flatters not.’ If we try Milton by this his own equitable law, we muſt honourably acquit him of the illiberal charge that might almoſt be thought ſufficiently refuted by its apparent inconſiſtency with his elevated ſpirit.

Though in the temperate judgment of poſterity, Cromwell appears only a bold bad man, yet he dazzled and deceived his contemporaries with ſuch a ſtrong and continued blaze of real and viſionary ſplendor, that almoſt all the power and all the talents on earth ſeemed eager to pay him unſolicited homage: but I mean not to reſt the vindication of Milton on the prevalence of example, which, however high and dignified it might be, could never ſerve as a ſanction [131] for the man, to whom the rare union of ſpotleſs integrity with conſummate genius had given an elevation of character that no rank and no powers unſupported by probity could poſſibly beſtow; though all the potentates and all the literati of the world conſpired to flatter the uſurper, we might expect Milton to remain, like his own faithful Abdiel, ‘Unſhaken, unſeduc'd, unterrified.’ Aſſuredly he was ſo; and in praiſing Cromwell he praiſed a perſonage, whoſe matchleſs hypocriſy aſſumed before him a maſk that the arch apoſtate of the poet could not wear in the preſence of Abdiel, the maſk of affectionate zeal towards man, and of devout attachment to God; a maſk that Davenant has deſcribed with poetical felicity in the following couplet:

Diſſembled zeal, ambition's old diſguiſe,
The vizard in which fools outface the wiſe.

It was more as a faint than as an hero that Cromwell deluded the generous credulity of Milton; and, perhaps, the recollection of his having been thus deluded inſpired the poet with his admirable apology for Uriel deceived by Satan.

For neither man nor angel can diſcern
Hypocriſy, the only evil that walks
Inviſible, except to God alone,
By his permiſſive will, thro' heav'n and earth:
And oft, tho' wiſdom wake, ſuſpicion ſleeps
[132]At wiſdom's gate, and to ſimplicity
Reſigns her charge, while goodneſs thinks no ill
Where no ill ſeems.

That ſublime religious enthuſiaſm, which was the predominant characteriſtic of the poet, expoſed him particularly to be duped by the prime artifice of the political impoſtor, who was indeed ſo conſummate in the art of deception, that he occaſionally deceived the prudent unheated Ludlow and the penetrating inflexible Bradſhaw; nay, who carried his habitual deception to ſuch a length, that he is ſuppoſed, by ſome acute judges of human nature, to have been ultimately the dupe of his own hypocritical fervour, and to have thought himſelf, what he induced many to think him, the ſelected ſervant of God, expreſsly choſen to accompliſh wonders, not only for the good of his nation, but for the true intereſt of Chriſtendom.

Though Cromwell had aſſumed the title of Protector, when Milton in his ſecond defence ſketched a maſterly portrait of him (as we have ſeen he did of Bradſhaw in the ſame production) yet the new potentate had not, at this period, completely unveiled his domineering and oppreſſive character; on the contrary, he affected, with the greateſt art, ſuch a tender concern for the people; he repreſented himſelf, both in his public and private proteſtations, ſo perfectly free from all ambitious deſires, that many perſons, who poſſeſſed not the noble unſuſpecting ſimplicity of Milton, believed the Protector ſincere in declaring, that he reluctantly ſubmitted to the cares of government, merely for the ſettlement and [133] ſecurity of the nation. With a mind full of fervid admiration for his marvellous atchievements, and generally diſpoſed to give him credit for every upright intention, Milton hailed him as the father of his country, and delineated his character: if there were ſome particles of flattery in this panegyric, which, if we adhere to our author's juſt definition of flattery we cannot allow, it was completely purified from every cloud or ſpeck of ſervility by the moſt ſplendid and ſublime admonition that was ever given to a man poſſeſſed of great talents and great power by a genuine and dauntleſs friend, to whom talents and power were only objects of reverence, when under the real or fancied direction of piety and virtue.

"*Revere (ſays Milton to the Protector) the great expectation, the only hope, which our country now reſts upon [134] you—revere the ſight and the ſufferings of ſo many brave men, who, under your guidance, have fought ſo ſtrenuouſly for freedom—revere the credit we have gained in foreign nations—reflect on the great things they promiſe themſelves from our liberty, ſo bravely acquired; from our republic, ſo gloriouſly founded, which, ſhould it periſh like an abortion, muſt expoſe our country to the utmoſt contempt and diſhonour.

"Finally, revere yourſelf; and having ſought and ſuſtained every hardſhip and danger for the acquiſition of this liberty, let it not be violated by yourſelf, or impaired by others, in the ſmalleſt degree. In truth, it is impoſſible for you to be free yourſelf unleſs we are ſo; for it is the ordinance of nature, that the man who firſt invades the liberty of others muſt firſt loſe his own, and firſt feel himſelf a ſlave. This indeed is juſt. But if the very patron and tutelary angel of liberty, if he who is generally regarded as pre-eminent in juſtice, in ſanctity, and virtue; if he ſhould ultimately invade that liberty which he aſſerted himſelf, ſuch invaſion muſt indeed be pernicious and fatal, not only to himſelf, but to the general intereſt of piety and virtue. Truth, probity, and religion would then loſe the eſtimation [135] and confidence of mankind, the worſt of wounds, ſince the fall of our firſt parents, that could be inflicted on the human race. You have taken upon you a burthen of weight inexpreſſible; it will put to the ſevereſt perpetual teſt the inmoſt qualities, virtues, and powers of your heart and ſoul; it will determine whether there really exiſts in your character that piety, faith, juſtice, and moderation, for the ſake of which we believe you raiſed above others, by the influence of God, to this ſupreme charge.

"To direct three moſt powerful nations by your counſel, to endeavour to reclaim the people from their depraved inſtitutions to better conduct and diſcipline, to ſend forth into remoteſt regions your anxious ſpirit and inceſſant thoughts, to watch, to foreſee, to ſhrink from no labour, to ſpurn every allurement of pleaſure, to avoid the oſtentation of opulence and power, theſe are the arduous duties, in compariſon of which war itſelf is mere ſport; theſe will ſearch and prove you; they require, indeed, a man ſupported by the aſſiſtance of heaven, and almoſt admoniſhed and inſtructed by immediate intercourſe with God. Theſe and more I doubt not but you diligently revolve in your mind, and this in particular, by what methods you may be moſt able to accompliſh things of higheſt moment, and ſecure to us our liberty not only ſafe but enlarged."

If a private individual thus ſpeaking to a man of unbounded influence, whom a powerful nation had idolized and courted to aſſume the reins of government, can be called a flatterer, we have only to wiſh that all the flatterers of earthly power may be of the ſame complexion. The admonition [136] to the people, with which Milton concludes his ſecond defence, is by no means inferior in dignity and ſpirit to the advice he beſtowed on the protector. The great miſfortune of the monitor was, that the two parties, to whom he addreſſed his eloquent and patriotic exhortation, were neither of them ſo worthy of his counſel as he wiſhed them to be, and endeavoured to make them. For Cromwell, as his ſubſequent conduct ſufficiently proved, was a political impoſtor with an arbitrary ſoul; and as to the people, they were alternately the diſhonoured inſtruments and victims of licentiouſneſs and fanaticiſm. The protector, his adherents, and his enemies, to ſpeak of them in general, were as little able to reach the diſintereſted purity of Milton's principles, as they were to attain, and even to eſtimate, the ſublimity of his poetical genius. But Milton, who paſſionately loved his country, though he ſaw and lamented the various corruptions of his contemporaries, ſtill continued to hope, with the native ardour of a ſanguine ſpirit, that the maſs of the Engliſh people would be enlightened and improved. His real ſentiments of Cromwell, I am perſuaded, were theſe: he long regarded him as a perſon not only poſſeſſed of wonderful influence and ability, but diſpoſed to attempt, and likely to accompliſh, the pureſt and nobleſt purpoſes of policy and religion; yet often thwarted and embarraſſed in his beſt deſigns, not only by the power and machinations of the enemies with whom he had to contend, but by the want of faith, morality, and ſenſe in the motley multitude, whom he endeavoured to guide and govern. As religious enthuſiaſm was the predominant [137] characteriſtic of Milton, it is moſt probable that his fervid imagination beheld in Cromwell a perſon deſtined by heaven to reduce, if not to annihilate, what he conſidered as the moſt enormous grievance of earth, the prevalence of popery and ſuperſtition. The ſeveral humane and ſpirited letters which he wrote, in the name of Cromwell, to redreſs the injuries of the perſecuted proteſtants, who ſuffered in Piedmont, were highly calculated to promote, in equal degrees, his zeal for the purity of religion, and his attachment to the protector.

Yet great as the powers of Cromwell were to dazzle and delude, and willing as the liberal mind of Milton was to give credit to others for that pure public ſpirit, which he poſſeſſed himſelf, there is great reaſon to apprehend, that his veneration and eſteem for the protector were entirely deſtroyed by the treacherous deſpotiſm of his latter days. But however his opinion of Oliver might change, he was far from betraying liberty, according to Johnſon's ungenerous accuſation, by continuing to exerciſe his office; on the contrary, it ought to be eſteemed a proof of his fidelity to freedom, that he condeſcended to remain in an office, which he had received from no individual, and in which he juſtly conſidered himſelf as a ſervant of the ſtate. From one of his familiar letters, written in the year preceding the death of Cromwell, it is evident that he had no ſecret intimacy or influence with the protector; and that, inſtead of engaging in ambitious machinations, he confined himſelf as much as poſſible to the privacy of domeſtic life. Finally, on a full and fair review of all the intercourſe between Milton and [138] Cromwell, there is not the ſmalleſt ground to ſuſpect, that Milton ever ſpoke or acted as a ſycophant or a ſlave; he beſtowed, indeed, the moſt liberal eulogy, both in proſe and rhyme, upon the protector; but at a period when it was the general opinion, that the utmoſt efforts of panegyric could hardly equal the magnitude and the variety of the ſervices rendered to his country by the acknowledged hero and the fancied patriot; at a period when the eulogiſt, who underſtood the frailty of human nature, and foreſaw the temptations of recent power, might hope that praiſe ſo magnificent, united to the nobleſt advice, would prove to the ardent ſpirit of the protector the beſt preſervative againſt the delirium of tyranny. Theſe generous hopes were diſappointed; the deſpotic proceedings of Cromwell convinced his independent monitor, that he deſerved not the continued applauſe of a free ſpirit; and though the atchievements of the protector were ſo faſcinating, that poetical panegyrics encircled even his grave, yet Milton praiſed him no more, but after his deceaſe fondly hailed the revival of parliamentary independence, as a new dawning of God's providence on the nation. In contemplating theſe two extraordinary men together, the real lover of truth and freedom can hardly fail to obſerve the ſtriking contraſt of their characters; one was an abſolute model of falſe, and the other of true, grandeur. Mental dignity and public virtue were in Cromwell fictitious and deluſive; in Milton they were genuine and unchangeable; Cromwell ſhews the formidable wonders that courage and cunning can perform, with the aſſiſtance of fortune; Milton, the wonders, of a ſuperior [139] kind, that integrity and genius can accompliſh, in deſpight of adverſity and affliction.

An eager ſolicitude to vindicate a moſt noble mind from a very baſe and injurious imputation has led me to anticipate ſome public events. From theſe obſervations on the native and incorruptible independence of Milton's mind, let us return to the incidents of his domeſtic life.

Soon after his removal to his houſe in Weſtminſter, his fourth child, Deborah, was born, on the 2d of May, 1652. The mother, according to Philips, died in child-bed. The ſituation of Milton at this period was ſuch as might have depreſſed the mind of any ordinary man: at the age of forty-four he was left a widower, with three female orphans, the eldeſt about ſix years old, deformed in her perſon, and with an impediment in her ſpeech; his own health was very delicate; and with eyes that were rapidly ſinking into incurable blindneſs, he was deeply engaged in a literary conteſt of the higheſt importance. With what ſpirit and ſucceſs he triumphed over his political and perſonal enemies the reader is already informed. When theſe, in 1654, were all ſilenced and ſubdued by the irreſiſtible power of his ſuperior talents and probity, ‘he had leiſure again (ſays his nephew) for his own ſtudies and private deſigns.’

It ſeems to have been the habit of Milton to devote as many hours in every day to intenſe ſtudy as the mental faculties could bear, and to render ſuch conſtant exertion leſs oppreſſive to the mind, by giving variety to the objects of its application, engaging in different works of magnitude at the ſame time, that he might occaſionally relieve and inſpirit [140] his thoughts by a tranſition from one ſpecies of compoſition to another. If we may rely on the information of Philips, he now began to employ himſelf in this manner on three great works; a voluminous Latin Dictionary, a hiſtory of England, and an Epic poem; of the two laſt I ſhall ſpeak again, according to the order of their publication. The firſt and leaſt important, a work to which blindneſs was peculiarly unfavourable, was never brought to maturity, yet ſerved to amuſe this moſt diligent of authors, by a change of literary occupation, almoſt to the cloſe of his life. His collection of words amounted to three folios; but the papers, after his deceaſe, were ſo diſcompoſed and deficient (to uſe the expreſſion of his nephew) that the work could not be made fit for the preſs. They proved ſerviceable, however, to future compilers, and were uſed by thoſe who publiſhed the Latin Dictionary at Cambridge, in 1693.

Though he had no eyes to chuſe a ſecond wife, Milton did not long continue a widower. He married Catherine, the daughter of Captain Woodcock, a rigid ſectariſt, ſays Mr. Warton, of Hackney. This lady appears to have been the moſt tender and amiable of the poet's three wives, and ſhe is the only one of the three whom the muſe of Milton has immortalized with an affectionate memorial. Within the year of their marriage ſhe gave birth to a daughter, and very ſoon followed her infant to the grave. "Her huſband" (ſays Johnſon) ‘has honoured her memory with a poor ſonnet;’ an expreſſion of contempt, which only proves that the rough critic was unable to ſympathiſe with the [141] tenderneſs that reigns in the pathetic poetry of Milton: in the opening of this ſonnet;

Methought I ſaw my late eſpouſed ſaint
Brought to me, like Alceſtis, from the grave,
Whom Jove's great ſon to her glad huſband gave,
Reſcued from death by force, tho' pale and faint:

and in the latter part of it,

Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied ſight
Love, ſweetneſs, goodneſs, in her perſon ſhin'd
So clear, as in no face with more delight,
But O, as to embrace me ſhe inclin'd
I wak'd, ſhe fled, and day brought back my night.

Milton has equalled the mournful graces of Petrarch and of Camoens, who have each of them left a plaintive compoſition on a ſimilar idea. The curious reader, who may wiſh to compare the three poets on this occaſion, will find the ſimilarity I ſpeak of in the 79th ſonnet of Petrarch, and the 72d of Camoens.

The loſs of a wife ſo beloved, and the ſevere inthralment of his country under the increaſing deſpotiſm of Cromwell, muſt have wounded very deeply the tender and patriotic feelings of Milton. His variety of affliction from theſe ſources might probably occaſion his being ſilent, as an author, for ſome years. In 1655 he is ſuppoſed to have written a national manifeſto in Latin, to juſtify the war againſt Spain. From that time, when his defence of himſelf [142] alſo appeared, we know not of his having been engaged in any publication till the year 1659, excepting a political manuſcript of Sir Walter Raleigh, called the Cabinet Council, which he printed in 1658, with a brief advertiſement. What his ſentiments were concerning the laſt years of Cromwell, and the following diſtracted period, we have a ſtriking proof in one of his private letters, written not long after the death of the protector. In reply to his foreign friend Oldenburg (he ſays) * "I am very far from preparing a hiſtory of our commotions, as you ſeem to adviſe, for they are more worthy of ſilence than of panegyric; nor do we want a perſon with ability to frame an hiſtory of our troubles, but to give thoſe troubles a happy termination; for I ſympathiſe with you in the fear, that the enemies of our liberty and our religion, who are recently combined, may find us too much expoſed to their attack in theſe our civil diſſentions, or rather our fits of frenzy; they cannot, however, wound our religion more than we have done ourſelves by our own enormities." The intereſt of religion appears on every occaſion to have maintained its due aſcendency in the mind of Milton, and to have formed, through the whole courſe of his life, the primary object of his purſuit; it led him to publiſh, in 1659, two diſtinct treatiſes, the firſt on civil power in eccleſiaſtical cauſes; the ſecond, [143] on the likelieſt means to remove hirelings out of the church; performances which Johnſon preſumes to characterize by an expreſſion; not very conſonant to the ſpirit of Chriſtianity, repreſenting them as written merely to gratify the author's malevolence to the clergy; a coarſe reproach, which every bigot beſtows upon enlightened ſolicitude for the purity of religion, and particularly uncandid in the preſent caſe, becauſe the devout author has conſcientiouſly explained his own motives in the following expreſſions, addreſſed to the long parliament reſtored after the deceaſe of Cromwell.

"Of civil liberty I have written heretofore by the appointment, and not without the approbation, of civil power; of Chriſtian liberty I write now, which others long ſince having done with all freedom under heathen emperors, I ſhould do wrong to ſuſpect that I now ſhall with leſs under Chriſtian governors, and ſuch eſpecially as profeſs openly their defence of Chriſtian liberty; although I write this not otherways appointed or induced than by an inward perſuaſion of the Chriſtian duty, which I may uſefully diſcharge herein to the common Lord and Maſter of us all, and the certain hope of his approbation, firſt and chiefeſt to be ſought." Milton was not a being of that common and reptile claſs, who aſſume an affected devotion as the maſk of malignity. In addreſſing his ſecond treatiſe alſo to the Parliament, he deſcribes himſelf as a man under the protection of the legiſlative aſſembly, who had uſed, during eighteen years, on all occaſions to aſſert the juſt rights and freedom both of church and ſtate.

[144]Had he been conſcious of any baſe ſervility to Cromwell, he would certainly have abſtained from this manly aſſertion of his own patriotic integrity, which, in that caſe, would have been only ridiculous and contemptible. His opinions might be erroneous, and his ardent mind over heated; but no man ever maintained, with more ſteadineſs and reſolution, the native dignity of an elevated ſpirit, no man more ſedulouſly endeavoured to diſcharge his duty both to earth and heaven.

In February 1659, he publiſhed The ready and eaſy Way to eſtabliſh a Free Commonwealth, a work not approved even by republican writers: I will only make one obſervation upon it: the motto to this performance ſeems to diſplay the juſt opinion that Milton entertained concerning the tyranny of Cromwell;

—et nos,
Conſilium Syllae dedimus, demus populo nunc.

—e'en we have given
Counſel to Sylla—to the people now;

a very happy alluſion to the noble but neglected advice which he beſtowed on the Protector.

Amidſt the various political diſtractions towards the end of the year 1659, he addreſſed a letter to a nameleſs friend, who had converſed with him the preceding evening on the dangerous ruptures of the commonwealth. This letter and a brief paper, containing a ſketch of a commonwealth, addreſſed to general Monk, were, ſoon after the author's [145] death communicated by his nephew to Toland, who imparted them to the public.

Milton gave yet another proof of his unwearied attention to public affairs, by publiſhing brief notes on a ſermon preached by Dr. Griffith, at Mercer's Chapel, March 25th, 1660, ‘wherein (ſays the annotator) many notorious wreſtings of ſcripture, and other falſities, are obſerved.’

When the repeated proteſtations of Monk to ſupport the republic had ended in his introduction of the king, the anxious friends of Milton, who thought the literary champion of the parliament might be expoſed to revenge from the triumphant royaliſts, hurried him into concealment. The ſolicitude of thoſe who watched over his ſafety was ſo great, that, it is ſaid, they deceived his enemies by a report of his death, and effectually prevented a ſearch for his perſon (during the firſt tumultuary and vindictive rage of the royaliſts) by a pretended funeral. A few weeks before the reſtoration (probably in April) he quitted his houſe in Weſtminſter, and did not appear in public again till after the act of oblivion, which paſſed on the 29th of Auguſt. In this important interval ſome events occurred, which greatly affected both his ſecurity and reputation. The Houſe of Commons, on the 16th of June, manifeſted their reſentment againſt his perſon as well as his writings, by ordering the attorney general to commence a proſecution againſt him, and petitioning the king, that his two books, the Defence of the People, and his Anſwer to Eikon Baſilike, might be publicly burnt.

[146]Happily for the honour of England, the perſon of the great author was more fortunate than his writings in eſcaping from the fury of perſecution. Within three days after the burning of his books, he found himſelf relieved from the neceſſity of concealment, and ſheltered under the common protection of the law by the general act of indemnity, which had not included his name in the liſt of exceptions. It has been thought wonderful by many, that a writer, whoſe celebrated compoſitions had rendered him an object of abhorrence to the royal party, could elude the activity of their triumphant revenge, and various conjectures have been ſtarted to account for the ſafety of Milton, after his enemies had too plainly diſcovered an inclination to cruſh him. One of theſe conjectural cauſes of his eſcape repreſents two contemporary poets in ſo amiable a light, that though I am unable to confirm the anecdote entirely by any new evidence, I ſhall yet dwell upon it with pleaſure. Richardſon, whoſe affectionate veneration for the genius and virtue he celebrates makes ample amends for all the quaintneſs of his ſtyle, has the following paſſage on the ſubject in queſtion:

‘Perplexed and inquiſitive as I was, I at length found the ſecret, which he from whom I had it thought he had communicated to me long ago, and wondered he had not. I will no longer keep you in expectation:—'twas Sir William Davenant obtained his remiſſion, in return for his own life procured by Milton's intereſt, when himſelf was under condemnation, anno 1650—a life was owing to Milton (Davenant's) and 'twas paid nobly; Milton's for Davenant's, at Davenant's interceſſion.—It [147] will now be expected I ſhould declare what authority I have for this ſtory;—my firſt anſwer is, Mr. Pope told it me. Whence had he it? From Mr. Betterton—Sir William was his patron—Betterton was prentice to a bookſeller, John Holden, the ſame who printed Davenant's Gondibert. There Sir William ſaw him, and, perſuading his maſter to part with him, brought him firſt on the ſtage. Betterton then may be well allowed to know this tranſaction from the fountain head.’

On this intereſting anecdote Johnſon makes the following remark: ‘Here is a reciprocation of generoſity and gratitude ſo pleaſing, that the tale makes its own way to credit, but if help were wanted I know not where to find it; the danger of Davenant is certain from his own relation, but of his eſcape there is no account.’

This paſſage of the critical biographer affords a ſingular proof, that he is ſometimes as inaccurate in narration as he is defective in ſentiment. Impreſſed as I am with the cleareſt conviction of his repeated endeavours to depreciate the character of Milton, I will not ſuppoſe that Johnſon could deſignedly ſuppreſs an evidence of the poet's generoſity, which, while he is ſpeaking of it in terms of admiration, he ſtill endeavours to render problematical; yet certain it is, that of Milton's protection of Davenant a very obvious evidence exiſts in Antony Wood, who ſays, under the article Davenant, ‘he was carried priſoner to the Iſle of Wight, anno 1650, and afterwards to the Tower of London, in order to be tried for his life in the High Court of Juſtice, anno 1651; but upon the mediation of John [148] Milton and others, eſpecially two godly aldermen of York (to whom he had ſhewn great civility when they had been taken priſoners in the north by ſome of the forces under William Marquis of Newcaſtle) he was ſaved, and had liberty allowed him as a priſoner at large.’

Thus far the pleaſing ſtory is ſufficiently proved to the honour of Milton. That Davenant endeavoured to return the favour is highly probable, from the amiable tenderneſs and benevolent activity of his character. Perhaps this probability may ſeem a little ſtrengthened by the following verſes of Davenant, in a poem addreſſed to the king on his happy return:

Your clemency has taught us to believe
It wiſe as well as virtuous to forgive;
And now the moſt offended ſhall proceed
In great forgiving, till no laws we need;
For laws ſlow progreſſes would quickly end
Could we forgive as faſt as men offend.

If Davenant was in any degree inſtrumental to the ſecurity of Milton, it is probable that he ſerved him rather from gratitude than affection, as no two writers of the time were more different from each other in their religious and political opinions. That the poet-laureat of Charles was utterly unconſcious of thoſe ineſtimable poetic powers, which the blind ſecretary of the republic was providentially reſerved to diſplay, we may infer from a very remarkable couplet, towards the cloſe of a ſecond poem, addreſſed by [149] Davenant to the King, where, ſpeaking of Homer, he ventures to aſſert that

Heav'n ne'er made but one, who, being blind,
Was [...]it to be a painter of the mind.

It is however very poſſible that Davenant might doubly conduce [...] the production of Paradiſe Loſt; firſt, as one of thoſe who excited their influence to ſecure the author from moleſtation; and ſecondly, as affording by his Gondibert an incentive to the genius of Milton to ſhew how infinitely he could ſurpaſs a poem which Hobbs (whoſe opinions he deſpiſed) had extravagantly extolled as the moſt exquiſite production of the epic muſe. In Aubrey's manuſcript anecdotes of Milton it is ſaid, that he began his Paradiſe Loſt about two years before the return of the king, and finiſhed it about three years after that event; the account appears the more probable, as the following lines in the commencement of the ſeventh book pathetically allude to his preſent ſituation:

More ſafe I ſing with mortal voice unchang'd
To hoarſe or mute, though fall'n on evil days,
On evil days though fall'n and evil tongues,
In darkneſs and with dangers compaſs'd round
And ſolitude, yet not alone, while thou
Viſit'ſt my ſlumbers nightly, or when morn
Purples the eaſt, ſtill govern thou my ſong,
Urania, and fit audience find though few;
But drive far off the barbarous diſſonance
[150]Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race
Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard
In Rhodope, where rocks and woods had ears
To rapture, till the ſavage clamour drown'd
Both harp and voice; nor could the Muſe defend
Her ſon: ſo fail not thou who thee implores,
For thou art heav'nly, ſhe an empty dream.

How peculiarly affecting are theſe beautiful verſes, when the hiſtory of the poet ſuggeſts that he probably wrote them while he was concealed in an obſcure corner of the city, that reſounded with the triumphant roar of his intoxicated enemies, among whom drunkenneſs aroſe to ſuch extravagance, that even the feſtive royaliſts found it neceſſary to iſſue a proclamation, which forbade the drinking of healths. How poignant at this time muſt have been the perſonal and patriotic feelings of Milton, who had paſſed his life in animating himſelf and his country to habits of temperance, truth, and public virtue, yet had the mortification or finding that country, ſo dear to him, now doubly diſgraced; firſt, by the hypocriſy and treacherous ambition of republicans, to whoſe pretended virtues he had given too eaſy credit; and now, by the mean licentious ſervility of royaliſts, whoſe more open though not more dangerous vices his upright and high-toned ſpirit had ever held in abhorrence. For his country he had every thing to apprehend from the blind infatuation with which the parliament had rejected the patriotic ſuggeſtion of Hale (afterwards the illuſtrious chief juſtice) to eſtabliſh conſtitutional limitations [151] to the power of the king at the critical period of his reception. The neglect of this meaſure contributed not a little to ſubſequent evils, and the reign of Charles the S [...] cond was in truth deformed with all the public miſery and diſgrace which Milton had predicted, when he argued on the idea of his re-admiſſion. For his own perſon, the literary champion of the people had no leſs to dread from the barbarity of public vengeance, or from the private dagger of ſome overheated royaliſt, who, like the aſſaſſins of Doriſlaus in Holland, and of Aſcham in Spain, might think it meritorious to ſeize any opportunity of deſtroying a ſervant of the Engliſh republic. When royal government, reſtored to itſelf, could yet deſcend to authoriſe a mean and execrable indignity againſt the dead body of a man ſo magnanimous and ſo innocent as Blake, it was ſurely natural, and by no means unbecoming the ſpirit of Milton, to ſpeak as he does, in the preceding verſes, of evil days and evil tongues, of darkneſs and of danger.

‘This darkneſs (ſays Johnſon) had his eyes been better employed, had undoubtedly deſerved compaſſion.’ What! had Milton no title to compaſſion for his perſonal calamity, becauſe he had nobly ſacrificed his ſight to what he eſteemed an important diſcharge of his public duty?—Oh egregious morality! to which no feeling heart can ſubſcribe. No, ſay his implacable enemies, he loſt his eyes in the vindication of wickedneſs: but admitting their aſſertion in its full force, juſtice and humanity ſtill contend, that, inſtead of diminiſhing, it rather doubles his claim to compaſſion; to ſuffer in a ſpirited defence of guilt, that we miſtake and [152] eſteem as virtue, is, perhaps, of all pitiable misfortunes, what a candid and conſiderate mind ſhould be moſt willing to pity.

But Johnſon proceeds to ſay, ‘of evil tongues for Milton to complain required impudence at leaſt equal to his other powers; Milton, whoſe warmeſt advocates muſt allow, that he never ſpared any aſperity of reproach or brutality of inſolence.’

Theſe are, perhaps, the moſt bitter words that were ever applied by an author, illuſtrious himſelf for great talents, and ſtill more for chriſtian virtue, to a character pre-eminent in genius and in piety. By ſhewing to what a marvellous degree a very cultivated and devout mind may be exaſperated by party rage, may they ſerve to caution every fervid ſpirit againſt that outrageous animoſity, which a difference of ſentiment in politics and religion is ſo apt to produce. It would ſeem almoſt an affront to the memory of Milton to vindicate him elaborately from a charge, whoſe very words exhibit ſo palpable a violation of decency and truth.

His coldeſt advocates, inſtead of allowing that he never ſpared any brutality of inſolence, may rather contend, that his native tenderneſs of heart, and very graceful education, rendered it hardly poſſible for him at any time to be inſolent and brutal. It would have been wonderful indeed, had he not written with ſome degree of aſperity, when his antagoniſt Salmaſius aſſerted, that he ought to ſuffer an ignominious and excruciating death. Againſt the unfortunate (but not innocent) Charles the Firſt, he expreſſly declares, [153] that he publiſhed nothing till after his deceaſe; and that he meant not, as he ſays in one of his Latin works, to inſult the Manes of the king, is indeed evident to an unprejudiced reader, from the following very beautiful and pathetic ſentence, with which he begins his anſwer to the Eikon Baſilike:

"To deſcant on the misfortunes of a perſon fallen from ſo high a dignity, who hath alſo paid his final debt, both to nature and his faults, is neither of itſelf a thing commendable, nor the intention of this diſcourſe." Thoſe who fairly conſider the exaſperated ſtate of the contending parties, when Milton wrote, and compare his political compoſitions with the ſavage ribaldry of his opponents, however miſtaken they may think him in his ideas of government, will yet find more reaſon to admire his temper than to condemn his aſperity.

If in a quiet ſtudy, at a very advanced period of life, and at the diſtance of more than a century from the days of the republic; if a philoſopher ſo ſituated could be hurried by political heat to ſpeak of Milton with ſuch harſh intemperance of language, though writing under the friendly title of his biographer, with what indulgence ought we to view that aſperity in Milton himſelf, which aroſe from the immediate preſſure of public oppreſſion and of private outrage; for his ſpirit had been enflamed, not only by the ſight of many national vexations, but by ſeeing his own moral character attacked with the moſt indecent and execrable calumny that can incite the indignation of inſulted virtue. If the faſcinating powers of his ſacred poem, and the luſtre [154] of his integrity, have failed to ſoften the virulence of an aged moraliſt againſt him in our days, what muſt he not have had to apprehend from the raging paſſions of his own time, when his poetical genius had not appeared in its meridian ſplendor, and when moſt of his writings were conſidered as recent crimes againſt thoſe, who were entering on their career of triumph and revenge? Johnſon, indeed, aſſerts in his barbarous cenſure of Milton's exquiſite picture of his own ſituation, that the poet, in ſpeaking of his danger, was ungrateful and unjuſt; that the charge itſelf ſeems to be falſe, for it would be hard to recollect any reproach caſt upon him, either ſerious or ludicrous, through the whole remaining part of his life; yet Lauder, once the aſſociate of Johnſon in writing againſt Milton, expreſsly affirms, that it was warmly debated for three days, whether he ſhould ſuffer death with the regicides or not, as many contended that his guilt was ſuperior to theirs. Lauder, indeed, mentions no authority for his aſſertion; and the word of a man ſo ſupremely infamous would deſerve no notice, were not the circumſtance rendered probable by the rancour and atrocity of party ſpirit. To what deteſtable exceſſes this ſpirit could proceed we have not only an example in Lauder himſelf (of whoſe malignity to the poet I ſhall have ſubſequent occaſion to ſpeak) but in that collection of virulent invectives againſt Milton, compoſed chiefly by his contemporaries, which Lauder added as an appendix to his own moſt malignant pamphlet. The moſt ſingular and indecent of theſe invectives, whoſe ſcurrility is too groſs to be tranſcribed, has been imputed to that very copious writer, Sir Roger [155] L'Eſtrange; and if a pen employed ſo ſavagely againſt Milton could obtain public encouragement and applauſe, he might ſurely, without affectation or timidity, think himſelf expoſed to the dagger of ſome equally hoſtile and more ſanguinary royaliſt. L'Eſtrange, for ſuch ſufferings in the cauſe of royalty as really entitled him to reward, obtained, not long after the reſtoration, the revived but unconſtitutional office of licenſer to the preſs. It was happy for literature that he poſſeſſed not that oppreſſive juriſdiction when the author of the Paradiſe Loſt was obliged to ſolicit an imprimatur, ſince the exceſs of his malevolence to Milton might have then exerted itſelf in ſuch a manner as to entitle both the office and its poſſeſſor to the execration of the world. The licenſer of that period, Thomas Tomkyns, chaplain to archbiſhop Sheldon, though hardly ſo full of rancour as L'Eſtrange (if L'Eſtrange was the real author of the ribaldry aſcribed to him) was abſurd or malignant enough to obſtruct, in ſome meaſure, the publication of Paradiſe Loſt. "He, among other frivolous exceptions (ſays Toland) would needs ſuppreſs the whole poem, for imaginary treaſon in the following lines:

—as when the ſun new riſen
Looks thro' the horizontal miſty air
Shorn of his heams, or from behind the moon
In dim eclipſe diſaſtrous twilight ſheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs—

[156]By what means the poet was happily enabled to triumph over the malevolence of an enemy in office we are not informed by the author, who has recorded this very intereſting anecdote; but from the peril to which his immortal work was expoſed, and which the mention of a licenſer to the preſs has led me to anticipate, let us return to his perſonal danger: the extent of this danger, and the particulars of his eſcape, have never been completely diſcovered. The account that his nephew gives of him at this momentous period is chiefly contained in the following ſentence:

"It was a friend's houſe in Bartholomew Cloſe where he lived till the act of oblivion came forth, which, it pleaſed God, proved as favourable to him as could be hoped or expected, through the interceſſion of ſome that ſtood his friends both in council and parliament; particularly in the Houſe of Commons, Mr. Andrew Marvel, a member for Hull, acted vigorouſly in his behalf, and made a conſiderable party for him."

Marvel, like the ſuperior author whom he ſo nobly protected, was himſelf a poet and a patriot. He had been aſſociated with Milton in the office of Latin ſecretary in 1657, and cultivated his friendſhip by a tender and reſpectful attachment. As he probably owed to that friendſhip the improvement of his own talents and virtues, it is highly pleaſing to find, that he exerted them on different occaſions in eſtabliſhing the ſecurity, and in celebrating the genius of his incomparable friend. His efforts of regard on the preſent emergency are liberally deſcribed in the preceding expreſſion of Philips; and his friendly verſes on the publication [157] of the Paradiſe Loſt deſerve no common applauſe; for the records of literature hardly exhibit a more juſt, a more ſpirited, or a more generous compliment paid by one poet to another.

But the friendſhip of Marvel, vigilant, active, and beneficial as it was, could not ſecure Milton from being ſeized and hurried into confinement. It appears from the minutes of the Houſe of Commons, that he was priſoner to their ſerjeant on the 15th of December. The particulars of his impriſonment are involved in darkneſs; but Dr. Birch (whoſe copious life of Milton is equally full of intelligence and candour) conjectures, with great probability, that on his appearing in public after the act of indemnity, and adjournment of Parliament, on the 13th of September, he was ſeized in conſequence of the order formerly given by the Commons for his proſecution.

The exact time of his continuing in cuſtody no reſearches have aſcertained. The records of Parliament only prove, that on the 15th of December the Houſe ordered his releaſe; but the ſame upright and undaunted ſpirit, which had made Milton in his younger days a reſolute oppoſer of injuſtice and oppreſſion, ſtill continued a characteriſtic of his declining life, and now induced him, diſadvantageouſly ſituated as he was for ſuch a conteſt, to reſiſt the rapacity of the parliamentary officer, who endeavoured to extort from him an exorbitant ſee on his diſcharge. He remonſtrated to the houſe on the iniquity of their ſervant; and as the affair was referred to the committee of privileges, [158] he probably obtained the redreſs that he had the courage to demand.

In this fortunate eſcape from the graſp of triumphant and vindictive power, Milton may be conſidered as terminating his political life: commencing from his return to the continent, it had extended to a period of twenty years; in three of theſe he had been afflicted with partial but increaſing blindneſs, and in ſix he had been utterly blind. His exertions in this period of his life had expoſed him to infinite obloquy, but his generous and enlightened country, whatever may be the ſtate of her political opinions, will remember, with becoming equity and pride, that the ſublimeſt of her poets, though deceived as he certainly was by extraordinary pretenders to public virtue, and ſubject to great illuſion in his ideas of government, is entitled to the firſt of encomiums, the praiſe of being truly an honeſt man: ſince it was aſſuredly his conſtant aim to be the ſteady diſintereſted adherent and encomiaſt of truth and juſtice; hence we find him continually diſplaying thoſe internal bleſſings, which have been happily called, "the clear witneſſes of a benign nature," an innocent conſcience, and a ſatisfied underſtanding.

Such is the imperfection of human exiſtence, that miſtaken notions and principles are perfectly compatible with elevation, integrity, and ſatisfaction of mind. The writer muſt be a ſlave of prejudice, or a ſycophant to power, who would repreſent Milton as deficient in any of theſe noble endowments. Even Addiſon ſeems to loſe his rare Chriſtian candour, and Hume his philoſophical preciſion, when [159] theſe two celebrated though very different authors ſpeak harſhly of Milton's political character, without paying due acknowledgment to the rectitude of his heart. I truſt, the probity of a very ardent but uncorrupted enthuſiaſt is in ſome meaſure vindicated in the courſe of theſe pages, happy if they promote the completion of his own manly wiſh to be perfectly known, if they impreſs a juſt and candid eſtimate of his merits and miſtakes on the temperate mind of his country.

END OF THE SECOND PART.

PART III.

[160]
E'PER VECCHIEZZA IN LUI VIRTU NON MANCA.—
DRITTO EI TENEVA IN VERSO IL CIEL IL VOLTO.
TASSO.

IN beginning to contemplate the latter years of Milton, it may be uſeful to remark, that they afford, perhaps, the moſt animating leſſon, which biography, inſtructive as it is, can ſupply; they ſhew to what noble uſe a cultivated and religious mind may convert even declining life, though embittered by a variety of afflictions, and darkened by perſonal calamity.

On regaining his liberty, he took a houſe in Holborn, near Red Lion Fields, but ſoon removed to Jewin-ſtreet, and there married, in his 54th year, his third wife, Elizabeth Minſhall, the daughter of a gentleman in Cheſhire. As the misfortune of blindneſs ſeems particularly to require a female companion, and yet almoſt precludes the unhappy ſufferer from ſelecting ſuch as might ſuit him, Milton is ſaid to have formed this attachment on the recommendation of his friend Dr. Paget, an eminent phyſician of the city, to whom the lady was related. Some biographers have ſpoken harſhly of her temper and conduct; but let me obſerve, in juſtice to her memory, that the manuſcript of Aubrey, to whom ſhe was probably known, mentions her as a gentle perſon, of a peaceful and agreeable humour. [161] That ſhe was particularly attentive to her huſband, and treated his infirmities with tenderneſs, is candidly remarked by Mr. Warton, in a poſthumous note to the teſtamentary papers relating to Milton, which his indefatigable reſearches at length diſcovered, and committed to the preſs, a few months before his own various and valuable labours were terminated by death. Theſe very curious and intereſting papers afford information reſpecting the latter days of the poet, which his late biographers were ſo far from poſſeſſing, that they could not believe it exiſted. Indeed, Mr. Warton himſelf had concluded, that all farther enquiries for the will muſt be fruitleſs, as he had failed in a tedious and intricate ſearch. At laſt, however, he was enabled, by the friendſhip of Sir William Scott, to reſcue from oblivion a curioſity ſo precious to poetical antiquarians. He found in the prerogative regiſter the will of Milton, which, though made by his brother Chriſtopher, a lawyer by profeſſion, was ſet aſide from a deficiency in point of form—the litigation of this will produced a collection of evidence relating to the teſtator, which renders the diſcovery of thoſe long forgotten papers peculiarly intereſting; they ſhew very forcibly, and in new points of view, his domeſtic infelicity, and his amiaable diſpoſition. The tender and ſublime poet, whoſe ſenſibility and ſufferings were ſo great, appears to have been almoſt as unfortunate in his daughters as the Lear of Shakeſpeare. A ſervant declares in evidence, that her deceaſed maſter, a little before his laſt marriage, had lamented to her the ingratitude and cruelty of his children. He complained, [162] that they combined to defraud him in the oeconomy of his houſe, and ſold ſeveral of his books in the baſeſt manner. His feelings on ſuch an outrage, both as a parent and as a ſcholar, muſt have been ſingularly painful; perhaps they ſuggeſted to him thoſe very pathetic lines, where he ſeems to paint himſelf, in Sampſon Agoniſtes:

I dark in light, expos'd
To daily fraud, contempt, abuſe, and wrong,
Within doors or without; ſtill as a fool,
In power of others, never in my own,
Scarce half I ſeem to live, dead more than half.

Unfortunate as he had proved in matrimony, he was probably induced to venture once more into that ſtate by the bitter want of a domeſtic protector againſt his inhuman daughters, under which deſcription I include only the two eldeſt; and in palliation even of their conduct, deteſtable as it appears, we may obſerve, that they are entitled to pity, as having been educated without the ineſtimable guidance of maternal tenderneſs, under a father afflicted with loſs of ſight; they were alſo young: at the time of Milton's laſt marriage his eldeſt daughter had only reached the age of fifteen, and Deborah, his favourite, was ſtill a child of nine years.

His new connection ſeems to have afforded him what he particularly ſought; that degree of domeſtic tranquillity and comfort eſſential to his perſeverance in ſtudy, which appears to have been, through all the viciſſitudes of fortune, [163] the prime object of his life; and while all his labours were under the direction of religion or of philanthropy, there was nothing too arduous or too humble for his mind. In 1661 he publiſhed a little work, entitled, "Accidence commenced Grammar," benevolently calculated for the relief of children, by ſhortening their very tedious and irkſome progreſs in learning the elements of Latin. He publiſhed alſo, in the ſame year, another brief compoſition of Sir Walter Raleigh's, containing (like the former work of that celebrated man, which the ſame editor had given to the public) a ſeries of political maxims; one of theſe I am tempted to tranſcribe, by a perſuaſion that Milton regarded it with peculiar pleaſure, from its tendency to juſtify the parliamentary contention with Charles the Firſt. Had the miſguided monarch obſerved the maxim of Raleigh, he would not, like that illuſtrious victim to the vices of his royal father, have periſhed on the ſcaffold.—The maxim is the ſeventeenth of the collection, and gives the following inſtruction to a prince for preſerving an hereditary kingdom.

"To be moderate in his taxes and impoſitions, and, when need doth require to uſe the ſubjects purſe, to do it by parliament, and with their conſent, making the cauſe apparent to them, and ſhewing his unwillingneſs in charging them. Finally, ſo to uſe it, that it may ſeem rather an offer from his ſubjects, than an exaction by him."

However vehement the enmity of various perſons againſt Milton might have been, during the tumult of paſſions on the recent reſtoration, there is great reaſon to believe, that [164] his extraordinary abilities and probity ſo far triumphed over the prejudices againſt him, that, with all his republican offences upon his head, he might have been admitted to royal favour had he been willing to accept it. Richardſon relates, on very good authority, that the poſt of Latin ſecretary, in which he had obtained ſo much credit as a ſcholar, was again offered to him after the Reſtoration; that he rejected it, and replied to his wife, who adviſed his acceptance of the appointment, "You, as other women, would ride in your coach; for me, my aim is to live and die an honeſt man." Johnſon diſcovers an inclination to diſcredit this ſtory, becauſe it does honour to Milton, and ſeemed inconſiſtent with his own ideas of probability. "He that had ſhared authority, either with the Parliament or Cromwell," ſays Johnſon, "might have forborne to talk very loudly of his honeſty." How miſerably narrow is the prejudice, that cannot allow perfect honeſty to many individuals on both ſides in a conteſt like that, which divided the nation in the civil wars. Undoubtedly there were men in each party, and men of great mental endowments, who acted, during that calamitous contention, according to the genuine dictates of conſcience. Thoſe who examine the conduct of Milton with impartiality will be ready to allow, that he poſſeſſed not only one of the moſt cultivated, but one of the moſt upright minds, which the records of human nature have taught us to revere. His retaining his employment under Cromwell has, I truſt, been ſo far juſtified, that it can no more be repreſented as a blemiſh on his integrity. His office, indeed, was of ſuch a nature, that he might, without [165] a breach of honeſty, have reſumed it under the king; but his return to it, though not abſolutely diſhonourable, would have ill accorded with that refined purity and elevation of character, which, from his earlieſt youth, it was the nobleſt ambition of Milton to acquire and ſupport. He would have loſt much of his title to the reverence of mankind for his magnanimity, had he accepted his former office under Charles the Second, whom he muſt have particularly deſpiſed as a profligate and ſervile tyrant, as ready to betray the honour of the nation as he was careleſs of his own; a perſonage whom Milton could never have beheld without horror, on reflecting on his ſingular barbarity to his celebrated friend, that eccentric but intereſting character, Sir Henry Vane. The king, ſo extolled for his mercy, had granted the life of Sir Henry to the joint petition of the Lords and Commons; but, after promiſing to preſerve him, ſigned a warrant for his execution—one of the moſt inhuman and deteſtable acts of duplicity that was ever practiſed againſt a ſubject by his ſovereign. It is to the fate of Vane, with others of that party, and to his own perſonal ſufferings, that the great poet alludes in the following admirable reflections, aſſigned to the chorus in his Sampſon Agoniſtes:

Many are the ſayings of the wiſe
In antient and in modern books enroll'd,
Extolling patience as the trueſt fortitude,
And to the bearing well of all calamities,
All chances incident to man's frail life,
Conſolatories writ
[166]With ſtudied argument, and much perſuaſion ſought,
Lenient of grief, and anxious thought;
But with th' afflicted in his pangs their ſound
Little prevails, or rather ſeems a tune
Harſh and of diſſonant mood from his complaint,
Unleſs he feel within
Some ſource of conſolation from above,
Secret refreſhings that repair his ſtrength,
And fainting ſpirits uphold.
God of our fathers! what is man?
That thou towards him with hand ſo various,
Or might I ſay, contrarious,
Tempereſt thy Providence through his ſhort courſe;
Not evenly, as thou rul'ſt
The angelic orders, and inferior creatures mute,
Irrational and brute.
Nor do I name of men the common rout,
That wand'ring looſe about,
Grow up and periſh as the ſummer fly,
Heads without name, no more remembered;
But ſuch as thou haſt ſolemnly elected,
With gifts and graces eminently adorn'd,
To ſome great work, thy glory,
And people's ſafety, which in part they effect:
Yet toward theſe, thus dignified, thou oft
Amidſt their heighth of noon
Changeſt thy countenance and thy hand, with no regard
Of higheſt favours paſt
From thee on them, or them to thee of ſervice.
[167]Nor only doſt degrade them, or remit
To life obſcur'd, which were a fair diſmiſſion,
But throw'ſt them lower than thou didſt exalt them high;
Unſeemly falls in human eye,
Too grievous for the treſpaſs or omiſſion!
Oft leav'ſt them to the hoſtile ſword
Of heathen and profane, their carcaſes
To dogs and fowls a prey, or elſe captiv'd;
Or to th' unjuſt tribunals under change of times,
And condemnation of th' ungrateful multitude.
If theſe they ſcape, perhaps in poverty,
With ſickneſs and diſeaſe thou bow'ſt them down,
Painful diſeaſes and deform'd,
In crude old age;
Though not diſordinate, yet cauſeleſs ſuff'ring
The puniſhment of diſſolute days.

Warburton was the firſt, I believe, to remark how exactly theſe concluding lines deſcribe the ſituation of the poet himſelf, afflicted by his loſs of property, and "his gout, not cauſed by intemperance." The ſame acute but very unequal critic is by no means ſo happy in his obſervation, that Milton ſeems to have choſen the ſubject of this ſublime drama for the ſake of the ſatire on bad wives; it would be hardly leſs abſurd to ſay, that he choſe the ſubject of Paradiſe Loſt for the ſake of deſcribing a connubial altercation. The nephew of Milton has told us, that he could not aſcertain the time when this drama was written; but it probably flowed from the heart of the indignant [166] [...] [167] [...] [168] poet ſoon after his ſpirit had been wounded by the calamitous deſtiny of his friends, to which he alludes with ſo much energy and pathos. He did not deſign the drama for a theatre, nor has it the kind of action requiſite for theatrical intereſt; but in one point of view the Sampſon Agoniſtes is the moſt ſingularly affecting compoſition, that was ever produced by ſenſibility of heart and vigour of imagination. To give it this peculiar effect, we muſt remember, that the lot of Milton had a marvellous coincidence with that of his hero, in three remarkable points; firſt (but we ſhould regard this as the moſt inconſiderable article of reſemblance) he had been tormented by a beautiful but diſaffectionate and diſobedient wife; ſecondly, he had been the great champion of his country, and as ſuch the idol of public admiration; laſtly, he had fallen from that heighth of unrivalled glory, and had experienced the moſt humiliating reverſe of fortune: ‘His foes' deriſion, captive, poor, and blind.’

In delineating the greater part of Sampſon's ſenſations under calamity, he had only to deſcribe his own. No dramatiſt can have ever conformed ſo literally as Milton to the Horatian precept.

Si vis me flere, dolendum eſt
Primum ipſi tibi.

And if, in reading the Sampſon Agoniſtes, we obſerve how many paſſages, expreſſed with the moſt energetic ſenſibility, [169] exhibit to our fancy the ſufferings and real ſentiments of the poet, as well as thoſe of his hero, we may derive from this extraordinary compoſition a kind of pathetic delight, that no other drama can afford; we may applaud the felicity of genius, that contrived, in this manner, to relieve a heart overburthened with anguiſh and indignation, and to pay a half concealed yet hallowed tribute to the memories of dear though diſhonoured friends, whom the ſtate of the times allowed not the afflicted poet more openly to deplore.

The concluding verſes of the beautiful chorus (which I have already cited in part) appear to me particularly affecting, from the perſuaſion that Milton, in compoſing them, addreſſed the two laſt immediately to Heaven, as a prayer for himſelf:

In fine,
Juſt or unjuſt alike ſeem miſerable,
For oft alike both come to evil end.
So deal not with this once thy glorious champion,
The image of thy ſtrength, and mighty miniſter.
What do I beg? how haſt thou dealt already?
Behold him in his ſtate calamitous, and turn
His labours, for thou can'ſt, to peaceful end.

If the conjecture of this application be juſt, we may add, that never was the prevalence of a righteous prayer more happily conſpicuous; and let me here remark, that however various the opinions of men may be concerning the [170] merits or demerits of Milton's political character, the integrity of his heart appears to have ſecured to him the favour of Providence; ſince it pleaſed the Giver of all good not only to turn his labours to a peaceful end, but to irradiate his declining life with the moſt abundant portion of thoſe pure and ſublime mental powers, for which he had conſtantly and fervently prayed, as the choiceſt bounty of Heaven.

At this period, his kind friend and phyſician, who had proved ſo ſerviceable to him in the recommendation of an attentive and affectionate wife, introduced to his notice a young reader of Latin, in that ſingular character, Thomas Ellwood, the quaker, who has written a minute hiſtory of his own life; a book, which ſuggeſts the reflection, how ſtrangely a writer may ſometimes miſtake his way in his endeavours to engage the attention of poſterity. Had the honeſt quaker bequeathed to the world as circumſtantial an account of his great literary friend, as he has done of himſelf, his book would certainly have engroſſed no common ſhare of public regard: we are indebted to him, however, for his incidental mention of the great poet; and as there is a pleaſing air of ſimplicity and truth in his narrative, I ſhall gratify the reader by inſerting it with very little abridgment:

"JOHN MILTON, a gentleman of great note for learning throughout the learned world, having filled a public ſtation in former times, lived now a private and retired life in London; and having wholly loſt his ſight, kept always a man [171] to read to him, which uſually was the ſon of ſome gentleman of his acquaintance, whom in kindneſs he took to improve in his learning.

"By the mediation of my friend, Iſaac Penington, with Dr. Paget, and of Dr. Paget with John Milton, was I admitted to come to him, not as a ſervant to him, which at that time he needed not, nor to be in the houſe with him, but only to have the liberty of coming to his houſe at certain hours, when I would, and to read to him what books he ſhould appoint me, which was all the favour I deſired."

Ellwood was at this time an ingenuous but undiſciplined young man, about three-and-twenty;—his father, a juſtice of Oxfordſhire, had taken him, very unſeaſonably, from ſchool, with a view to leſſen his own expences, and this his younger ſon, after waſting ſome years at home, attached himſelf, with great fervency, to the ſect of quakers. His religious ardour involved him in a long and painful quarrel with his father, and in many ſingular adventures—he united with his pious zeal a lively regard for literature; and being grieved to find that his interrupted education had permitted him to acquire but a ſlender portion of claſſical learning, he anxiouſly ſought the acquaintance of Milton, in the hope of improving it.

"I went, therefore (ſays the candid quaker) and took myſelf a lodging near to his houſe, which was then in Jewin-ſtreet, as conveniently as I could, and from thence forward went every day in the afternoon, except on the firſt days of the week, and ſitting by him in his dining-room, read to [172] him ſuch books in the Latin tongue as he pleaſed to hear me read.

"At my firſt ſitting to read to him, obſerving that I uſed the Engliſh pronunciation, he told me, if I would have the benefit of the Latin tongue, not only to read and underſtand Latin authors, but to converſe with foreigners, either abroad or at home, I muſt learn the foreign pronunciation; to this I conſenting, he inſtructed me how to ſound the vowels: this change of pronunciation proved a new difficulty to me; but,

Labor omnia vincit
Improbus;

And ſo did I; which made my reading the more acceptable to my maſter. He, on the other hand, perceiving with what earneſt deſire I purſued learning, gave me not only all the encouragement, but all the help he could; for having a curious ear, he underſtood by my tone when I underſtood what I read, and when I did not, and accordingly would ſtop me, examine me, and open the moſt difficult paſſages to me."

The clearneſs and ſimplicity of Ellwood's narrative brings us, as it were, into the company of Milton, and ſhews, in a very agreeable point of view, the native courteſy and ſweetneſs of a temper, that has been ſtrangely miſrepreſented as moroſe and auſtere.

Johnſon, with his accuſtomed aſperity to Milton, diſcovers an inclination to cenſure him for his mode of teaching [173] Latin to Ellwood; but Milton, who was inſtructing an indigent young man, had probably very friendly reaſons for wiſhing him to acquire immediately the foreign pronunciation; and aſſuredly the patience, good nature, and ſucceſs, with which he condeſcended to teach this ſingular attendant, do credit both to the diſciple and the preceptor.

Declining health ſoon interrupted the ſtudies of Ellwood, and obliged him to retire to the houſe of a friend and phyſician in the country. Here, after great ſuffering from ſickneſs, he revived, and returned again to London.

"I was very kindly received by my Maſter (continues the intereſting quaker) who had conceived ſo good an opinion of me, that my converſation, I found, was acceptable, and he ſeemed heartily glad of my recovery and return, and into our old method of ſtudy we fell again, I reading to him, and he explaining to me, as occaſion required."

But learning (as poor Ellwood obſerves) was almoſt a forbidden fruit to him. His intercourſe with Milton was again interrupted by a ſecond calamity; a party of ſoldiers ruſhed into a meeting of quakers, that included this unfortunate ſcholar, and he was hurried, with his friends, from priſon to priſon. Though ten-pence was all the money he poſſeſſed, his honeſt pride prevented his applying to Milton for relief in this exigence, and he contrived to ſupport himſelf by his induſtry, in confinement, with admirable fortitude.

Moderate proſperity, however, viſited at laſt this honeſt and devout man, affording him an agreeable opportunity [174] of being uſeful to the great poet, who had deigned to be his preceptor.

An affluent quaker, who reſided at Chalfont, in Buckinghamſhire, ſettled Ellwood in his family, to inſtruct his children, and in 1665, when the peſtilence raged in London, Milton requeſted his friendly diſciple to find a refuge for him in his neighbourhood.

"I took a pretty box for him," ſays this affectionate friend, "in Giles Chalfont, a mile from me, of which I gave him notice, and intended to have waited on him, and ſeen him well ſettled in it, but was prevented by impriſonment."

This was a ſecond captivity that the unfortunate young man had to ſuſtain; for in conſequence of a recent and moſt iniquitous perſecution of the quakers, he was apprehended at the funeral of a friend, and confined in the gaol of Ayleſbury.

"But being now releaſed," continues Elwood, "I ſoon made a viſit to him, to welcome him into the country.

After ſome common diſcourſes had paſſed between us, he called for a manuſcript of his, which, being brought, he delivered to me, bidding me take it home with me, and read it at my leiſure, and when I had ſo done, return it to him, with my judgment thereupon.

"When I came home, and ſet myſelf to read it, I found it was that excellent poem, which he entitled Paradiſe Loſt.

"After I had, with the beſt attention, read it through, I made him another viſit, and returned him his book, with due acknowledgment of the favour he had done me in communicating it to me. He aſked me how I liked it, and [175] what I thought of it? which I modeſtly and freely told him; and, after ſome farther diſcourſe about it, I pleaſantly ſaid to him, 'Thou haſt ſaid much here of Paradiſe loſt, but what haſt thou to ſay of Paradiſe found.' He made me no anſwer, but ſat ſome time in a muſe, then brake off that diſcourſe, and fell upon another ſubject.

"After the ſickneſs was over, and the city well cleanſed, and become ſafely habitable again, he returned thither; and when afterwards I went to wait on him there (which I ſeldom failed of doing, whenever my occaſions led me to London) he ſhewed me his ſecond poem, called Paradiſe Regain'd, and in a pleaſant tone ſaid to me, 'This is owing to you, for you put it into my head by the queſtion you put to me at Chalfont, which before I had not thought of'."

The perſonal regard of this ingenuous quaker for Milton, and his giving birth to a compoſition of ſuch magnitude and merit as Paradiſe Regain'd, entitle him to diſtinction in a life of his great poetical friend, and I have therefore rather tranſcribed than abridged his relation. My reader, I doubt not, will join with me in wiſhing that we had more ſketches of the venerable bard, thus minutely delineated from the life, in the colours of fidelity and affection.

The laſt of Milton's familiar letters in Latin relates to this period; it ſpeaks with devotional gratitude of the ſafe aſylum from the plague, which he had found in the country; it ſpeaks alſo with ſo much feeling of his paſt political adventures, and of the preſent inconvenience which he ſuffered from the loſs of ſight, that I apprehend an entire tranſlation of it [176] can hardly fail of being acceptable to the Engliſh reader. It is dated from London, Auguſt 15, 1666, and addreſſed to Heimbach, an accompliſhed German, who is ſtiled counſellor to the elector of Brandenburgh. An expreſſion in a former letter to the ſame correſpondent ſeems to intimate, that this learned foreigner, who viſited England in his youth, had reſided with Milton, perhaps in the character of a diſciple—But here is the intereſting letter:

*"If among ſo many funerals of my countrymen, in a year ſo full of peſtilence and ſorrow, you were induced, as you ſay, by rumour to believe that I alſo was ſnatched away, it is not ſurpriſing; and if ſuch a rumour prevailed among thoſe of your nation, as it ſeems to have done, becauſe they were ſolicitous for my health, it is not unpleaſing, for I muſt eſteem it as a proof of their benevolence towards me. But [177] by the graciouſneſs of God, who had prepared for me a ſafe retreat in the country, I am ſtill alive and well; and I truſt not utterly an unprofitable ſervant, whatever duty in life there yet remains for me to fulfil. That you remember me, after ſo long an interval in our correſpondence, gratifies me exceedingly, though, by the politeneſs of your expreſſion, you ſeem to afford me room to ſuſpect, that you have rather forgotten me, ſince, as you ſay, you admire in me ſo many different virtues wedded together. From ſo many weddings I ſhould aſſuredly dread a family too numerous, were it not certain that, in narrow circumſtances and under ſeverity of fortune, virtues are moſt excellently reared, and are moſt flouriſhing. Yet one of theſe ſaid virtues has not very handſomely rewarded me for entertaining her; for that which you call my political virtue, and which I ſhould rather wiſh you to call my devotion to my country (enchanting me with her captivating name) almoſt, if I may ſay ſo, expatriated me. Other virtues, however, join their voices to aſſure me, that wherever we proſper in rectitude there is our country. In ending my letter, let me obtain from you this favour, that if you find any parts of it incorrectly written, and without ſtops, you will impute it to the boy who writes for me, who is utterly ignorant of Latin, and to whom I am forced (wretchedly enough) to repeat every ſingle ſyllable that I dictate. I ſtill rejoice that your merit as an accompliſhed man, whom I knew as a youth of the higheſt expectation, has advanced you ſo far in the honourable favour of your prince. For your proſperity in every other point you have both my wiſhes and my hopes. Farewell.

"London, Auguſt 15, 1666."

[178]How intereſting is this complaint, when we recollect that the great writer, reduced to ſuch irkſome difficulties in regard to his ſecretary, was probably engaged at this period in poliſhing the ſublimeſt of poems.

From Ellwood's account it appears, that Paradiſe Loſt was complete in 1665. Philips and Toland aſſert, that it was actually publiſhed the following year; but I believe no copy has been found of a date ſo early. The firſt edition on the liſt of the very accurate Mr. Loft was printed by Peter Parker in 1667, and, probably, at the expence of the author, who ſold the work to Samuel Simmons, by a contract dated the 27th of April, in the ſame year.

The terms of this contract are ſuch as a lover of genius can hardly hear without a ſigh of pity and indignation. The author of the Paradiſe Loſt received only an immediate payment of five pounds for a work, which is the very maſter-piece of ſublime and refined imagination; a faculty not only naturally rare, but requiring an extraordinary coincidence of circumſtances to cheriſh and ſtrengthen it for the long and regular exerciſe eſſential to the production of ſuch a poem. The bookſeller's agreement, however, entitled the author to a conditional payment of fifteen pounds more; five to be paid after the ſale of thirteen hundred copies of the firſt edition, and five, in the ſame manner, both on a ſecond and a third. The number of each edition was limited to fifteen hundred copies.

The original ſize of the publication was a ſmall quarto, and the poem was at firſt divided into ten books; but in the ſecond edition the author very judiciouſly increaſed the [179] number to twelve, by introducing a pauſe in the long narration of the ſeventh and of the tenth, ſo that each of theſe books became two.

Simmons was a printer, and his brief advertiſement to the work he had purchaſed is curious enough to merit inſertion:

"Courteous Reader, there was no argument at firſt intended to the book; but for the ſatisfaction of many that have deſired it, I have procured it, and withal a reaſon of that, which ſtumbled many others, why the poem rhymes not." Here we may plainly ſee that the novelty of blank verſe was conſidered as an unpalatable innovation. The book, however, advanced ſo far in its ſale, that thirteen hundred were diſperſed in two years. In April, 1669, the author received his ſecond payment of five pounds. The ſecond edition came forth in the year of his death, and the third in four years after that event: his widow, who inherited a right to the copy, ſold all her claims to Simmons for eight pounds, in December, 1680; ſo that twenty-eight pounds, paid at different times in the courſe of thirteen years, is the whole pecuniary reward which this great performance produced to the poet and his widow.

But although the emolument, which the author derived from his nobleſt production, was moſt deplorably inadequate to its merit, he was abundantly gratified with immediate and fervent applauſe from ſeveral accompliſhed judges of poetical genius. It has been generally ſuppoſed, that Paradiſe Loſt was neglected to a mortifying degree on its firſt appearance; and that the exalted poet conſoled his ſpirit [180] under ſuch mortification by a magnanimous confidence in the juſtice of future ages, and a ſanguine anticipation of his poetical immortality. The ſtrength and dignity of his mind would indeed have armed him againſt any poſſible diſappointment of his literary ambition; but ſuch was the reception of his work, that he could not be diſappointed. Johnſon has vindicated the public on this point with judgment and ſucceſs: ‘The ſale of books (he obſerves) was not in Milton's age what it is in the preſent; the nation had been ſatisfied, from 1623 to 1664, that is forty-one years, with only two editions of the works of Shakeſpeare, which probably did not together make one thouſand copies. The ſale of thirteen hundred copies in two years, in oppoſition to ſo much recent enmity, and to a ſtyle of verſification new to all, and diſguſting to many, was an uncommon example of the prevalence of genius.’ Theſe remarks are perfectly juſt; but when their author proceeds to ſay, ‘the admirers of Paradiſe Loſt did not dare to publiſh their opinion,’ he ſeems to forget the very ſpirited eulogies that were, during the life of the poet, beſtowed on that performance. Panegyrick can hardly aſſume a bolder tone than in the Engliſh and Latin verſes addreſſed to Milton by Marvel and Barrow. He received other compliments not inferior to theſe. The muſe of Dryden aſſured him, that he poſſeſſed the united excellencies of Homer and of Virgil; and, if we may rely on an anecdote related by Richardſon, the Paradiſe Loſt was announced to the world in a very ſingular manner, that may [181] be thought not ill-ſuited to the pre-eminence of the work. Sir John Denham, a man diſtinguiſhed as a ſoldier, a ſenator, and a poet, came into the Houſe of Commons with a proof-ſheet of Milton's new compoſition wet from the preſs; and being queſtioned concerning the paper in his hand, he ſaid, it was ‘part of the nobleſt poem that ever was written in any language or in any age.’ Richardſon, whoſe active and liberal affection for the poet led him to ſearch with intelligent alacrity and ſucceſs for every occurrence that could redound to his honour, has recorded another incident, which muſt be particularly intereſting to every lover of literary anecdote, as it diſcovers how the Paradiſe Loſt was firſt introduced to Dryden, and with what fervency of admiration he immediately ſpoke of it. The Earl of Dorſet and Fleetwood Shepard, the friend of Prior, ſound the poem, according to this ſtory, at a bookſeller's in Little Britain, who, lamenting its want of circulation, entreated the Earl to recommend it; Dorſet, after reading it himſelf, ſent it to Dryden, who ſaid, in returning the book, "This man cuts us all out, and the ancients too." Theſe were probably the real ſentiments of Dryden on his firſt peruſal of the poem; but as that unhappy genius was not bleſt with the independent magnanimity of Milton, his opinions were apt to fluctuate according to his intereſt, and we find him occaſionally diſpoſed to exalt or degrade the tranſcendent performance, which he could not but admire. As the ſix celebrated verſes, in which he has complimented the Engliſh Homer, ſo much reſemble what he ſaid of him to Lord Dorſet, it is probable that thoſe verſes were written [182] while his mind was glowing with admiration from his firſt ſurvey of the Paradiſe Loſt; and as long as Milton lived, Dryden ſeems to have paid him the deference ſo juſtly due to his age, his genius, and his virtue. Aubrey relates, in the manuſcript which I have repeatedly cited, that the poet laureat waited on Milton for the purpoſe of ſoliciting his permiſſion to put his Paradiſe Loſt into a drama. "Mr. Milton (ſays Aubrey) received him civilly, and told him, he would give him leave to tag his verſes," an expreſſion that probably alluded to a couplet of Marvel's, in his poetical eulogy on his friend. The opera which Dryden wrote, in conſequence of this permiſſion, entitled the State of Innocence, was not exhibited in the theatre, and did not appear in print till two years after the death of Milton, who is mentioned in becoming terms of veneration and gratitude in the preface. The drama itſelf is a very ſingular and ſtriking performance; with all the beauties and all the defects of Dryden's animated unequal verſification, it has peculiar claim to the attention of thoſe, who may wiſh to inveſtigate the reſpective powers of Engliſh rhyme and blank verſe, and it may furniſh arguments to the partizans of each; for, if in many paſſages the images and harmony of Milton are deplorably injured by the neceſſity of rhyming, in a few inſtances, perhaps, rhyme has imparted even to the ideas of Milton new energy and grace. There are prefixt to this opera ſome very animated but injudicious verſes by poor Nat. Lee, who has laviſhed the moſt exaggerated praiſe on his friend Dryden, at the expence of the ſuperior poet.

[183]It is highly pleaſing to reflect, that Milton, who had ſo many evils to ſuſtain in the courſe of his chequered life, had yet the high gratification of being aſſured, by very competent judges, that he had gloriouſly ſucceeded in the prime object of his literary ambition, the great poetical atchievement, which he projected in youth, and accompliſhed in old age. He probably received ſuch animating aſſurances from many of his friends, whoſe applauſe, being intended for his private ſatisfaction, has not deſcended to our time; but when we recollect the honours already mentioned, that were paid to the living poet by Denham, Dryden, and Marvel, we may reſt ſatisfied in the perſuaſion, that he enjoyed a grateful earneſt of his future renown, and, according to the petition he addreſſed to Urania, ‘Fit audience found tho' few.’

If the ſpirit of a departed bard can be gratified by any circumſtances of poſthumous renown, it might gratify Milton to perceive, that his divine poem was firſt indebted for general celebrity to the admiration of Sommers and of Addiſon, two of the moſt accompliſhed and moſt amiable of Engliſh names. Sommers promoted the firſt ornamented edition of Paradiſe Loſt in 1688; and Addiſon wrote his celebrated papers on Milton in 1712.

But to return to the living author; in the year 1670, the great poet aſpired to new diſtinction, by appearing in the character of an hiſtorian.—He had long meditated a work, which, in his time, was particularly wanted in our [184] language, and which the greater cultivation beſtowed by the preſent age on this branch of literature has not yet produced in perfection—an eloquent and impartial hiſtory of England. Milton executed only ſix books, beginning with the moſt early fabulous period, and cloſing with the Norman conqueſt. "Why he ſhould have given the firſt part (ſays Johnſon) which he ſeems not to believe, and which is univerſally rejected, it is difficult to conjecture." Had the critic taken the trouble to peruſe a few pages of the work in queſtion his difficulty would have vaniſhed; he would at leaſt have found the motive of the author, if he had not eſteemed it ſatisfactory:

"I have determined (ſays Milton) in ſpeaking of the ancient and rejected Britiſh fables, to beſtow the telling over even of theſe reputed tales, be it for nothing elſe but in favour of our Engliſh poets and rhetoricians, who by their art will know how to uſe them judiciouſly." This ſentiment implies a ſtriking fondneſs for works of imagination, and a good natured diſpoſition to promote them.

The hiſtorian diſcovers higher aims as he advances in his work, and expreſſes a moral and patriotic deſire to make the leſſons ſuggeſted by the early calamities of this nation a ſource of wiſdom and virtue to his improving countrymen. The very paſſage, which was moſt likely to produce ſuch an effect, was ſtruck out of the publication by the Gothic hand of the licenſer, an incident that ſeems to give new energy to all the noble arguments, which the injured author had formerly adduced in vindicating the liberty of the preſs.

The paſſage in queſtion contained a very maſterly ſketch [185] of the long parliament and aſſembly of divines, contraſting their ſituation and their miſconduct, after the death of Charles the Firſt, with thoſe of the ancient Britons, when, by the departure of the Roman power, "they were left (according to the expreſſion of the hiſtorian) to the ſway of their own councils." The author gave a copy of this unlicenced parallel to the celebrated Earl of Angleſey, a man diſtinguiſhed by erudition, with a liberal reſpect for genius, and though a miniſter of Charles the Second, a frequent viſiter of Milton. This curious fragment was publiſhed in 1681, with a ſhort preface, declaring, that it originally belonged to the third book of Milton's Hiſtory; and in the edition of his proſe works, in 1738, it was properly replaced. The poet would have ſucceeded more eminently as an hiſtorian, had his talents been exerciſed on a period more favourable to their exertion. We have reaſon to regret his not having executed the latter part of his original intention, inſtead of dwelling on the meagre and dark annals of Saxon barbarity. In his early hiſtory, however, there are paſſages of great force and beauty; his character of Alfred in particular is worthy that engaging model of an accompliſhed monarch, and verifies a ſentiment, which Milton profeſſed, even while he was defending the commonwealth, that although a reſolute enemy to tyrants, he was a ſince [...]e friend to ſuch kings as merited the benediction of their people*.

[186]In 1671, the year after the firſt appearance of his hiſtory, he publiſhed the Paradiſe Regained, and Samſon Agoniſtes.

[187]Many groundleſs remarks have been made on the ſuppoſed want of judgment in Milton to form a proper eſtimate of his own compoſitions. "His laſt poetical offspring (ſays Johnſon) was his favourite; he could not, as Ellwood relates, endure to have Paradiſe Loſt preferred to Paradiſe Regained." In this brief paſſage, there is more than one miſrepreſentation. It is not Ellwood, but Philips, who ſpeaks of Milton's eſteem for his latter poem; and inſtead of ſaying that the author preferred it to his greater work, he merely intimates, that Milton was offended with the general cenſure, which condemned the Paradiſe Regained as infinitely inferior to the other. Inſtead of ſuppoſing, therefore, that the great poet was under the influence of an abſurd predilection, we have only reaſon to conclude, that he heard with lively ſcorn ſuch idle witticiſm as we find recorded by Toland, "that Milton might be ſeen in Paradiſe Loſt, but not in Paradiſe Regained." His own accompliſhed mind, in which ſenſibility and judgment were proportioned to extraordinary imagination, moſt probably [188] aſſured him what is indiſputably true, that uncommon energy of thought and felicity of compoſition are apparent in both performances, however different in deſign, dimenſion, and effect. To cenſure the Paradiſe Regained, becauſe it does not more reſemble the preceding poem, is hardly leſs abſurd than it would be to condemn the moon for not being a ſun, inſtead of admiring the two different luminaries, and feeling that both the greater and the leſs are viſibly the work of the ſame divine and inimitable power.

Johnſon has very liberally noticed one peculiarity in Milton, and calls it, with a benevolent happineſs of expreſſion, ‘a kind of humble dignity, which did not diſdain the meaneſt ſervices to literature. The epic poet, the controvertiſt, the politician, having already deſcended to accommodate children with a book of rudiments, now, in the laſt years of his life, compoſed a book of Logic, for the initiation of ſtudents in philoſophy, and publiſhed, 1672, Artis Logicae plenior Inſtitutio ad Petri Rami Methodum concinnata, that is, a new ſcheme of Logic, according to the method of Ramus.’

It is ſo pleaſing to find one great author ſpeaking of another in terms, which do honour to both, that I tranſcribe, with ſingular ſatisfaction, the preceding paſſage of the eminent biographer, whoſe frequent and injurious aſperity to Milton I have ſo repeatedly noticed, and muſt continue to notice, with reprehenſion and regret.

In the very moment of delivering the juſt encomium I have commended, the critic diſcovers an intemperate eagerneſs [189] to revile the object of his praiſe; for he proceeds to ſay of Milton, ‘I know not whether, even in this book, he did not intend an act of hoſtility againſt the univerſities, for Ramus was one of the firſt oppugners of the old philoſophy, who diſturbed with innovations the quiet of the ſchools.’ Is there not a viſible want of candour in ſhewing ſo wildly a wiſh to impute a very inoffenſive and meritorious work of ſcience to a malevolent motive?

Ramus was a man, whoſe writings and memory were juſtly regarded by Milton; for he reſembled our great countryman in temperance, in fortitude, in paſſion for ſtudy, and, above all, in a brave and inflexible oppoſition to ignorance, tyranny, and ſuperſtition; his life was a continued ſtruggle with theſe mercileſs enemies, and he periſhed at laſt with circumſtances of peculiar barbarity, in the atrocious maſſacre of St. Bartholomew.

A deſire of rendering juſtice to the talents and virtues of ſuch a ſufferer in the cauſe of learning might ſurely be aſſcribed to Milton, as a more probable and becoming motive on this occaſion, than dark intentions of hoſtility againſt the univerſities. It is but a ſorry compliment to thoſe univerſities to inſinuate, that he engaged in warfare againſt them, who republiſhed a ſimple and ſeaſonable treatiſe on the management of human reaſon. Milton with great judgment augmented the logic of Ramus, and added to his ſyſtem an abridgment of the Latin life, which Fregius had written, of its unfortunate author.

[190]The long literary career of Milton was now drawing towards its termination, and it cloſed as it began, with a fervent regard to the intereſt of religion.—Alarmed by that encroachment, which the Romiſh ſuperſtition was making under the connivance of Charles the Second, and with the aid of his apoſtate brother, Milton publiſhed ‘A treatiſe of true Religion, Hereſy, Schiſm, Toleration, and the beſt Means to prevent the Growth of Popery.’ The patriotic ſcope of this work was to unite and conſolidate the jarring ſects of the proteſtants, by perſuading them to reciprocal indulgence, and to guard them againſt thoſe impending dangers from Rome, which, in a ſhort period, burſt upon this iſland, and very happily terminated in our ſignal deliverance from many of thoſe religious and political evils, which the ſpirit of Milton had, through a long life, moſt reſolutely and conſcientiouſly oppoſed.

His treatiſe againſt the growth of popery, which was publiſhed in 1673, was the laſt conſiderable performance that he gave to the world; but publication in ſome ſhape ſeems to have contributed to his amuſement as long as he exiſted. In the ſame year he reprinted his ſmaller poems with the Tractate on Education; and in the year following, the laſt of his laborious life, he publiſhed his Familiar Letters, and a Declaration of the Poles in praiſe of their heroic ſovereign, John Sobieſki, tranſlated from the Latin original. A brief hiſtory of Moſcovia, which he appears to have compiled, in the early parts of his life, from various travellers who had viſited that country, was publiſhed a few years after his death, and two of his compoſitions (both perhaps intended for the [191] preſs) have probably periſhed; the firſt, a Syſtem of Theology in Latin, that ſeems to have been entruſted to his friend Cyriac Skinner; the ſecond, an Anſwer to a ſcurrilous libel upon himſelf, which his nephew ſuppoſes him to have ſuppreſſed from a juſt contempt of his reviler.

Soon after his marriage in 1661, he had removed from Jewin-ſtreet to a houſe in the Artillery-walk, leading to Bunhill-fields, a ſpot that to his enthuſiaſtic admirers may appear conſecrated by his genius: here he reſided in that period of his days, when he was peculiarly entitled to veneration; here he probably finiſhed no leſs than three of his moſt admirable works; and here, with a diſſolution to eaſy that it was unperceived by the perſons in his chamber, he cloſed a life, clouded indeed by uncommon and various calamities, yet ennobled by the conſtant exerciſe of ſuch rare endowments as render his name, perhaps, the very firſt in that radiant and comprehenſive liſt, of which England, the moſt fertile of countries in the produce of mental power, has reaſon to be proud.

For ſome years he had ſuffered much from the gout, and in July, 1674, he found his conſtitution ſo broken by that diſtemper, that he was willing to prepare for his departure from the world. With this view he informed his brother Chriſtopher, who was then a bencher in the Inner Temple, of the diſpoſition he wiſhed to make of his property. "Brother (ſaid the invalid) the portion due to me from Mr. Powell, my firſt wiſe's father, I leave to the unkind children I had by her; but I have received no part of it; and my will and meaning is, they ſhall have no other benefit of my [192] eſtate than the ſaid portion, and what I have beſides done for them, they having been very undutiful to me; and all the reſidue of my eſtate I leave to the diſpoſal of Elizabeth, my loving wife." Such is the brief teſtament, which Milton dictated to his brother, about the 20th of July, but which Chriſtopher does not appear to have committed to paper till a few days after the deceaſe of the teſtator, who expired on Sunday night, the 15th of November, 1674. "All his learned and great friends in London, (ſays Toland) not without a friendly concourſe of the vulgar, accompanied his body to the church of St. Giles, near Cripplegate, where he lies buried in the chancel." This biographer, who, though he had the misfortune to think very differently from Milton on the great article of religion, yet never fails to ſpeak of him with affectionate reſpect, indulged a pleaſing expectation, when he wrote his life in the cloſe of the laſt century, that national munificence would ſpeedily raiſe a monument worthy of the poet, to protect and to honour his remains. To the diſcredit of our country ſhe has failed to pay this decent tribute to the memory of a man, from whoſe genius ſhe has derived ſo much glory; but an individual, Mr. Benſon, in the year 1737, placed a buſt of the great author in Weſtminſter Abbey; an act of liberality that does him credit, though Johnſon and Pope have both ſatyrized the monumental inſcription with a degree of cynical aſperity: ſuch aſperity appears unſeaſonable, becauſe all the oſtentation, ſo ſeverely cenſured in Mr. Benſon, amounts merely to his having ſaid, in the plaineſt manner, that he raiſed the monument; and to his having [193] added to his own name a common enumeration of the offices he poſſeſſed; a circumſtance in which candour might have diſcovered rather more modeſty than pride.—Affluence appears particularly amiable when paying a voluntary tribute to neglected genius, even in the grave; nor is Benſon the only individual of ample fortune, who has endeared himſelf to the lovers of literature by generous endeavours to promote the celebrity of Milton. Affectionate admirers of the poet will honour the memory of the late Mr. Hollis, in recollecting that he devoted much time and money to a ſimilar purſuit; and they will regret that he was unable to diſcover the Italian verſes, and the marble buſt, which he diligently ſought for in Italy, on a ſuggeſtion that ſuch memorials of our poetic traveller had been carefully preſerved in that country. But from this brief digreſſion on the recent admirers of Milton, let us return to his family at the time of his deceaſe.

His will was conteſted by the daughters, whoſe undutiful conduct it condemned: being deficient in form, it was ſet aſide, and letters of adminiſtration were granted to the widow, who is ſaid to have allotted an hundred pounds to each daughter, a ſum which, being probably too little in their opinion, and too much in her's, would naturally produce reciprocal animoſity and cenſure between the contending parties.

It has been already obſerved, that the recent diſcovery of this forgotten will, and the allegations annexed to it, throw conſiderable light on the domeſtic life of Milton; and the more inſight we can gain into his ſocial and ſequeſtered [194] hours, the more we ſhall diſcover, that he was not leſs entitled to private affection, than to public eſteem; but let us contemplate his perſon before we proceed to a minuter examination of his mind and manners.

So infatuated with rancour were the enemies of this illuſtrious man, that they delineated his form, as they repreſented his character, with the utmoſt extravagance of malevolent falſhood: he was not only compared to that monſter of deformity, the eyeleſs Polypheme, but deſcribed as a diminutive, bloodleſs, and ſhrivelled creature. Expreſſions of this kind, in which abſurdity and malice are equally apparent, induced him to expoſe the contemptible virulence of his revilers by a brief deſcription of his own figure*. He [195] repreſents himſelf as a man of moderate ſtature, not particularly ſlender, and ſo far endued with ſtrength and ſpirit, that as he always wore a ſword, he wanted not, in his healthy ſeaſon of life, either ſkill or courage to uſe it; having practiſed fencing with great aſſiduity, he conſidered himſelf as a match for any antagoniſt, however ſuperior to him in muſcular force; his countenance (he ſays) was ſo far from being bloodleſs, that when turned of forty he was generally allowed to have the appearance of being ten years younger; even his eyes (he adds) though utterly deprived of ſight, did not betray their imperfection, but on the contrary appeared as ſpeckleſs and as lucid as if his powers of viſion had been peculiarly acute—‘In this article alone’ (ſays Milton) ‘and much againſt my will, I am an hypocrite.’

Such is the intereſting portrait, which this great writer has left us of himſelf. Thoſe who had the happineſs of knowing him perſonally, ſpeak in the higheſt terms even of his perſonal endowments, and ſeem to have regarded him as a model of manly grace and dignity in his figure and deportment.

"His harmonical and ingenuous ſoul" (ſays Aubrey) "dwelt in a beautiful and well proportioned body." ‘In toto nuſquam corpore menda ſuit.’ His hair was a light brown, his eyes dark grey, and his complexion ſo fair, that at college, according to his own expreſſion, he was ſtyled "The Lady," an appellation [196] which he could not reliſh; but he conſoled himſelf under abſurd raillery on the delicacy of his perſon, by recollecting that ſimilar raillery had been laviſhed on thoſe manly and eminent characters of the ancient world, Demoſthenes and Hortenſius. His general appearance approached not in any degree to effeminacy. "His deportment" (ſays Anthony Wood) ‘was affable, and his gait erect and manly, beſpeaking courage and undauntedneſs.’ Richardſon, who laboured with affectionate enthuſiaſm to acquire and communicate all poſſible information concerning the perſon and manners of Milton, has left the two following ſketches of his figure at an advanced period of life.

"An ancient clergyman of Dorſetſhire (Dr. Wright) found John Milton in a ſmall chamber hung with ruſty green, ſitting in an elbow chair, and dreſſed neatly in black, pale but not cadaverous, his hands and fingers gouty and with chalk ſtones."

"He uſed alſo to ſit, in a grey coarſe cloth coat, at the door of his houſe near Bunhill-fields, in warm ſunny weather, to enjoy the freſh air, and ſo, as well as in his room, received the viſits of people of diſtinguiſhed parts as well as quality." It is probable, that Milton, in his youth, was, in ſome meaſure, indebted to the engaging graces of his perſon for that early introduction into the politeſt ſociety, both in England and abroad, which improved the natural ſweetneſs of his character (ſo viſible in all his genuine portraits) and led him to unite with profound erudition, and with the ſublimeſt talents, an endearing and cheerful [197] delicacy of manners, very rarely attained by men, whoſe application to ſtudy is continual and intenſe.

The enemies of Milton indeed (and his late biographer I muſt reluctantly include under that deſcription) have laboured to fix upon him a fictitious and moſt unamiable character of auſterity and harſhneſs. ‘What we know (ſays Johnſon) of Milton's character in domeſtic relations is, that he was ſevere and arbitrary. His family conſiſted of women, and there appears in his books ſomething like a Turkiſh contempt of females, as ſubordinate and inferior beings; that his own daughters might not break the ranks, he ſuffered them to be depreſſed by a mean and penurious education. He thought woman made only for obedience, and man for rebellion.’ This is aſſuredly the intemperate language of hatred, and very far from being conſonant to truth.

As it was thought a ſufficient defence of Sophocles, when he was barbarouſly accuſed of mental imbecility by his unnatural children, to read a portion of his recent dramatic works, ſo, I am confident, the citation of a few verſes from our Engliſh bard may be enough to clear him from a charge equally groundleſs, and almoſt as ungenerous.

No impartial reader of genuine ſenſibility will deem it poſſible, that the poet could have entertained a Turkiſh contempt of females, who has thus delineated woman:

All higher knowledge in her preſence falls
Degraded; wiſdom, in diſcourſe with her,
Loſes diſcountenanc'd, and like folly ſhews;
[198]Authority and reaſon on her wait,
As one intended firſt, not after made
Occaſionally; and to conſummate all,
Greatneſs of mind and nobleneſs their ſeat
Build in her lovelieſt, and create an awe
About her, as a guard angelic plac'd.

A deſcription ſo complete could ariſe only from ſuch exquiſite feelings in the poet, as inſured to every deſerving female his tendereſt regard. This argument might be ſtill more enforced by a paſſage in the ſpeech of Raphael; but the preceding verſes are, I truſt, ſufficient to counteract the uncandid attempt of the acrimonious biographer to prejudice the faireſt part of the creation againſt a poet, who has ſurpaſſed his peers in delineating their charms, whoſe poetry, a more enchanting mirror than the lake that he deſcribes in Paradiſe, repreſents their mental united to their perſonal graces, and exhibits in perfection all the lovelineſs of woman.

As to Milton's depreſſing his daughters by a mean and penurious education, it is a calumny reſting only on a report, that he would not allow them the advantage of learning to write. This is evidently falſe, ſince Aubrey, who was perſonally acquainted with the poet, and who had probably conſulted his widow in regard to many particulars of his life, expreſsly affirms, that his youngeſt daughter was his amanuenſis; a circumſtance of which my friend Romney has happily availed himſelf to decorate the folio edition of this life with a production of his pencil. The youngeſt [199] daughter of Milton had the moſt frequent opportunities of knowing his temper, and ſhe happens to be the only one of his children who has delivered a deliberate account of it; but her account, inſtead of confirming Johnſon's idea of her father's domeſtic ſeverity, will appear to the candid reader to refute it completely. "She ſpoke of him (ſays Richardſon) with great tenderneſs; ſhe ſaid he was delightful company, the life of the converſation, and that on account of a flow of ſubject, and an unaffected cheerfulneſs and civility." It was this daughter who related the extraordinary circumſtance, that ſhe and one of her ſiſters read to their father ſeveral languages, which they did not underſtand: it is remarkable, that ſhe did not ſpeak of it as a hardſhip; nor could it be thought an intolerable grievance by an affectionate child, who thus aſſiſted a blind parent in labouring for the maintenance of his family. Such an employment, however, muſt have been irkſome; and the conſiderate father, in finding that it was ſo, "ſent out his children (according to the expreſſion of his nephew) to learn ſome curious and ingenious ſorts of manufacture, particularly embroideries in gold or ſilver." That he was no penurious parent is ſtrongly proved by an expreſſion that he made uſe of in ſpeaking of his will, when he declared, that "he had made proviſion for his children in his life-time, and had ſpent the greateſt part of his eſtate in providing for them." It is the more barbarous to arraign the poet for domeſtic cruelty, becauſe he appears to have ſuffered from the ſingular tenderneſs and generoſity of his nature. He had reaſon to lament that exceſs of indulgence, with which [200] forgave and received again his diſobedient and long-alienated wife, ſince their re-union not only diſquieted his days, but gave birth to daughters, who ſeem to have inherited the perverſity of their mother:

The wiſeſt and beſt men full oft beguil'd
With goodneſs principled, not to reject
The penitent, but ever to forgive,
Are drawn to wear out miſerable days,
Intangled with a pois'nous boſom-ſnake.

Theſe pathetic lines, in a ſpeech of his Sampſon Agoniſtes, ſtrike me as a forcible alluſion to his own connubial infelicity. If in his firſt marriage he was eminently unhappy, his ſucceſs in the two laſt turned the balance of fortune in his favour. That his ſecond wife deſerved, poſſeſſed, and retained his affection, is evident from his ſonnet occaſioned by her death; of the care and kindneſs which he had long experienced from the partner of his declining life, he ſpoke with tender gratitude to his brother, in explaining his teſtamentary intention; and we are probably indebted to the care and kindneſs, which the aged poet experienced from this affectionate guardian, for the happy accompliſhment of his ineſtimable works. A blind and deſolate father muſt be utterly unequal to the management of diſobedient daughters conſpiring againſt him; the anguiſh he endured from their filial ingratitude, and the baſe deceptions, with which they continually tormented him, muſt have rendered even the ſtrongeſt mind very unfit for poetical application. The [201] which he concluded by the advice and the aid of his friend Dr. Paget, ſeems to have been his only reſource againſt a moſt exaſperating and calamitous ſpecies of domeſtic diſquietude; it appears, therefore, not unreaſonable to regard thoſe immortal poems, which recovered tranquillity enabled him to produce, as the fruits of that marriage. As matrimony has, perhaps, annihilated many a literary deſign, let it be remembered to its honour, that it probably gave birth to the brighteſt offspring of literature.

The two eldeſt daughters of Milton appear to me utterly unworthy of their father; but thoſe who adopt the dark prejudices of Johnſon, and believe with him, that the great poet was an auſtere domeſtic tyrant, will find, in their idea of the father, an apology for his children, whoſe deſtiny in the world I ſhall immediately mention, that I may have occaſion to ſpeak of them no more. Anne, the eldeſt, who with a deformed perſon had a pleaſing face, married an architect, and died, with her firſt infant, in child-bed. Mary, the ſecond, and apparently the moſt deficient in affection to her father, died unmarried. Deborah, who was the favourite of Milton, and who, long after his deceaſe, diſcovered, on a caſual ſight of his genuine portrait, very affecting emotions of filial tenderneſs and enthuſiaſm, even Deborah deſerted him without his knowledge, not in conſequence of his paternal ſeverity, of which ſhe was very far from complaining, but, as Richardſon intimates, from a diſguſt ſhe had conceived againſt her mother-in-law. On quitting the houſe of her father, ſhe went to Ireland with a lady, and afterwards became the wife of Mr. Clarke, a weaver, in [202] Spital-fields. As her family was numerous, and her circumſtances not affluent, the liberal Addiſon made her a preſent, from his regard to the memory of her father, and intended to procure her ſome decent eſtabliſhment, but died before he could accompliſh his generous deſign. From Queen Caroline, ſhe received fifty guineas, a donation as ill proportioned to the rank of the donor as to the mental dignity of the great genius, whoſe indigent daughter was the object of this unprincely munificence.— Mrs. Clarke had ten children, but none of them appear to have attracted public regard, till Dr. Birch and Dr. Newton, two benevolent and reſpectable biographers of the poet, diſcovered his grand-daughter, Mrs. Elizabeth Foſter, keeping a little chandler's-ſhop in the city, poor, aged, and infirm; they publicly ſpoke of her condition; Johnſon was then writing as the coadjutor of Lauder in his attempt to ſink the glory of Milton; but as the critic's charity was ſtill greater than his ſpleen, he ſeized the occaſion of recommending, under Lauder's name, this neceſſitous deſcendant of the great poet to the beneficence of his country; Comus was repreſented for her benefit, in the year 1750, and Johnſon, to his honour, contributed a prologue on the occaſion, in which noble ſentiments are nobly expreſſed.

The poor grand-daughter of Milton gained but one hundred and thirty pounds by this public benefaction; this ſum, however, ſmall as it was, afforded peculiar comfort to her declining age, by enabling her to retire to Iſlington with her huſband: ſhe had ſeven children, who died before her, and by her own death it is probable that the line of [203] the poet became extinct. Let us haſten from this painful ſurvey of his progeny to the more enlivening contemplation of his rare mental endowments. The moſt diligent reſearches into all that can elucidate the real temper of Milton only confirm the opinion, that his native characteriſtics were mildneſs and magnanimity. In controverſy his mind was undoubtedly overheated, and paſſages may be quoted from his proſe works, that are certainly neither mild nor magnanimous; but if his controverſial aſperity is compared with the outrageous inſolence of his opponents, even that aſperity will appear moderation; in ſocial intercourſe he is repreſented as peculiarly courteous and engaging. When the celebrity of his Latin work made him eſteemed abroad, many enquiries were made concerning his private character among his familiar acquaintance, and the reſult of ſuch enquiry was, that mildneſs and affability were his diſtinguiſhing qualities. "Virum eſſe miti comique ingenio aiunt," ſays the celebrate Heinſius, in a letter that he wrote concerning Milton, in the year 1651, to Gronovius. Another eminent foreigner repreſents him in the ſame pleaſing light, and from the beſt information. Voſſius, who was at that time in Sweden, and who mentions the praiſe, which his royal patroneſs Chriſtina beſtowed on Milton's recent defence of the Engliſh people, informs his friend Heinſius, that he had obtained a very particular account of the author from a relation of his own, the learned Junius, who wrote the elaborate and intereſting hiſtory of ancient painting, reſided in England, and particularly cultivated the intimacy of Milton.

[204]Indeed, when we reflect on the poet's uncommon tenderneſs towards his parents, and all the advantages of his early life, both at home and abroad, we have every reaſon to believe, that his manners were ſingularly pleaſing. He was fond of refined female ſociety, and appears to have been very fortunate in two female friends of diſtinction, the Lady Margaret Ley, whoſe ſociety conſoled him when he was mortified by the deſertion of his firſt wife, and the no leſs accompliſhed Lady Ranelagh, who had placed her ſon under his care, and who probably aſſiſted him, when he was a widower and blind, with friendly directions for the management of his female infants. A paſſage in one of his letters to her ſon ſuggeſts this idea; for he condoles with his young correſpondent, then at the Univerſity, on the loſs they would both ſuſtain by the long abſence of his moſt excellent mother, paſſing at that time into Ireland; "her departure muſt grieve us both," ſays Milton, "for to me alſo ſhe ſupplied the place of every friend;" an expreſſion full of tenderneſs and regret, highly honourable to the lady, and a pleaſing memorial of that ſenſibility and gratitude, which I am perſuaded we ſhould have ſeen moſt eminent in the character of Milton, if his Engliſh letters had been fortunately preſerved, particularly his letters to this intereſting lady, whoſe merits are commemorated in an eloquent ſermon, preached by biſhop Burnet, on the death of her brother, that mild and accompliſhed model of virtue and of learning, Robert Boyle. Lady Ranelagh muſt have been one of the [205] exemplary and engaging characters that ever exiſted, ſince we find ſhe was the darling ſiſter of this illuſtrious philoſopher, and the favourite friend of a poet ſtill more illuſtrious. Four of Milton's Latin letters are addreſſed to her ſon, and they blend with moral precepts to the young ſtudent reſpectful and affectionate praiſe of his mother*.

In the Latin correſpondence of Milton we have ſome veſtiges of his ſentiments concerning the authors of antiquity; and it is remarkable, that in a deliberate opinion on the merits of Salluſt, he prefers him to all the Roman hiſtorians. Milton, however, did not form himſelf as a writer on any Roman model: being very early moſt anxious to excel [206] in literature, he wiſely attached himſelf to thoſe prime examples of literary perfection, the Greeks; among the poets he particularly delighted in Euripides and Homer; his favourites in proſe ſeem to have been Plato and Demoſthenes; the firſt peculiarly fit to give richneſs, purity, and luſtre to the fancy; the ſecond, to invigorate the underſtanding, and inſpire the fervid energy of public virtue. It is a very juſt remark of Lord Monboddo, that even the poetical ſpeeches in Paradiſe Loſt derive their conſummate propriety and eloquence from the fond and enlightened attention with which the poet had ſtudied the moſt perfect orator of Athens: the ſtudies of Milton, however, were very extenſive; he appears to have been familiar not only with all the beſt authors of antiquity, but with thoſe of every refined language in Europe; Italian, French, Spaniſh, and Portugueze. Great erudition has been often ſuppoſed to operate as an incumbrance on the finer faculties of the mind; but let us obſerve to its credit, the ſublimeſt of poets was alſo the moſt learned: of Italian literature he was particularly fond, as we may collect from one of his letters to a profeſſor of that language, and from the eaſe and ſpirit of his Italian verſes. To the honour of modern Italy it may be ſaid, that ſhe had a conſiderable ſhare in forming the genius of Milton. In Taſſo, her brighteſt ornament, he found a character highly worthy of his affectionate emulation, both as a poet and as a man; this accompliſhed perſonage had, indeed, ended his illuſtrious and troubled life ſeveral years before Milton viſited his country; but he was yet living in the memory of his ardent friend Manſo, and through the medium of Manſo's, [207] converſation his various excellencies made, I am perſuaded, a forcible and permanent impreſſion on the heart and fancy of our youthful countryman. It was hardly the example of Triſſino, as Johnſon ſuppoſes, that tempted Milton to his bold experiment of blank verſe; for Triſſino's epic poem is a very heavy performance, and had ſunk into ſuch oblivion in Italy, that the literary friend and biographer of Taſſo conſiders that greater poet as the firſt perſon who enriched the Italian language with valuable blank verſe: "our early works of that kind," ſays Manſo, "are tranſlations from the Latin, and thoſe not ſucceſsful." The poem in blank verſe, for which this amiable biographer applauds his friend, is an extenſive work, in ſeven books, on the Seven Days of the Creation, a ſubject that has engaged the poets of many countries. The performance of Taſſo was begun at the houſe of his friend Manſo, and at the ſuggeſtion of a lady, the accompliſhed mother of the Marquis. As this poem is formed from the Bible, and full of religious enthuſiaſm, it probably influenced the Engliſh viſiter of Manſo in his choice of blank verſe. Taſſo was a voluminous author, and we have reaſon to believe that Milton was familiar with all his compoſitions, as the exquiſite eulogy on connubial affection, in the Paradiſe Loſt, is founded on a proſe compoſition in favour of marriage, addreſſed by the Italian poet to one of his relations*; but Milton, who was perhaps of all authors the [208] addicted to imitation, rarely imitates even Taſſo in compoſition: in life, indeed, he copied him more cloſely, and to his great poetical compeer of Italy he diſcovers a very ſtriking reſemblance in application to ſtudy, in temperance of diet, in purity of morals, and in fervency of devotion. The Marquis of Villa, in cloſing his life of Taſſo, has enumerated all the particular virtues by which he was diſtinguiſhed; theſe were all equally conſpicuous in Milton; and we may truly ſay of him, what Manſo ſays of the great Italian poet, that the preference of virtue to every other conſideration was the predominant paſſion of his life.

Enthuſiaſm was the characteriſtic of his mind; in politics, it made him ſometimes too generouſly credulous, and ſometimes too rigorouſly deciſive; but in poetry it exalted him to ſuch a degree of excellence as no man has hitherto ſurpaſſed; nor is it probable that in this province he will ever be excelled; for although in all the arts there are undoubtedly points of perfection much higher than any mortal has yet attained, ſtill it requires ſuch a coincidence of ſo many advantages depending on the influence both of nature and of deſtiny to raiſe a great artiſt of any kind, that the world has but little reaſon to expect productions of poetical genius ſuperior to the Paradiſe Loſt. There was a bold yet refined originality of conception, which characteriſed the mental powers of Milton, and give him the higheſt claim to diſtinction: we are not only indebted to him for having extended and ennobled the province of epic poetry, but he has another title to our regard, as the founder of that recent and enchanting Engliſh art, which has embelliſhed [209] our country, and, to ſpeak the glowing language of a living bard very eloquent in its praiſe,

— Made Albion ſmile,
One ample theatre of ſylvan grace.

The elegant hiſtorian of modern gardening, Lord Orford, and the two accompliſhed poets, who have celebrated its charms both in France and England, De Lille and Maſon, have, with great juſtice and felicity of expreſſion, paid their homage to Milton, as the beneficent genius, who beſtowed upon the world this youngeſt and moſt lovely of the arts. As a contraſt to the Miltonic garden, I may point out to the notice of the reader, what has eſcaped, I think, all the learned writers on this engaging ſubject, the garden of the imperious Duke of Alva, deſcribed in a poem of the celebrated Lope de Vega. The ſublime viſion of Eden, as Lord Orford truly calls it, proves indeed, as the ſame writer obſerves, how little the poet ſuffered from the loſs of ſight. The native diſpoſition of Milton, and his perſonal infirmity, conſpired to make contemplation his chief buſineſs and chief enjoyment: few poets have devoted ſo large a portion of their time to intenſe and regular ſtudy; yet he often made a pauſe of ſome months in the progreſs of his great work, if we may confide in the circumſtantial narrative of his nephew. "I had the peruſal of it from the very beginning," ſays Philips, "for ſome years, as I went from time to time to viſit him, in parcels of ten, twenty, or thirty verſes at a time (which, being written by whatever hand came next, [210] might poſſibly want correction as to the orthography and pointing). Having, as the ſummer came on, not been ſhewed any for a conſiderable while, and deſiring the reaſon thereof, was anſwered that his vein never happily flowed but from the autumual equinox to the vernal."

Johnſon takes occaſion, from this anecdote, to treat the ſenſations of Milton with ſarcaſtic ſeverity, and to deride him for ſubmitting to the influence of the ſeaſons; he laviſhes ridicule, not leſs acrimonious, on the great poet, for having yielded to a faſhionable dread of evils ſtill more fantaſtic. "There prevailed in his time (ſays the critic) an opinion that the world was in its decay, and that we have had the misfortune to be born in the decrepitude of nature." Johnſon expoſes, with great felicity of expreſſion, this abſurd idea, of which his own frame of body and mind was a complete refutation; but inſtead of deriding the great poet for harbouring ſo weak a conceit, he might have recollected that Milton himſelf has ſpurned this chimera of timid imagination in very ſpirited Latin verſe, written in his twentieth year, and expreſsly againſt the folly of ſuppoſing nature impaired.

Ergone marceſcet, ſulcantibus obſita rugis,
Naturae facies et rerum publica mater,
Omniparum contracta uterum, ſterileſcet ab aevo
Et ſe faſſa ſenem male certis paſſibus ibit,
Sidereum tremebunda caput!
[211]
How! ſhall the face of nature then be plough'd
Into deep wrinkles, and ſhall years at laſt
On the great parent fix a ſteril curſe;
Shall even ſhe confeſs old age, and halt
And palſy-ſmitten ſhake her ſtarry brows!
COWPER.

The ſpirit of the poet was, in truth, little formed for yielding to any weakneſſes of fancy that could impede mental exertion; and we may conſider it as one of the ſtriking peculiarities of his character, that with an imagination ſo excurſive he poſſeſſed a mind ſo induſtrious.

His ſtudious habits are thus deſcribed by his acquaintance Aubrey and others, who collected their account from his widow:—He roſe at four in the ſummer, at five in the winter, and regularly began the day by hearing a chapter in the Hebrew Bible; it was read to him by a man, who, after this duty, left him to meditation of ſome hours, and, returning at ſeven, either read or wrote for him till twelve; he then allowed himſelf an hour for exerciſe, which was uſually walking, and when he grew blind, the occaſional reſource of a ſwing: after an early and temperate dinner he commonly allotted ſome time to muſic, his favourite amuſement; and his own muſical talents happily furniſhed him with a pleaſing relaxation from his ſeverer purſuits; he was able to vary his inſtrument, as he played both on the baſs viol and the organ, with the advantage of an agreeable voice, which his father had probably taught him to cultivate in his youth. This regular cuſtom of the great [212] to indulge himſelf in muſical relaxation after food, has been recently praiſed as favourable to mental exertion, in producing all the good effects of ſleep, with none of its diſadvantages, by an illuſtrious ſcholar, who, like Milton, unites the paſſion and the talent of poetry to habits of intenſe and diverſified application. Sir William Jones, in the third volume of Aſiatic Reſearches, has recommended, from his own experience, this practice of Milton, who from muſic returned to ſtudy; at eight he took a light ſupper, and at nine retired to bed.

If ſuch extreme regularity could be preſerved at any period, it muſt have been in the cloſing years of his life. While he was in office his time was undoubtedly much engaged, not only by official attendance, but by his intercourſe with learned foreigners, as the parliament allowed him a weekly table for their reception. The Latin compoſitions of Milton had rendered him, on the continent, an object of idolatry; "and ſtrangers (ſays Wood, who was far from being partial to his illuſtrious contemporary) viſited the houſe where he was born." Even in his latter days, when he is ſuppoſed to have been neglected by his countrymen, intelligent foreigners were ſolicitous to converſe with him as an object of their curioſity and veneration; they regarded him, and very juſtly, as the prime wonder of England; for he was, in truth, a perſon ſo extraordinary, that it may be queſtioned if any age or nation has produced his parallel. Is there, in the records of literature, an author to be found, who, after gaining ſuch extenſive celebrity as a political diſputant, caſt off the mortal [213] of a polemic, and aroſe in the pureſt ſplendor of poetical immortality?

Biographers are frequently accuſed of being influenced by affection for their ſubject; to a certain degree it is right that they ſhould be ſo; for what is biography in its faireſt point of view? a tribute paid by juſtice and eſteem to genius and to virtue; and never is this tribute more pleaſing or more profitable to mankind, than when it is liberally paid, with all the fervor and all the fidelity of friendſhip: the chief delight and the chief utility that ariſes from this attractive branch of literature conſiſts in the affectionate intereſt, which it diſplays and communicates in favour of the talents and probity that it aſpires to celebrate; hence the moſt engaging pieces of biography are thoſe that have been written by relations of the deceaſed. This remark is exemplified in the life of Agricola by Tacitus, and in that of Racine, the dramatic poet, written by his ſon, who was alſo a poet, and addreſſed to his grandſon.

It has been the lot of Milton to have his life frequently deſcribed, and recently, by a very powerful author, who, had he loved the character he engaged to delineate, might, perhaps, have ſatisfied the admirers of the poet, and cloſed the liſt of his numerous biographers. But the very wonderful mind of Johnſon was ſo embittered by prejudice, that in delineating a character confeſſedly pre-eminent in eminent accompliſhments, in genius, and in piety, he perpetually endeavours to repreſent him as unamiable, and inſtead of attributing any miſtaken opinions that he might entertain to ſuch ſources as charity and reaſon conſpire to [214] ſuggeſt, imputes them to ſuppoſed vices in his mind, moſt foreign to his nature, and the very worſt that an enemy could imagine.

In the courſe of this narrative I have conſidered it as a duty incumbent upon me to notice and counteract, as they occurred, many important ſtrokes of the hoſtility which I am now lamenting; theſe become ſtill more remarkable in that portion of the biographer's labour to which I am at length arrived; it is in diffecting the mind of Milton, if I may uſe ſuch an expreſſion, that Johnſon indulges the injurious intemperance of his hatred. ‘It is to be ſuſpected (he ſays) that his predominant deſire was to deſtroy rather than eſtabliſh; and that he felt not ſo much the love of liberty as repugnance to authority.’ Such a ſuſpicion may indeed be harboured by political rancour, but it muſt be in direct oppoſition to juſtice and truth; for of all men who have written or acted in the ſervice of liberty, there is no individual, who has proved more completely, both by his language and his life, that he made a perfect diſtinction between liberty and licentiouſneſs. No human ſpirit could be more ſincerely a lover of juſt and beneficent authority; for no man delighted more in peace and order; no man has written more eloquently in their praiſe, or given ſublimer proofs of his own perſonal attachment to them by the regulation of his own orderly and peaceful ſtudies. If he hated power (as Johnſon aſſerts) in every eſtabliſhed form, he hated not its ſalutary influence, but its pernicious exertions. Vehement as he occaſionally was againſt kings and prelates, he ſpoke of the ſectaries with equal indignation [215] and abhorrence when they alſo became the agents of perſecution; and as he had fully ſeen, and has forcibly expoſed, the groſs failings of republican reformers, had his life been extended long enough to witneſs the Revolution, which he might have beheld without ſuffering the decrepitude or imbecility of extreme old age, he would probably have exulted as warmly as the ſtauncheſt friend of our preſent conſtitution can exult, in that temperate and happy reformation of monarchical enormities.

Johnſon alſo intimates, that he was a ſhallow politician, who ſuppoſed money to be the chief good, though with ſingular inconſiſtency he at the ſame time confeſſes, "that fortune ſeems not to have had much of his care."

Money, in fact, had ſo little influence over the elevated mind of Milton, that from his want of attention to it he ſuſtained ſuch loſſes as, according to his nephew's expreſſion, "might have ruined a man leſs temperate than he was." Two thouſand pounds he is ſaid to have loſt by entruſting it to government, and as much in a private loan, without ſufficient ſecurity.

"Towards the latter part of his time," ſays one of his early biographers, "he contracted his library, both becauſe the heirs he left could not make a right uſe of it, and that he thought he might fell it more to their advantage than they could be able to do themſelves. His enemies reported, that poverty conſtrained him thus to part with his books; and were this true it would be a great diſgrace, not to him (for perſons of the higheſt merits have been often reduced to that condition) but to any country that ſhould have no more [216] to probity or learning. This ſtory, however, is ſo falſe, that he died worth fifteen hundred pounds, beſides all his goods."

Such are the remarks of Toland on the pecuniary circumſtances of the poet; they ſhew with becoming ſpirit, that he was not reduced by abſolute indigence to the ſale of his library; yet every reader, whoſe literary feelings are acute, muſt regret, that the old age of Milton was not guarded and enlivened by ſuch affluence as might have ſaved him from a meaſure, in which thoſe who have a paſſion for books muſt ſuppoſe him to have ſuffered ſome degree of mortification.

The neceſſities into which many deſerving men of letters have fallen towards the cloſe of life, and in various countries, may be regarded as an univerſal diſgrace to civilized ſociety, which the improving refinement and liberality of mankind ought effectually to remove. Literature, which is ſo eminently beneficial to a nation, is frequently ruinous to worthy individuals moſt fervently attached to it; and it ſhould be regarded as a duty, therefore, by every poliſhed people, to provide a public fund, which might afford a becoming competence to the advanced life of every illuſtrious ſcholar, whoſe public labours entitle him to that honourable diſtinction. Such meritorious veterans in literature as Milton and his late aged biographer ſhould have been preſerved, in their declining days, from every ſhadow of indigence, by the public gratitude of the nation to whom they had devoted their intellectual ſervice. What friend to letters and to genius could fail to wiſh affluent comfort to the cloſing [217] life of ſuch authors, however he might condemn the exceſſes of republican ſeverity in the one, or thoſe of ſervile and cenſorial bigotry in the other?

There can hardly be any contemplation more painful, than to dwell on the virulent exceſſes of eminent and good men; yet the utility of ſuch contemplation may be equal to its pain. What mildneſs and candour ſhould it not inſtil ordinary into mortals to obſerve, that even genius and virtue weaken their title to reſpect, in proportion as they recede from that evangelical charity, which ſhould influence every man in his judgment of another.

The ſtrength and the acuteneſs of ſenſation, which partly conſtitute genius, have a great tendency to produce virulence, if the mind is not perpetually on its guard againſt that ſubtle, inſinuating, and corroſive paſſion, hatred againſt all whoſe opinions are oppoſite to our own. Johnſon profeſſed, in one of his letters, to love a good hater; and in the Latin correſpondence of Milton, there are words that imply a ſimilarity of ſentiment; they both thought there might be a ſanctified bitterneſs, to uſe an expreſſion of Milton, towards political and religious opponents; yet ſurely theſe two devout men were both wrong, and both in ſome degree unchriſtian in this principle. To what ſingular iniquities of judgment ſuch a principle may lead, we might, perhaps, have had a moſt ſtriking, and a double proof, had it been poſſible for theſe two energetic writers to exhibit alternately a portrait of each other. Milton, adorned with every graceful endowment, highly and holily accompliſhed as he was, appears, in the dark colouring of Johnſon, a moſt unamiable [218] being; but could he reviſit earth in his mortal character, with a wiſh to retaliate, what a picture might be drawn, by that ſublime and offended genius, of the great moraliſt, who has treated him with ſuch exceſs of aſperity. The paſſions are powerful colouriſts, and marvellous adepts in the art of exaggeration; but the portraits executed by love (famous as he is for overcharging them) are infinitely more faithful to nature, than gloomy ſketches from the heavy hand of hatred; a paſſion not to be truſted or indulged even in minds of the higheſt purity or power; ſince hatred, though it may enter the field of conteſt under the banner of juſtice, yet generally becomes ſo blind and outrageous, from the heat of contention, as to execute, in the name of virtue, the worſt purpoſes of vice. Hence ariſes that ſpecies of calumny the moſt to be regretted, the calumny laviſhed by men of talents and worth on their equals or ſuperiors, whom they have raſhly and blindly hated for a difference of opinion. To ſuch hatred the fervid and oppoſite characters, who gave riſe to this obſervation, were both more inclined, perhaps, by nature and by habit, than chriſtianity can allow. The freedom of theſe remarks on two very great, and equally devout, though different writers, may poſſibly offend the partizans of both: in that caſe my conſolation will be, that I have endeavoured to ſpeak of them with that temperate, though undaunted ſincerity, which may ſatisfy the ſpirit of each in a purer ſtate of exiſtence. There is one characteriſtic in Milton, which ought to be conſidered as the chief ſource of his happineſs and his fame; I mean his early and perpetual attachment to religion. It muſt gratify every [219] chriſtian to reflect, that the man of our country moſt eminent for energy of mind, for intenſeneſs of application, and for frankneſs and intrepidity in aſſerting whatever he believed to be the cauſe of truth, was ſo confirmedly devoted to chriſtianity, that he ſeems to have made the Bible, not only the rule of his conduct, but the prime director of his genius. His poetry flowed from the ſcripture, as if his unparalleled poetical powers had been expreſsly given him by Heaven for the purpoſe of imparting to religion ſuch luſtre as the moſt ſplendid of human faculties could beſtow. As in the Paradiſe Loſt he ſeems to emulate the ſublimity of Moſes and the prophets, it appears to have been his wiſh, in the Paradiſe Regained, to copy the ſweetneſs and ſimplicity of the milder evangeliſts. If the futile remarks that were made upon the latter work, on its firſt appearance, excited the ſpleen of the great author, he would probably have felt ſtill more indignant, could he have ſeen the comment of Warburton. That diſguſting writer, whoſe critical dictates form a fantaſtic medley of arrogance, acuteneſs, and abſurdity, has aſſerted, that the plan of Paradiſe Regained is very unhappy, and that nothing was eaſier than to have invented a good one.

Much idle cenſure ſeems to have been thrown on more than one of Milton's poetical works, from want of due attention to the chief aim of the poet:—if we fairly conſider it in regard to Paradiſe Regained, the aim I allude to, as it probably occaſioned, will completely juſtify, the plan which the preſumptuous critic has ſo ſuperciliouſly condemned. Milton had already executed one extenſive divine poem, [220] peculiarly diſtinguiſhed by richneſs and ſublimity of deſcription; in framing a ſecond, he would naturally wiſh to vary its effect; to make it rich in moral ſentiment, and ſublime in its mode of unfolding the higheſt wiſdom that man can learn; for this purpoſe it was neceſſary to keep all the ornamental parts of the poem in due ſubordination to the preceptive. This delicate and difficult point is accompliſhed with ſuch felicity, they are blended together with ſuch exquiſite harmony and mutual aid, that inſtead of arraigning the plan, we might rather doubt if any poſſible change could improve it; aſſuredly, there is no poem of epic form, where the ſublimeſt moral inſtruction is ſo forcibly and abundantly united to poetical delight: the ſplendour of the poet does not blaze, indeed, ſo intenſely as in his larger production; here he reſembles the Apollo of Ovid, ſoftening his glory in ſpeaking to his ſon, and avoiding to dazzle the fancy, that he may deſcend into the heart. His dignity is not impaired by his tenderneſs. The Paradiſe Regained is a poem, that deſerves to be particularly recommended to ardent and ingenuous youth, as it is admirably calculated to inſpire that ſpirit of ſelf-command, which is, as Milton eſteemed it, the trueſt heroiſm, and the triumph of chriſtianity.

It is not my intention to enter into a critical analyſis of the beauties and the blemiſhes that are viſible in the poetry of Milton, not only becauſe Addiſon and Johnſon have both written admirably on his greateſt work, but becauſe my moſt excellent friend, the poet (whoſe ſpirit I eſteem moſt congenial to that of Milton) is engaged in ſuch illuſtration of his honoured predeceſſor; I ſhall therefore confine [221] myſelf to a ſingle eſſay, detached from this narrative, under the title of "Conjectures on the Origin of the Paradiſe Loſt."

I muſt not, however, omit to ſpeak here, as I have engaged to do, of the character beſtowed by Johnſon on the principal performance of the poet; the greateſt part of that character is, perhaps, the moſt ſplendid tribute that was ever paid by one powerful mind to another. Ariſtotle, Longinus, and Quintilian, have not ſpoken of their favourite Homer with more magnificence of praiſe; yet the character, taken altogether, is a golden image, that has lower parts of iron and of clay. The critic ſeems to prepare a diadem of the richeſt jewels; he places them, moſt liberally, on the head of the poet; but in the moment of adjuſting his radiant gift, he breathes upon it ſuch a vapour of ſpleen, as almoſt annihilates its luſtre.

After diſplaying, in the nobleſt manner, many of the peculiar excellencies in the poem, he ſays, "its peruſal is a duty rather than a pleaſure; we read Milton for inſtruction, retire haraſſed and overburthened, and look elſewhere for recreation; we deſert our maſter, and ſeek for companions."

Injurious as theſe remarks are to the poet, let us aſcribe them, not to the virulence of intended detraction, but to the want of poetical ſenſibility in the critic; a want that may be ſufficiently proved, by comparing this account of the effect produced by Paradiſe Loſt on his own feelings with its effect on a ſpirit truly poetical. That enchanting poem, The Taſk, very happily furniſhes ſuch an illuſtration; it is [222] thus that a mind attuned by nature to poetry deſcribes the effect in queſtion, as produced even in childhood.

Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms
New to my taſte; his Paradiſe ſurpaſſed
The ſtrugg'ling efforts of my boyiſh tongue
To ſpeak its excellence: I danc'd for joy.

But the little delight that Johnſon confeſſes himſelf to have taken in the poetry of Milton was rather his misfortune than his fault; it merits pity more than reproach, as it partly aroſe from conſtitutional infelicity, and the very wide difference between the native turn of his mind and that of the poet: never were two ſpirits leſs congenial, or two chriſtian ſcholars, who differed more completely in their ſentiments of poetry, politics, and religion. In temperament, as well as in opinions, they were the reverſe of each other; the one was ſanguine to exceſs, the other melancholy in the extreme. Milton ‘Might ſit in the centre and enjoy bright day;’ but Johnſon,

Benighted walk'd under the mid-day ſun;
Himſelf was his own dungeon.

Such was the great contraſt between theſe two extraordinary men, that although they were both equally ſincere in their attachment to chriſtianity, and both diſtinguiſhed by [223] noble intellectual exertions in the ſervice of mankind, the critic was naturally diſqualified from being a fair and a perfect judge of the poet. My regard for a departed and meritorious writer (of great powers, but conſtitutionally unhappy) is ſuch, that I would rather aſcribe to any cauſe, than to mere envious malignity, his outrages againſt the poetical glory of Milton, which, from the force and celebrity of the very admirable but too auſtere work that contains them, it becomes the duty of a more recent biographer to expoſe.

For example, when Johnſon ſays that Milton "wrote no language, but formed a Babyloniſh dialect, harſh and barbarous," though it would be difficult to pronounce a critical cenſure more bitter or more injurious, we may impute it, not to a malevolent deſire of depreciating the poet, but to a natural want of ear for that harmony, which the critic condemns as diſcord. On this article, the moſt harmonious of our bards has been very happily vindicated by men of ſcience and taſte. Dr. Foſter and Lord Monboddo have ſhewn Milton to be one of the moſt conſummate artificers of language, that ever gave either energy or grace to words; and Mr. Loft, in the preface to his recent edition of Paradiſe Loſt, deſcribes the majeſtic flow of his numbers with ſuch truth and eloquence, as render ample juſtice to the inſulted dignity of the poet.

The inſult, groſs as it may be thought, loſes much of its force when we recollect the inconſiſtency of the critic, who, though in his latter work he condemns the language of Milton as harſh and barbarous, had before obſerved, with [224] more truth, in the Rambler, that the poet "excelled as much in the lower as in the higher parts of his art, and that his ſkill in harmony was not leſs than his invention or his learning;" but the praiſe as well as the cenſure of Johnſon, on this article, could not be the reſult of perfect perception, for the monotony of his own blank verſe, and ſome of his remarks in the Rambler on particular lines of Milton, are ſtriking proofs, that although he was a melodious writer himſelf in the common meaſures of rhyme, and in dignified proſe, yet he never entered with perfect intelligence and feeling into the muſical graces of Miltonic compoſition; he was, indeed, as far from enjoying the poet's ear for the varied modulations and extenſive compaſs of metrical harmony, as he was from poſſeſſing the mild elegance of his manners, or the cheerful elevation of his mind.

There is a ſtriking reſemblance between the poetical and the moral character of Milton; they were both the reſult of the fineſt diſpoſitions for the attainment of excellence that nature could beſtow, and of all the advantages that ardour and perſeverance in ſtudy and diſcipline could add, in a long courſe of years, to the beneficent prodigality of nature: even in infancy he diſcovered a paſſion for glory; in youth he was attached to temperance; and, arriving at manhood, he formed the magnanimous deſign of building a lofty name upon the moſt ſolid and ſecure foundation.

[225]
—"He all his ſtudy bent
To worſhip God aright, and know his works
Not hid; nor thoſe things laſt that might preſerve
Freedom and peace to men.

In a noble conſciouſneſs of his powers and intentions, he was not afraid to give, in his early life, a moſt ſingular promiſe to his country of producing ſuch future works as might redound to her glory; and though ſuch perſonal calamities fell upon him, as might fairly have abſolved him from that engagement, yet never was any promiſe more magnificently fulfilled. Seneca has conſidered a man of reſolution ſtruggling with adverſity as a ſpectacle worthy of God; our reſolute countryman not only ſtruggled with adverſity, but, under a peculiar load of complicated calamities, he accompliſhed thoſe works, that are juſtly reckoned among the nobleſt offspring of human genius. In this point of view, with what pathetic grandeur is the poet inveſted. In contemplating the variety of his ſufferings, and his various mental atchievements, we may declare, without any extravagance of praiſe, that although ſublimity is the predominant characteriſtic of Milton's poem, his own perſonal character is ſtill more ſublime.

His majeſtic pre-eminence is nobly deſcribed in the following verſes of Akenſide, a poet who bore ſome affinity to Milton in the ardour of his mind, whoſe ſentiments are always noble, though not always accompanied by a graceful felicity of expreſſion.

[226]
Mark how the dread Pantheon ſtands
Amid the domes of modern hands,
Amid the toys of idle ſtate
How ſimply, how ſeverely great!
Then turn, and while each weſtern clime
Preſents her tuneful ſons to time,
So mark thou MILTON's name,
And add, thus differs from the throng
The ſpirit which inform'd thy aweful ſong,
Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's fame.

The powers of Milton, indeed, are ſo irreſiſtible, that even thoſe, whom the blindneſs of prejudice has rendered his enemies, are conſtrained to regard him as an object of admiration. In this article poſterity, to whom he made a very intereſting appeal, has done him ample juſtice; ſtill he is more admired than beloved; yet in granting him only admiration, we ungenerouſly withhold the richeſt half of that poſthumous reward for which he laboured ſo fervently: we may be confident that he rather wiſhed to excite the affection than the applauſe of mankind; and aſſuredly he has the nobleſt title to both, the title of having exerted ſuperlative genius and literary ambition, under the conſtant influence of religious philanthropy. In proportion as our country has advanced in purity of taſte, ſhe has applauded the poet; and in proportion as ſhe advances in liberality of ſentiment, ſhe will love the man; but love in this aſpect is more volatile than admiration, and a beneficent genius may be eaſily deprived of it by the detraction of an enemy, or [227] the miſtake of a friend: Milton has ſuffered not a little from both; and indeed, if one ſingular miſtake of his friends ſhould prevail, he could hardly become an object of general affection. What votary of the Muſes could love a poet, however excellent in that capacity, who repreſented it as a crime in a captive monarch to have made the poetry of Shakeſpeare the companion of his ſolitude? Credulity has imagined that Milton was ſuch a barbarous Goth. Nor is this the ſuggeſtion of his enemies; even Warton, the liberal defender of his poetical reputation, and ſeveral living writers of eminence, have laviſhed their cenſures on Milton, from a too haſty belief, that puritanical prejudices had hurried him into this rancorous abſurdity.

Their cenſures are all founded on a miſtake; but the merit of correcting it belongs not to me; Mr. Waldron, the ſenſible and modeſt editor of a miſcellany, entitled, The Literary Muſeum, in a note to Roſcius Anglicanus, has, in a very liberal manner, collected and refuted the charges againſt Milton on this point, and abundantly proved, that inſtead of cenſuring the unfortunate Charles for amuſing himſelf with Shakeſpeare, he only cenſured him for imitating the religious hypocriſy of Richard the Third ſo cloſely as to utter the very ſentiments that are aſſigned to Richard in the page of the dramatic poet.

Milton undoubtedly thought, what an ardent political writer of the preſent age has not ſcrupled to aſſert, that "Charles the Firſt lived and died an hypocrite." Theſe two acute judges of mankind were, I believe, miſtaken in this idea: it ſeems more probable, that this unfortunate [228] prince was flattered into a perſuaſion, that he was really the meritorious martyr his adherents endeavoured to repreſent him. But whatſoever his genuine character might be, the ſevere ſentiments which Milton entertained of the king, and the deluſive hopes that he cheriſhed of the protector, had equally their ſource in the virtuous ardour of his own ſpirit. The conſciouſneſs of his integrity, when time had fully unveiled to him ſome illuſions, gave that tranquillity and vigour to his declining days, which enabled him to produce his aſtoniſhing poems, not more aſtoniſhing for their intrinſic merit, than for the period of their production; ſo that his poetry, in this point of view, may be regarded both as the offspring and the witneſs of his virtue. The world had never been enriched with his two poems on Paradiſe, if their great author, when he was, according to his own true and pathetic deſcription, ‘In darkneſs and with dangers compaſs'd round,’ had not, in ſome little degree, reſembled the hero of his latter poem, and like that hallowed perſonage, whom he delineates ſo divinely, amid the darkneſs and the fiends of the deſert, ‘Sat unappall'd in calm and ſinleſs peace.’

Yet to ſuch miſrepreſentations has the life and the poetry of Milton been expoſed, that both have been conſidered as too auſtere to be amiable, though aſſuredly, both in the one [229] and the other, the moſt engaging qualities are admirably united to the moſt aweful—the graceful and the tender to the grand and the ſublime.

The attractions of his muſe have triumphed over obloquy, and in the eſtimation of the world ſhe is juſtly thought to reſemble the enchanting Eve of the poet,

——Adorn'd
With what all earth or heav'n could beſtow
To make her amiable.

But equal juſtice has not hitherto been rendered to the perſonal virtues of the author; it has, therefore, been my chief aim, in a delineation of his life, to make Milton rather more beloved than more admired; and I may the more reaſonably hope to ſucceed in that idea, becauſe, though I have never been attached to his political opinions, yet, in proportion to my reſearches into his character as a man, he has advanced in my eſteem and my affection.

I lament that the neceſſity of inveſtigating many miſrepreſentations, and of correcting much aſperity againſt him, has frequently obliged me to ſpeak rather in the tone of an advocate, than of a common biographer; but I may ſay, in the words of the great Roman author, pleading the cauſe of a poet infinitely leſs entitled to love and admiration; Hunc ego non diligam, non admirer, non omni ratione defendendum putem? Atque ſic a ſummis hominibus cruditiſſimisque accepimus, caeterarum rerum ſtudia et doctrina, et praeceptis, et arte conſtare; poetam natura ipſa valere, et mentis [230] viribus excitari, et quaſi divino quodam ſpiritu afflari—if poetical powers may ever deſerve to be regarded as heavenly inſpiration, ſuch undoubtedly were thoſe of Milton, and the uſe to which he applied them was worthy of the fountain whence they flowed. He is pre-eminent in that claſs of poets, very happily deſcribed in the two following verſes by the amiable lord Falkland;

Who, while of heav'n the glories they recite,
Find it within, and feel the joys they write.

It is by the epic compoſitions of Milton alone that England may eſteem herſelf as a rival to antiquity in the higheſt province of literature; and it appears therefore juſt, that the memory of the man, to whom ſhe is indebted for the pureſt, the moſt extenſive, and permanent glory, ſhould for ever excite her affectionate veneration.

CONJECTURES ON THE ORIGIN OF THE PARADISE LOST.
[] CONJECTURES, &c.

[]
‘CONJECTURES, FANCIES BUILT ON NOTHING FIRMMILTON.

TO write an Epic Poem was the prime object of MILTON's ambition at an early period of life; a paſſionate attachment to his country made him firſt think of celebrating its ancient heroes; but in the long interval between the dawn of ſuch a project in his thoughts, and the commencement of his work, a new train of images got poſſeſſion of his fancy; Arthur yielded to Adam, and England to Paradiſe.

To conſider what various cauſes might conſpire to produce this revolution in the ideas of the great poet may be a pleaſing ſpeculation, if it is purſued with due reſpect to the noble mind that it aſpires to examine.

An inveſtigation of a ſimilar nature was undertaken ſome years ago, upon very different principles, when a ſingular attempt was made to annihilate the poetical glory of Milton, by proving him a plagiary. This attempt was ſo extraordinary in its nature, and in its end ſo honourable [234] to the poet and his country, that a brief account of it ſhould, I think, be annexed to the Life of Milton, whoſe admirers may ſay, on that occaſion, to the ſlanderers of genius, ‘Diſcite juſtitiam moniti, & non temnere divos.’

I ſhall give, therefore, a ſketch of the literary tranſactions to which I allude, as an introduction to thoſe conjectures, that a long and affectionate attachment to Milton has led me to form, concerning the origin of his greateſt work.

In 1746, William Lauder, an unfortunate adventurer, whom a furious temper, conſiderable learning, and greater indigence, converted into an audacious impoſtor, attacked the originality of the chief Engliſh poet. Having aſſerted, in a periodical miſcellany, that Milton had borrowed all his ideas from the juvenile work of Grotius, or from other leſs known writers of Latin verſe, and finding the novelty of his charge attract the attention of the public, he endeavoured to enforce it in a pamphlet, intitled, ‘An Eſſay on Milton's Uſe and Imitation of the Moderns,’ printed in 1750, and addreſſed to the two univerſities of Oxford and Cambridge. In the cloſe of this eſſay he ſcrupled not to ſay of Milton:

‘His induſtrious concealment of his helps, his peremptory diſclaiming all manner of aſſiſtance, is highly ungenerous, nay criminal to the laſt degree, and abſolutely unworthy of any man of common probity and [235] honour. By this mean practice, indeed, he has acquired the title of the Britiſh Homer, nay, has been preferred to Homer and Virgil both, and conſequently to every other poet of every age and nation. Cowley, Waller, Denham, Dryden, Prior, Pope, in compariſon with Milton, have borne no greater proportion, than that of dwarfs to a giant, who, now he is reduced to his true ſtandard, appears mortal and uninſpired, and in ability little ſuperior to the poets above-mentioned, but in honeſty and open dealing, the beſt quality of the human mind, not inferior, perhaps, to the moſt unlicenſed plagiary that ever wrote.’

In a publication, containing ſuch language, Lauder was able to engage the great critic and moraliſt, Samuel Johnſon, as his confederate; for the preface and poſtſcript to the Eſſay, from which the preceding paragraph is cited, are confeſſedly the compoſition of that elaborate and nervous writer.

This confederacy, unbecoming as it may at firſt appear, will, on candid reflection, ſeem rather a credit than a diſgrace to Johnſon; for we certainly ought to believe that the primary motive, which prompted him to the aſſiſtance of Lauder, was that true and noble compaſſion for indigence, which made him through life ſo generouſly willing to afford all the aid in his power to literary mendicants; but in rendering juſtice to that laudable charity, which he conſtantly exerciſed to the neceſſitous, we cannot fail to obſerve, that his malevolent [236] prejudices againſt Milton were equally viſible on this ſignal occaſion. Had he not been under the influence of ſuch prejudice, could his ſtrong underſtanding have failed to point out to his aſſociate, what a liberal monitor very juſtly obſerved to Lauder, in convicting him of fraud and falſhood, that, allowing his facts to have been true, his inference from them was unfair. Lauder, with an unexampled audacity of impoſture, had corrupted the text of the poets, whom he produced as evidence againſt Milton, by interpolating ſeveral verſes, which he had taken from a neglected Latin tranſlation of the Paradiſe Loſt. Expecting probably to eſcape both diſcovery and ſuſpicion by the daring novelty of his deception, and the mental dignity of his patron and coadjutor, he exulted in the idea of blaſting the laurels of Milton; but thoſe laurels were proof, indeed, againſt the furious and repeated flaſhes of malevolence and hoſtility. More than one defence of the injured poet appeared; the firſt, I believe, was a pamphlet by Mr. Richardſon, of Clare Hall, printed in 1747, and entitled Zoilomaſtix, or, a Vindication of Milton, conſiſting of letters inſerted in the miſcellany, where the charge of Lauder had made its firſt appearance; but the complete overthrow of that impoſtor was accompliſhed by Dr. Douglas, the preſent Biſhop of Saliſbury, who publiſhed, in 1750, a letter addreſſed to Lord Bath, with the title of "Milton vindicated from the Charge of Plagiariſm;" a performance that, in many points of view, may be regarded as a real honour to literature— [237] it unites what we find very rarely united in literary contention, great modeſty with great fervour; and magnanimous moderation with the ſeverity of vindictive juſtice. The author ſpeaks with amiable liberality of Mr. Bowle, in ſaying, ‘that gentleman had firſt collected materials for an anſwer to Lauder,’ and ‘has the juſteſt claim to the honour of being the original detector of this ungenerous critic.’ The writer of this valuable pamphlet gave alſo an admonition to Johnſon, which breathes the manly ſpirit of intelligence, of juſtice, and of candour. ‘It is to be hoped (he ſaid) nay it is to be expected, that the elegant and nervous writer, whoſe judicious ſentiments and inimitable ſtyle point out the author of Lauder's preface and poſtſcript, will no longer allow one to plume himſelf with his feathers, who appeareth ſo little to have deſerved his aſſiſtance; an aſſiſtance which, I am perſuaded, would never have been communicated had there been the leaſt ſuſpicion of thoſe facts, which I have been the inſtrument of conveying to the world in theſe ſheets, a peruſal of which will ſatisfy our critic, who was pleaſed to ſubmit his book to the judgment of the two univerſities, that it has been examined and carefully read at leaſt by ſome members of the univerſity of Oxford.’ The defence of Milton, which I have mentioned, by Mr. Richardſon, proves alſo, for the honour of Cambridge, that her men of letters were by no means deficient in ſuch regard, as they peculiarly owe to [238] the reputation of the poet, who "flames in the van" of that poetical hoſt, which has contributed to her renown.

When the pamphlet of Dr. Douglas had completely unveiled the moſt impudent of literary frauds, Johnſon, whom his prejudice againſt Milton could no longer render blind to the unworthineſs of Lauder, recoiled from the wretch whom he had too credulouſly befriended, and finding him as deficient in the truth of facts as he was in propriety of ſentiment, and decency of language, made him addreſs to his antagoniſt, who had convicted him of ſome forgeries, an ample avowal of more extenſive fraud, and a moſt humble ſupplication for pardon. This expiatory addreſs was dictated by Johnſon, whoſe conduct on the occaſion was manly and moral—but it failed to correct his aſſociate, for prejudice againſt Milton in Lauder aroſe almoſt to madneſs; in Johnſon it amounted only to a degree of malevolence, too commonly produced by political diſagreement; it had induced him to cheriſh too eagerly a detractive deception, fabricated to ſink an illuſtrious character, without allowing himſelf the due exerciſe of his keen underſtanding to inveſtigate its falſehood, or to perceive its abſurdity. Lauder ſeems to have hoped, for ſome time, that a full confeſſion of his offences would reſtore him to the favour of the public; for in the year 1751 he ventured to publiſh an apolgy, addreſſed to the Archbiſhop of Canterbury, ſoliciting patronage for his projected edition of [239] the ſcarce Latin authors, from whom he had accuſed Milton of borrowing. The chief purpoſe of ſo extraordinary an attack on the renown of the poet, appears to have been a deſire, prompted by indigence, to intereſt the public in the re-appearance of theſe neglected writers, whom he meant to re-publiſh. In cloſing his apology to the Archbiſhop, he ſays, with ſingular confidence:

‘As for the interpolations (for which I am ſo highly blamed) when paſſion is ſubſided, and the minds of men can patiently attend to truth, I promiſe amply to replace them, with paſſages equivalent in value that are genuine, that the public may be convinced that it was rather paſſion and reſentment, than a penury of evidence, the twentieth part of which has not as yet been produced, that obliged me to make uſe of them.’

He printed the collection of Latin poets as he propoſed, one volume in 1752, and a ſecond in 1753. The book may be regarded as a literary curioſity, but it ſeems to have contributed little to the emolument of its miſerable editor, who had thoroughly awakened univerſal indignation; and as Dr. Douglas obſerved, in a poſtſcript to his pamphlet, reprinted in 1756, ‘The curioſity of the public to ſee any of theſe poems was at an end; the only thing which had ſtamped a value upon them, was a ſuppoſition that Milton had thought them worthy of his imitation. As therefore it now appeared, by the detection of Lauder's ſyſtem of forgery, that Milton had not imitated them, it is no wonder that the deſign of [240] reprinting them ſhould meet with little or no ſucceſs.’

The aſſertion of this learned and amiable writer, that Milton had not imitated theſe poets, is not to be underſtood in a ſtrict and literal ſenſe; for aſſuredly there are paſſages in ſome of them that Milton may be fairly ſuppoſed to have copied, though his obligations to theſe Latin poets are very far from being conſiderable; and had they been infinitely greater, the inference drawn by the malevolent reviler of Milton would ſtill have been prepoſterouſly ſevere.

The detected ſlanderer was ſoon overwhelmed with the utter contempt he deſerved; but, contemptible as he was, the memory of his offences and of his puniſhment ought to be preſerved, not ſo much for the honour of Milton, as for the general intereſt of literature, that if the world can produce a ſecond Lauder, he may not hope for impunity.

Part of his ſubſequent hiſtory is related in the following words by Dr. Douglas:

‘Grown deſperate by his diſappointment, this very man, whom but a little before we have ſeen as abject in the confeſſion of his forgeries, as he had been bold in the contrivance of them, with an inconſiſtence, equalled only by his impudence, renewed his attack upon the author of the Paradiſe Loſt; and in a pamphlet, publiſhed for that purpoſe, acquainted the world, that the true reaſon which had excited him to [241] contrive his forgery was, becauſe Milton had attacked the character of Charles the Firſt, by interpolating Pamela's prayer from the Arcadia, in an edition of the Eicon Baſilike; hoping, no doubt, by this curious key to his conduct, to be received into favour, if not by the friends of truth, at leaſt by the idolaters of the royal martyr—the zeal of this wild party-man againſt Milton having at the ſame time extended itſelf againſt his biographer, the very learned Dr. Birch, for no other reaſon but becauſe he was ſo candid as to expreſs his diſbelief of a tradition unſupported by evidence.’

Were it requiſite to give new force to the many proofs of that malignant prejudice againſt Milton in a late writer, which I have had too frequent occaſion to examine and regret, ſuch force might be drawn from the words juſt cited from Dr. Douglas. That gentleman here informs us, that Lauder directed his intemperate zeal againſt Dr. Birch, for rejecting the ill-ſupported ſtory that repreſented Milton as an impoſtor, concerned in forging the remarkable prayer of the king. Yet Johnſon ungenerouſly laboured to fix this ſuſpicion of diſhoneſty on the great character whoſe life he delineated, by inſinuating that Dr. Birch believed the very ſtory, which Lauder reviled him for having candidly rejected. Is it not too evident from this circumſtance, that Lauder's intemperate hatred of Milton had in ſome degree infected his noble coadjutor? though he very juſtly diſcarded [242] that impoſtor, when convicted of forgery, after writing for him a ſupplicatory confeſſion of his fraud, for which he was afterwards cenſured by the half-frantic offender, who, finding that it procured him no favour from the public, declared it infinitely too general and too abject for the occaſion.

The malevolence of Johnſon towards the great poet has been repreſented as a mere fiction of party rage, acrimoniouſly reviling an illuſtrious biographer: but inſtead of being an injurious fiction of that evil ſpirit, it is a reality univerſally felt, and ſincerely lamented by thoſe lovers of literature, who, being exempt from all party rage themſelves, would willingly annihilate the influence of that inſidious foe to truth and juſtice in the republic of letters. It ſhould afford us an antidote againſt the poiſon of party rage in all literary diſcuſſions, to obſerve, that by indulging it, a very ſtrong and a very devout mind was hurried into the want of clear moral perception, and of true Chriſtian charity, in deſcribing the conduct, and in ſcrutinizing the motives, of Milton. It ſeems as if the good angel of this extraordinary poet had determined that his poetical renown ſhould paſs (like his virtue and his genius) through trials moſt wonderfully adapted to give it luſtre; and hence (as imagination at leaſt may pleaſe itſelf in ſuppoſing) hence might ſuch enemies be combined againſt him, as the world, perhaps, never ſaw before in a ſimilar confederacy. A baſe artificer of falſehood, and a magnanimous teacher of [243] moral philoſophy, united in a wild endeavour to diminiſh his reputation; but, like the raſh aſſailants of Jupiter, in the fables of paganiſm, they only confirmed the preeminence they attacked with prepoſterous temerity. The philoſopher, indeed, made an honourable retreat; and no candid mind will ſeverely cenſure him for an ill-ſtarred alliance, which, however clouded by prejudice, he might originally form in compaſſion to indigence, and which he certainly ended by rejection of impoſture.

The miſerable Lauder was puniſhed by events ſo calamitous, that even thoſe admirers of Milton, who are moſt offended by the enormity of the fraud, muſt wiſh that penitence and amendment had ſecured to this unhappy being, who ſeems to have poſſeſſed conſiderable ſcholarſhip, a milder deſtiny. Finding himſelf unable to ſtruggle with public odium in this country, he ſought an aſylum in the Weſt Indies, and there died, an indigent outcaſt, and a memorable example, how dangerous it is to incur the indignation of mankind, by baſe devices to blaſt the reputation of departed genius.—May his wretched cataſtrophe preſerve the literary world from being diſhonoured again by artifice ſo deteſtable!

I have ſaid, that the collection be publiſhed of Latin poets is entitled to ſome regard as a literary curioſity: and it may here be proper to enumerate the authors comprized in that collection. The firſt volume contains the Poemata Sacra of Andrew Ramſay, from a copy printed at Edinburgh 1633; and the Adamus Exul of Grotius, [244] from the edition of the Hague, 1601. In the ſecond volume we have the Sarcotis of Maſenius, from the edition of Cologne, 1644, omitting the 4th and 5th books, which may be found in a copy of the Sarcotis printed at Paris, by Barbou, 1771: the firſt book of Daemonomachia, a poem by Odoricus Valmarana, printed at Vienna, in 25 books, 1627: Paradiſus Jacobi Catſii, a celebrated Dutch poet—the Paradiſe of Catſius is a ſpirited and graceful epithalamium on the nuptials of Adam and Eve, originally written in the native language of the author; this Latin verſion of it was executed by the learned Barlaeus, and firſt printed in 1643: Bellum Angelicum Auctore Frederico Taubmanno; a poem, conſiſting of two books, and a fragment of a third, originally printed in 1604.

Lauder, in publiſhing this collection of curious Latin verſe, has occaſionally ſeaſoned it with remarks of his own both in Latin and Engliſh—the tenor of them has a great tendency to confirm the apology, with which Johnſon excuſed the implicit and haſty credit that he gave to the groſs forgeries of the impoſtor: ‘He thought the man too frantic to be fraudulent.’ The language uſed by Lauder, in the publication I am ſpeaking of, ſhews indeed that the contemptuous abhorrence, which this unhappy ſcholar had conceived of Milton, really bordered upon inſanity. Without pointing to any particular inſtances of plagiariſm, he beſtows on the poet the extraordinary title of the arch felon; and inſerts a ſingular [245] epigram, written by a ſervile foreigner, to prove Milton an atheiſt. Not contented with reviling the great author himſelf, he extends the virulent attack to his nephew Philips, whom he accuſes of having favoured, by a ſuſpicious ſilence, the ſecret practice of his uncle, in riffling the treaſures of others. ‘Philips (ſays Lauder) every where in his 'Theatrum Poetarum,' either wholly paſſes over in ſilence ſuch authors as Milton was moſt obliged to, or, if he chances to mention them, does it in the moſt ſlight and ſuperficial manner imaginable.’

There is ſome acuteneſs, and more truth, in this obſervation concerning Philips, than Lauder was himſelf aware of. Though Milton was indeed no plagiary, and his nephew of courſe had no thefts to conceal, it is very remarkable that Philips, giving an account of poets in all languages, omits ſuch of their works as were built on ſubjects reſembling thoſe of his uncle. This omiſſion is not only ſtriking in the brief account he gives of the Latin poets collected by Lauder; it extends to ſome Italian writers, of whom I ſhall preſently have occaſion to ſpeak more at large. Let me firſt obſerve, in apology for the omiſſions of Philips, which are too frequent to be conſidered as accidental, that he probably choſe not to enumerate various poems relating to angels, to Adam, and to Paradiſe, leſt ignorance and malice ſhould abſurdly conſider the mere exiſtence of ſuch poetry as a derogation from the glory of Milton. That Philips had [246] himſelf no inconſiderable ſhare of poetical taſte, and that he was laudably zealous for the honour of his uncle, appears, I think, from the following remarks, which I tranſcribe with pleaſure, from his preface to the little book I am ſpeaking of, as they ſeem to contain an oblique and graceful compliment to his renowned relation:—‘A poetical fancy is much ſeen in a choice of verſe proper to a choſen ſubject.’

‘Wit, ingenuity, and learning in verſe, even elegance itſelf, though that comes neareſt, are one thing, true native poetry is another, in which there is a certain air and ſpirit, which, perhaps, the moſt learned and judicious in other arts do not perfectly apprehend, much leſs is it attainable by any ſtudy or induſtry.’

This certain air and ſpirit are aſſuredly moſt conſpicuous in Milton: he was a poet of nature's creation, but one who added to all her endowments every advantage that ſtudy could acquire.

By the force and opulence of his own fancy he was exempted from the inclination and the neceſſity of borrowing and retailing the ideas of other poets; but, rich as he was in his own proper fund, he choſe to be perfectly acquainted, not only with the wealth, but even with the poverty of others. He ſeems to have read, in different languages, authors of every claſs; and I doubt not but he had peruſed every poem collected by Lauder, though ſome of them hardly afford ground enough for a conjecture, that he remembered any paſſage they contain, in the [247] courſe of his nobler compoſition. Johnſon, in his preface to Lauder's pamphlet, repreſents the Adamus Exul of Grotius as ‘the firſt draught, the prima ſtamina of the Paradiſe Loſt.’ The ſame critic obſerves, in touching on this ſubject, in his life of Milton—‘Whence he drew the original deſign has been variouſly conjectured by men, who cannot bear to think themſelves ignorant of that, which, at laſt, neither diligence nor ſagacity can diſcover. Some find the hint in an Italian tragedy. Voltaire tells a wild, unauthorized ſtory of a farce ſeen by Milton in Italy, which opened thus: 'Let the rainbow be the fiddle-ſtick of the fiddle of heaven'.’

The critic was perfectly right in relinquiſhing his former idea concerning the Adamus Exul of Grotius; but, in his remark on Voltaire, he ſhews how dangerous it is to cenſure any writer for what he ſays concerning books, which the cenſurer has no opportunity of examining. Voltaire, indeed, from his predominant paſſion for ridicule, and from the raſh vivacity, that often led him to ſpeak too confidently of various works from a very ſlight inſpection of their contents, is no more to be followed implicitly in points of criticiſm, than he is on the more important article of religion: but his opinions in literature are generally worth examination, as he poſſeſſed no common degree of taſte, a perpetual thirſt for univerſal knowledge, and, though not the moſt intimate, yet, perhaps, the moſt extenſive acquaintance with literary works [248] and literary men that was ever acquired by any individual.

When Voltaire viſited England in the early part of his life, and was engaged in ſoliciting a ſubſcription for his Henriade, which firſt appeared under the title of ‘The League,’ he publiſhed, in our language, an eſſay on Epic Poetry, a work which, though written under ſuch diſadvantage, poſſeſſes the peculiar vivacity of this extraordinary writer, and is indeed ſo curious a ſpecimen of his verſatile talents, that although it has been ſuperſeded by a French compoſition of greater extent, under the ſame title, it ought, I think, to have found a place in that ſignal monument to the name of Voltaire, the edition of his works in ninety-two volumes.

As my reader may be gratified in ſeeing the Engliſh ſtyle of this celebrated foreigner, I will tranſcribe, without abridgment, what he ſays of Andreini:

Milton, as he was travelling through Italy in his youth, ſaw at Florence a comedy called Adamo, writ by one Andreini, a player, and dedicated to Mary de Medicis, Queen of France. The ſubject of the play was the Fall of Man; the actors, God, the devils, the angels, Adam, Eve, the Serpent, Death, and the ſeven mortal ſins: that topic, ſo improper for a drama, but ſo ſuitable to the abſurd genius of the Italian ſtage (as it was at that time) was handled in a manner entirely conformable to the extravagance of the deſign. The [249] ſcene opens with a chorus of angels, and a cherubim thus ſpeaks for the reſt:—'Let the rainbow be the fiddle-ſtick of the fiddle of the heavens! let the planets be the notes of our muſic! let time beat carefully the meaſure, and the winds make the ſharps, &c.' Thus the play begins, and every ſcene riſes above the laſt in profuſion of impertinence!

Milton pierced through the abſurdity of that performance to the hidden majeſty of the ſubject, which, being altogether unfit for the ſtage, yet might be (for the genius of Milton, and for his only) the foundation of an epic poem.

He took from that ridiculous trifle the firſt hint of the nobleſt work, which human imagination has ever attempted, and which he executed more than twenty years after.

In the like manner, Pythagoras owed the invention of muſic to the noiſe of the hammer of a blackſmith; and thus, in our days, Sir Iſaac Newton, walking in his garden, had the firſt thought of his ſyſtem of gravitation upon ſeeing an apple falling from a tree.

It was thus that, in the year 1727, Voltaire, then ſtudying in England, and collecting all poſſible information concerning our great epic poet, accounted for the origin of Paradiſe Loſt. Rolli, another foreign ſtudent in epic poetry, who reſided at that time in London, and was engaged in tranſlating Milton into Italian verſe, publiſhed ſome ſevere cenſures, in Engliſh, on the Engliſh eſſay of [250] Voltaire, to vindicate both Taſſo and Milton from certain ſtrictures of ſarcaſtic raillery, which the volatile Frenchman had laviſhed upon both. Voltaire, indeed, has fallen himſelf into the very inconſiſtency, which he mentions as unaccountable in Dryden; I mean the inconſiſtency of ſometimes praiſing Milton with ſuch admiration as approaches to idolatry, and ſometimes reproving him with ſuch keenneſs of ridicule as borders on contempt. In the courſe of this diſcuſſion we may find, perhaps, a mode of accounting for the inconſiſtency both of Dryden and Voltaire; let us attend at preſent to what the latter has ſaid of Andreini!—If the Adamo of this author really gave birth to the divine poem of Milton, the Italian dramatiſt, whatever rank he might hold in his own country, has a ſingular claim to our attention and regard. Johnſon indeed calls the report of Voltaire a wild and unauthorized ſtory; and Rolli aſſerts, in reply to it, that if Milton ſaw the Italian drama, it muſt have been at Milan, as the Adamo, in his opinion, was a performance too contemptible to be endured at Florence. "Andreini (ſays the critic of Italy) was a ſtroller (un iſtrione) of the worſt age of the Italian letters." Notwithſtanding theſe terms of contempt, which one of his countrymen has beſtowed upon Andreini, he appears to me highly worthy of our notice; for (although in uniting, like Shakeſpeare and Moliere, the two different arts of writing and of acting plays, he diſcovered not ſuch extraordinary powers as have juſtly immortalized thoſe idols of the theatre) he was yet endowed [251] with one quality, not only uncommon, but ſuch as might render him, if I may hazard the expreſſion, the poetical parent of Milton. The quality I mean is, enthuſiaſm in the higheſt degree, not only poetical but religious. Even the preface that Andreini prefixed to his Adamo may be thought ſufficient to have acted like lightning on the inflammable ideas of the Engliſh poet, and to have kindled in his mind the blaze of celeſtial imagination.

I am aware, that in reſearches like the preſent, every conjecture may abound in illuſion; the petty circumſtances, by which great minds are led to the firſt conception of great deſigns, are ſo various and volatile, that nothing can be more difficult to diſcover: fancy in particular is of a nature ſo airy, that the traces of her ſtep are hardly to be diſcerned; ideas are ſo fugitive, that if poets, in their life-time, were queſtioned concerning the manner in which the ſeeds of conſiderable productions firſt aroſe in their mind, they might not always be able to anſwer the enquiry; can it then be poſſible to ſucceed in ſuch an enquiry concerning a mighty genius, who has been conſigned more than a century to the tomb, eſpecially when, in the records of his life, we can find no poſitive evidence on the point in queſtion? However trifling the chances it may afford of ſucceſs, the inveſtigation in aſſuredly worthy our purſuit; for, as an accompliſhed critic has ſaid, in ſpeaking of another poet, with his uſual felicity of diſcernment and expreſſion, ‘the enquiry cannot be void of entertainment whilſt Milton is our [252] conſtant theme: whatever may be the fortune of the chace, we are ſure it will lead us through pleaſant proſpects and a fine country.’

It has been frequently remarked, that accident and genius generally conſpire in the origin of great performances; and the accidents that give an impulſe to fancy are often ſuch as are hardly within the reach of conjecture. Had Ellwood himſelf not recorded the occurrence, who would have ſuppoſed that a few words, which fell from a ſimple youth in converſation, were the real ſource of Paradiſe Regained? Yet the offsprings of imagination, in this point of view, have a ſtriking analogy to the productions of nature. The noble poem juſt mentioned reſembles a rare and valuable tree, not planted with care and forecaſt, but ariſing vigorouſly from a kernel dropt by a rambling bird on a ſpot of peculiar fertility. We are perfectly aſſured that Milton owed one of his great poems to the ingenuous queſtion of a young quaker; and Voltaire, as we have ſeen, has aſſerted, that he was indebted for the other to the fantaſtic drama of an Italian ſtroller. It does not appear that Voltaire had any higher authority for his aſſertion than his own conjecture from a ſlight inſpection of the drama, which he haſtily deſcribes; yet it is mere juſtice to this rapid entertaining writer to declare, that in his conjecture there is great probability, which the Engliſh reader, I believe, will be inclined to admit, in proportion as he becomes acquainted with Andreini and his Adamo; [253] but before we examine their merit, and the degree of influence that we may ſuppoſe them to have had on the fancy of Milton, let us contemplate, in one view, all the ſcattered hints which the great poet has given us concerning the grand project of his life, his deſign of writing an epic poem.

His firſt mention of this deſign occurs in the following verſes of his poetical compliment to Manſo:

O mihi ſic mea ſors talem concedat amicum,
Phoebaeos decoraſſe viros qui tam bene norit,
Si quando indigenas revocabo in carmina reges,
Arturumque etiam ſub terris bella moventem,
Aut dicam invictae ſociali foedere menſae
Magnanimos heroas; et O modo ſpiritus adſit,
Frangam Saxonicas Britonum ſub marte phalanges!

O might ſo true a friend to me belong,
So ſkill'd to grace the votaries of ſong,
Should I recall hereafter into rhyme
The kings and heroes of my native clime,
Arthur the chief, who even now prepares
In ſubterraneous being future wars,
With all his martial knights to be reſtor'd,
Each to his ſeat around the fed'ral board;
And, O! if ſpirit fail me not, diſperſe
Our Saxon plund'rers in triumphant verſe.
COWPER.

[254]Mr. Warton ſays, in his comment on this paſſage, ‘It is poſſible that the advice of Manſo, the friend of Taſſo, might determine our poet to a deſign of this kind.’ The conjecture of this reſpectable critic may appear confirmed by the following circumſtance:—In the diſcourſes on Epic Poetry, which are included in the proſe works of Taſſo, Arthur is repeatedly recommended as a proper hero for a poem. Thus we find that Italy moſt probably ſuggeſted to Milton his firſt epic idea, which he relinquiſhed; nor is it leſs probable that his ſecond and more arduous enterprize, which he accompliſhed, was ſuggeſted to him by his peruſal of Italian authors. If he ſaw the Adamo of Andreini repreſented at Milan, we have reaſon to believe that performance did not immediately inſpire him with the project of writing an epic poem on our Firſt Parents; becauſe we find that Arthur kept poſſeſſion of his fancy after his return to England.

In the following verſes of his Epitaphium Damonis, compoſed at that period, he ſtill ſhews himſelf attached to romantic heroes, and to Britiſh ſtory:

Dicam et Pandraſidos regnum vetus Inogeniae,
Brennumque Arviragumque duces priſcumque Belinum,
Et tandem Armoricos Britonum ſub lege colonos,
Tum gravidam Arturo fatali fraude Iogernen,
Mendaces vultus aſſumptaque Gorlois arma
Merlini dolus.

[255]
Of Brutus, Dardan chief, my ſong ſhall be,
How with his barks he plough'd the Britiſh ſea;
Firſt from Rutupia's tow'ring headland ſeen,
And of his conſort's reign, fair Inogen;
Of Brennus and Belinus, brothers bold,
And of Arviragus; and how of old
Our hardy ſires th' Armorican controll'd;
And of the wife of Gorlois who, ſurpriz'd
By Uther in her huſband's form diſguis'd,
(Such was the force of Merlin's art) became
Pregnant with Arthur of heroic fame:
Theſe themes I now revolve.
COWPER.

In one of his controverſial works, publiſhed in 1641, Milton informs us what poetical ideas were then fluctuating in his mind; particularly ‘what king or knight before the Conqueſt might be choſen, in whom to lay the pattern of a chriſtian hero.’ This project, of delineating in a hero a model of chriſtian perfection, was ſuggeſted to the Engliſh poet, not only by the example, but by the precepts, or Taſſo, as they are delivered in his critical diſcourſes. The epic deſigns of Milton were ſuſpended, we know, for many years, by very different purſuits; and when he eſcaped from ‘the troubled ſea of noiſe and hoarſe diſpute to the quiet and ſtill air of delightful ſtudies,’ Arthur had ſo far ceaſed to be his favourite, that he probably exclaimed, in the words of Taſſo:

[256]
Taccia Artù quei ſuoi
Erranti, che di ſogni empion le carte.

Arthur no more thy errant knights rehearſe,
Who fill, with idle dreams, deluſive verſe.

For Adam now reigned in his fancy, not immediately as the ſubject of an epic poem, but as a capital perſonage in the plan of a dramatic compoſition, that inſtead of being formed on the narrow ground of Grotius, in his Adamus Exul, allowed a wider range to the fancy, and included allegorical characters, like the Adamo of Andreini.

This compoſition, firſt printed at Milan, in 1613, and again in 1617, reſembles the myſteries of our early ſtage; and is denominated in Italian, Rappreſentatione, a name which the writers of Italy apply to dramas founded on the ſcripture.—Dr. Pearce has ſaid, in the preface to his review of Milton's text, that he was informed an Italian tragedy exiſted, entitled Il Paradiſo Perſo, Paradiſe Loſt; but, in a very extenſive reſearch, I can diſcover no ſuch performance. There is indeed another Italian drama on the ſubject, which I have not ſeen, entitled Adamo Caduto, tragedia ſacra; but this was not printed until 1647, ſome years after the return of our poet from the continent*. It ſeems very probable that Milton, in his collection [257] of Italian books, had brought the Adamo of Andreini to England; and that the peruſal of an author, wild indeed, and abounding in groteſque extravagance, yet now and then ſhining with pure and united rays of fancy and devotion, firſt gave a new bias to the imagination of the Engliſh poet, or, to uſe the expreſſive phraſe of Voltaire, firſt revealed to him the hidden majeſty of the ſubject. The apoſtate angels of Andreini, though ſometimes hideouſly and abſurdly diſguſting, yet occaſionally ſparkle with ſuch fire as might awaken the emulation of Milton.

I ſhall not attempt to produce parallel paſſages from the two poets, becauſe the chief idea that I mean to inculcate is, not that Milton tamely copied the Adamo of Andreini, but that his fancy caught fire from that ſpirited, though irregular and fantaſtic, compoſition—that it proved in his ardent and fertile mind the ſeed of Paradiſe Loſt;—this is matter of mere conjecture, whoſe probability can [258] only be felt in examining the Adamo—to the lovers of Milton it may prove a ſource of amuſing ſpeculation.

And as the original work of Andreini is ſeldom to be found, it may be pleaſing to the reader, both of Engliſh and Italian, to ſee in theſe pages a brief analyſis of his drama; with a ſhort ſelection from a few of the moſt remarkable ſcenes.

THE CHARACTERS.
  • GOD the FATHER.
  • CHORUS of SERAPHIM, CHERUBIM, and ANGELS.
  • The archangel MICHAEL.
  • ADAM.
  • EVE.
  • A CHERUB, the guardian of ADAM.
  • LUCIFER.
  • SATAN.
  • BEELZEBUB.
  • The SEVEN mortal SINS.
  • The WORLD.
  • The FLESH.
  • FAMINE.
  • LABOUR.
  • DESPAIR.
  • DEATH.
  • VAIN GLORY.
  • SERPENT.
  • VOLANO, an infernal meſſenger.
  • CHORUS of PHANTOMS.
  • CHORUS of fiery, airy, aquatic, and infernal SPIRITS.

ACT I. SCENE 1. Chorus of Angels, ſinging the glory of God.—After their hymn, which ſerves as a prologue, God the [259] Father, Angels, Adam and Eve.—God calls to Lucifer, and bids him ſurvey with confuſion the wonders of his power.—He creates Adam and Eve—their delight and gratitude.

SCENE 2. Lucifer, ariſing from hell—he expreſſes his enmity againſt God, the good Angels, and Man.

SCENE 3. Lucifer, Satan, and Beelzebub.—Lucifer excites his aſſociates to the deſtruction of Man, and calls other Demons from the abyſs to conſpire for that purpoſe.

SCENES 4, 5, and 6. Lucifer, ſummoning ſeven diſtinct Spirits, commiſſions them to act under the character of the ſeven mortal Sins, with the following names:

MELECANO
PRIDE.
LURCONE
ENVY.
RUSPICANO
ANGER.
ARFARAT
AVARICE.
MALTEA
SLOTH.
DULCIATO
LUXURY.
GULIAR
GLUTTONY.

ACT II. SCENE 1. The Angels, to the number of fifteen, ſeparately ſing the grandeur of God, and his munificence to Man.

SCENE 2. Adam and Eve, with Lurcone and Guliar watching unſeen.—Adam and Eve expreſs their devotion to God ſo fervently, that the evil Spirits, though inviſible, are put to ſlight by their prayer.

SCENE 3. The Serpent, Satan, Spirits.—The Serpent, or Lucifer, announces his deſign of circumventing Woman.

[260]SCENE 4. The Serpent, Spirits, and Volano.—Volano arrives from hell, and declares that the confederate powers of the abyſs deſigned to ſend a goddeſs from the deep, entitled Vain Glory, to vanquiſh Man.

SCENE 5. Vain Glory, drawn by a giant, Volano, the Serpent, Satan, and Spirits.—The Serpent welcomes Vain Glory as his confederate, then hides himſelf in the tree to watch and tempt Eve.

SCENE 6. The Serpent and Vain Glory at firſt concealed, the Serpent diſcovers himſelf to Eve, tempts and ſeduces her.— Vain Glory cloſes the act with expreſſions of triumph.

ACT III. SCENE 1. Adam and Eve.—After a dialogue of tenderneſs ſhe produces the fruit.—Adam expreſſes horror, but at laſt yields to her temptation.—When both have taſted the fruit, they are overwhelmed with remorſe and terror: they fly to conceal themſelves.

SCENE 2. Volano proclaims the Fall of Man, and invites the powers of darkneſs to rejoice, and pay their homage to the prince of hell.

SCENE 3. Volano, Satan, chorus of Spirit, with enſigns of victory.—Expreſſion of their joy.

SCENE 4. Serpent, Vain Glory, Satan, and Spirits.—The Serpent commands Canoro, a muſical ſpirit, to ſing his triumph, which is celebrated with ſongs and dances in the 4th and 5th ſcenes; the latter cloſes with expreſſions of horror from the triumphant demons, on the approach of God.

SCENE 6. God the Father, Angels, Adam and Eve.—God ſummons and rebukes the ſinners, then leaves them, after pronouncing his malediction.

[261]SCENE 7. An Angel, Adam and Eve.—The Angel gives them rough ſkins for clothing, and exhorts them to penitence.

SCENE 8. The archangel Michael, Adam and Eve.—Michael drives them from Paradiſe with a ſcourge of fire. Angels cloſe the act with a chorus, exciting the offenders to hope in repentance.

ACT IV. SCENE 1. Volano, chorus of fiery, airy, earthly, and aquatic Spirits.—They expreſs their obedience to Lucifer.

SCENE 2. Lucifer riſes, and utters his abhorrence of the light; the demons conſole him—he queſtions them on the meaning of God's words and conduct towards Man—He ſpurns their conjectures, and announces the incarnation, then proceeds to new machinations againſt Man.

SCENE 3. Infernal Cyclops, ſummoned by Lucifer, make a new world at his command.—He then commiſſions three demons againſt Man, under the characters of the World, the Fleſh, and Death.

SCENE 4. Adam alone.—He laments his fate, and at laſt feels his ſufferings aggravated, in beholding Eve flying in terror from the hoſtile animals.

SCENE 5. Adam and Eve.—She excites her companion to ſuicide.

SCENE 6. Famine, Thirſt, Laſſitude, Deſpair, Adam and Eve. —Famine explains her own nature, and that of her aſſociates.

SCENE 7. Death, Adam and Eve.—Death reproaches Eve with the horrors ſhe has occaſioned—Adam cloſes the act by exhorting Eve to take refuge in the mountains.

ACT V. SCENE 1. The Fleſh, in the ſhape of a woman, and Adam.—He reſiſts her temptation.

[262]SCENE 2. Lucifer, the Fleſh, and Adam.—Lucifer pretends to be a man, and the elder brother of Adam.

SCENE 3. A Cherub, Adam, the Fleſh, and Lucifer.—The Cherub ſecretly warns Adam againſt his foes; and at laſt defends him with manifeſt power.

SCENE 4. The World, in the ſhape of a man, exulting in his own finery.

SCENE 5. Eve and the World.—He calls forth a rich palace from the ground, and tempts Eve with ſplendor.

SCENE 6. Chorus of Nymphs, Eve, the World, and Adam.— He exhorts Eve to reſiſt theſe allurements—the World calls the demons from hell to enchain his victims — Eve prays for mercy: Adam encourages her.

SCENE 7. Lucifer, Death, chorus of Demons.—They prepare to ſeize Adam and Eve.

SCENE 8. The archangel Michael, with a chorus of good Angels.—After a ſpirited altercation, Michael ſubdues and triumphs over Lucifer.

SCENE 9. Adam, Eve, chorus of Angels.—They rejoice in the victory of Michael: he animates the offenders with a promiſe of favour from God, and future reſidence in heaven: —they expreſs their hope and gratitude.—The Angels cloſe the drama, by ſinging the praiſe of the Redeemer.

After this minute account of Andreini's plan, the reader may be curious to ſee ſome ſpecimens of his poetry in an Engliſh verſion. I ſhall ſelect three: Firſt, the chorus of angels, which ſerves as a prologue to the drama, and has been ſo ludicrouſly deſcribed by Voltaire; ſecondly, the ſoliloquy of Lucifer on his firſt appearance; and, [263] thirdly, the ſcene in which Eve induces Adam to taſte the fruit. I ſhall prefix to them the preface of Andreini; but as theſe ſpecimens of his compoſition might ſeem tedious here, and too much interrupt the courſe of this Eſſay, I ſhall detach them from it, and inſert them as an Appendix.

The majeſty of Milton appears to the utmoſt advantage when he is fully compared with every writer, whoſe poetical powers have been exerciſed on the ſubject, to which only his genius was equal.

Let me obſerve, however, for the credit of Andreini, that although he has been contemptuouſly called a ſtroller, he had ſome tincture of claſſical learning, and conſiderable piety. He occaſionally imitates Virgil, and quotes the fathers. He was born in Florence, 1578; his mother was an actreſs, highly celebrated for the excellence of her talents, and the purity of her life; ſhe appeared alſo as an authoreſs, and printed a volume of letters and eſſays, to which two great poets of her country, Taſſo and Marini, contributed each a ſonnet. Her memory was celebrated by her ſon, who publiſhed, at her death, a collection of poems in her praiſe. Having diſtinguiſhed himſelf as a comedian at Milan, he travelled into France, in the train of the famous Mary de Medeci, and obtained, as an actor, the favour of Lewis the XIIIth. The biographical work of Count Mazzuchelli on the writers of Italy, includes an account of Andreini, with a liſt of his various productions; they amount to the number of thirty, [264] and form a ſingular medley of comedies and devout poems. His Adamo alone ſeems likely to preſerve his name from oblivion; and that indeed can never ceaſe to be regarded as a literary curioſity, while it is believed to have given a fortunate impulſe to the fancy of Milton.

If it is highly probable, as I think it will appear to every poetical reader, who peruſes the Adamo, that Andreini turned the thoughts of Milton from Alfred to Adam, and led him to ſketch the firſt outlines of Paradiſe Loſt in various plans of allegorical dramas, it is poſſible that an Italian writer, leſs known than Andreini, firſt threw into the mind of Milton the idea of converting Adam into an epic perſonage. I have now before me a literary curioſity, which my accompliſhed friend, Mr. Walker, to whom the literature of Ireland has many obligations, very kindly ſent me, on his return from an excurſion to Italy, where it happened to ſtrike a traveller, whoſe mind is peculiarly awakened to elegant purſuits. The book I am ſpeaking of is entitled La Scena Tragica d'Adamo ed Eva, Eſtratta dalli primi tre [...]api della Sacra Geneſi, e ridotta a ſignificato Morale da Troilo Lancetta, Benacenſe. Venetia 1644. This little work is dedicated to Maria Gonzaga, Dutcheſs of Mant [...]a, and is nothing more than a drama in proſe, of the ancient form, entitled a morality, on the expulſion of our firſt parents from Paradiſe. The author does not mention Andreini, nor has he any mixture of verſe in his compoſition; but, in his addreſs to the reader, he has the following very remarkable [265] paſſage: after ſuggeſting that the Moſaic hiſtory of Adam and Eve is purely allegorical, and deſigned as an incentive to virtue, he ſays,

Una notte ſognai, che Moiſè mi porſe gratioſa eſpoſitione, e miſterioſo ſignificato con parole tali apunto:

Dio fà parte all' huom di ſe ſteſſo con l' intervento della ragione, e diſpone con infallibile ſentenza, che ſignoreggiando in lui la medeſma ſopra le ſenſuali voglie, preſervato il pomo del proprio core dalli appetiti diſordinati, per guiderdone di giuſta obbedienza li trasforma il mondo in Paradiſo.— Di queſto s'io parlaſſi, al ſicuro formarei heroico poema convenevole a ſemidei.

One night I dreamt that Moſes explained to me the myſtery, almoſt in theſe words:

God reveals himſelf to man by the intervention of reaſon, and thus infallibly ordains that reaſon, while ſhe ſupports her ſovereignty over the ſenſual inclinations in man, and preſerves the apple of his heart from licentious appetites, in reward of his juſt obedience tranſforms the world into Paradiſe.—Of this were I to ſpeak, aſſuredly I might form an heroic poem worthy of demi-gods.

It ſtrikes me as poſſible that theſe laſt words, aſſigned to Moſes in his viſion by Troilo Lancetta, might operate on the mind of Milton like the queſtion of Ellwood, and prove, in his prolific fancy, a kind of rich graft on the [266] idea he derived from Andreini, and the germ of his greateſt production.

A ſceptical critic, inclined to diſcountenance this conjecture, might indeed obſerve, it is more probable that Milton never ſaw a little volume not publiſhed until after his return from Italy, and written by an author ſo obſcure, that his name does not occur in Tiraboſchi's elaborate hiſtory of Italian literature; nor in the patient Italian chronicler of poets, Quadrio, though he beſtows a chapter on early dramatic compoſitions in proſe.—But the mind, that has once ſtarted a conjecture of this nature, muſt be weak indeed, if it cannot produce new ſhadows of argument in aid of a favourite hypotheſis.—Let me therefore be allowed to advance, as a preſumptive proof of Milton's having ſeen the work of Lancetta, that he makes a ſimilar uſe of Moſes, and introduces him to ſpeak a prologue in the ſketch of his various plans for an allegorical drama. It is indeed poſſible that Milton might never ſee the performances either of Lancetta or Andreini —yet conjecture has ground enough to conclude very fairly, that he was acquainted with both; for Andreini wrote a long allegorical drama on Paradiſe, and we know that the fancy of Milton firſt began to play with the ſubject according to that peculiar form of compoſition.— Lancetta treated it alſo in the ſhape of a dramatic allegory; but ſaid, at the ſame time, under the character of Moſes, that the ſubject might form an incomparable epic [267] poem; and Milton, quitting his own haſty ſketches of allegorical dramas, accompliſhed a work which anſwers to that intimation.

After all, I allow that the province of conjecture is the region of ſhadows; and as I offer my ideas on this topic rather as phantoms that may amuſe a lover of poetical ſpeculation, than as ſolid proofs to determine a cauſe of great moment, I am perſuaded every good-natured reader will treat them with indulgence: aſſuredly I ſhall feel neither anger, nor inclination to contend in their defence, if any ſeverer critic, ‘Irruat, & fruſtra ferro diverberet umbras.’

In mentioning the imperfect rudiments of Paradiſe Loſt, Johnſon ſays, very juſtly, ‘It is pleaſant to ſee great works in their ſeminal ſtate, pregnant with latent poſſibilities of excellence; nor could there be any more delightful entertainment than to trace their gradual growth and expanſion, and to obſerve how they are ſometimes ſuddenly advanced by accidental hints, and ſometimes ſlowly improved by ſteady meditation.’ Such entertainment would indeed be peculiarly delightful in reſpect to Milton. It is in ſome meaſure beyond our reach, becauſe, if we except his ſketches of plans for an allegorical drama, no real evidence is left concerning the origin and progreſs of his magnificent conception: but ſuppoſition is often a pleaſant ſubſtitute for abſolute knowledge; and in the hope that it may prove ſo in the preſent caſe, [268] let me advance in this ſhadowy reſearch, and after accounting for the firſt flaſhes of Milton's ſubject on his fancy, purſue the vein of conjecture, in conſidering various ideas that might influence him in the proſecution of his work.

When Adam engaged the fancy of Milton, however that perſonage might firſt be impreſſed upon it as a ſubject of verſe, many circumſtances might conſpire to confirm his aſcendency. The work of different arts, which the poet ſurveyed in his travels, had, perhaps, a conſiderable influence in attaching his imagination to our firſt parents.—He had moſt probably contemplated them not only in the colours of Michael Angelo, who decorated Rome with his picture of the creation, but in the marble of Bandinelli, who had executed two large ſtatues of Adam and Eve, which, though they were far from ſatisfying the taſte of connoiſſeurs, might ſtimulate even by their imperfections the genius of a poet. In recollecting how painting and ſculpture had both exerciſed their reſpective powers on theſe hallowed and intereſting characters, the muſe of Milton might be tempted to contend with the ſiſter arts. I muſt confeſs, however, that Richardſon, a fond idolater of theſe arts and of Milton, is rather inclined to believe that they did not much occupy the attention of the poet, even during his reſidence in Italy: yet I am perſuaded he muſt have been greatly ſtruck by the works of Michael Angelo, a genius whom he reſembled ſo much in his grand characteriſtic, mental magnificence! [269] and to whom he was infinitely ſuperior in the attractive excellencies of delicacy and grace. In touching on a point of reſemblance between the poet and this pre-eminent artiſt, we cannot fail to obſerve the abundance and variety of charms in the poetry of Milton. All the different perfections, which are aſſigned as characteriſtics to the moſt celebrated painters, are united in this marvellous poet. He has the ſublime grandeur of Michael Angelo, the chaſte ſimplicity of Raphael, the ſweetneſs of Correggio, and the richneſs of Rubens. In his Sampſon we may admire the force of Rembrandt, and in his Comus the grace and gaiety of Albano and Pouſſin: in ſhort, there is no charm exhibited by painting, which his poetry has failed to equal, as far as analogy between the different arts can extend. If Milton did not pay much attention in his travels to thoſe works of the great painters that he had opportunities of ſurveying (which I cannot think probable) it is certain that his own works afford a moſt excellent field to exerciſe and animate the powers of the pencil*. The article in which I apprehend [270] a painter muſt find it moſt difficult to equal the felicity of the poet is, the delineation of his apoſtate angels. Here, perhaps, poetry has ſome important advantage over her ſiſter art; and even poetry herſelf is conſidered by auſterer critics as unequal to the taſk. Johnſon regarded the book of Paradiſe Loſt, which deſcribes the war of Heaven, as fit to be "the favourite of children."—Imagination itſelf may be depreciated, by the auſterity of logic, as a childiſh faculty, but thoſe who love even its exceſſes may be allowed to exult in its delights. No reader truly poetical ever peruſed the ſixth book of Milton without enjoying a kind of tranſport, which a ſtern logician might indeed condemn, but which he might alſo think it more deſirable to ſhare. I doubt not but while Milton was revolving his ſubject in his mind, he often heard from critical acquaintance ſuch remarks as might have induced him, had his imagination been leſs energetic, to relinquiſh the angels as intractable beings, ill ſuited to the ſphere of poetry. But if his glowing ſpirit was ever damped for a moment by ſuggeſtions of this nature, he was probably re-animated and encouraged by recollecting his reſpectable old acquaintance, the poets of Italy. He had not only ſeen the infernal powers occaſionally delineated with great majeſty and effect in the Jeruſalem of Taſſo, and Marini's "Slaughter of the Innocents," but he was probably acquainted with an Italian poem, little known in England, and formed expreſsly on the conflict of the apoſtate ſpirits. The work I allude to is, the Angeleida [271] of Eraſmo Valvaſone, printed at Venice, in 1590. This poet was of a noble family in the Venetian republic; as his health was delicate, he devoted himſelf to retired ſtudy, and cultivated the Muſes in his caſtle of Valvaſone. His works are various, and one of his early compoſitions was honoured by the applauſe of Taſſo. His Angeleida conſiſts of three cantos on the War of Heaven, and is ſingularly terminated by a ſonnet, addreſſed to the triumphant Archangel Michael. Several paſſages in Valvaſone induce me to think that Milton was familiar with his work.—I will only tranſcribe the verſes, in which the Italian poet aſſigns to the infernal powers the invention of artillery:

Di ſalnitro, e di zolfo oſcura polve
Chiude altro in ferro cavo; e poi la tocca
Dietro col foco, e in foco la riſolve:
Onde fragoſo tuon ſubito ſcocca:
Scocca e lampeggia, e una palla volve,
Al cui ſcontro ogni duro arde e trabocca:
Crud' è 'l ſaetta, ch' imitar s'attenta
L' arme che 'l ſommo Dio dal Cielo aventa.
L'Angelo rio, quando a concorrer ſorſe
Di ſaper, di bellezza, e di poſſanza
Con l' eterno fattor, perche s'accorſe
Quell' arme non aver, ch' ogni arme avanza,
[272]L' empio ordigno a compor l' animo torſe,
Che ferir puo del folgore a ſembianza:
E con queſto a' di noſtri horrido in terra
Tiranno, arma di folgori ogni guerra.

Valvaſone acknowledges, in his preface, that he had been cenſured for having ſpoken ſo materially (ragionato coſi materialmente) of angels, who are only ſpirit. But he defends himſelf very ably on this point, and mentions with gratitude two excellent critical diſcourſes, written in his vindication by Giovanni Ralli and Ottavio Menini;—there is a third alſo, according to Quadrio, by Scipione di Manzano, under the name of Olimpo Marcucci, printed at Venice, in 4to, 1594. They all beſtow great praiſe on the author whom they vindicate, who appears to have been a very amiable man, and a poet of conſiderable powers, though he poſſeſſed not the ſublimity and the refinement of Milton or Taſſo. In his general ideas of poetry he reſembled them both; and in his mode of expreſſing himſelf, in the preface to his Angeleida, he reminds me very ſtrongly of thoſe paſſages in the proſe works of Milton, where he ſpeaks on the hallowed magnificence of the art. They both conſidered ſacred ſubjects as peculiarly proper for verſe; an idea condemned by Johnſon, who ſympathiſed as little with Milton in his poetic as in his political principles. It was by entertaining ideas of poetry, directly contrary to thoſe of his critic, that Milton rendered himſelf, [273] in true dignity, the firſt poet of the world. Nor can we think that dignity in any degree impaired, by diſcovering that many hints might be ſuggeſted to him by various poets, in different languages, who had ſeized either a part or the whole of his ſubject before him. On the contrary, the more of theſe we can diſcover, and the more we compare them with the Engliſh bard, the more reaſon we ſhall find to exult in the pre-eminence of his poetical powers. Taſſo, in his critical diſcourſes, inculcates a very juſt maxim concerning the originality of epic poets, which is very applicable to Milton.—‘Nuovo ſarà il poema, in cui nuova ſara la teſtura de' nodi, nuove le ſolutioni, nuovi gli epiſodi, che per entro vi ſono trapoſti, quantunque la materia foſſe notiſſima, e dagli altri prima trattata: perche la novita del poema ſi conſidera piuttoſto alla forma, che alla materia.’

This great writer illuſtrates his poſition, that the novelty of a poem is to be eſtimated more from its form than its ſubject, by the example of Alamanni, an epic poet of Italy, who loſt the praiſe he might otherwiſe have acquired, by copying too fondly, under modern names, the incidents of Homer. —Milton is of all authors undoubtedly one of the moſt original, both in thought and expreſſion: the language of his greater works is evidently borrowed from no model, but it ſeems to have great conformity with the precepts which Taſſo has delivered in the diſcourſes I have juſt cited, for the formation of [274] an epic ſtyle. Yet in criticiſm, as in politics, Milton was undoubtedly ‘Nullius addictus jurare in verba magiſtri.’ He thought on every topic for himſelf; juſtly remarking, that ‘to neglect rules and follow nature, in them that know art and uſe judgment, is no tranſgreſſion, but an enriching of art.’ This excellent maxim inſured to him the exerciſe and the independence of his own elevated mind. There is frequent alluſion to the works of antiquity in Milton, yet no poet, perhaps, who revered the ancients with ſuch affectionate enthuſiaſm, has copied them ſo little. This was partly owing to the creative opulence of his own genius, and partly to his having fixed on a ſubject ſo different from thoſe of Homer and Virgil, that he may be ſaid to have accompliſhed a revolution in poetry, and to have purified and extended the empire of the epic muſe. One of the chief motives that induced his imagination to deſert its early favourite Arthur, and attach itſelf to our firſt parents, is partly explained in thoſe admirable verſes of the ninth book, where the poet mentions the choice of his own ſubject, contraſted with thoſe of his illuſtrious predeceſſors:

Argument
Not leſs, but more heroic, than the wrath
Of ſtern Achilles on his foe purſued
[275]Thrice fugitive about Troy wall, or rage
Of Turnus for Lavinia diſeſpous'd,
Or Neptune's ire, or Juno's, that ſo long
Perplex'd the Greek, and Cytherea's ſon.
— — — — —
— — This ſubject for heroic ſong
Pleas'd me long chooſing, and beginning late;
Not ſedulous by nature to indite
Wars, hitherto the only argument
Heroic deem'd, chief maſt'ry to diſſect,
With long and tedious havoc, fabled knights
In battles ſeign'd; the better fortitude
Of patience and heroic martyrdom
Unſung; or to deſcribe races and games,
Or tilting furniture, imblazon'd ſhields,
Impreſſes quaint, capariſons and ſteeds,
Baſes and tinſel trappings, gorgeous knights
At jouſt and torneament; then marſhal'd feaſt
Serv'd up in hall with ſewers and ſeneſchals;
The ſkill of artifice or office mean,
Not that which juſtly gives heroic name
To perſon or to poem: me of theſe
Nor ſkill'd, nor ſtudious, higher argument
Remains, ſufficient of itſelf to raiſe
That name.

Milton ſeems to have given a purer ſignification than we commonly give to the word hero, and to have thought [276] it might be aſſigned to any perſon eminent and attractive enough to form a principal figure in a great picture. In truth, when we recollect the etymology which a philoſopher and a ſaint have left us of the term, we cannot admire the propriety of devoting it to illuſtrious homicides. Plato derives the Greek word from others, that imply either eloquence or love; and St. Auguſtine, from the Grecian name of Juno, or the air, becauſe original heroes were pure departed ſpirits, ſuppoſed to reſide in that element. In Milton's idea, the ancient heroes of epic poetry ſeem to have too much reſembled the modern great man, according to the delineation of that character in Fielding's exquiſite hiſtory of Jonathan Wild the Great. Much as the Engliſh poet delighted in the poetry of Homer, he appears to have thought, like an American writer of the preſent age, whoſe fervent paſſion for the Muſes is only inferior to his philanthropy, that the Grecian bard, though celebrated as the prince of moraliſts by Horace, and eſteemed a teacher of virtue by St. Baſil, has too great a tendency to nouriſh that ſanguinary madneſs in mankind, which has continually made the earth a theatre of carnage. I am afraid that ſome poets and hiſtorians may have been a little acceſſary to the innumerable maſſacres with which men, ambitious of obtaining the title of hero, have deſolated the world; and it is certain, that a ſevere judge of Homer may, with ſome plauſibility, apply to him the reproach that his Agamemnon utters to Achilles: [277] [...] ‘For all thy pleaſure is in ſtrife and blood.’ Yet a lover of the Grecian bard may obſerve, in his defence, that in aſſigning theſe words to the leader of his hoſt, he ſhews the pacific propriety of his own ſentiments; and that, however his verſes may have inſtigated an Alexander to carnage, or prompted the calamitous frequency of war, even this pagan poet, ſo famous as the deſcriber of battles, deteſted the objects of his deſcription.

But whatever may be thought of the heathen bard, Milton, to whom a purer religion had given greater purity, and I think greater force of imagination, Milton, from a long ſurvey of human nature, had contracted ſuch an abhorrence for the atrocious abſurdity of ordinary war, that his feelings in this point ſeem to have influenced his epic fancy. He appears to have relinquiſhed common heroes, that he might not cheriſh the too common characteriſtic of man—a ſanguinary ſpirit. He aſpired to delight the imagination, like Homer, and to produce, at the ſame time, a much happier effect on the mind. Has he ſucceeded in this glorious idea? Aſſuredly he has:—to pleaſe is the end of poetry. Homer pleaſes perhaps more univerſally than Milton; but the pleaſure that the Engliſh poet excites, is more exquiſite in its nature, and ſuperior in its effect. An eminent [278] painter of France uſed to ſay, that in reading Homer he felt his nerves dilated, and he ſeemed to increaſe in ſtature. Such an ideal effect as Homer, in this example, produced on the body, Milton produces in the ſpirit. To a reader who thoroughly reliſhes the two poems on Paradiſe, his heart appears to be purified, in proportion to the pleaſure he derives from the poet, and his mind to become angelic. Such a taſte for Milton is rare, and the reaſon why it is ſo is this:—To form it completely, a reader muſt poſſeſs, in ſome degree, what was ſuperlatively poſſeſſed by the poet, a mixture of two different ſpecies of enthuſiaſm, the poetical and the religious. To reliſh Homer, it is ſufficient to have a paſſion for excellent verſe; but the reader of Milton, who is only a lover of the Muſes, loſes half, and certainly the beſt half, of that tranſcendent delight which the poems of this divine enthuſiaſt are capable of imparting. A devotional taſte is as requiſite for the full enjoyment of Milton as a taſte for poetry; and this remark will ſufficiently explain the inconſiſtency ſo ſtriking in the ſentiments of many diſtinguiſhed writers, who have repeatedly ſpoken on the great Engliſh poet—particularly that inconſiſtency, which I partly promiſed to explain in the judgments of Dryden and Voltaire. Theſe very different men had both a paſſion for verſe, and both ſtrongly felt the poetical powers of Milton: but Dryden perhaps had not much, and Voltaire had certainly not a particle, of Milton's religious enthuſiaſm; [279] hence, inſtead of being impreſſed with the ſanctity of his ſubject, they ſometimes glanced upon it in a ludicrous point of view.

Hence they ſometimes ſpeak of him as the very prince of poets, and ſometimes as a miſguided genius, who has failed to obtain the rank he aſpired to in the poetical world. But neither the caprices of conceit, nor the cold auſterity of reaſon, can reduce the glory of this pre-eminent bard.—It was in an hour propitious to his renown, that he relinquiſhed Arthur and Merlin for Adam and the Angels; and he might ſay on the occaſion, in the words of his admired Petrarch:

Io benedico il luogo, il tempo, e l' hora
Che ſi alto miraro gli occhi mïei.

I bleſs the ſpot, the ſeaſon, and the hour,
When my preſumptuous eyes were fix'd ſo high.

To ſay that his poem wants human intereſt, is only to prove, that he who finds that defect wants the proper ſenſibility of man. A work that diſplays at full length, and in the ſtrongeſt light, the delicious tranquillity of innocence, the tormenting turbulence of guilt, and the conſolatory ſatisfaction of repentance, has ſurely abundance of attraction to awaken ſympathy. The images and ſentiments that belong to theſe varying ſituations are ſo ſuited to our mortal exiſtence, that they cannot ceaſe to intereſt, while human nature endures. The human heart, [280] indeed, may be too much depraved, and the human mind may be too licentious, or too gloomy, to have a perfect reliſh for Milton; but, in honour of his poetry, we may obſerve, that it has a peculiar tendency to delight and to meliorate thoſe characters, in which the ſeeds of taſte and piety have been happily ſown by nature. In proportion as the admiration of mankind ſhall grow more and more valuable from the progreſſive increaſe of intelligence, of virtue, and of religion, this incomparable poet will be more affectionately ſtudied, and more univerſally admired.

Appendix A APPENDIX, CONTAINING EXTRACTS FROM THE ADAMO OF ANDREINI: WITH AN ANALYSIS OF ANOTHER ITALIAN DRAMA, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

[]

Appendix A.1 Al benigno LETTORE.

[282]

SAZIO e ſtanco (lettor diſcreto) d'haver con l'occhio della fronte troppo fiſo rimirate queſte terrene coſe; quel della mente una volta inabzando a piu belle conſiderazioni, e alle tante meraviglie ſparſe dal ſummo Dio a benefizio dell' huomo per l' univerſo; ſentii paſſarmi il cuore da certo ſtimolo, et da, non ſo che, chriſtiano compungimento, vedendo come offeſa in ogni tempo da noi gravemente, quella inneffabile bonta, benigna ad ogni modo ci ſi moſtraſſe, quelle in un continuo ſtato di benificenza ad uſo noſtro conſervando; e come una ſol volta provocata a vendetta, oltre i ſuo vaſti conſini non allargaſſe il mare, al ſole non oſcuraſſe la luce, ſterile non faceſſe la terra, per abiſſarci per acciécarſi, e per diſtruggerſi ſinalmente. E tutto internato in queſti divini affetti, me ſentij rapire a me ſteſſo, e traportare da dolce violenza là nel terreſtre paradiſo, ove pur di veder mi parea l'huomo primiero Adamo, fattura cara di Dio, amico de gli angeli, herede del cielo, familiar delle ſtelle, compendio delle coſe create, ornamento del tutto, miracolo della natura, imperador de gli animali, unico albergatore dell' univerſo, et fruitore di tante maraviglie e grandezze. Quindi invaghito [284] encor piu che mai, riſolvei co 'l favor di Dio benedetto, de dare alla luce del mondo, quel che io portava nelle tenebre della mea mente; ſi per dare in qualche modo, a conoſcere ch' io conoſceva me ſteſſo, e gli oblighi infiniti; ch' io tengo a Dio; come perche altri, che non conoſcono, ſapeſſero chi fu, chi ſia, et chi ſara, queſt' huomo; e dalla baſſa conſiderazione di queſte coſe terrene, alzaſſer la mente a le celeſte e divine. Stetti pero gran pezza in forſe, s' io doveva e poteva tentare compoſizione a me, per molti capi, diſſicilliſſima, poiche cominciando la ſacra tela della creazione dell' huomo ſin la dov' é ſcacciato dal paradiſo terreſtre (che ſei hore vi corſero come ben narra Sant Agoſtino nel libro nella Citta di Dio) non ben lo vedeva come in cinque atti ſoli, ſi brieve fatto raccontar ſi poteſſe, tanto piu diſegnando per ogni atto il numero almeno di ſei, o ſette ſcene. Difficile per la diſputa, che fece il Demonio con Eva, prima che l' induceſſe a mangiare il pomo, poi che altro non abiamo, ſe non il teſto, che ne faccia menzione, dicendo, "Nequaquam moriemini, et eritis ſicut Dii, ſcientes bonum et malum." Difficile per le parole d' Eva in perſuadere Adamo (che pur aveva il dono della ſcienza infuſa) à guſtar del pomo: ma diſſicilliſſima ſopra tutto per la mia debolezza, poiche doveva la compoſizione rimaner priva di quegli ornamenti poetici, coſi cari alle muſe: priva di poter trarre le comparazioni da coſe fabrili, introdotte co 'l volger de gli anni, poiche al tempo del primo huomo, non v' era coſa. Priva pur di nominar (mentre pero parla Adamo e con lui ſi ragiona) per eſſempio archi, ſtrali, bipenni, urne, coltelli, ſpade, aſte, trombe, tamburri, [286] trofei, veſſilli, arringhi, martelli, faci, mantici, roghi, teatri, errari, e ſomiglianti coſe, ed inſinite, havendole tutte introdotte la neceſſita del peccato commeſſo; e pero come afflitive e di pena, non dovevan paſſar per la mente, ne per la bocca d' Adamo, ben che aveſſe la ſcienza inſuſa, come quegli che nel innocenza feliceſſimo ſi vivea. E priva eziandio del portare in campo, fatti d' hiſtorie ſacre o profane; del racontare menzogne di ſavoloſi dei; di narrare amori, furori, armi, caccie, peſcaggioni, trionſi, naufragi, incendi, incanti, e ſimile coſe, che ſono in vero l' ornamento, e lo ſpirito della poeſia. Difficile per non ſapere in che ſtile doveſſe parlare Adamo, perche riſguardando al ſaper ſuo, meritava i verſi intieri, grandi, ſoſtenuti, numeroſi: ma conſiderandolo poi paſtore e albergatoré de' boſchi, pare che puro e dolce eſſer doveſſe nel ſuo parlare, e m' accoſtai percio a queſto di renderlo tale piu, ch' io poteſſi con verſi interi, e ſpezzati, e deſinenze. E qui preſo animo nel maggior mio dubio, diedi, non ſo come, principio; andai, per coſi dire, ſenza mezo ſeguendo: e guinſi al fine nè me ne avvide. Onde ho da credere che la bonta di Dio, riſguardando piu toſto l' affetto bono che i miei diffetti, (ſi come retira ſpeſſo il cuor dell' huomo dall' opre male, coſi l' induce inſenſibilemente ancora alle buone) foſſe quella che mi moveſſe la mano, e che l' opera mi terminaſſe. Dunque a lei ſola debbo le grazie de quella poea che peraventura ſi trova nella preſente fatica: ſapendo che l' omnipotenza ſua, avezza a trarre maraviglie dal rozo e informe chaos, coſi da quello molto piu rozo e informe della mia mente, habbia anche tratto queſto parto, [288] ſi non per altro, per eſſer ſacro, e perche, per coſi dire, parlaſſe un mutolo in perſona mia, per la poverta dell' ingegno come ſuole al incontro far amutire le piu felici lingue quando s' impiegano in coſe brutte e profane. Vedaſi dunque con l' occhio de la diſerezione, ne ſi biafimi peravventura la poverta dello ſtile, la poca gravita nel portar delle coſe, la ſterilita de concetti, la debolenzza de gli ſpiriti, gli inſipidi ſali, gli ſtravaganti epiſodii, come a dire (per laſciare una inſinita d' altre coſe) che il mondo, la carne, e 'l diavolo per tentare Adamo, in forma humana gli s' appreſentino, poi ch' altro huomo né ultra donna non v' era al mondo, poiche il ſerpente ſi moſtro pure ad Eva con parte humana; oltre che ſi fa queſto, perche le coſe ſieno piu inteſe dall' intelletto con que mezi, che a ſenſi s' aſpettano: poſcia che in altra guiſa come le tante tentazioni che in un punto ſoſtennero Adamo ed Eva, furono nell' interno della lor mente, coſi non ben capir lo ſpettaler le poteva. Ne ſi de credere che paſſaſſe il ſerpente con Eva diſputa lunga poiché la tento in un punto piu nella mente che con la lingua dicendo quelle parole; "Nequaquam moriemini et eritis ſicut Dii," &c. et pur fara di meſtieri, per eſprimere quegli interni contraſti, meditar qualche coſe per di fuori rappreſentarli. Ma ſe al pittor poeta muto, è permeſſo con carratteri di colore l' eſprimer l' antichita di Dio in perſona d' huomo tutto canuto, e dimoſtrare in bianca colomba la purita dello ſpirito, e figurare i divini meſſaggi che ſono gli angeli in perſona de giovani alati; perche non è permeſſo [290] al poeta, pittor parlante, portar nella tela del theatro altra huomo, altra donna, ch' Adamo ed Eva? e rappreſentare quegli interni contraſti per mezo d' immagini, e voci pur tutte humane? Oltre che par piu tolerabile l'introdurre in queſt' opera il demonio in humana figura, di quel che ſia l' introdur nell' iſteſſa il Padre eterno et l' angelo ſteſſo; e pur ſe queſto e permeſſo, e ſi vede tutto giorno eſpreſſo nelle rapprezentazioni' ſacré, perche non ſi ha da permettere nella preſente dove ſe il maggior ſi concede, ſi dè conceder parimente il minor male; rimira dunque lettor benigno piu la ſoſtanza, che l' accidente, per coſi dire, contemplando nell' opera il fine di portar nel theatro dell anima la miſeria, ed il pianto d' Adamo, e farne ſpettatore il tuo cuore per alzarlo da queſte baſſezze alle grandezze del ciel, co 'l mezo della virtu e dell' aiuto de Dio, il quale ti feliciti.

Appendix A.2 To the courteous READER.

[283]

SATIATED and fatigued (gentle render) by having looked on theſe earthly objects with eyes too intent, and raiſing therefore the eye of my mind to higher contemplations, to the wonders diffuſed by the ſupreme Being, for the benefit of man, through the univerſe, I felt my heart penetrated by a certain chriſtian compunction in reflecting how his inexpreſſible goodneſs, though perpetually and grievouſly offended by us, ſtill ſhews itſelf in the higheſt degree indulgent towards us, in preſerving thoſe wonders with a continued influence to our advantage; and how, on the firſt provocation to vengeance, Almighty Power does not enlarge the ocean to paſs its immenſe boundary, does not obſcure the light of the ſun, does not impreſs ſterility on the earth, to engulph us, to blind us, and finally to deſtroy us. Softened and abſorbed in theſe divine emotions, I felt myſelf tranſported and hurried, by a delightful violence, into a terreſtrial paradiſe, where I ſeemed to behold the firſt man, Adam, a creature dear to God, the friend of angels, the heir of heaven, familiar with the ſtars, a compendium of all created things, the ornament of all, the miracle of nature, lord of the animals, the only inhabitant of the univerſe, and enjoyer of a ſcene ſo wonderfully grand. Whence, charmed [285] more than ever, I reſolved, with the favour of the bleſſed God, to uſher into the light of the world what I bore in the darkneſs of my imagination, both to render it known in ſome meaſure that I know myſelf, and the infinite obligations that I have to God; and that others, who do not know, may learn the true nature of man, and from the low contemplation of earthly things may raiſe their mind to things celeſtial and divine.

I remained, however, a conſiderable time in doubt, if I ought, or if I were able, to undertake a compoſition moſt difficult to me on many accounts, ſince, in beginning the ſacred ſubject from man's creation to the point where he is driven from the terreſtrial paradiſe (a period of ſix hours, as Saint Auguſtine relates in his book on the City of God) I did not clearly perceive how an action ſo brief could be formed into five acts, eſpecially allowing to every act the number of at leaſt ſix or ſeven ſcenes; difficult from the diſpute that the Devil maintained with Eve, before he could induce her to eat the apple, ſince we have only the text that mentions it, in ſaying "Nequaquam moriemini, et critis ſicut Dii, ſcientes bonum et malum;" difficult from the words of Eve, in perſuading Adam (who had indeed the gift of knowledge infuſed) to taſte the apple; but difficult above all from my own infirmity, ſince the compoſition muſt remain deprived of thoſe poetic ornaments ſo dear to the muſes: deprived of the power to draw compariſons from implements of art, introduced in the courſe of years, ſince in the time of the firſt man there was no ſuch things; deprived [...]ſo of naming (at leaſt while Adam ſpeaks, or diſcourſe is held with him) for example, bows, arrows, batchers, urns, knives, ſwords, [287] ſpears, trumpets, drums, trophies, banners, liſts, hammers, torches, bellows, funeral piles, theatres, exchequers, infinite things of a like nature, introduced by the neceſſities of ſin; they ought not to paſs through the mind, or through the lips of Adam, although he had knowledge infuſed into him, as one who lived moſt happy in a ſtate of innocence; deprived, moreover, of introducing points of hiſtory, ſacred or profane, of relating fictions of fabulous deities, of rehearſing loves, furies, arms, ſports of hunting or fiſhing, triumphs, ſhipwrecks, conflagrations, inchantments, and things of a like nature, that are in truth the ornament and the ſoul of poetry; difficult from not knowing in what ſtile Adam ought to ſpeak, ſince, in reſpect to his knowledge, it might be proper to aſſign to him verſes of a high, majeſtic, and flowing ſtile; but conſidering him as a ſhepherd, and an inhabitant of the woods, it appears that he ſhould be ſimple and ſweet in his diſcourſe, and I endeavoured, on that account, to render it ſuch, as much as I could, by variety of verſification; and here, taking courage in my greateſt doubt, I formed, I know not how, a beginning; I advanced, if I may ſay ſo, without any determinate plan, and arrived at the end before I was aware. Whence I am inclined to believe, that the ſavour of God, regarding rather my good intentions than my defects (for as he often withdraws the heart of man from evil, ſo he conducts it inſenſibly to good) gave direction to my hand, and completed my work. Wherefore to that alone I am indebted for the little grace that may perhaps be found in the preſent labour; knowing that as omnipotence is accuſtomed to produce wonders from the rude and unformed chaos, ſo from the ſtill ruder chaos of my mind it may have called forth [289] this production, if not for any other purpoſe, yet to be ſacred, and to make, as it were, a mute ſpeak in my perſon, in deſpight of poverty of genius, as on the other hand it is accuſtomed to ſtrike mute the moſt eloquent tongues, when they employ themſelves on ſubjects low and profane. Let it be ſurveyed, therefore, with an eye of indulgence, and blame not the poverty of ſtile, the want of dignity in the conduct of the circumſtances, ſterility of conceits, weakneſs of ſpirit, inſipid pleaſantries, and extravagant epiſodes; to mention, without ſpeaking of an infinitude of other things, that the world, the fleſh, and the devil, preſent themſelves in human ſhapes to tempt Adam, ſince there was then in the univerſe no other man or woman, and the ſerpent diſcovered himſelf to Eve with a human ſimilitude; moreover, this is done that the ſubject may be better comprehended by the underſtanding, through the medium of the ſenſes; ſince the great temptations that Adam and Eve at once ſuſtained, were indeed in the interior of their own mind, but could not be ſo comprehended by the ſpectator; nor is it to be believed that the ſerpent held a long diſpute with Eve, ſince he tempted her rather by a ſuggeſtion to her mind, than by conference, ſaying theſe words, "Nequaquam moriemini, et eritis ſicut Dii, ſcientes bonum et malum;" and yet it will be neceſſary, in order to expreſs thoſe internal contentions, to find ſome expedient to give them an outward repreſentation; but if it is permitted to the painter, who is a dumb poet, to expreſs by colours God the Father, under the perſon of a man ſilvered by age; to deſcribe, under the image of a white dove, the purity of the ſpirit; and to figure the divine meſſengers, or angels, under the ſhape of winged youths, [291] why is it not permitted to the poet, who is a ſpeaking painter, to repreſent, in his theatrical production, another man and another woman beſides Adam and Eve, and to repreſent their internal conflicts through the medium of images and voices entirely human, not to mention that it appears more allowable to introduce in this work the devil under a human ſhape, than it is to introduce into it the eternal Father and an angel; and if this is permitted, and ſeen every day exhibited in ſacred repreſentations, why ſhould it not be allowed in the preſent, where, if the greater evil is allowable, ſurely the leſs ſhould be allowed: attend therefore, gentle reader, more to the ſubſtance than to the accident, conſidering in the work the great end of introducing into the theatre of the ſoul the miſery and lamentation of Adam, to make your heart a ſpectator of them, in order to raiſe it from theſe dregs of earth to the magnificence of heaven, through the medium of virtue and the aſſiſtance of God, by whom may you be bleſſed.

Appendix A.3

[292]

Appendix A.3.1 CHORO D' ANGELI cantanti la GLORIA DI DIO.

A LA lira del Ciel Iri ſia l' arco,
Corde le sfere ſien, note le ſtelle,
Sien le pauſe e i ſoſpir l' aure novelle,
E 'l tempo i tempi à miſurar non parco.
Quindi a le cetre eterne, al novo canto
S' aggunga melodia, e lode à lode
Per colui, ch' oggi a i mondi, a i cieli, gode
Gran facitor moſtrarſi eterno, e ſanto.
O tu, che pria che foſſe il cielo e 'l mondo,
In te ſteſſo godendo e mondi e cieli,
Come punt' hor da ſacroſanti teli,
Verſi di grazie un ocean profondo.
Deh tu, che 'l ſai, grande amator ſovrano,
Com 'han lingua d' amor, l' opre cotante,
Tu inſpira ancor lode canore e ſante.
Fa, ch' à lo ſtil s' accordi il cor, la mano.
Ch' alhor n' udrai l' alt' opre tuo lodando
Dir; che feſti di nulla Angéli e sfere,
Ciel, mondo, peſci, augelli, moſtri, e fere,
Aquile al ſol de tui gran rai ſembrando.

Appendix A.3.2 CHORUS OF ANGELS ſinging the GLORY OF GOD.

[293]
To Heav'n's bright lyre let Iris be the bow,
Adapt the ſpheres for chords, for notes the ſtars,
Let new-born gales diſcriminate the bars,
Nor let old time to meaſure times be ſlow.
Hence to new muſic of the eternal lyre
Add richer harmony, and praiſe to praiſe,
For him, who now his wond'rous might diſplays,
And ſhews the univerſe its awful ſire.
O thou, who ere the world, or heav'n, was made,
Didſt in thyſelf that world, that heav'n enjoy,
How does thy bounty all its powers employ,
What inexpreſſive good haſt thou diſplayed.
O thou, of ſov'reign love almighty ſource,
Who know'ſt to make thy works thy love expreſs,
Let pure devotion's fire the ſoul poſſeſs,
And give the heart and hand a kindred force.
Then ſhalt thou hear, how, when the world begun,
Thy life-producing voice gave myriads birth,
Call'd forth from nothing all in heav'n and earth,
Bleſs'd in thy light as eagles in the ſun.

Appendix A.3.3 ATTO PRIMO. SCENA SECONDA.

[294]
LUCIFERO.
CHI dal mio centro oſcuro,
Mi chiama a rimirar cotanta luce?
Quai meraviglie nove,
Hoggi mi ſcopri O Dio?
Forſe ſei ſtanco d' albergar nel cielo?
Perche creaſti in terra,
Quel vago paradiſo?
Per che reporvi poi
D' humana carne duo terreni dei?
Dimmi architetto vile,
Che di fango opre feſti,
Ch' avverra di queſt' huom povero, ignudo,
Di boſchi habitator ſolo, e di ſelve?
Forſe premer co 'l pie crede le ſtelle,
Impoverito è 'l ciel, cagione io ſolo
Fui di tanta ruina, ond' hor ne' godo.
Teſſa pur ſtella à ſtella,
V' aggiunga e luna, e ſole,
S' affatichi pur Dio,
Per far di novo il ciel lucido adorno,
Ch' al ſin, con biaſmo e ſcorno,
Vana l' opra ſara, vana il ſudore,
Fu Lucifero ſol quell' ampia luce,
Per cui ſplendeva in mille raggi il cielo;
[296]Ma queſte faci hor ſue ſon ombre e fumi,
O de' gran lumi miei, baſtardi lumi
Il ciel che che ſi ſia ſaper non voglio,
Che che ſi ſia queſt' huom' ſaper non curo,
Troppo oſtinato e duro,
E 'l mio forte penſiero,
In moſtrarmi implacabile, e ſevero,
Contra il ciel, contra l' huom, l' angelo, e Dio.

Appendix A.3.4 ACT THE FIRST. SCENE THE SECOND.

[295]
LUCIFER.
WHO from my dark abyſs
Calls me to gaze on this exceſs of light?
What miracles unſeen
Shew'ſt thou to me, O God?
Art thou then tired of reſidence in Heav'n?
Why haſt thou raiſed on earth
This lovely paradiſe,
And wherefore placed in it
Two earthly demi-gods of human mould?
Say, thou vile architect,
Forming thy works of duſt,
What will befal this naked helpleſs man,
The ſole inhabitant of glens and woods?
Does he then dream of treading on the ſtars?
Heav'n is impoveriſh'd, and I, alone
The cauſe, enjoy the ruin I produced:
Let him unite above
Star upon ſtar, moon, ſun,
And let his Godhead toil
To re-adorn and re-illume his heav'n;
Since in the end deriſion
Shall prove his works, and all his efforts, vain;
For Lucifer alone was that full light,
Which ſcatter'd radiance o'er the plains of Heav'n.
[297]But theſe his preſent fires are ſhade and ſmoke,
Baſe counterfeits of my more potent beams;
I reck not what he means to make his heav'n,
Nor care I what this creature man may be,
Too obſtinate and firm
Is my undaunted thought
In proving that I am implacable,
'Gainſt heav'n, 'gainſt man, the angels, and their God.

Appendix A.3.5 ATTO TERZA. SCENA PRIMA.

[298]
ADAMO, EVA.
OMIA compagna amata,
O di queſta mia vita
Vero cor, cara vita;
Si frettoloſa a dunque ali vibrando
Peregrina inceſſante
Per ritrovar Adamo,
Solinga andavi errando?
Eccolo; che l' imponi? Parla homai
Tanto indugi? deh chiede; o Dio, che fai?
EVA.
O cariſſimo Adamo,
O mia ſcorta, o mio duce
Ch' à rallegrar ch' a ſolazzar m' induce;
Sol' io 'te deſiava,
E tra ſi grati horrori,
Solo te ricercava.
ADAMO.
Poi che ti lice Adamo
(Belliſſima compagna)
[300]Del tuo gioir nomar radice, e fonte,
Eva, ſe 'l venir meco,
Hor t' agrada, moſtrarti amica, intendo
Coſa non piu veduta;
Coſa ſi vaga, che per maraviglia
Inarcherai le ciglia;
Mira, ſpoſa gentile, in quella parte
Di coſi folta, e verdeg giante ſelva
Dov' ogni augel s' inſelva
La dove appunto quelle due ſi bianche
Colombe vanno con aperto volo;
Ivi appunto vedrai (o maraviglia)
Sorger tra molli fiori
Un vivo humore, il qual con torto paſſo
Si frettoloſo fugge
E fuggendo t' alletta,
Ch' è forza dir; ferma bel rivo, aſpet ta:
Quindi vago in ſeguirlo
Tu pur il ſegui; ed ei come s 'haveſſe
Brama di ſcherzar teco,
Fra mille occulte vie depinte, herboſe
Anzi note a lui ſol celato fugge:
Poſcia quand' egli aſcolta,
Che tu t' affligi, perche l'hai ſmarrito
Alza la chioma acquoſa, e par che dica
A gorgogliar d' un riſo,
Segui pur ſegui, il molle paſſo mio,
Che ſe godi di mi, con te ſcherz' io;
Coſi con dolce inganno alfin ti guida
Sin a l' eſtrema cima
[302]D'un praticel fiorito; ed egli alhora,
Con veloce dimora,
Dice: rimanti; addio, già, già, ti laſcio
Poi ſi dirupa al baſſo
Ne ſeguirlo potendo humane piante
Forz' è che l' occhio il ſegua; e la tu miri
Come gran copia d' acqua in cerchio anguſto
Accoglie in cupa, e fruttuoſa valle
D' allor cinta, e d' ulive,
Di cipreſſi; d' aranci, e d' alti pini;
Il qual limpido humore, a i rai del ſole,
Sembra un puro criſtallo:
Quind' è che nel bel fondo
Nel criſtallin de l' onda
Tralucer miri ricca arena d' oro
Ed un mobile argento
Di cento peſci, e cento:
Qui con note canòre,
Candidi cigni a la bel onda intorno;
Fanno dolce ſoggiorno,
E ſembran gorgheggiando a l' aura dire
Qui fermi il pi [...] chi brama à pien gioire.
Si che cara campagna
Meco venir ti caglia.
EVE.
Coſi ben la tua lingua mi ſcoperſe
Quel, che moſtrarmi aſpiri,
[304]Che 'l fugitivo rivo miro ſcherzante,
El' odo mormorante;
Ben anco è vaga queſta parte ov' hora
Facciam grato ſoggiorno, e qui fors' anco,
Piu ch' altrove, biancheggia il vago giglio
E s' invermiglia la naſcente roſa;
Quinci anco rugiadoſe,
Son l' herbette minute,
Colorite da' fiori;
Qui le piante frondute
Stendono a gara l' ombre,
S' ergono al ciel pompoſe.
ADAMO.
Hor al freſco de l' ombre,
Al bel di queſte piante,
Al vezzoſo de' prati,
Al depinto de fiori,
Al mormorar de l' acque e de gli augelli,
Aſſediamoci lieti.
EVA.
Eccomi aſſiſa,
O come godo in rimirar non ſolo,
Queſti fior, queſte herbette, e quante piante
Ma l'Adamo, l'Amante.
Tù tù ſei quel per cui vezzoſi i prati
Piu mi ſembrano, e cari,
Piu coloriti i frutti, e i fonti cari.
ADAMO.
[306]
Non pon tanti arrecarmi
Leggiadri fior queſti be' campi adorni,
Che vie piu vaghi fiori io non rimiri
Nel bel giardin del tuo leggiadro volto;
Dativi pace o fiori,
Non ſon mendaci i detti,
Voi da rugiade aeree aſperſe ſiete,
Voi lieto fate humil terreno herboſo,
Ad un ſol fiammeggiar d' acceſo ſole,
Ma co'l cader del ſol voi pur cadrete.
Ma gli animati fiori,
D' Eva mia cara e bella,
Vanſi ogn' hora irrigando,
Da le calde rugiade,
Ch' ella ſparſe per gioia,
Il ſuo fattor lodando,
Ed al rotar di duo terreni ſoli,
Nel ciel de la ſua fronte
S' ergon per non cadere,
Il vago Paradiſo
Ornando d' un bel viſo.
EVA.
Deh non voler Adamo,
Con façondia ſonora.
L' orrecchio armonizar, dir Eva, io t' amo,
Troppo s' affida il core
[308]Che sfavilli di puro e ſanto ardore,
Hor tu ricevi in cambio, ò caro amico,
Queſto vermiglio don; ben lo conoſci,
Queſt' è 'l pomo vietato,
Queſt' è 'l frutto beato.
ADAMO.
Laſſo me, che remiro? ohime, che feſti,
Rapitrice del pomo,
Da gran ſignor vietato?
EVA.
Lunga fora il narrarti
La cagion, che m' induſſe
A far preda del pomo. Hor baſti ch' io
D' ali impennarti al ciel l' acquiſto feci.
ADAMO.
Ah non ſia ver, non ſia
Ch' à te per eſſer grato
Mi moſtri al cielo ribellante, ingrato,
E 'n ubidire a donna
Diſubidiſca al mio Fattore, a Dio.
Dunque pena di morte
Non ti fe per terror la guance ſmorte.
EVA.
E tu credi ſe 'l pomo
Eſca foſſe di morte,
[310]Che l' haveſſe inalzato il gran cultore
Dov' eterna è la vita?
Stimi tu ſe d' errore
Cagione foſſe il pomo,
Ch' a le luci de l' huomo,
Si pomifero e vago,
Fertileggiar l' haveſſe fatto a l' aure?
Ah ſe cio foſſe, ben n' havrebb' ei dato
Cagion d' alto peccato,
Poi che natura impone,
(Precettrice ſagace)
Che per viver queſt' humo ſi paſca e cibi,
E che conforme il bello, il buono ei creda.
ADAMO.
Se 'l celeſte cultore,
Che i bei campi del cielo,
Seminati ha di ſtelle,
Fra tante piante fruttoſe, è belle
Poſe il vietato pomo,
Il piu bello, il piu dolce;
Fè per conoſcer l' huomo
Sagace oſſervator di voglia eccelſa,
E del gran meritar per dargli il modo;
Che ſol nome di forte avien che acquiſti,
Chi ſupera ſe ſteſſo, e i proprii affetti:
Ben havria di peccar ragion queſt huomo,
Quando di pochi frutti,
[312]Foſſe il giardin ricetto,
Ma di tanti e ſi dolci egli abondando
Non dovrà l' huomo in bando,
Por celeſti commandi.
EVA.
Coſi dunque tu m' ami?
Ah non ſia ver, non ſia,
Ch' io ti chiami il mio cor, la vita mia,
Da te vuo errar ſolinga,
Piangendo, e ſoſpirando
E me ſteſſa odiando,
Celarmi ancor dal ſole.
ADAMO.
Eva mio dolce amore,
Eva mio ſpirito, e core,
Deh raſciuga le luci,
Ch' è tutto mio quel pianto,
Che l' irriga la guancia, e innonda il ſeno.
EVA.
Ahi dolente mio ſtato,
Io, che cotanto diſſi, e fece intentà,
Ad innalzar queſt' huomo,
Sovra d' ogni alto Cielo, hor coſi poco
Egli mi crede ed ama?
ADAMO.
[314]
Non ti doler mia vita,
Troppo queſt' alma annoia
Il rimirarti meſta.
EVA.
So ch' altro non deſiri,
Che le lagrime mie, che i miei ſoſpiri,
Ond' hor à venti, à' mari,
Porgo tributi amari.
ADAMO.
Ahi mi ſpezza il core,
Che far deggià non ſo; s' io miro il cielo
Sento vagarmi un gielo,
Per l' oſſe che mi ſtrugge,
Vago ſol d' oſſervar precettì éterni:
Se la compagna miro
Piango al ſuo pianto, à' ſuoi ſoſpir ſoſpiro,
E mi ſtruggo e m' accoro,
S' ubidirla rifiuto: il cor amante
Fa ch' al pomo veloce apra la mano.
L' alma nel ſen dubiante
La reſpinge e la chiude;
Miſero Adamo, o quanti
Accampano il tuo cor varii deſiri,
Qui per l' un tu ſoſpiri,
Per l' altro godi, nè ſaper t' e' dato
Se tu ſara piegato,
Da ſoſpiri o da gioia
Da la donna o da Dio.
EVA.
[316]
E pur penſa, e penſando,
Vuol ch' Eva ſolo in bando,
Ponga d' eſſer felice,
Nel ſublimar queſt' Luomo,
E pur ohimè hò d' ogni antezza il pomo.
ADAMO.
Muti ſi, ma éloquenti,
Sono i tuo ſguardi amica,
Ohime quanto chiedete,
Quanto quanto ottenete,
Pria, che parli la lingua, il cor conceda,
Occhi ſoli de l' alma,
Piu il bel ciel de la fronte
Non ſia che tenebrate;
Tornate ohime tornate;
A fugar a irraggiar guancia nemboſa;
Alza, alza, la fronte,
Da quella maſſa d' or, che 'l volto inchioma
Da que' raggi di ſole
Bei legami del cor, lampo de gli occhi:
Fa che la chioma bella,
Hoggi leve e vagante
La portin l' aure, e ſi diſcopra il viſo
De la gloria d' un cor bel paradiſo
Mi diſpongo ubidirti,
Sono imperi i tuoi preghi,
Sù ſù, ne le occhi e ne le labra intanto,
Fa balenar il riſo, aſciuga il pianto.
EVA.
[318]
Deh miſcredente Adamo
Ricevitor corteſe,
Fati homai di bel frutto,
Corri, corri hoggimai, tocchi la mano,
D' eſca beante il fortunato ſegno.
ADAMO.
Dolciſſima compagna
Mira il caro amatore
Scacciali homai dal core
Le ſirti d' aſpro duolo, a lui volgendo
Di caro polo deſiderate ſtelle
Scoprimi il vago pomo
Che tra fior, che tra frondi
(Accorta involatrice) a me naſcondi.
EVA.
Eccoti Adamo il pomo:
Che ſai dir? lo guſtai, nè ſon già morta
Ah che viver dovraſſi
Anzi farſi nel ciel ſimili à Dio;
Ma pria convien, che 'l pomo
Tutto fra noi ſi guſti,
Indi poſcia guſtati
A bel trono di raï, trono ſtellato,
Ne condurran le angeli lieti à volo.
ADAMO.
Dammi il frutto rapito
Rapitrice corteſe,
[320]Dammi il frutto gradito;
S' ubidiſca a chi tanto,
Per farmi un Dio ha faticato e pianto
Ohime laſſo, che feci?
Quale me ſcende al cor acuta ſpina
Di ſubitano duolo?
Ohime qual mi ſommerge
Vaſto ocean di pianto?
EVA.
Laſſo me, che rimiro?
O conoſcenza acerba, o viſta nova,
Il tutto s' arma al precipicio humano.
ADAMO.

Ahi cara libertade ove ſe' gita?

EVA.

O cara libertate, o ſier ſervaggio.

ADAMO
Equeſto è 'l dolce frutto,
Cagion di tanto amaro?
Dimmi, perche tradirmi?
Perche del ciel privarmi?
Deh perche me traheſti
Da lo ſtato innocente
Dove lieto i godea vita felice?
Perche ſogetto farmi,
Di morté a le crud armi
Tu pur, ch' eri mia vita?
EVA.
[322]
Fui cieca talpa al bene,
Fui troppo occhiuta al male,
Fui d' Adamo nemica,
Fui contro Dio rubella;
E per oſar d' alzarmi,
A le porte del cielo,
A le ſoglie cadei del baſſo inferno.
ADAMO.
Ahi qual dardo divin me ſembra in cielo,
Rotar di fiamme acceſo?
EVA.
Ahi qual flaggello
Laſſa me ne ſovraſta? Ohime ſon nuda,
E con Adamo i' parlo?
ADAMO.

Nudo ſon? Chi mi cela? io parto.

EVA.

Io fuggo.

Exeunt.

Appendix A.3.6 ACT THIRD. SCENE I.

[299]
ADAM AND EVE.
O MY belov'd companion,
O thou of my exiſtence
The very heart and ſoul,
Haſt thou, with ſuch exceſs of tender haſte,
With ceaſeleſs pilgrimage,
To find again thy Adam
Thus ſolitary wandered?
Behold him, ſpeak, what are thy gentle orders?
Why doſt thou pauſe? O God, what art thou doing?
EVE.
Adam, my beſt beloved,
My guardian and my guide,
Thou ſource of all my comfort, all my joy,
Thee, thee alone I wiſh,
And in theſe pleaſing horrors
Thee only have I ſought.
ADAM.
Since thou may'ſt call thy Adam
(Moſt beautiful companion)
[301]The ſource and happy fountain of thy joy,
Eve; if to walk with me
It now may pleaſe thee, I will ſhew thee, love,
A ſight thou haſt not ſeen,
A ſight ſo lovely, that in wonder thou
Wilt arch thy graceful brow;
Look thou, my gentle bride, towards that path
Of this ſo intricate and verdant grove,
Where ſit the birds embower'd;
Juſt there, where now, with ſoft and ſnowy plumes,
Two ſocial doves have ſpread their wings for flight;
Juſt there thou ſhalt behold (O pleaſing wonder)
Springing amid the flow'rs,
A living ſtream, that with a winding courſe
Flies rapidly away,
And as it flies allures,
And tempts you to exclaim, ſweet river ſtay;
Hence, eager in purſuit,
You follow, and the ſtream, as if it had
Deſire to ſport with you,
Thro' many a florid, many a graſſy way,
Well known to him, in ſoft concealment flies;
But when at length he hears
You are afflicted to have loſt his ſight
He rears his watry locks, and ſeems to ſay,
Gay with a gurgling ſmile,
Follow, ah follow ſtill my placid courſe,
If thou art pleaſed with me, with thee I ſport;
And thus, with ſweet deceit, he leads you on
To the extremeſt bound
[303]Of a fair flow'ry meadow, then at once,
With quick, impediment,
Says, ſtop, adieu, for now, yes, now I leave you,
Then down a rock deſcends;
There, as no human foot can follow farther,
The eye alone muſt follow him, and there,
In little ſpace, you ſee a maſs of water
Collected in a deep and fruitful vale,
With laurel crowned and olive,
With cypreſs, oranges, and lofty pines;
The limpid water in the ſun's bright ray
A perfect cryſtal ſeems;
Hence in its deep receſs,
In the tranſlucent wave,
You ſee a precious glittering ſand of gold,
And bright as moving ſilver
Innumerable fiſh;
Here with melodious notes
The ſnowy ſwans upon the ſhining ſtreams
Form their [...]eet reſidence,
And ſeem in warbling to the wind to ſay,
Here let thoſe r [...]t who wiſh for perfect joy.
So that, my dear companion,
To walk with me will pleaſe thee.
EVE.
So well thy language to my ſight has brought
What thou deſiredſt to ſhew me,
[305]I ſee thy flying river as it ſports,
And hear it as it murmurs:
And beauteous alſo is this ſcene where now
Pleas'd we ſojourn; and here, perhaps e'en here
The lilly whitens with the pureſt luſtre,
And the roſe reddens with the richeſt hue;
Here alſo, bath'd in dew,
Plants of minuteſt growth
Are painted all with flowers;
Here trees of ampleſt leaf
Extend their rival ſhades,
And ſtately riſe to heav'n.
ADAM.
Now by theſe cooling ſhades,
The beauty of theſe plants,
By theſe delightful meadows,
Theſe variegated flow'rs,
By the ſoft muſic of the rills and birds,
Let us ſit down in joy.
EVE.
Behold then I am ſeated;
How I rejoice in viewing, not alone,
Theſe flow'rs, theſe herbs, theſe high and graceful plants.
But Adam, more my lover,
Thou, thou art he by whom the meadows ſeem
More beautiful to me,
The fruit more blooming, and the ſtreams more clear.
ADAM.
[307]
Theſe decorated fields,
With all their flow'ry tribute, cannot equal
Thoſe lovelier flowers that with delight I view
In the fair garden of your beauteous face;
Be pacified, ye flow'rs,
My words are not untrue;
You ſhine beſprinkl'd with aetherial dew,
You give the humble earth to grow with joy
At one bright ſparkle of the blazing ſun;
But with the falling ſun ye alſo fall:
But theſe more living flow'rs
Of my dear beauteous Eve
Seem freſhen'd every hour
By ſoft devotion's dew,
That ſhe with pleaſure ſheds,
Praiſing her mighty Maker;
And by the rays of two terreſtrial ſuns,
In that pure Heav'n her face,
They riſe, and not to fall,
Decking the Paradiſe
Of an enchanting viſage.
EVE.
Dear Adam, do not ſeek
With tuneful eloquence
To ſooth my ear by ſpeaking of thy love;
The heart is confident
[309]That fondly flames with pure and hallow'd ardour;
In ſweet exchange accept, my gentle love,
This vermeil tinctur'd gift; you know it well;
This is the fruit forbidden;
This is the bleſſed apple.
ADAM.
Alas! what ſee I! Ah! what haſt thou done?
Invader of the fruit
Forbidden by thy God!
EVE.
It would be long to tell
The reaſon that induced me
To make this fruit my prey; let it ſuffice,
I've gained thee wings to raiſe thy flight to heav'n.
ADAM.
Ne'er be it true, ah! never,
That to obtain thy favour
I prove to Heav'n rebellious and ungrateful,
And to obey a woman
So diſobey my Maker and my God.
Then did not death denounc'd,
With terror's icy paleneſs blanch thy cheek?
EVE.
And think'ſt thou, if the apple
Were but the fruit of death,
[311]The great Producer would have raiſed it there,
Where being is eternal;
Think'ſt thou, that if of error
This fruit-tree were the cauſe,
In man's delighted eye
So fertile and ſo fair
He would have form'd it flouriſhing in air?
Ah! were it ſo, he would indeed have giv'n
A cauſe of high offence,
Since nature has ordain'd
(A monitreſs ſagacious)
That to ſupport his being man muſt eat,
And truſt in what looks fair as juſt and good.
ADAM.
If the celeſtial tiller,
Who the fair face of heav'n
Has thickly ſown with ſtars,
Amidſt ſo many plants, fruitful and fair,
Placed the forbidden apple,
The faireſt and moſt ſweet,
'Twas to make proof of man
As a wiſe keeper of his heav'nly law,
And to afford him ſcope for high deſert;
For he alone may gain the name of brave
Who rules himſelf, and all his own deſires;
Man might, indeed, find ſome excuſe for ſin,
If ſcantily with fruits
[313]This garden were ſupplied;
But this abounding in ſo many ſweets,
Man ought not to renounce
The clear command of heav'n.
EVE.
And is it thus you love me?
Ne'er be it true, ah never,
That I addreſs you as my heart, my life;
From you, alone, I'll wander;
Bath'd in my tears and ſighing,
And hating e'en myſelf,
I'll hide me from the ſun.
ADAM.
Dear Eve, my ſweeteſt love,
My ſpirit and my heart,
O haſte to dry thine eyes,
For mine are all theſe tears
That bathe thy cheek and ſtream upon thy boſom.
EVE.
Ah my unhappy ſtate,
I that ſo much have ſaid, ſo much have done
To elevate this man
Above the higheſt heav'n, and now ſo little
Can he or truſt or love me.
ADAM.
[315]
Ah do not grieve, my life;
Too much it wounds my ſoul
To ſee thee in affliction.
EVE.
I know your ſole deſire
Is to be witneſs to my ſighs and tears;
Hence to the winds and ſeas
I pay this bitter tribute.
ADAM.
Alas, my heart is ſplitting!
What can I do? When I look up to heav'n
I feel an icy tremor,
E'en thro' my bones, oppreſs me;
Anxious alone to guard the heav'nly precept,
If I ſurvey my partner,
I ſhare her tears and echo back her ſighs;
'Tis torture and diſtraction
To wound her with refuſal: my kind heart
Would teach my op'ning hand to ſeize the apple,
But in my doubtful breaſt
My ſpirit bids it cloſe:
Adam, thou wretch, how many
Various deſires beſiege thy trembling heart;
One prompts thee now to ſigh,
Another to rejoice, nor canſt thou know
Which ſhall incline thee moſt,
Or ſighs or joyous favour
From woman or from God.
EVE.
[317]
Yet he reflects and wiſhes
That Eve ſhould now forſake
Her hope of being happy
In elevating man,
E'en while I hold the fruit of exaltation.
ADAM.
Tho' mute yet eloquent
Are all your looks, my love;
Alas, whate'er you aſk
You 're certain to obtain,
And my heart grants before your tongue can ſpeak:
Eyes that to me are ſuns,
The heav'n of that ſweet face,
No more, no more obſcure,
Return, alas, return
To ſcatter radiance o'er that cloudy cheek:
Lift up, O lift thy brow
From that ſoft maſs of gold that curls around it,
Locks like the ſolar rays,
Chains to my heart, and lightning to my eyes,
O let thy lovely treſſes,
Now light and unconfined,
Sport in the air, and all thy face diſcloſe
That paradiſe that ſpeaks a heart divine.
I yield thee full obedience;
Thy prayers are all commands;
Dry, dry thy ſtreaming eyes, and on thy lips
Let tender ſmiles like harmleſs light'ning play.
EVE.
[319]
Ah miſbelieving Adam,
Be now a kind receiver
Of this delightful fruit;
Haſten, now haſten to extend thy hand
To preſs this banquet of beatitude.
ADAM.
O my moſt ſweet companion,
Behold thy ardent lover
Now baniſh from his heart
The whirlpool of affliction, turn'd to him
His deareſt guide, his radiant polar ſtar:
Shew me that lovely apple,
Which, 'midſt thy flow'rs and fruits,
Ingenious plunderer, thou hid'ſt from me.
EVE.
Adam, behold the apple:
What ſay'ſt thou? I have taſted, and yet live.
Ah, 'twill enſure our lives,
And make us equal to our God in heav'n;
But firſt the fruit entire
We muſt between us eat,
And when we have enjoyed it,
Then to a radiant throne, a throne of ſtars,
Exulting angels will direct our flight.
ADAM.
Give me the pilfer'd fruit,
Thou courteous pilferer,
[321]Give me the fruit that charms thee,
And let me yield to her,
Who, to make me a god, has toiled and wept.
Alas! what have I done!
How ſharp a thorn is piercing in my heart
With inſtantaneous anguiſh;
How am I overwhelm'd
In a vaſt flood of tears.
EVE.
Alas! what do I ſee?
Oh bitter knowledge, unexpected ſight!
All is prepared for human miſery.
ADAM.

O precious liberty, where art thou fled?

EVE.

O precious liberty! O dire enthralment!

ADAM.
Is this the fruit ſo ſweet,
The ſource of ſo much bitter?
Say, why would'ſt thou betray me?
Ah why of heav'n deprive me?
Why make me forfeit thus
My ſtate of innocence,
Where cheerful I enjoy a bliſsful life?
Why make me thus a ſlave
To the fierce arms of death,
Thou whom I deemed my life?
EVE.
[323]
I have been blind to good,
Quick ſighted but to evil,
An enemy to Adam,
A rebel to my God;
For daring to exalt me
To the high gates of heav'n,
I fall preſumptuous to the depths of hell.
ADAM.
Alas, what dart divine appears in heav'n,
Blazing with circling flame?
EVE.
What puniſhment,
Wretch that I am, hangs o'er me? Am I naked,
And ſpeaking ſtill to Adam?
ADAM.

Am I too naked? Shelter, hence.

EVE.

I fly.

Exeunt.

Appendix A.4 ANALYSIS OF THE DRAMA, ENTITLED, La Scena Tragica d' ADAMO ed EVA; DA TROILO LANCETTA BENACENSE.

[324]

Appendix A.4.1 ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE 1. GOD COMMEMORATES his creation of the heavens, the earth, and the water—determines to make man—gives him vital ſpirit, and admoniſhes him to revere his Maker, and live innocent.

SCENE 2. RAPHAEL, MICHAEL, GABRIEL, and ANGELS. Raphael praiſes the works of God—the other angels follow his example, particularly in regard to man.

SCENE 3. GOD and ADAM. God gives paradiſe to Adam to hold as a fief—forbids him to touch the apple—Adam promiſes obedience.

[325] SCENE 4. ADAM. Acknowledges the beneficence of God, and retires to repoſe in the ſhade.

End of the Firſt Act.

Appendix A.4.2 ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE 1. GOD and ADAM. GOD reſolves to form a companion for Adam, and does ſo while Adam is ſleeping—he then awakes Adam, and preſenting to him his new aſſociate, bleſſes them both; then leaves them, recommending obedience to his commands.

SCENE 2. ADAM and EVE. Adam receives Eve as his wife—praiſes her, and entreats her to join with him in revering and obeying God—ſhe promiſes ſubmiſſion to his will, and intreats his inſtruction— he tells her the prohibition, and enlarges on the beauties of Paradiſe—on his ſpeaking of flocks, ſhe deſires to ſee them, and he departs to ſhew her the various animals.

SCENE 3. LUCIFER, BELIAL, SATAN. Lucifer laments his expulſion from heaven, and meditates revenge againſt man—the other demons relate the cauſe of [326] their expulſion, and ſtimulate Lucifer to the revenge he meditates—he reſolves to employ the Serpent.

SCENE 4. The SERPENT, EVE, LUCIFER. The Serpent queſtions Eve—derides her fear and her obedience—tempts her to taſte the apple—ſhe expreſſes her eagerneſs to do ſo—the Serpent exults in the proſpect of her perdition—Lucifer (who ſeems to remain as a ſeparate perſon from the Serpent) expreſſes alſo his exultation, and ſteps aſide to liſten to a dialogue between Adam and Eve.

SCENE 5. EVE, ADAM. Eve declares her reſolution to taſte the apple, and preſent it to her huſband—ſhe taſtes it, and expreſſes unuſual hope and animation—ſhe ſays the Serpent has not deceived her— ſhe feels no ſig [...] of death, and preſents the fruit to her huſband—he reproves her—ſhe perſiſts in preſſing him to eat—he complies—declares the fruit ſweet, but begins to tremble at his own nakedneſs—he repents, and expreſſes his remorſe and terror—Eve propoſes to form a covering of leaves—they retire to hide themſelves in foliage.

End of the Second Act.

Appendix A.4.3 ACT THE THIRD.

[327]

SCENE 1. LUCIFER, BELIAL, SATAN. LUCIFER exults in his ſucceſs, and the other demons applaud him.

SCENE 2. RAPHAEL, MICHAEL, GABRIEL. Theſe good ſpirits lament the fall, and retire with awe on the appearance of God.

SCENE 3. GOD, EVE, ADAM. God calls on Adam—he appears and laments his nakedneſs —God interrogates him concerning the tree—he confeſſes his offence, and accuſes Eve—ſhe blames the Serpent—God pronounces his malediction, and ſends them from his preſence.

SCENE 4. RAPHAEL, EVE, and ADAM. Raphael bids them depart from Paradiſe—Adam laments his deſtiny—Raphael perſiſts in driving them rather harſhly from the garden—Adam begs that his innocent children may [328] not ſuffer for the fault of their mother—Raphael replies, that not only his children, but all his race, muſt ſuffer, and continues to drive them from the garden—Adam obeys—Eve laments, but ſoon comforts Adam—he at length departs, animating himſelf with the idea, that to an intrepid heart every region is a home.

SCENE 5 A CHERUB, Moralizing on the creation and fall of Adam, conclude the third and laſt act.

FINIS.
Notes
*
With what peculiar propriety Warburton applied this name to Milton, the reader will beſt judge, who recollects the humorous Butler's very admirable character of a time-ſerver, which contains the following paſſage: ‘He is very zealous to ſhew himſelf, upon all occaſions, a true member of the church for the time being, and has not the leaſt ſcruple in his conſcience againſt the doctrine and diſcipline of it, as it ſtands at preſent, or ſhall do hereafter, unſight unſeen; for he is reſolved to be always for the truth, which he believes is never ſo plainly demonſtrated as in that character that ſays 'it is great, and prevails;' and in that ſenſe only fit to be adhered to by a prudent man, who will never be kinder to truth than ſhe is to him; for ſuffering is a very evil effect, and not likely to proceed from a good cauſe. Butler's Remains, vol. ii. p. 220.
*
Londini ſum natus, genere honeſto, patre viro integerrimo, matre probatiſſimà, et eleemoſynis per viciniam potiſſimum no [...]a. Defenſio ſecund [...]
*

The father of Milton has been lately mentioned as an author.—He was thought to have publiſhed, in the year of the poet's birth, a little book, with the quaint title of "A Sixe Fold Politician."—Mr. Warton obſerved, that the curious publication aſcribed to Milton's father may be found in the Bodleian library; that "it appears to be a ſatire on characters pretending to wiſdom or policy, and is not void of learning and wit, ſuch as we often find affectedly and awkwardly blended in the eſſay-writers of that age."

By the favour of Mr. Iſaac Reed, who is moſt liberal in the communication of the literary rarities he has collected, I have peruſed this ſingular performance, and perfectly agree with its obliging poſſeſſor, and his accompliſhed friend, Dr. Farmer, that although in the records of the Stationers Company it is aſcribed to John Milton, we may rather aſſign it to John Melton, author of the Aſtrologaſter, than to the father of our poet.—The latter will loſe but little in being no longer regarded as its author, eſpecially as we have different and more honourable proofs of his attachment to literature.

*
Pater me puerulum humaniarum literarum ſtudiis deſtinavit; quas ita avide arripui, ut ab anno aetatis duodecimo vix unquam ante mediam noctem a lucubrationibus cubitum diſcederem; quae prima oculorum pernicies ſuit, quorum ad naturalem debilitatem acceſterant et crebri capitis dolores; quae omnia cum diſcendi impetum non retardarent, et in ludo literario, et ſub aliis domi magiſtris erudiendum quotidie curavit.
*

The high opinion, which Milton entertertained of his preceptor, is ſo gracefully expreſſed in one of theſe letters, that I ſelect it as a ſpecimen of his epiſtolary ſtyle in the early period of life.

Thomae Junio.

Inſpectis literis tuis (preceptor optime) unicum hoc mihi ſupervacaneum occurrebat, quod tardae ſcriptionis excuſationem attuleris; tametſi enim literis tuis nihil mihi queat optabilius accedere, qui poſſim tamen aut debeam ſperare otii tibi tantum à rebus ſeriis, et ſanctioribus eſſe, ut mihi ſemper reſpondere vacet; praeſertim cum illud humanitatis omnino fit, officii minime. Te vero oblitum eſſe mei ut ſuſpicer, tam multa tua de me recens merita nequaquam ſinunt. Neque enim video quorſum tantis onuſtum benefic [...]is ad oblivionem dimitteres. Rus tuum accerſitus, ſimul ac ver adoleverit, libenter adveniam, ad capeſſendas anni tuique non minus colloquii delicias, et ab urbano ſtrepitu ſubducam me pauliſper, ad ſtoam tuam Icenorum, tanquam ad celeberrimam illam Zenonis porticum aut Ciceronis Tuſculanum, ubi tu in re modica regio ſane animo veluti Serranus aliquis aut Curius in agello tuo placide regnas, deque ipſis divitiis, ambitione, pompa, luxurià, et quicquid vulgus hominum miratur et ſtupet, quaſi triumphum agis fortunae contemptor. Caeterum qui tarditatis culpam deprecatus es, hanc mihi viciſſim, ut ſpero, praecipitantiam indulgebis; cum enim epiſtolam hanc in extremum diſtuliſſem, malui pauca, eaque rudiuſcule ſcribere, quam nihil. —Vale vir obſervande.

Cantabrigia, Julii 21, 1628.

In peruſing your letters, my excellent preceptor, this only appeared to me ſuperfluous, that you apologize for a delay in writing; for although nothing can be more deſirable to me than your letters, yet what right have I to hope, that your ſerious and ſacred duties can allow you ſuch leiſure, that you can always find time enough to anſwer me, eſpecially when your writing is entirely an act of kindneſs, and by no means of duty. The many and recent favours I have received from you will by no means ſuffer me to ſuſpect that you can forget me; nor can I conceive it poſſible that, having loaded me with ſuch benefits, you ſhould now diſmiſs me from your remembrance. I ſhall willingly attend your ſummons to your rural retirement on the firſt appearance of ſpring, to enjoy with equal reliſh the delights of the ſeaſon and of your converſation. I ſhall withdraw myſelf for a little time from the buſtle of the city to your porch in Suffolk, as to the famous portico of the Stoic, or the Tuſculum of Cicero, where, ennobling a moderate eſtate by an imperial mind, you reign contentedly in your little field, like a Serranus or a Curius, and triumph, as it were, over opulence, ambition, pomp, luxury (and whatever is idolized by the herd of men) by looking down upon fortune: but as you excuſe yourſelf for delay, let me hope that you will forgive me for haſte, ſince, having deferred this letter to the laſt moment, I choſe to ſend a few lines, though not very accurately written, rather than to be ſilent. Farewell my revered friend.

*
De ſtudiis etiam noſtris ſies certior, Graecorum res continuatà lectione deduximus uſquequo illi Graeci eſſe ſunt deſiti: Italorum u [...] o [...]cura re diu verſati ſumus ſub Longobardis et Francis et Germanis ad illud tempus quo illis ab Rodolpho Germaniae rege conceſſa libertas eſt; exinde quid quaeque civitas ſuo marte geſterit, ſeparatim legere praeſtabit.
*
De caetero quidem quid me ſtatuerit Deus neſeio; illud certe, [...]: nec tanto Ceres labore, ut in fabulis eſt, liberam fertur quaeſiviſſe ſiliam, quanto ego hane [...] veluti puleherrimain quandam imaginem, per omnes rerum [...]ormas et facies; ( [...]) dies nocteſque indaga [...]e [...]oleo, et quaſi cortis quibuſdam veſt [...]gi [...]s ducentem ſector. Unde fit, ut qui, ſpr [...]tis, quae vulgus prav [...]i rerum aeſtimatione opinatur, id ſ [...]nti [...]e, et loqui et eſſe audet, qoud [...]umma per omne aevum ſapientia optimum eſſe docuit, [...]lli me protinus, ſicubi reperiam, neceſſitate quadam adjungam. Quod ſi ego five naturà, five me [...] ſato ita ſum comparatus, ut nullà contentione, et laboribus meis ad tale decus et faſtigium laudis ipſe valeam emergere, tamen quo minus qui eam gloriam aſſecuti ſunt, aut eo feliciter aſpirant, illos ſemper colam et ſuſpiciam, nec du puto nec homines prohibuerint —Multa ſolicite quae [...]is, etiam quid cogitem. Audi Theodate, verum in aurem ut ne rubeam, et ſinito pauliſper apud te grandia loquar: quid cogitem quae [...]is? Ita me bonus deus, immortalitatem quid agam vero? [...], et volare meditor: ſed tenellis admodum adhue pennis evehit ſe noſter Pegaſus: humi [...]e ſapiamus.
*
Dicam jam nunc ſerio quid cogitem, in hoſpitium juridicorum aliquod immigrare, ficubi amoena et umbroſa ambulatio eſt, quod et inter aliquot ſodales, commodior illic habitatio, ſi domi manere, et [...] quocunque libitum erit excutrere: ubi nunc ſum, ut noſti, obſcurè et anguſtè ſum.
*
Chriſtum patientem recudendum judico, ideoque velim aliquod ejus exemplum ad me mitti, ut errata typographica corrigam, quando ipſe nullum habeo. Adami Exulis poema juvenilius eſt quam ut auſim addere. Grotii Epiſt. 77.
Senex is, optime de univerſo meritus, morbo fractus, inſuper et animi aegritudine, haud multum nobis vitae ſuae promittit; quare prudentiae erit arripere tempus, dum tanto doctore uti licet. Grotii Epiſt. 964.
*
Neapolim perrexi: illic per eremitam quendam, quìcum Romà iter federam, ad Joannem Baptiſtam Manſum, Marchionem Villenſem, virum nobiliſſimum atque graviſſimum (ad quem Torquatus Taſſus, inſignis poeta Italus, de amicitia ſcripſit) ſum introductus; eodemque uſus, quamdiu illie fui, ſane amiciſſimo; qui et ipſe me per urbis loca et proregis aulam circumduxit, et viſendi gratià haud ſemel ipſe ad hoſpitium venit: diſcedenti ſeriò excuſavit ſe, tametſi multò plura detuliſſe mihi oſſicia maxime cupiebat, non potuiſſe illà in urbe, propterea quod nolebam in religione eſſe tectior.—Defenſio Secunda.
*
In Siciliam quoque et Graeciam trajicere volentem me, triſtis ex Anglia belli civilis nuntius revocavit; turpe enim exiſtimabam, dum mei cives domi de libertate dimicarent, ne animi cauſâ otioſe peregrinati. Romam autem reverſurum, monebant mercatores ſe didiciſſe per literas parari mihi ab jeſuitis Anglis inſidias, ſi Romam reverterem, eò quod de religione nimis liberè loquutus eſſem. Sic enim mecum ſtatueram, de religione quidem iis in locis ſermones ultro non inferre; interrogatus de fide, quicquid eſſem paſſurus, nihil diſſimulare. Romam itaque nihilominus redii: quid eſſem, ſi quis interrogabat, nemine celavi; ſi quis adoriebatur, in ipſa urbe pontificis, alteros prope duos menſes, orthodoxam religionem, ut antea, liberrimè tuebar: deoque ſic volente, incolumis Florentiam rurſus perveni; haud minus mei cupientes reviſens, ac ſi in patriam revertiſſem.—Deſenſio ſecunda.
*
Quae urbs, cum in mentem mihi hinc veniat Mori calumniatoris, ſacit ut deum hic rurſus teſtem invocem, me his omnibus in locis, ubi tam multa licent, ab omni flagitio ac probro integrum atque intactum vixiſſe, illud perpetuo cogitantem, ſi hominum latere oculos poſſem, dei certe non poſſe.
*
Ipſe, ſicubi poſſem, tam rebus turbatis & fluctuantibus, locum conſiſtendi circumſpiciens mihi libriſque meis, ſat amplam in urbe domum conduxi; ibi ad intermiſſa ſtudia beatulus me recepi; rerum exitu deo imprimis & quibus id muneris populus dabat, facilè permiſſo.
*
Quos non legum contemptus aut violatio in effraenatam licentiam effudit; non virtutis & gloriae falſa ſpecies, aut ſtulta veterum aemulatio inani nomine libertatis incendit, ſed innocentia vitae, morumque ſanctitas rectum atque ſolum iter ad libertatem veram docuit, legum et religionis juſtiſſima defenſio neceſſariò armavit. Atque illi quidem Deo perinde confiſi, ſervitutem honeſtiſſimis armis pepulere: cujus laudis etſi nullam partem mihi vendico, a reprehenſione tamen vel timiditatis vel ignaviae, ſi qua infertur, ſacile me tueor. Neque enim militiae labores & pericula ſie defugi, ut non alia ratione, & operam, multo utiliorem, nec minore cum periculo meis civibus navarim, & animum dubiis in rebus neque demiſſum unquam, neque ullius invidiae, vel etiam mortis plus aequo metuentem praeſtiterim. Nam cum ab adoleſcentulo humanioribus eſſem ſtudiis, ut qui maxime deditus, & ingenio ſemper quam corpore validior, poſthabità caſtrenſi operà, quâ me gregatius quilibet robuſtior ſacile ſuperaſſet, ad ea me contuli, quibus plus potui; ut parte mei meliore ac potiore, ſi ſaperem, non deteriore, ad rationes patriae, cauſamque hanc praeſtantiſſimam, quantum maxime poſſem momentum accederem.
*
Ut primum loquendi ſaltem caepta eſt libertas concedi, omnia in epiſcopos aperiri ora; alii de ipſorum vitiis, alii de ipſius ordinis vitio conqueri — Ad haec ſane experrectus, cum veram affectari viam ad libertatem cernerem, ab his initiis, his paſſibus, adliberandam ſervitute vitam omnem mortalium rectiſſime procedi, ſi ab religione diſciplina orta, ad mores & inſtituta reipublicae emanaret, cum etiam me ita ab adoleſcentia parâſſem, ut quid divini, quid humani eſſet juris, ante omnia poſſem non ignorare, meque conſuluiſſem ecquando ullius uſus eſſem futurus, ſi nunc patriae, immo vero eccleſiae totque fratribus evangelii cauſâ periculo ſeſe objicientibus deeſſem, ſtatui, etſi tunc alia quaedam meditabar, huc omne ingenium, omnes induſtriae vires transferre. Primum itaque de reformanda eccleſia Anglicana, duos ad amicum quendam libros conſcripſi; deinde, cum duo prae caeteris magni nominis epiſcopi ſuum jus contra miniſtros quoſdam primarios aſſerereat, ratus de iis rebus, quas amore ſolo veritatis, & ex officii chriſtiani ratione didiceram, haud pejus me dicturum quam qui de ſuo quaeſtu & injuſtiſſimo dominatu contendebant, ad hunc libris duobus, quorum unus De Epiſcopatu Praelatico, alter De Ratione Diſciplinae Eccleſiaſticae, inſcribitur, ad illum ſcriptis quibuſdam animadverſionibus, & mox Apologia reſpondi, et miniſtris facundiam hominis, ut ferebatur aegre ſuſtinentibus, ſuppetias tuli, & ab eo tempore, ſi quid poſtea reſponderent, interfui.
*
Cum itaque tres omnino animadverterem libertatis es [...] ſpecies, quae niſi ad [...]int, vita ulla tranſi [...] commodè vi [...] poſſit, eccleſiaſticam, dome [...]cam, [...]eu privatam, atque civilem, deque prima jam ſcripſiſſem, doque tertia magiſtratum ſedulo agere viderem, quae reliqua ſecunda erat, domeſ [...]cam n [...]l [...]i deſ [...]mp [...]i; ea quoque tripartita, cum videretar eſle, ſi res conjug [...]dis, ſi liberorum inſtitutio rectè ſe haber [...]t, ſi denique liberè philoſophandi poteſtas eſſet, de conjugio non ſolum rite contrahendo, verum etiam, ſi neceſle eſſet, diſſolvendo, qu [...]d ſent [...]rem explic [...]i; idque ex divin [...] l [...]e, quam Chriſtus non [...]u [...]ulit, nedum alium, tota l [...]ge Mo [...] [...] g [...]uorem [...]ivilite [...] [...]; quid nem de excepta ſolum ſo [...] ni [...]tion [...] ſ [...]ntiendum ſit, et meam aliorumque ſententum exprompſi, et clariſſimus vir Seldenus noſter, in Uxore Hebraea plus minùs biennio poſt edita, uberius demonſtravit. Fruſt [...]a enim libertatim in comitiis et foro crepat, qui domi ſervitutem viro indigniſſimam, inferiori etiam ſ [...]rvit; ea igitur de re aliquot libros edidi; eo praeſertim tempore cum vir ſ [...]pe et conjux hoſtes inter ſe acerrimi, hic domi cum liboris, illa in caſtris hoſtium ma [...] familias verſaretur, viro caedem atque pernici [...]m minitans.—Proſe Works, vol. 2. p. 385. ſolio Edit. London, 1738. vol. 2. p. 333.
*
‘Tum verò tandem, cùm preſbyteriani quidam miniſtri, Carolo priùs infelliſſimi, nunc independentium partes ſuis anteferri, et in ſenatu plus poſſe indignantes, parliamenti ſententiae de rege latae (non facto irati, ſed quod ipſorum factio non feciſſet) reclamitarent, et quantum in ipſis erat tumultuarentur, auſi affirmare proteſtantium doctrinam, omneſque eccleſias reſormatas ab ejuſmodi in reges atroci ſententia abhorrere, ratus falſitati tam apertae palàm cundem obviàm eſſe, ne tum quidem de Carolo quicquam ſcripſi aut ſuaſi, ſ [...]d quid in genere contra tyrannos liceret, adductis ha [...]d paucis ſummorum theologorum teſtimonus oſtendi; ét inſignem hominum m [...]lio [...]a profitentium, five ignorantiam five impudentiam propè concionabundus inceſſi. Lib [...] iſle non niſi poſt mortem regis produt, ad componendos potius hominum animos factus, quam ad ſtatuendum de Carolo quiequam, quod non mea, ſed magiſtratuum intererat, et p [...]r [...]a [...]um jam tum erat,—Proſe Works, vol. ii. p. 385.
*
‘Hanc intra privatos parietes meam operam nunc eccleſiae, nunc reipublicae, gratis dedi; mihi viciſſim vel haec vel illa praeter incolumitatem nihil; bonam certè conſcientiam, bonam apud bonos exiſtimationem, et honeſtam hanc dicendi libertatem facta ipſa reddidere: commoda alii, alii honores gratis ad ſe trahebant; me nemo ambientem, nemo per amicos quicquam petentem, curiae ſoribus affixum petitoris vultu aut minorum conventuum veſtibulis haerentem nemo me unquam vidit. Domi fere me continebam; meis ipſe facultatibus, tametſi hoc civili tumultu magna ex parte ſaepe detentis, et cenſum ſe [...] iniquius mihi impoſitum et vitam uteunnqu [...] frugi tolerabam. His rebus conſectis, cum jam abunde otii exiſtimarem mihi ſutu [...]um, ad hiſtoriam gentis ab ultima origine repetitam ad haec uſque temporum, ſi poſſem, perpetuo filo deducendam me converti: Quatuor jam libros abſolveram, cum ecce nihil tale cogitantem me Caroli regno in rempublicam redacto, concilium ſtatus quo dicitur cum primum authoritate parliamenti conſtitutum ad ſe vocat, meaque opera ad res praeſertim externas uti voluit.—Proſe Works, vol. ii. p. 386.
*
Attulerat ad legum ſcientiam ingenium ‘liberale, animum excelſum, mores integros ac nemini obnoxios; — nec triſtis, nec, ſeverus, ſed comis ac placidus. In conſiliis ac laboribus publicis maxime omnium indefeſſus, multiſque par unus; domi, ſi quis alius, pro ſuis facultatibus hoſpitalis at ſplendidus; amicus longe fideliſſimus, atque in omni fortuna certiſſimus; bene merentes quoſcunque nemo citius aut libentius agnoſcit, neque majore benevolentia proſequitur; nunc pios, nunc doctos, aut quamvis ingenii laude cognitos, nunc militares etiam et fortes viros ad inopiam redactos ſuis opibus ſublevat; iis, ſi non indigent, colit tamen libens atque amplectitur; alienas laudes perpetuo praedicare, ſuas tacere ſolitus. Quod ſi cauſa oppreſſi cujuſpiam defendenda palam, ſi gratia aut vis potentiorum oppugnanda, ſi in quemquam benemeritum ingratitudo publica objurganda ſit, tum quidem in illo viro, vel facundiam vel conſtantiam nemo deſideret, non patronum, non amicum, vel idoneum magis et intrepidum, vel diſertiorem alium quiſquam ſibi optet; habet, quem non minae dimovere recto, non metus aut munera propoſito bono atque officio, vultuſque ac mentis firmiſſimo ſtatu dejicere valeant.—Proſe Works, vol. ii. p. 389.
*
‘Unde ſie mecum reputabam, multos graviore malo minus bonum, morte gloriam, redemiſſe; mihi contra majus bonum minore cum malo proponi; ut poſſem cum caecitate ſola vel honeſtiſſimum oſſcii munus implere quod ut ipſa gloria per ſe eſt ſolidius, ita cuique optatius atque antiquius debet eſſe. Hac igitur tam brevi luminum uſurà quanta maxima quivi cum ulitate publica, quoad liceret, fruendum eſſe ſlatui. Videtis quid pr [...]etulerim, quid amiſerim, qua inductus ratione: deſinant ergo judiciorum Dei calumniatores maledicere, deque me ſomnia ſibi ſingere: ſie denique habento me ſortis meae neque pigere neque poenitere; immotum atque fixum in ſententià perſtare; Deum iratum neque ſentire, neque habere, immo maximis in [...] clementiam ejus et benignitatem erga me paternam experiri atque agnoſcere; in hoe p [...]aſertim, quòd ſolante ipſo atque animum confirmante in ejus divina voluntate acquieſeam; quid is largitus mihi ſit quam quid negaverit ſaepius cogitans; poſtremo nolle me cum ſuo quovis rectiſſime [...]cto, [...] mei conſcientiam permutare, aut recordationem ejus gratam mihi ſemper atque tranquillam deponere.—Proſe Works, vol. 2. p. 376.
*
Hoc etiam vere poſſium dicere, quo primùm tempore noſtra defenſio eſt edita, et legentium ſtudia incaluere, nullum vel principis yel civitatis legatum in urbe tum fuiſſe, qui non vel fortè obvio mihi gratuleretur, vel conventum apud ſe cuperet vel domi inviſeret.—Proſe Works vol. 2. p. 394.
*
Contentus quae honeſta factu ſunt, ea propter ſe ſolum appetiſſe, et gratis perſequi: id alii viderint tuque ſeito me illas "opimitates," atque "op [...]s," quas mihi exprobas, non attigiſſe neque eo nomine quo maxime [...]ccuſas obolo ſactum ditiorem,—Proſe Works, vol. ii. p. 378.
Quin et ſummi quoque in republica viri quandoquidem non otio torpentem me, ſed impigrum et ſumma diſcrimina pro libertate inter primos adcuntem oculi deſeruerunt, ipſi non deſerunt; verum humana qualia ſint ſecum reputantes, tanquam emerito favent, indulgent vacationem atque otium faciles concedunt; ſi quid publici muneris, non adimunt; ſi quid ex ea re commodi, non minuunt; et quamvis non aequè nunc utili praebendum nihilo minus benignè cenſent; eodem plane honore, ac ſi, ut olim Athenienſibus mos erat, in Prytanéo alendum decreviſſent.— Proſe Works, vol. ii. p. 376.
*
‘Te, Overtone, mihi multis ab hinc annis et ſtudiorum ſimilitudine, et morum ſuavitate, concord [...] pluſquam fraternâ conjunctiſſime.——Proſe Work, Vol. II. p. 400.
*
‘Cum enim Alexander ille magnus in terris ultimis bellum gerens, tantos ſe militiae labo [...]s pe [...]tuliſſe teſtatus ſit, [...]; quidni ergo mihi gratul [...]r, m [...]que o [...]nari quam maxime putem, ejus viri [...]dibus, in quo jam uno priſcorum Athenientium [...]tes, atque virtutes illar celebratiſſimae, [...]e [...]ſ [...]i tam longo intervallo, et reſloreſ [...]ere videntur. Quà ea urbe cum tot viri diſertillum prodie [...]int, eorum potillimum ſeriptis ab adoleſcentia pervolvendi [...], didiciſſe me libens faſ [...] quicquid ego literis profeci. Quod [...]i miin tanta vis dicendi accepta ab illis et quaſi transfuſ [...] ineſſet, ut e [...] [...]cit [...]s noſtros et claſſes ad lib [...]an [...]am ab Ottomanico tyranno Graeciam, eloquen [...]ae patriam, excitare poſſem; ad quod [...] noſtras opes pene implorare vider [...]s, fac [...]en protecto id quo nihil mihi antiquius aut [...] v [...]s p [...]s eſſet. Quid enim vel fortiſſimi o [...]m vi [...], vel eloquentiſſimi glorioſius aut ſe dign [...]us eſſe duxerunt, quam vel ſuadendo vel ſortiter ſaciendo [...]? Ve [...]um et aliud quiddam praeterea tentandum eſt, m [...]à quidem ſententia longe maximum, ut quis antiquam in animis Graecorum virtutem, induſtriam, laborum tolerantiam, antiqua illa ſtudia dicendo, ſuſcitare atque accendere poſſit. Hoc ſi quis effecerit, quod à nemine potius quam abs te, pro tua illa inſigni erga patriam pietate, cum ſumma prudentia reique militaris peritia, ſummo denique recuperandae libertatis priſtinae ſtudio conjunctâ, expectare debemus; neque ipſos ſibi Graecos neque ullam gentem Graecis defuturam eſſe confido. Vale.—Proſe Works, vol. 2. p. 575.
*
Sed neque ego caecis afflictis moerentibus imbecillis tam [...]l [...] v [...]s id miſerum ducitis aggregari me diſcrucior; quando quidem ſpes eſt, eo me preprius ad miſericordi [...]m ſummi patris atque tut [...]l [...]m pertine [...]e. Eſt quoddam per imbecillitatem p [...]ecunte apollolo ad ma [...]m [...]s vires ite [...]: ſim ego debiliſſimus; dummodo in mea debilitate immortalis ille et melior vigor eo ſe eſſicacius exerat; dummodo in meis ten [...]bris divini vultus lumen eo clarius eluc [...]at, tum enim inſumiſſimus ero ſimul et validiſſimus caecus eodem tempore et perſpicaciſſimus; hac poſſim ego infirmitate conſummari, hac perfici poſſim in hac obſcuritate ſic ego irradiari. Et ſanè haud ultima Dei cura caeci ſumus; qui nos quo minus quiequam aliud praeter ipſum cernere valemus, eo elementius atque benignius reſpicere dignatur.—Proſe Works, vol. 2. p. 376.
*
‘Quod ſi quis mitetur fortè cur ergò tam diu intactum et ovantem, noſtroque omnium ſilentio inflatum volitare paſſi ſumus de aliis ſane neſcio, de me audacter poſſum dicere, non mihi verba aut argumenta quibus cauſam tuer [...] tam bonam diu quaerenda aut inveſtiganda fuiſſe ſi otium et valetudinem (quae quidem ſcribendi laborem ferre poſſit) nact [...] eſſem. Quâ cum adhuc etiam tenui adm [...] dum utar carptim haec eogor et interciſis per ſingulis horis vix attingere, quae continer ſtylo atque ſtudio perſequi debuiſſem.—Pro Works, vol. 2. p. 278.
*
Reverere tantam de te expectationem, ſpem patriae de te unicam; reverere vultus et vulnera tot fortium virorum, quotquot, te duce, pro libertate tam ſtrenuè decertarunt; manes etiam eorum qui in ipſo certamine occubuerunt; reverere exterarum quoque civitatum exiſtimationem de nobis atque ſermones, quantas res de lebertate noſtra tam fortiter partà, de noſtra republica tam glorioſe exorta ſibi polliceantur; quae ſi tam citò quaſi aborta evanuerit, profecto nihil aequè dedecoroſum huic genit, atque pudendum fuerit; teipſum denique reverere, ut pro quâ adipiſcenda libertate tot aerumnas pertuliſti, tot pericula adiiſti, eam adeptus violatam per te, aut ulla in parte imminutam aliis ne finas eſſe. Profecto tu ipſe liber ſine nobis eſſe non potes, ſic enim natura comparatum eſt, ut qui aliorum libertatem occupat, ſulim ipſe primum omnium amittat; ſ [...]que primum omnium intelligat ſerviri; atque id quidem non injurià. At vero, ſi patronus ipſe libertatis, et quaſi tutelaris deus, ſi is, quo nemo juſtior, nemo ſanctior eſt habitus, nemo vir melior, quam vindicavit ipſe, eam poſtmodum invaſerit, id non ipſi tantum ſed univerſae virtutis ac pietatis rationi pernicioſum ac lethale prope modum ſit neceſſe eſt: ipſa honeſtas ipſa virtus decoxiſſe videbitur religionis auguſta fides, exiſtimatio perexigua in poſterum erit, quo gravius generi humano vulnus, poſt illud primum, infligi nullum poterit. Onus longè graviſſimum ſuſcepiſti, quod te penitus explorabit totum te atque intimum perſcrutabitur atque oſtendet, quid tibi animi, quid virium inſit, quid ponderis; vivatne in te verè ill [...] pietas, fides, ju [...]tia, animique moderatio, ob quas evectum te praecaeteris Dei numine ad hanc ſummam dignitatem credimus. Tres nationes validiſſ [...]mas conſilio regere, populos ab inſtitutis pravis ad meliorem, quam antehac, frugen ac diſciplinam velle perducere, remotiſſimas in partes, ſollicitam mentem, cogitationes immittere, vigilare, praevidere, nullum laborem recuſare, nulla voluptatum blandimenta non ſpernere, divitiarum atque potentiae oſtentationem fugure, haec ſunt illa ardua, prae quibus bellum ludus eſt; haec te ventilabunt atque excutient, haec virum poſcunt divino fultum auxilio, divino penè colloquio monitum atque edoctum. Quae tu, et plura, ſaepenumero quin tecum reputes atque animo revolvas, non dubito; uti et illud, quibis potiſſimum queas modis et illa maxima perficere et libertatem ſalvam nobis reddere et auctiorem.—Proſe Works, vol. 2. p. 399.
*
Ab hiſtoria noſtrorum motuum concinnanda, quod hortari videris, longe abſum; ſunt enim ſilentio digniores quam praeconio: nec nobis qui motuum hiſtoriam concinnare, ſed qui motus ipſos componere feliciter poſſit eſt opus; tecum enim ver [...]or ne libertatis ac religionis hoſtibus nunc nuper ſocietatis, nimis opportuni inter has noſtras civiles diſcordias vel potius inſanias, videamur; verum non illi gravius quam noſmetipſi jamdiu flagitiis noſtris religioni vulnus intulerint.—Proſe Works, vol. 2. p. 585.
*

Ornatiſſimo Viro Petro Heimbachio, Electoris Brandenburgici Conſiliario.

Si inter tot funera popularium meorum, anno tam gravi ac peſtilenti, abreptum me quoque, ut ſcribis, ex rumore praeſertim aliquo credidiſti, mirum non eſt; atque ille rumor apud veſtros, ut videtur, homines, ſi ex eo quod de ſalute men ſoliciti eſſent, increbuit, non diſplicet; indicium enim ſuae erga me benevolentiae fuiſſe exiſtimo. Sed Dei benignitate, qui tutum mihi receptum in agris paraverat, et vivo adhuc et valeo; utinam ne inutilis, quicquid muneris in hac vita reſtat mihi peragendum. Tibi vero tam longo intervallo veniſſe in mentem mei, pergratum eſt; quamquam prout rem verbis exornas, praebere aliquem ſuſpicionem videris, oblitum mei te potius eſſe, qui tot virtutum diverſarum conjugium in me, ut ſcribis, admirere. Ego certe ex tot conjugiis numeroſam nimis prolem expaveſcerem, niſi conſtaret in re arcta, rebuſque duris, virtutes ali maxime et vigere: tametſi earum una non ita belle charitatem hoſpitii mihi reddidit: quam enim politicam tu vocas, ego pietatem in patriam dictam abs te mallem, ea me pulchro nomine delinitum prope, ut ita dicam, expatriavit. Reliquarum tamen chorus clare concinit. Patria eſt, ubicunque eſt bene. Finem faciam, ſi hoc prius abs te impetravero, ut, ſi quid mendoſe deſcriptum aut non interpunctum repereris, id puero, qui haec excepit, Latine prorſus neſcienti velis imputare; cui ſingulas plane literulas annumerare non ſine miſeria dictans cogebar. Tua interim viri merita, quem ego adoleſcentem ſpei eximiae cognovi, ad tam honeſtum in principis gratia provexiſſe te locum, gaudeo, ceteraque fauſta omnia et cupio tibi, et ſpero vale.

Londini, Aug. 15, 1666.

*

The attractive merit of Alfred, and the affectionate zeal, with which Milton appears to have delineated his character, form a double motive for inſerting it in a note, as a ſpecimen of the great author's ſtyle in hiſtorical compoſition.

"After which troubleſome time Alfred enjoyning three years of peace, by him ſpent, as his manner was, not idly or voluptuouſly, but in all virtuous employments both of mind and body, becoming a prince of his renown, ended his days in the year nine hund [...]ed, the fifty-firſt of his age, the thirtieth of his reign, and was buried regally at Wincheſter: he was born at a place called Wanading, in Berkſhire, his mother Oſburga, the daughter of Oſlac the king's cup-bearer, a Goth by nation, and of noble deſcent. He was of perſon comelier than all his brethren, of pleaſing tongue, and graceful behaviour, ready wit and memory; yet, through the fondneſs of his parents towards him, had not been taught to read till the twelfth year of his age; but the great deſire of learning which was in him ſoon appeared, by his conning of Saxon poems day and night, which, with great attention, he heard by others repeated. He was beſides excellent at hunting, and the new art then of hawking, but more exemplary in devotion, having collected into a book certain prayers and pſalms, which he carried ever with him in his boſom to uſe on all occaſions. He thirſted after all liberal knowledge, and oft complained, that in his youth he had no teachers, in his middle age ſo little vacancy from wars and the cares of his kingdom; yet leiſure he found ſometimes, not only to learn much himſelf, but to communicate thereof what he could to his people, by tranſlating books out of Latin into Engliſh, Oroſius, Boethius, Beda's hiſtory, and others; permitted none unlearned to bear office, either in court or commonwealth. At twenty years of age, not yet reigning, he took to wiſe Eg [...]lſwitha, the daughter of Ethelred, a Mercian earl. The extremities which beſel him in the ſixth of his reign, Neothan Abbot told him were juſtly come upon him for neglecting, in his younger days, the complaint of ſuch as, injured and oppreſſed, repaired to him, as then ſecond perſon in the kingdom, for redreſs; which neglect, were it ſuch indeed, were yet excuſable in a youth, through jollity of mind, unwilling perhaps to be detained long with ſad and ſorrowful narrations; but from the time of his undertaking regal charge no man more patient in hearing cauſes, more inquiſitive in examining, more exact in doing juſtice, and providing good laws, which are yet extant; more ſevere in puniſhing unjuſt judges or obſtinate offenders, thieves eſpecially and robbers, to the terror of whom in croſs-ways were hung upon a high poſt certain chains of gold, as it were daring any one to take them thence; ſo that juſtice ſeemed in his days not to flouriſh only, but to triumph: no man can be more frugal of two precious things in man's life, his time and his revenue; no man wiſer in the diſpoſal of both. His time, the day and night, he diſtributed by the burning of certain tapers into three equal portions; the one was for devotion, the other for public or private affairs, the third for bodily refreſhment; how each hour paſt he was put in mind by one who had that office. His whole annual revenue, which his firſt care was ſhould be juſtly his own, he divided into two equal parts; the firſt he employed to ſecular uſes, and ſubdivided thoſe into three; the firſt to pay his ſoldiers, houſehold ſervants, and guards, of which, divided into three bands, one attended monthly by turn; the ſecond was to pay his architects and workmen, whom he had got together of ſeveral nations, for he was alſo an elegant builder, above the cuſtom and conceit of Engliſhmen in thoſe days; the third he had in readineſs to relieve or honour ſtrangers, according to their worth, who came from all parts to ſee him, and to live under him. The other equal part of his yearly [...] dedicated to religious uſes; [...] of [...]our ſorts; the firſt to relieve the poo [...], the ſ [...]cond to the building and maintenance of two monaſteries, the third of a ſchool, where he had perſuaded many noblemen to ſtudy ſacred knowledge and liberal arts, ſome ſhy at Oxford; the fourth was for the relief of foreign churches, as far as India to the ſhrine of St. Thomas, ſending thither Sigal [...] biſhop of Sherburn, who both retained ſaf [...] and brought with him many rich gems and ſpices; gifts alſo, and a letter, he received from the patriarch at Jeruſalem; ſent many to Rome, and from them received reliques. [...] has [...]a [...], and much m [...]r [...], might be ſaid of his noblemen mind, which rend [...] ed him the minor of [...]. His body w [...]s diſe [...]ed in his youth with a great for [...]neſs in the ſeige, and that ceaſing of itſelf, with another inward pain of unknown c [...]uſ [...], which held him by frequent ſits to his dying day; yet not d [...]ſenabled to ſuſtain thoſe many glorious, labours of his life both in peace and war.— Proſe Works, Vol. II. p. 97.

*
Veniamus nunc ad mea crimina; eſtne quod in vita aut moribus reprehendat? Certe nihil. Quid ergo? Quod nemo niſi immanis ac barbarus feciſſet, formam mihi ac caecitatem objectat. ‘Monſtrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum.’ Nunquam exiſtimabam quidem ſore, ut de forma, cum Cyclope certamen mihi eſſet; verum ſtatim ſe revocat. "Quanquam nec ingens, quo nihil eſt exilius exſanguius contractius." Tametſi virum nihil attinet de forma dicere, tandem quando lue quoque eſt unde gratias Deo agam et mendaces redarguam ne quis (quod Hiſpanorum vulgus de hereticis, quos vocant, plus nimio ſacerdotibus ſuis eredulum opinatur) me forte cynocephalum quempiam aut rhinocerota eſſe putet, dicam. Deformis quidem a nemine quod ſciam, qui modo me vidit ſum unquam habitus; formoſus neene minus laboro; ſtatura fat [...]or non ſum procera; ſed quae mediocri tamen quam parvae proprior ſit; ſed quid ſi parva, qua et ſummi ſaepe tum pace tum bello viri fuere, quanquam parva cur dicitur, quae ad virtutem ſatis magna eſt? Sed neque exilis admodum eo ſane animo iiſque viribus ut cum aetas vitaeque ratio ſic ferebat, nec ferrum tractare, nec ſtringere quotidiano uſu exercitatus neſcirem; eo accinctus ut plerumque eram cuivis vel multo robuſtiori exaequatum me putabam, ſecurus quid mihi quis injuriae vir viro inferre poſſet. Idem hodie animus, eaedem vires, oculi non iidem; ita tamen extrinſecus illaeſi, ita ſine nube clari ac lucidi, ut eorum qui acutiſſimum cernunt; in hac ſolum parte, memet invito, ſimulator ſum. In vultu quo ‘nihil exſanguius’ eſſe dixit, is manet etiamnum color exſangui et pallenti planè contrarius, ut quadragenario major vix ſit cui non denis prope annis videar natu minor; neque corpore contracto neque cute. In his ego ſi ulla ex parte mentior multis millibus popularium meorum qui de facie me norunt, exteris etiam non paucis, ridiculus merito ſim: ſin iſte in re minimè neceſſariâ tam impudenter gratuito mendax comperietur poteritis de reliquo eandem conjecturam facere. Atque haec de forma mea vel coactus.
Nam et mihi omnium neceſſitudinum loco fuit.
*
In the quarto edition of Boyle there are a few letters from his favourite ſiſter, Lady Ranelagh; one very intereſting, in which ſhe ſpeaks of the poet Waller; but ſhe does not mention the name of Milton in the whole collection. Her ſon (the firſt and laſt Earl of Ranelagh) who was in his childhood a diſciple of the great poet, proved a man of talents, buſineſs, and pleaſure.
De Salluſtio quod ſcribis, dicam libere; quoniam ita vis-plane ut dicam quod ſentio, Salluſtium cuivis Latino hiſtorico me quidem anteferre; quae etiam conſtans fere antiquorum ſententia fuit. Habet ſuas laudes tuus Tacitus, ſed eas meo quidem judicio maximas, quod Salluſtium nervis omnibus ſit imitatus. Cum haec tecum coram diſſererem perfeciſſe videor quantum ex eo quod ſcribis conjicio, ut de illo cordatiſſimo ſcriptore ipſe jam idem prope ſentias: adeòque ex me quaeris, cum is in exordio belli Catilinarii perdiſſicile eſſe dixerit hiſtoriam ſcribere, propterea quod facta dictis exaequanda ſunt qua potiſſimum ratione id aſſequi hiſtoriarum ſcriptorem poſſe exiſtimem. Ego vero ſic exiſtimo; qui geſtas res dignas digne ſcripſerit, eum animo non minus magno rerumque uſu praeditum ſcribere oportere quam is qui eas geſſerit: ut vel maximas pari animo comprehendere atque metiri poſſit, et comprehenſas ſermone puro atque caſto diſtincte gravitèrque narrare: nam ut ornate non admodum laboro; hiſtoricum enim, non oratorem requiro. Crebras etiam ſententias, et judicia de rebus geſtis interjecta prolixe nollem, ne, interrupta rerum ſerie, quod politici ſcriptoris munus eſt hiſtoricus invadat; qui ſi in conſiliis explicandis, factiſque enarrandis, non ſuum ingenium aut conjecturam, ſed veritatem potiſſimum ſequitur, ſuarum profecto partium fatagit. Addiderim et illud Salluſtianum, qua in re ipſe Catonem maxime laudavit, poſſe multa paucis abſolvere; id quod ſine acerrimo judicio, atque etiam temperantià quàdam neminem poſſe arbitror. Sunt multi in quibus vel ſermonis elegantiam vel congeſtarum rerum copiam non deſid [...]res, qui brevitatem cum copia conjunxerit, id eſt, qui multa paucis abſolverit, princeps meo judicio eſt Salluſtius.—Proſe Works, vol. 2. p. 582.
*
Taſſo begins this intereſting diſcourſe, by informing his kinſman Ercole, that he firſt heard the news of his having taken a wife, and then was ſurpriſed by reading a compoſition of his, in which he inveighs not only againſt the ladies, but againſt matrimony. The poet, with great politeneſs and ſpirit, aſſumes the defence of both, and in the cloſe of a learned and eloquent panegyric, indulges his heart and fancy in a very animated and beautiful addreſs to wedded love, which Milton has copied with his uſual dignity and ſweetneſs of expreſſion.
*

For the benefit of commentators on our divine bard, let me here inſert a brief liſt of ſuch Italian compoſitions, as my poſſibly have afforded him ſome uſeful hints:

1. Adamo Caduto, tragedia ſacra, di Serafino della Salandra. Cozenza, 1647. Octavo.

2. La Battaglia Celeſte tra Michele e Lucifero, di Antonio Alſani, Palermitano. Palermo, 1568. Quarto.

3. Dell Adamo di Giovanni Soranzo, i due primi libri. Genova 1604. Duodecimo.

Theſe little known productions on the ſubject of Milton are not to be found in the royal library, nor in the princely collection of Lord Spencer, who poſſeſſes that remarkable rarity of Italian literature, the Theſeida of Bocèacio; and whoſe liberal paſſion for books is ennobled by his politeneſs and beneficence to men of letters.

The poets of Italy were certainly favourites with Milton; and perhaps his Sampſon Agoniſtes was ſounded on a ſacred drama of that country, La Rappreſentatione di Sanſone, per Aleſſandro Roſelli. Siena, 1616. Quarto.— There is probably conſiderable poetical merit in this piece, as I find two ſubſequent edition [...] of it recorded in the hiſtorians of Italian literature; yet I am unable to ſay whether Milton is indebted to it or not, as I have never been ſo fortunate as to find a copy of Roſelli's compoſition. Yet the mention of it here may be uſeful to future editors of the Engliſh poet.

*
The learned, ingenious, enthuſiaſtic Winckelman has advanced, in his moſt celebrated work, a very different opinion; but the ardour with which this extraordinary man had ſtudied and idolized the antients, rendered him deplorably preſumptuous and precipitate in ſeveral of his ideas relating to modern genius, and particularly in what he has aſſerted of Milton. Some paſſionate admirers of antiquity ſeem to lament the fall of paganiſm, as fatal to poetry, to painting, and to ſculpture; but a more liberal and enlightened ſpirit of criticiſm may rather believe, what it is very poſſible, I apprehend, to demonſtrate, that chriſtianity can hardly be more favourable to the purity of morals, than it might be rendered to the perfection of theſe delightful arts. Milton himſelf may be regarded is an obvious and complete proof that the poſition is true as far as poetry is concerned. In what degrees the influence of the Chriſtian religion can affect the other two, it may be pleaſing, and perhaps uſeful, to conſider in ſome future compoſition devoted to their advancement.
Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Citation Suggestion for this Object
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5013 The life of Milton in three parts To which are added Conjectures on the origin of Paradise lost with an appendix By William Hayley Esq. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-6030-1