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 Studies in Milton and an essay on poetry 
 
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STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 AND 
 
 AN ESSAY ON POETRY 
 
MILTON 
 
 From the bust in chay at 
 Christ's Coffege. Cambridge 
 
 ENGRAVED BY TIMOTHY COLE. r N.A 
 
STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 AND 
 
 AN ESSAY ON POETRY 
 
 BY 
 
 ALDEN SAMPSON, A. M. 
 
 HAVERFORD COLLEGE AND HARVARD UNIVERSITY 
 
 MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN 
 
 PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY 
 
 OF PHILADELPHIA 
 
 LONDON 
 
 JOHN MURRAY 
 
 ALBEMARLE STREET 
 1914 
 Ev. 
 
A.*.°ioy^ t 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED . STATES 
 
 Copyright, 1913. by 
 Alden Sampson 
 
The author wishes to express his very sincere thanks to the 
 authorities of Christ's College, Cambridge, who have kindly per- 
 mitted him to reproduce the famous and most interesting portrait 
 which serves as the frontispiece to this volume. 
 
IN 
 REVERENCE AND AFFECTION 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 PROFESSOR FRANCIS JAMES CHILD 
 
 OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 Engraved on wood by Timothy Cole, N. A., from the bust in 
 clay, at the Master's Lodge, Christ's College, Cambridge, 
 England. 
 
 From Lycidas to Paradise Lost i 
 
 Milton's Confession of Faith 165 
 
 Certain Aspects of the Poetic Genius . . . 241 
 
 Appendix I : The Bust of Milton . . . 307 
 
 Appendix II : Sir Henry Vane and 
 
 Harvard College 310 
 
STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 AND 
 
 AN ESSAY ON POETRY 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO 
 PARADISE LOST 
 
 The years of Milton's poetic career fall naturally 
 into three groups : First the glorious decade of 
 his youth, spent at Cambridge and Horton, dur- 
 ing which were produced the poems that may be called 
 those of promise, as full of delight as the promise of the 
 morn, beginning with the Ode on the Morning of Christ's 
 Nativity, and ending with Lycidas. Following this came 
 the twenty years of the middle period, from which 
 sprang the impassioned cantos of his prose, a time of 
 enormous importance to the poet as one of intellectual 
 equipment and gestation, but which at the time was 
 almost barren of poetic result in the form of verse. 
 After this came another decade, or a little more, of mag- 
 nificent achievement, the fruition of that aspiring pur- 
 pose which is plainly seen throughout his whole career. 
 During the twenty years of the middle period Milton 
 wrote no verse except a little sheaf of sonnets in Eng- 
 lish and Italian. These may well be separated and a 
 part of them disregarded in a serious study of his poetry, 
 
4 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 since certain of their number are but the hasty record of 
 transitory moods, so unpoetic sometimes as that of 
 anger or resentment, and are hardly more to the student 
 than literary curiosities. Among the sonnets, however, 
 are those which are of vital importance to any correct 
 understanding of the poet's nature, intimate confessions 
 which spring from the very fountain sources of sin- 
 cerity. 
 
 If Wordsworth could say of the sonnet form : "With 
 this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart,"— with equal 
 fitness may it be affirmed of the Puritan poet. Through 
 this medium more than once has he revealed vital traits 
 of temperament, which we are fortunate indeed to dis- 
 cern. In the sonnets is found the record of his affec- 
 tions ; if his loves were discreet, at least were they vital 
 to his happiness, the very nourishment of his soul. The 
 sonnets register as well the pleasant relations which 
 existed between him and the younger men who were 
 always attracted to him, they record his appreciation of 
 several of the leaders of the Parliamentary cause, and 
 they show his connection with public affairs of impor- 
 tance both at home and abroad. 
 
 In the verses To the Nightingale, usually called the 
 First Sonnet, and composed in the same year as the lines 
 On Shakespeare, when Milton was twenty-two years of 
 age, the poet followed the accepted models of the time, 
 and wrote in the vein of Spenser's Amoretti, and of the 
 Italian sonnets, with which he was familiar : 
 
 O Nightingale that on yon bloomy spray 
 Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, 
 Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, 
 While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 5 
 
 Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, 
 First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, 
 Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will 
 Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, 
 
 Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
 Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh ; 
 As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
 
 For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. 
 Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, 
 Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 
 
 The poet's slighting reference to the "shallow cuckoo" is 
 in striking contrast, and perfectly in dramatic keeping, 
 with his enthusiastic and oft-repeated praise of the 
 nightingale. The epithet "shallow" is used more than 
 once by him to express contempt. Emerson has re- 
 corded in his journal that his clever aunt, toward whom 
 he was under such infinite obligation, once in a mood 
 of expansiveness said to him, "I hate a fool"; and, as 
 nearly as the mild and placid nature of Emerson was ca- 
 pable of harbouring hatred at all, it was exactly this 
 sort of person that most severely tried his patience. Mil- 
 ton took no pains to conceal his contempt for the same 
 individual; he could, and did, hate a fool with all his 
 might. In Paradise Regained Christ speaks of one — 
 
 "Deep-versed in books and shallow in himself." 
 
 (P. R., IV., 327.) 
 
 To be shallow, with this man, was to be without the 
 pale; here he could tolerate no compromise, it implied a 
 lack of sincerity ; to be wanting in that was to be a candi- 
 date for the nethermost pit, and the poet was never one 
 wantonly to deprive the regions thereabout of any part 
 or parcel of their Heaven-appointed host. 
 
6 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Mark Pattison has commented upon Milton's "bloomy 
 spray," reminding us that the flush of colour in the tender 
 branches is apparent at the time when the nightingale 
 first comes in April, before the bursting of the buds, 
 when the circulation of the sap beneath brings a purple 
 glow to the surface of the bark; and he aptly quotes 
 from Arnold's Thy r sis: 
 
 Leafless, yet soft as spring, 
 The tender purple spray on copse and briar. 
 
 The exquisite bloom which this casts over the naked 
 woods seen as a whole, and at a little distance, is as ador- 
 able as the blushing of the morn ; the time is the morn- 
 ing of the year, a season ever dear to the awakened 
 sensibilities of the poet. He is correct in placing the 
 arrival of the nightingale and cuckoo before the leaves 
 are out, but except for these slight touches of exact 
 observation, the sonnet reveals little more of poetic 
 sensibility or exercise of poetic art than a certain facility 
 after Italian models. 
 
 In all that made appeal to the ear Milton had a sure 
 and unfailing instinct of appreciation and delight but in 
 his observation of the external universe he was in no 
 sense a naturalist, as Gray, and Cowper, and Words- 
 worth, and Tennyson perhaps, and Shakespeare, may be 
 said to have been naturalists,— in their poems garnering 
 with delight "the harvest of a quiet eye." Milton loved 
 scenery in its broad effects, and had all of the poet's sen- 
 sitiveness to the various moods of nature, and to the 
 subtle variants of morning and of evening, and of night ; 
 one has but to recall the "opening eyelids of the morn" 
 and a thousand similar expressions to be sure of that, 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 7 
 
 but he did not excel in the observation of nice details of 
 natural objects. When he speaks of the nightingale it 
 is the passion of the musician and not in the most remote 
 degree that of the ornithologist that is aroused. In con- 
 trast with the shallow song of the cuckoo, his reverence 
 for the deep, soul-satisfying quality of the nightingale's 
 song is most evident. His tributes to this bird are genu- 
 ine and oft repeated, as where, in 77 Penseroso, he bids 
 Contemplation to summon Silence, her devoted and 
 Heaven-appointed companion,— 
 
 'Less Philomel will deign a song, 
 In her sweetest, saddest plight, 
 Smoothing the rugged brow of night ; 
 
 a charm lying in the very sadness of her melody to dispel 
 care and bring a pensive smile of reverie and delight. 
 The joys of Eden would lack one of their most entranc- 
 ing accompaniments were the wakeful nightingale to 
 withhold her song, — 
 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung ; 
 Silence was pleased. 
 
 (P. L, IV., 603-4.) 
 
 That Silence here again should welcome a voice, how- 
 ever sweet, required no slight degree of magnanimity 
 upon her part, since it is evident that the advent of any 
 sound, be it ever so agreeable, would not merely divide 
 her reign, but quite despoil her of it altogether. 
 
 Milton several times plays with the same theme. One 
 recalls the delightful passage where in Eden the gentle 
 Raphael, the "heavenly guest," has been describing the 
 miracle of the creation, and the hymn of praise sung 
 afterwards by the angelic host : 
 
8 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear 
 So charming left his voice that he awhile 
 Thought him still speaking, still stood fixed to hear ; 
 Then as new-waked, thus gratefully replied. 
 
 (P. L„ VIII, 1-4.) 
 
 Adam's love-song to his new-found bride borrows elo- 
 quence from reference to the nightingale, — he seems 
 almost to make that bird plead his own passion, and his 
 appeal to his beloved is so contrived in subtlety that it 
 suggests to our ears the actual song of the bird. The 
 arrangement of flute-like vowels in this passage is one 
 of the fine achievements of suggestive description, an 
 imitation of that sound which is associated with the 
 thing described. The verses are a sort of echo of the 
 very notes to which they refer : 
 
 "Why sleep'st thou, Eve ? now is the pleasant time, 
 The cool, the silent, save where silence yields 
 To the night-warbling bird, that now awake 
 Tunes sweetest his love-laboured song." 
 
 (P. L, V., 38-41-) 
 
 To suggest the word "onomatopoeia" in reference to 
 these verses, would be almost as bad as incontinently to 
 throw a stone at the bird whom they describe. Later, in 
 giving an account to the Archangel Michael of these 
 radiant hours of his new awakened life and love, he 
 again pays tribute to the enthralling magic of this song: 
 
 "To the nuptial bower 
 I led her blushing like the Morn ; all Heaven 
 And happy constellations, on that hour 
 Shed their selectest influence ; the Earth 
 Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill ; 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 9 
 
 Joyous the birds ; fresh gales and gentle airs 
 Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings 
 Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub, 
 Disporting, till the amorous bird of night 
 Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening-star 
 On his hill-top to light the bridal lamp." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 510-20.) 
 
 In characteristic mood he delights in the note of sad- 
 ness,— a sort of pensive gravity being that colour of his 
 mind which shows all the more plainly when warmed by 
 the emotions into a mood of delight : 
 
 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 
 Most musical, most melancholy ! 
 Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 
 I woo, to hear thy even-song. 
 
 (II Pen., 61-64.) 
 
 He might well have had in mind our own hermit- 
 thrush, in its secret bower of aloofness, when he com- 
 posed the following lines, so cool does the cadence of 
 the song seem to penetrate the gloom, as if it came from 
 the haunt of the bird, hidden in the remotest heart of 
 some New England grove : 
 
 The wakeful bird 
 Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid 
 Tunes his nocturnal note. 
 
 (P. L., III., 38-40.) 
 
 How caressingly the vowels fall upon the ear ! 
 
 The hermit-thrush of New England and the elusive 
 genius of Hawthorne may not inappropriately be asso- 
 ciated in recollection. The author of The Scarlet Letter 
 and The House of the Seven Gables has confided to us 
 
10 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 that his literary activities seemed to be aroused only in 
 moods of happiness, and that then, by what might seem 
 a strange contradiction of his nature, the creations of 
 his genius in spite of all that he could do were to a 
 greater or less degree tinged with sadness. Milton 
 could have sympathized with this trait,— one perhaps 
 inherent to the Puritan temperament that loved not 
 the garish light ; the summer sky was none the less pleas- 
 ing that clouds hung about the mountain tops or veiled 
 the brightness of the sun. Others may recall a some- 
 what similar experience, the clairvoyance that comes in 
 time of sorrow, as if then were opened the fountains of 
 deepest recollection. The lady's call for help in Comus 
 has the same colour of sadness and delight : 
 
 Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen 
 Within thy airy shell 
 
 By slow Meander's margent green, 
 And in the violet-embroidered vale 
 
 Where the love-lorn nightingale 
 Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well. 
 
 The verses are poured forth in "full-throated ease," as if 
 it were the song of the bird itself to which we were lis- 
 tening. 
 
 The poet never reveals a more convincing mood of 
 sincerity than when he lauds the heavenly traits of 
 "divinest melancholy" : 
 
 Pensive nun, devout and pure, 
 Sober, steadfast and demure, 
 
 SJC 5p Sp J(C 
 
 Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
 With even step, and musing gait, 
 And looks commercing with the skies, 
 Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes. 
 
 (II Pen, 31-8.) 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST n 
 
 Elsewhere he makes Raphael refer to the "solemn night- 
 ingale,"* and earlier in the same poem he speaks of— 
 
 [The] silent night, 
 With this her solemn bird. 
 
 (P. L, IV., 648-9.) 
 
 The word "solemn" has become so tainted to our ears 
 by puritanical associations that it is bedeviled out of its 
 original estate of serene dignity and charm; in Milton's 
 verse it had not yet acquired this quality of opprobrium. 
 For instance, in Lycidas it seemed natural to the poet 
 to group together, as part of the celestial host, both 
 "solemn troops and sweet societies." 
 
 We have the poet's assurance that his own "unpre- 
 meditated verse," when he was in the vein of composi- 
 tion, came into his mind without effort on his part, in- 
 stinctive and exuberant, like the flowing of clear waters 
 in a spring, the sequel of thoughts that "voluntary move 
 harmonious numbers." Yet the way for this facility of 
 utterance and spontaneous expression was carefully pre- 
 pared beforehand by select reading and by meditation; 
 so he created the mood which was to result in such 
 abundant outpouring of the poetic spirit. 
 
 The heavenly Muse came to him at night or in the 
 delicious freshness of the early morn. His life is not 
 spent in a blind man's solitude, he assures us, while the 
 voice divine visitst his slumbers,— 
 
 Or when morn 
 Purples the east. 
 
 (P. L., VII., 29-30.) 
 
 Then all his powers were alert and vigourous. 
 
 * P. L., VII, 435- 
 
12 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Aubrey informs us that in summer the poet rose at 
 four o'clock, and began the day by having the Bible read 
 to him in Hebrew; "then," his biographer informs us, 
 "he contemplated." Having conversed with God, he took 
 the time to commune with his own soul, and from this 
 arose refreshed and with his powers concentrated and in 
 the vein for poetic creation. The morning was spent in 
 reading, — of course by means of the eyes of others, — 
 and in dictation, some one always being at hand to 
 take down that which fell from his lips. In the pathetic 
 opening to the Third Book of Paradise Lost, where the 
 poet makes reference to his own blindness, he tells us 
 that in spite of his infirmity he wanders nightly in imagi- 
 nation where the Muses haunt, and through the scenes 
 made sacred by the footsteps of Christ,— by "Sion's 
 hill" and "Siloa's brook,"- 
 
 Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move 
 Harmonious numbers. 
 
 (P. L„ III., 37-8.) 
 
 What I would wish particularly to call attention to in 
 this passage is the use of the word "voluntary,"— the 
 confession on the poet's part that he deliberately occu- 
 pies his mind with thoughts which arouse his creative 
 energies, just as the nightingale in order to rally his 
 powers seems first to practise a few notes before burst- 
 ing into song.* 
 
 In Paradise Regained the poet's meditations revert to 
 the nightingale that sang in Plato's Academe, a spot 
 
 * I remember that an Oxford don once said to me that he was struck 
 by this characteristic and that, moreover, what always impressed him par- 
 ticularly in the song of the nightingale was its quality of distinction ; "as . 
 if he had studied under the best masters." 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 13 
 
 dear in associations, and one quick to arouse memories of 
 delight, although his own footsteps had never literally 
 followed those of his master, Plato. * He seems to have 
 heard echoing in his mind the song of the bird itself 
 when he composed the marvellous verse which so happily 
 suggests the very notes that strike the ear as we listen to 
 its rhapsody. It is to be observed that Milton in his re- 
 treat at Horton was in the very centre of the nightingale 
 country, the southeastern corner of Buckinghamshire. 
 He has told us that his poetry sprang into his mind as he 
 lay awake at night ; then, he says, the verses came with- 
 out effort, "with a certain impetus and oestro," thanks to 
 
 My celestial patroness, who deigns 
 Her nightly visitations unimplored 
 And dictates to me slumbering, or inspires 
 Easy my unpremeditated verse. 
 
 (P. L., IX., 21-4.) 
 
 And he may well have been listening to the throbbing 
 ecstasy of the nightingale when the verses formed them- 
 selves in delightful harmony which refer to 
 
 The olive-grove of Academe, 
 Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird 
 Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long. 
 
 (P. R., IV., 244-6.) 
 
 The thin and flute-like quality of the word "trills" con- 
 trasts admirably with the gurgling and "jug-jug"-like 
 sound suggested in "thick- warbling." f Moreover, 
 
 * It had been Milton's intention, when in Italy, to visit Greece, but he had 
 felt constrained to cut short his foreign tour, to our deep and lasting 
 deprivation. 
 
 t Those who are familiar with the song will, I think, recall the quality of 
 the notes to which reference is made. 
 
14 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "notes" and "long" maintain the clear and sonorous 
 quality of the verse. 
 
 The literal and exacting naturalist would give to the 
 male bird sole credit for the nightingale's song, but evi- 
 dently it seemed to the poet a trait of more complete 
 seduction that this soul-satisfying torrent should pour 
 from female throat; besides, in this he was but follow- 
 ing conventional usage, both that of England and of 
 Italy. Soon was his own ear rapturously to respond to 
 the divine ravishment of Leonora's voice in Rome. 
 
 The poet's invocation proved fruitless of any immedi- 
 ate result, since he was destined still to remain unmar- 
 ried for thirteen years, and it had been well then for his 
 peace of mind had the liquid notes not reached his ear, 
 which, 
 
 First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, 
 Portend success in love. 
 
 Seven years before, in Lycidas, this young scholar, 
 steeped in classical usage, if somewhat inexperienced by 
 actual contact, had invoked the pale ghost of Nexra 
 with her touseled hair, but neither then nor now do we 
 detect the note of passion. He ends properly enough, as 
 a poet is bound to do : 
 
 Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, 
 Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 
 
 Blind, wifeless, and "in disgrace with fortune and 
 men's eyes," he threw a thousand times the youthful fire 
 into his praise of Eve when, half a lifetime later, in the 
 youth of his old age, he came to sing her charms. 
 
 We find what is lacking in this sonnet, somewhat of 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 15 
 
 the volume and surge of power which we have come to 
 regard almost as synonymous with the name of Milton, 
 in the ode On Christ's Nativity, composed the year be- 
 fore, while the poet was still a student at Cambridge. 
 
 11 
 
 The second of Milton's sonnets was written on the 
 occasion of his twenty-third birthday, December 9, 
 1 63 1, during the last year of his residence at Cambridge, 
 and while he was a candidate for his master's degree : 
 
 How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth, 
 Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! 
 
 This "Petrarchian stanza," as he describes it in a let- 
 ter of very noble tone, was sent to a friend unknown to 
 us, who had tried to persuade Milton to enter the church, 
 and actually to set about doing something in earnest, 
 instead of spending so much time in preparation for he 
 knew not what. In this same letter the poet speaks of 
 his life "as yet obscure and unserviceable to mankind," 
 and there is the implied promise that it shall not always 
 so remain. Then, as ever, he was conscious of his power, 
 only it would seem as if there must sometimes have come 
 into his mind, as afterward into that of Keats, the pain- 
 ful thought lest he should die before he had realized his 
 dream : 
 
 Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, 
 Before high piled books, in charact'ry, 
 Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain. 
 
 That reflection may well have given him pause, and 
 warned him against the awful risk of putting off until 
 
16 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 the morrow that which only with certainty, if with im- 
 perfection, might be accomplished in the passing day. 
 In this same letter to his friend, after referring to the 
 allurements of renown and to the spur of fame, he goes 
 on to say: "Yet that you may see that I am something 
 suspicious of myself, and do take notice of a certain 
 belatedness in me, I am the bolder to send you some of 
 my nightward thoughts some little while ago, because 
 they come in not altogether unfitly, made up in a Petrar- 
 chian stanza which I told you of." In this letter also 
 occurs the significant phrase so characteristic of the rev- 
 erence in which he held the poetic career ; — he refers to 
 himself as "not taking thought of being late, so it give 
 advantage to be more fit." 
 
 Milton regarded the function of the poet as not so 
 much that of the singer as of the inspired seer. Could 
 Wordsworth's differentiation have been present to his 
 mind, he would doubtless have claimed that his own con- 
 tribution to the happiness of mankind was to come rather 
 from the "consecration" than from the "poet's dream" ; 
 that might well serve to divert the scholarly leisure of 
 his youth, but the appointed task of his manhood was 
 to justify the ways of God to man. Deliberately and be- 
 fore his twenty-third birthday he had formed the deter- 
 mination to write a drama in the manner of the an- 
 cients, or else a great epic poem, such as Homer, Dante, 
 and Tasso before him had created, a purpose which he 
 never relinquished; and he had in mind so early as 1641 
 the general idea of Paradise Lost. In that year he re- 
 corded the hope that "by labour and intense study, 
 which I take to be my portion in this life, joined with a 
 strong propensity of nature, I might leave something 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 17 
 
 so written to after-times, as they should not willingly 
 let it die." 
 
 The poet's original idea had been to compose his epic 
 in the Latin tongue, a purpose which, fortunately for 
 us, he afterwards saw fit to abandon. As we study this 
 middle period of his career, with its manifold and very 
 human interests and ties, we realize more clearly how he 
 came to be in closer touch with mankind, and ceased to 
 care for the approvance of scholars alone. It was not 
 altogether from contempt for the ordinary sort of read- 
 ers that he originally chose Latin as the medium of liter- 
 ary expression, but because the Latin tongue was the 
 universal language used by scholars the world over, and 
 because he wished to reach these not merely in his own 
 country but in Europe at large. Two years before, while 
 in Naples, on the eve of his return to England, he had 
 composed a Latin epistle in verse to the scholar, Manso, 
 and in this had signified his intention of some day writ- 
 ing a poem in the Latin tongue, perhaps on the Arthu- 
 rian legend : "Perchance I shall call back into verse our 
 native kings, and Arthur stirring wars even under the 
 earth that hides him, or speak of the great-souled heroes, 
 the Knights of the unconquered Table, bound in confed- 
 erate brotherhood, and (O may the spirit be present to 
 me!) break the Saxon phalanxes under the British 
 Mars."* 
 
 The prayer of his youth was that of his more ad- 
 vanced age : 
 
 [Do thou], celestial Light, 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
 Irradiate : there plant eyes ; all mist from thence 
 
 * Masson's translation. 
 
18 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight. 
 
 (P. L, III, Si-SO 
 
 It seems an exaggeration of modesty to say, as he 
 does in this sonnet on his twenty-third birthday,— 
 
 My hasting days fly on in full career, 
 
 But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. 
 
 Already Sad he composed the lines On the Death of a 
 Fair Infant, written at the age of seventeen, which a 
 discriminating French critic* has pronounced a poem of 
 such importance that it "foretells all the variety of his 
 verse." Besides the production of English poetry be- 
 fore this time, he could show a considerable mass of 
 verse in Latin, which he wrote with equal facility. The 
 consensus of opinion among scholars seems to be that 
 Milton's Latin is very good indeed, but that Landor's is 
 better still. The latter poet, to all intents and purposes 
 so far as Latin composition is concerned, was an ancient 
 Roman who happened to be living in a later age, and one 
 that spoke his native tongue with equal grace and flu- 
 ency. Milton's Latin poetry has the very unexpected 
 quality of real emotion, strongly distinguishing it from 
 almost all other modern verse in that language, and it 
 has the rare distinction of ranking higher as poetry than 
 as Latin, a sort of praise as unlooked for as would be 
 that conferred upon a hairy mastodon for his glossy 
 coat and agile ways, rather than for the majesty of his 
 deportment and venerable antiquity. 
 
 * De Montmorency. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 19 
 
 There can be little question that the poet's modesty 
 was genuine and unfeigned when he continues : 
 
 And inward ripeness doth much less appear, 
 That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. 
 
 It would seem as if a youth need not repine who had, 
 two years gone by, written the ode On Christ's Nativity, 
 wherein, if ever verse contained the echo of such, are 
 heard celestial harmonies. On his ears fell the majesty 
 and the sweetness of the mystic chants, whose ministra- 
 tions before God's throne never cease, the worship of 
 his angels,- Sons rf Light 
 
 * * * * [whose] songs 
 
 And choral symphonies, day without night, 
 Circle his throne rejoicing. 
 
 (P. L., V., 160-3.) 
 
 Together in the Academy of Fine Arts at Venice, 
 hang Titian's Visitation of St. Elizabeth, which he be- 
 gan when he was fourteen years of age, and his Entomb- 
 ment of Christ, upon which he was at work in his 
 ninety-ninth year,— fitting monuments, marking the be- 
 ginning and end of that long and crowded life, a life 
 devoted to the service of Religion and of Art. In like 
 manner, it was fitting that Milton's first production 
 above the rank of college exercise, should be this Hymn 
 on the Morning of the Nativity of Christ, — 
 
 It was the winter wild, 
 While the heaven-born Child, 
 All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies, — 
 
 the prelude of that career to be closed in solemn gran- 
 deur by the Paradise Regained, wherein is portrayed the 
 
20 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 victory of Christ over Satan, and the declaring of his 
 deity, the story of man proved God, and— 
 
 Recovered Paradise to all mankind, 
 By one man's firm obedience fully tried 
 Through all temptation. 
 
 (P. R., I., 3-S-) 
 
 As in properly attuned serenity of mind we read the 
 ode On the Nativity we are permitted to share the trans- 
 port of its creation, and to feel that the music which the 
 young poet invokes in fervent devotion to greet his God, 
 has touched his own sense ; his Muse has been permitted 
 to join her voice unto the Angel Choir: 
 
 Ring out, ye crystal spheres ! 
 Once bless our human ears, 
 If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 
 And let your silver chime 
 Move in melodious time ; 
 And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow ; 
 And with your ninefold harmony 
 Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 
 
 Well may this song have been the very one sung by the 
 angels of God before the manger where lay the new- 
 born Son. 
 
 In the sonnet which we are considering, modesty is 
 shown again, here rather a characteristic of the nation 
 than of the man, when he speaks of his approach to 
 manhood on his twenty-third birthday : 
 
 Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth 
 That I to manhood am arrived so near. 
 
 In this country perhaps we should regard with somewhat 
 of suspicion the ingenuousness of a bachelor of arts on 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 21 
 
 his twenty-third birthday who should express any doubt 
 whatever that he had arrived at man's estate. The allu- 
 sion to his personal appearance reminds one that Milton 
 was distinguished for manly beauty all his life. A Latin 
 epigram written in Naples when he was thirty years of 
 age said of him : 
 
 Mind, form, face, grace, and morals are perfect.* 
 
 Aubrey says of him later in life: "He was a spare man." 
 "Of middle stature." "His harmonicall and ingeniose 
 soule did lodge in a beautifull and well-proportioned 
 body. 
 
 In toto nusquam corpore menda fuit." 
 
 "He had a delicate tunable voice, and had good skill. 
 * * * He had an organ in his house, he played on 
 that most. His exercise was chiefly walking." "After 
 dinner he used to walk 3 or 4 hours at a time, (he always 
 had a garden where he lived), went to bed about nine." 
 Antony Wood has described his appearance at the age 
 of twenty, while he was at Cambridge, when reading a 
 scholastic exercise at Christ's College, as "affable, erect 
 and manly." f At about this same time, by reason of 
 the freshness of his complexion and it may be also from 
 the exuberance of "Hyacinthine locks Round from his 
 parted forelock * * * Clustering," and from his gen- 
 erally youthful appearance, he was known as the "lady 
 of Christ's." The gentle raillery in which this name 
 was conferred was tempered with respect. Nothing bet- 
 ter than chaff shows the drift of the wind, and Milton's 
 
 * Masson's translation. t Garnett's Milton, 26. 
 
22 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 college nickname points at characteristics which were a 
 consistent part of his character. This same man whom 
 Johnson accuses of having had the warmth of tempera- 
 ment of an Eastern lord of the harem, at the start showed 
 certain traits of fastidiousness, if they may be so desig- 
 nated, which were at least sufficiently unusual to distin- 
 guish him— so at all events as to attract comment— from 
 the ingenuous youths who were his companions. 
 
 In the Sixth Latin Elegy, written after five years' 
 residence at Cambridge, he has given us a glimpse of his 
 quality in an epistle to his faithful Diodati, wherein he 
 confides his conviction that they who would sing of 
 demigods and heroes must content themselves with a 
 beechen bowl, and with what he elsewhere after long 
 lapse of time refers to as "the cool crystalline stream" : * 
 
 Their youth should pass in innocence, 
 # # * * # 
 
 Pure as the priest, when robed in white he stands, 
 The fresh lustration ready in his hands. 
 
 (Cowper's Translation, X., 148.) 
 
 Masson says of the passage in which these lines occur, 
 —and certainly if any man knew his Milton it was he,— 
 "They deserve to be learnt by heart with reference to 
 himself, or to be written under his portrait. They give 
 a value to the whole Elegy." f It may be urged that the 
 words just quoted reveal the note of youth, but of a 
 youth how noble! fit source from which to spring the 
 joys of Eden, the sight of delicious Eve in innocence, 
 and "recovered paradise to all mankind." In a similar 
 
 * S. A., 546. t Milton's Poetical Works, I., 93. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 
 
 23 
 
 way we have a revelation of his character in this face- 
 tious sobriquet, conferred by his companions, of the 
 "lady of Christ's." If a youth destined to accomplish 
 great things is to cherish an ideal, and is to be thought 
 fanatical by those around him in his devotion to it, 
 the fact that the ardour of his early manhood was 
 aroused in praise of chastity shows something in him 
 not to be despised, something millions of miles beyond 
 slothful ease and the primrose path. It need not cause us 
 surprise that the master poet of the Puritans cherished 
 such an ideal. 
 
 The critic while passing this phase of his career in 
 review, may at least condone the poet's enthusiasm if he 
 cannot quite bring himself to share it, accrediting it to 
 the purity of his upbringing and to the exaltation of an 
 all-too-rare poetic sensibility. This was no ordinary 
 youth with whom we are dealing; this man was also a 
 spirit, one "finely moved but to fine issues" ; why should 
 we not expect something unusual and sublimated in his 
 case ? Certainly his preparation had been as little ordi- 
 nary as one could conceive. We have his own statement, 
 confirmed by the testimony of others, that from the 
 twelfth year of his age he rarely went to bed until mid- 
 night, such was his eagerness to prosecute his studies. 
 This life may well have put the seal of scholarship and 
 of a certain sedate gravity on his countenance, through 
 which shone "the tranquil lustre of a lofty mind." This 
 phase of Milton's character in his youth may not be 
 slurred over; it is a vital and inherent trait of his real 
 temperament and disposition. 
 
 If one would penetrate to the very secret of the Chris- 
 tian spirit he could not do better than to take to heart 
 
24 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 the admonition of St. Paul : "Approving ourselves * * * 
 by pureness, by kindness, by love unfeigned." Not in 
 all of these, by any means, was Milton equally preemi- 
 nent ; others, it may well be, have been more generously 
 endowed with the supreme virtue of "loving-kindness" 
 toward all men, but to no one was it given to respond 
 more vigorously to one of this trinity of perfections than 
 to him from whose soul the motive of Comus sprang as 
 an instinctive correlate of beauty. 
 
 "Chastity is the flowering of man," Thoreau main- 
 tained ; and this was exactly the attitude of Milton dur- 
 ing the formative period of his poetic life and of his 
 character. He was so constituted that herein there was 
 a "marriage of true minds"; his character and his ge- 
 nius are so inextricably involved that in everything that 
 springs from the fountain of his creative energy both 
 are perfectly apparent. His was not the sort of intelli- 
 gence that could evolve anything that would not meet 
 with the complete sanction of his reason and of his con- 
 science;— which is only equivalent to saying that he did 
 not primarily possess the dramatic temperament: at all 
 events, it certainly did not possess him. 
 
 In 1642, some time before he wrote the sonnet 
 "When the Assault was intended to the City," he felt 
 called upon in a pamphlet* to discuss his own career 
 while at the University. Here we get a glimpse of his 
 real quality in a wonderful and well-known passage: 
 "And long it was not after when 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 
 
 * An Apology against a Pamphlet called "A Modest Confutation/' etc. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 25 
 
 the best and 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 praiseworthy. 
 
 "These reasonings together with a certain niceness of 
 nature, an honest haughtiness and self-esteem, either of 
 what I was or what I might be, which let envy call pride, 
 and lastly that modesty, whereof, though not in the title- 
 page, yet here, I may be excused to make some beseem- 
 ing profession, all these uniting the supply of their natu- 
 ral aid together, kept me still above those low descents 
 of mind, beneath which he must deject and plunge him- 
 self, that can agree to saleable and unlawful prostitu- 
 tions. 
 
 "Next, for hear me out now, readers, that I tell ye 
 whither my younger feet wandered, I betook me among 
 those lofty fables and romances which recount in sol- 
 emn cantos the deeds of knighthood founded by our 
 victorious kings, and from hence had in renown in all 
 Christendom. There I read it in the oath of every 
 knight, that he should defend to the expense of his best 
 blood, or of his life if it so befell him, the honour and 
 chastity of virgin or matron. From whence even then 
 I learnt what a noble virtue chastity ever must be, to 
 the defence of which so many worthies by such dear 
 adventure of themselves had sworn. And if I found 
 in the story afterwards any of them by word or deed 
 breaking that oath, I judged the same fault of the poet 
 as that which is attributed to Homer to have written 
 undecent things of the gods. Only this my mind gave 
 me, that every free and gentle spirit without that oath 
 ought to be born a knight, nor needed to expect the gilt 
 
26 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 spur, or the laying of a sword upon his shoulder, to stir 
 him up both by his counsel and his arm to serve and pro- 
 tect the weakness of any attempted chastity. So that 
 even those books which to many others have been the 
 fuel of wantonness and loose living, I cannot think how 
 unless by divine indulgence, proved to me so many in- 
 citements to the love and steadfast observation of 
 virtue." 
 
 When this came from Milton's pen he was still a 
 comparatively young man; it is the aspiration of his 
 youth that he has revealed, and from this fountain un- 
 defined sprang the distinction and sustained grandeur 
 of thought and style which are the unfailing and pre- 
 eminent traits of Paradise Lost* Landor most happily 
 applies to Milton the words of Eve : 
 
 "From thee 
 How shall I part, and whither wander down 
 Into a lower world ?" 
 
 (P. L., XL, 281-2.) 
 
 In the grand manner, in sublimity of style, none has 
 excelled Milton. To detect the distinction of that verse 
 is the commanding reward of cultivation in letters, to 
 appreciate that and to respond to its appeal. It is offered 
 to our age, almost disregarded, but, like the crystal in 
 the rock, a thousand years impair not the perfection of 
 its purity. 
 
 Though in maturity he very clearly distinguished be- 
 tween temperate enjoyment and asceticism,— having lit— 
 
 * "It is the aspiration after the pure and noble life, the aspiration which 
 stamps every line he wrote, verse or prose, with a dignity as of an heroic 
 age." Pattison. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 27 
 
 tie patience with the latter,— yet during all his life he 
 believed that man's body and spirit were interfused and 
 commingled, and that legitimate delights of the body 
 were the nourishment of the spirit, and by a natural 
 corollary that whatever degraded the body at the same 
 time defiled the spirit. Later in life, when he came to 
 write the Christian Doctrine, he carried the idea of the 
 inextricable partnership of mind and matter to its logi- 
 cal conclusion, accepting literally the resurrection of the 
 body, and declaring his belief in the suspended animation 
 after death of body and soul alike until the trump of the 
 Last Judgment shall have aroused them. The spirit was 
 the vital and illuminating principle of the body, as was 
 the light of the sun.* 
 
 Well may such a youth, without any mental reservation 
 whatever, have acted upon the belief that his body was 
 the temple of God. We shall see that his more mature 
 judgment and evolution of belief demanded equal rev- 
 erence for both; neither could be treated with con- 
 tumely; both were created by God; and since each of 
 them shared in the well-being and in the suffering of 
 the other, they were mutually joined for better or for 
 worse, and were to be separated not even by death. It 
 was a marriage making them one flesh, one spirit. 
 
 If then in his present mood he believed that the spirit 
 of God dwelt within him, he may well have regarded any 
 physical degradation, or what might be so conceived by 
 him, as a dimming of the light which is its essence. To 
 
 * Compare this passage in Satan's apostrophe to the orb of day : 
 
 "Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul." 
 
 (P. L, V., 171.) 
 
28 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Milton in his youth the words of Raphael might as fit- 
 tingly have been addressed as to the new-created Adam : 
 
 "God on' thee 
 Abundantly his gifts hath also poured, 
 Inward and outward both, his image fair : 
 Speaking or mute, all comeliness and grace 
 Attends thee, and each word, each motion, forms." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 219-23.) 
 
 To no man of our race could this great Angel more fit- 
 tingly have said : 
 
 "Nor less think we in Heaven of thee on Earth 
 Than of our fellow-servant. * * 
 
 For God, we see, hath honoured thee." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 224-28.) 
 
 And no slight part of Milton's strength lay in this very 
 fact that he too believed that God had honoured him; 
 and in the conviction of that belief he regulated his life. 
 The passage quoted from the Sixth Elegy expressed 
 not merely a mood of adolescence, later to evaporate 
 and disappear. When he was about to begin the compo- 
 sition of Paradise Lost he invoked the Holy Spirit in 
 a similar vein : 
 
 And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer 
 Before all temples the upright heart and pure, 
 Instruct me, for thou know'st ; * * 
 
 * * what in me is dark 
 
 Illumine, what is low raise and support.* 
 
 (P. L., I., 17-23.) 
 
 Can there be question that the aspiration of the last 
 six lines of the sonnet was in serious earnest? The 
 
 * "That the Spirit enlightens the mind within, in this belief the Puritan 
 saint, the poet, and the prophet, who all met in Milton, were at one." 
 Pattison, Milton, 188. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 29 
 
 verses have the solemnity of a prayer, and express the 
 feeling which guided his whole life : 
 
 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, 
 
 Toward 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. 
 
 Long afterwards, blind, defeated, and in distress, he 
 could write in the same serenity of mind : 
 
 "Nor love thy life, nor hate ; but what thou liv'st 
 Live well ; how long or short permit to Heaven." 
 
 (P. L., XL, 553-4.) 
 
 Ill 
 
 The ode On the Nativity of Christ, the verses On 
 Shakespeare, the First and Second Sonnets, were written 
 while Milton was still a student at Cambridge. Fortu- 
 nately his father's means, whose profession as a scriv- 
 ener, combining the functions of lawyer and legal sta- 
 tioner, was a moderately lucrative one, opening the way 
 for wise investment, made a fellowship unnecessary for 
 him; and after leaving the University he spent six years 
 at Horton in study and writing.* These have been called 
 
 * "In this delicious retirement of Horton, in alternate communion with 
 nature and with books, for five years of persevering study he laid in a 
 stock, not of learning, but of what is far above learning, of wide and accu- 
 rate knowledge. Of the man whose profession is learning, it is character- 
 istic that knowledge is its own end, and research its own reward. To Mil- 
 ton all knowledge, all life, virtue itself, was already only a means to a 
 further end. He will know only that which is of use to know, and by 
 useful, he meant that which conduced to form him for his vocation of 
 poet." "All he reads, sees, hears, is to him but nutriment for the soul." 
 Mark Pattison, Milton, 15, 27. 
 
30 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 the years of preparation, but they were, as well, years 
 of generous production, during which were composed 
 Comus, L' Allegro, II Penseroso and Lycidas. Milton 
 has borne testimony to his father's aid and generosity 
 more than once; for instance in the Latin poem ad- 
 dressed to him, written soon after leaving Cambridge, 
 at a time when, it may be somewhat to his father's 
 grief, he had formed the determination not to enter the 
 church, but to devote his life to poesy : 
 
 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 observed ; 
 But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill 
 My mind with treasure, led'st me far away 
 From city din to deep retreats, to banks 
 And streams Aonian, and, with free consent, 
 Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. 
 
 (Ad Patrem, Cowper's Translation.) 
 
 The poet goes on to say that after he had mastered 
 Latin and Greek, it was by his father's encouragement 
 that he had learned French, Italian and Hebrew ; the lat- 
 ter wished him also to be conversant with Natural Science, 
 and, in short, would have had him, like Bacon, accept 
 all learning as his province. His bringing up was that 
 of one consecrated to a high calling, to an appointed 
 task. The poet himself never doubted this. In a lesser 
 man such a belief would simply have amounted to ridicu- 
 lous presumption; only as it became justified by the 
 event,— or, rather, as the event showed its foundation 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 
 
 31 
 
 to be laid in modesty rather than in overweening con- 
 ceit,— did it assume a character of simple dignity. Un- 
 der a thin disguise of Paradise Regained, the poet, then 
 nearing the end of his career, confesses, in the words of 
 Christ, his own early attitude of mind : 
 
 "When I was yet a child, no childish play 
 To me was pleasing ; all my mind was set 
 Serious to learn and know, and thence to do, 
 What might be public good ; myself I thought 
 Born to that end, born to promote all truth, 
 All righteous things." 
 
 (P. R., I., 200-6.) 
 "The voice is Jacob's voice !" 
 
 The poet had received careful instruction in music 
 from his father John Milton, who was a devotee to the 
 art, and was himself a composer whose work was known 
 and appreciated in his day. Various madrigals which 
 he had set to music were published in the Triumphs of 
 Oriana, contributed by several poets and musicians in 
 honour of Queen Elizabeth ; and we have the statement 
 of the poet's nephew that when the Palatine of Sirodia, a 
 Polish prince, visited Oxford in 1583, the elder Milton 
 had composed a musical celebration in forty parts in 
 honour of the guest. Philips records that this Polish 
 nobleman had the grace to present to him a gold chain 
 in recognition of his skill.* But his greatest achieve- 
 ment in music, although he was not at the time aware of 
 its full significance, was that he taught his son while still 
 a lad to sing, and later to play upon the organ. The poet 
 
 * "He was an ingeniose man, delighted in musique, composed many songs 
 now in print, especially that of Oriana, and got a plentifull estate by it, 
 and left off many years before he dyed." Aubrey, it is not improbable, 
 somewhat exaggerates his proficiency. 
 
32 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 pays a tribute to his father's musical genius in the same 
 Latin poem from which we have quoted : 
 
 Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight 
 The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain 
 And useless, Powers, by whom inspired, 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 sympathize 
 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. 
 
 (Ad Patrem, Cowper's Translation.) 
 
 The relation between these two was most cordial. We 
 have confirmatory evidence, if it were needed, that 
 this precocious boy was the apple of his father's eye, in 
 the circumstance that he ordered a portrait painted of 
 him by Cornells Janssens, when the lad was ten years of 
 age. The Janssens of Amsterdam were makers of musi- 
 cal instruments, so it is not unlikely that the painter, 
 who was a young man of twenty- four or -five when the 
 portrait was painted, came to the elder Milton with let- 
 ters of introduction, the father being a musician and 
 therefore naturally interested in the instruments which 
 came from this Dutch atelier.* It depicts a sturdy lad, 
 
 * Portraits of Milton, by George C. Williamson, Litt.D., 1908. The por- 
 trait to which reference is made is now in the possession of Mr. J. Pass- 
 more-Edwards, England. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 33 
 
 with a head massive for one of his years, and with a 
 countenance where one may detect a modest look of 
 determination. He is handsomely but rather plainly 
 dressed, as befitted the son of a Puritan and of one in 
 his father's profession. If the latter had wished to fol- 
 low the advice of Polonius, this is exactly the sort of 
 coat he would have chosen for him : "rich not gaudy, not 
 expressed in fancy." His father's occupation as scriv- 
 ener was largely concerned with the preparation of deeds, 
 a position of trust and responsibility, and the home be- 
 came one of ease and refinement. The father was not 
 a great musician but he loved music, he was not a poet 
 although he wrote verses ; what is of paramount impor- 
 tance to us is that he had the insight to recognize his 
 son's extraordinary endowment, and did everything in 
 his power to bring it to perfection. He spared him the 
 drudgery of earning his own living during those years 
 at Horton and throughout the third decade of his life, 
 and carefully nourished his genius during his residence 
 at home. What an exquisite gratification it must have 
 been for the father to welcome the poems of this period 
 as fruit of the Muses' cultivation made possible by his 
 own fostering care! What delight in the whole broad 
 world could have rendered the same satisfaction as this ? 
 Music and poetry were occupations of very vital import 
 in this Puritan household. 
 
 IV 
 
 Milton went abroad for travel in April, 1638, and was 
 absent from home, chiefly in Italy, a year and three 
 months; he was then in the thirtieth year of his age. 
 
34 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Philips informs us that his uncle "put himself into an 
 equipage suitable to his design, * * * and set out for 
 Paris, accompanied by only one man, who attended him 
 through all his travels." 
 
 Italian he had studied before this, and he naturally 
 read the literature of the country while there; he even 
 mastered the language sufficiently to use it in the sonnets 
 written in Italy, but for this, if we accept his own state- 
 ment literally, he had an all-sufficient motive. In the 
 canzone he has given the reason for choosing this me- 
 dium of expression. Strutt renders the passage freely, 
 but with liquid flow : 
 
 The nymphs and amorous youths around, 
 Deride my lyre's unskilful sound. 
 "And why," they ask, "O why this care, 
 In accents strange to tell thy pains, 
 Breathing soft love in unknown strains ? 
 Confess thy hopes are vain, though fair, 
 That whisper, 'Sweeter sounds may dwell 
 In music of a foreign shell.' " 
 
 My gentle verse, O smoothly flow, 
 And tell the fair for whom I rove, 
 "This language is the choice of love." 
 
 To this thought he gives a fuller expression in the 
 Fourth Sonnet: 
 
 As in the twilight brown, on hillside bare, 
 
 Useth to go the little shepherd maid, 
 
 Watering some strange fair plant, poorly displayed, 
 
 Not thriving in unwonted soil and air, 
 
 Far from its native springtime's genial care ; 
 
 So on my ready tongue hath love assayed 
 
 Of a strange speech to wake new flower and blade. 
 
 (MacDonald's Translation.) 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 35 
 
 Five Italian sonnets and a single canzone were one 
 result of his foreign tour : 
 
 Love willed it so, and I, at others' cost, 
 Already knew Love never willed in vain. 
 
 (Sonnet IV., MacDonald's Translation.) 
 
 Perhaps these were little more than the academic exer- 
 cises of one who was perfecting himself in the use of a 
 language with which he was not quite familiar, and it 
 may be that the reason which he gives is merely the con- 
 ventional usage of poets; perhaps it was to a certain 
 degree both. We have, apart from these sonnets, his 
 own confession, in a letter to Diodati, of the effect that 
 this "new type" of beauty produced upon him, accus- 
 tomed all his life to the quite different charm and rosy 
 freshness of English women, when he speaks of his 
 "soul tremulous with emotion" by reason of the loveli- 
 ness which he beheld : * 
 
 Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow 
 Of golden locks, or damask cheek; more rare 
 The heart- felt beauties of my foreign fair, 
 A mien majestic, with dark brows that show 
 The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind. 
 
 (Sonnet V., Cowper's Translation.) f 
 
 * Exactly this same phrase is found in the Defensio Secunda: "But the 
 pudicity of his behaviour and language covers a soul tremulous with emo- 
 tion." Pattison, Milton's Sonnets, 102. 
 
 t Cowper's translation is a pleasant one, yet has he in the last lines added 
 a moral grace which is quite his own; what Milton literally said was,— 
 
 A presence lofty and modest, and in the eye-brows 
 The calm splendour of a lovely black. 
 
 (Pattison's Translation.) 
 
 Compare the following from Spenser ; in which he says of Belphoebe that— 
 
 Upon her eyelids many graces sate, 
 Under the shadow of her even brows. 
 
36 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 The poet had given somewhat of serious thought to 
 the same "golden locks" to which he here refers. In the 
 First Elegy, addressed to Diodati, he made record of a 
 certain agitation in the presence of "love's golden 
 snare," * and long before this he had written of 
 
 Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn. 
 
 (Comus, 753.) 
 
 The sonnets to which we are referring express not 
 merely the praises of physical perfection in her to whom 
 they are addressed, but praises as well of her "gentle 
 spirit," of her "graciously lofty" 
 
 Spirit sweetly displaying itself, 
 
 Of winning deeds never sparing, 
 
 And of those gifts which are the arrows and the 
 
 bow of love, 
 In that region where thy high virtue flowers. 
 
 (Sonnet III., Pattison's Translation.) 
 
 He makes mention of his lady's voice more than once : 
 
 O when those lips in speech so matchless move 
 
 Or frame the song that bids the forest bend ; 
 
 Be all aware who fear, alas ! to love, 
 
 And from the enchantress every sense defend : 
 
 Reason can only save, ere yet desire 
 
 With amorous flame the inmost bosom fire. 
 
 (Sonnet III., Strutt's Translation.) 
 
 And again "from her lips" comes- 
 
 Song whose sweet control 
 Down from her sphere the labouring moon might bow. 
 
 (Sonnet V., Strutt's Translation.) 
 
 * Cowper's translation ; Pattison gives us : "Golden nets of hair" : 
 
 Tremulosque capillos 
 Aurea quae fallax retia tendit Amor. 
 
 (Elegia Prima, 59-60.) 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 
 
 37 
 
 Milton spent time and money to satisfy his eager love 
 for music ; it was one of his dearest delights. The single 
 extravagance which he allowed himself while abroad 
 was the purchase of a collection of choice music. He has 
 told us that from Venice he sent home a chestful of the 
 best to be procured, a treasury of enjoyment which was 
 to yield him happiness as long as he lived. 
 
 It is true that the poet is often moved to eloquence by 
 visions of beauty which appeal to the eye, but his most 
 convincing expressions of satisfaction are reserved for 
 the raptures which are received through the medium of 
 the ear. Even the splendours of Paradise are most 
 effectively brought before his inward eyes by the 
 ecstasies of sound. The scholarly recluse would find 
 delight beneath "the high embowered roof" of abbey 
 or cathedral : 
 
 There let the pealing organ blow, 
 
 To the full-voiced choir below, 
 
 In service high and anthems clear, 
 
 As may with sweetness through mine ear, 
 
 Dissolve me into ecstacies, 
 
 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 
 
 (II Pen., 161-6.) 
 
 In Paradise Lost he dwells over and over again upon 
 the inspiration to be derived from music, and in its praise 
 his poetic genius is always aroused; indeed the rhythm 
 and roll of verse in that poem are in themselves no 
 inconsiderable part of the master achievement of it all. 
 Only to one who possessed an ear most sensitive to pleas- 
 ing combinations of sound in infinite variety were possi- 
 ble the achievements of musical cadence and modulation, 
 
.38 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 the reverberations of mighty phrase, which are found in 
 that poem : 
 
 The surge and thunder of the Odyssey. 
 
 When he was writing Paradise Lost, Milton spent a 
 portion of every day at the organ ; it was his never-fail- 
 ing solace and inspiration ; from it, as from a pure foun- 
 tain of delight, he drew constant refreshment and 
 power; with its notes was his mind in uninterrupted 
 accord. The full tones and ponderous sweep of harmo- 
 nious sound in Paradise Lost are not less a triumph of 
 art than the meaning of the words to which that music 
 is the accompaniment, or the majestic imagery that 
 adorns the poem, or the grand and perfect design to 
 which all its parts and qualities are subservient ; in each 
 is apparent an even and sustained magnificence of style.* 
 Besides spending an hour at the organ every day, 
 Milton often played upon the bass viol, while his wife 
 sang for him. Her voice was sweet but it is not strange 
 that to his sensitive and accurate ear it should some- 
 times seem not altogether faultless; there may be de- 
 grees of excellence in melody, — harmony to a correct 
 ear can be only good or bad. 
 
 In regard to the kindred arts of painting and sculp-/ 
 ture, the same knowledge and perspicacity cannot be 
 claimed for the poet; in these he was comparatively 
 
 * "After I have been reading Paradise Lost, I can take up no other poet 
 with satisfaction. I seem to have left the music of Handel for the music 
 of the streets, or at the best for drums and fifes." Landor, Southey and 
 Milton; Imaginary Conversations, IV., 47. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 
 
 39 
 
 uninstructed, even perhaps somewhat lacking, strange 
 as it may seem, in the power of appreciation. Although 
 he must have seen many times both in Rome and Flor- 
 ence the masterpieces of painting of the Italian Renais- 
 sance, he refers to them only once, and then but casu- 
 ally; they seem to have left him unmoved, and it is not 
 easy to determine how far afterwards in his own cre- 
 ative activity he was influenced by the impression which 
 at the time they must have produced upon his mind. 
 
 In Paradise Lost his genius is aroused by a great 
 variety of different interests, sometimes even by a bald 
 list of geographical names, but neither there nor in his 
 prose do we detect a single passage that refers to the 
 creations of Michael Angelo, as might well have been 
 the case, in a manner similar to that in which he makes 
 reference to "the Tuscan artist," Galileo.* 
 
 We have no specific record that he visited the Sis- 
 tine Chapel, though we know that he spent part of four 
 months in Rome in 1638-9, in daily contact with men of 
 intelligence and cultivation, studying the monuments 
 and antiquities of that city. He was not the man to do 
 this in a dilettante and cursory manner; in all human 
 probability he saw the best of them not only once but 
 many times, and so far as he was at all impressionable 
 to the creations of the painter's art these must have in- 
 fluenced him. In a letter to Lucas Holste, the secretary 
 to one of the Cardinals Barberini, written after his 
 return to England, he speaks of aid given him to exam- 
 ine the treasures of the Vatican Museum, particularly 
 various precious books of Greek manuscripts. If any 
 
 *P. L., I., 288-91. He refers to Galileo again in P. L., V., 261-3; and 
 in P. L., VIII., 5-178. he gives a general dissertation on astronomy. 
 
40 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 pictures in the world could have stirred a man of his tem- 
 perament and power, Michael Angelo's frescoes must 
 have done so with peculiar force. In the "great gigantic 
 angels" of Paradise Lost, and in the portrayal of what 
 happened in Heaven and Hell, we have presented to our 
 imagination scenes over which Michael Angelo brooded 
 long and to good purpose. When afterwards, in blind- 
 ness, the poet came to describe the people of his celestial 
 city, it would seem as if Michael Angelo's pictures, 
 whether or not he remembered them in detail, must 
 inevitably have been more or less vividly present to his 
 recollection. The titanic strength of Michael Angelo 
 bore close resemblance to his own endowment; the 
 genius of the two men was in some respects almost iden- 
 tical. The personages portrayed in the frescoes, as they 
 sprang, instinct with life, from the sculptor-painter's 
 hand, were possessed of an elevation of mind similar to 
 that of the poet's, and reflected a kind of austerity, 
 which the two men without question shared in common. 
 If any product of the human intellect is characterized 
 by the grand manner, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel 
 may claim that distinction; it was this ceiling that made 
 Raphael thank God that he had not lived before the time 
 of Michael Angelo. From that panel of the series, per- 
 haps the finest of all, which presents the Creation of 
 Adam, Milton may well have derived his first visual 
 conception of the dignity, the vitality, and the reserve 
 energy of his own Adam, an embodiment of calm rea- 
 son and flawless physical power. By the figure of Christ 
 the Avenger, in the Last Judgment, we feel that un- 
 doubtedly Milton was deeply impressed,— more deeply 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 41 
 
 perhaps than he himself realized, so that the poet has 
 given us in verse what is almost a presentation of the 
 same figure expressed by Michael Angelo in visible 
 form,— the arm uplifted in denunciation, "and sword 
 upon [his] puissant thigh," stern, relentless and in- 
 exorable; the very embodiment of that awful and 
 relentless word: "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord." 
 In the work of no other painter that the world has seen 
 have we so nearly an image of the Son of God as Milton 
 conceived him. It is more than a coincidence; when 
 Milton came to present to us the figure of Christ, what 
 he has given is but the rendering in verse of that which 
 had before appealed to the physical eye. In Paradise 
 Lost, on the day when the Divine Son was begotten, the 
 Almighty thus addresses the heavenly host summoned 
 to listen to his edict : 
 
 "Hear, all ye Angels, progeny of light, 
 Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers, 
 Hear my decree, which unrevoked shall stand ! 
 This day I have begot whom I declare 
 My only Son, and on this holy hill 
 Him have anointed, whom ye now behold 
 At my right hand ; your head I him appoint, 
 And by myself have sworn, to him shall bow 
 All knees in Heaven, and shall confess him Lord. 
 Under his great vicegerent reign abide 
 United, as one individual soul, 
 Forever happy. Him who disobeys 
 Me disobeys, breaks union, and that day, 
 Cast out from God and blessed vision, falls 
 Into utter darkness deep ingulfed, his place 
 Ordained without redemption, without end." 
 
 (P. L, V., 600-15.) 
 
42 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 When God addresses the new-created Son, he empha- 
 sizes the fact of his own transmitted power, of his re- 
 flected glory and might : 
 
 "Son, thou in whom my glory I behold 
 In full resplendence, Heir of all my might." 
 
 (P. L., V., 719-20.) 
 
 The meekness and mercy and long-suffering of the Re- 
 deemer are not by any means the traits which the poet 
 has in mind to bring out in strongest relief ; we have the 
 vital note of the Miltonic Christ in the pregnant words, 
 addressed to the Almighty : 
 
 "Whom thou hat'st I hate, and can put on 
 Thy terrors, as I put thy mildness on." 
 
 (P. L., VL, 734-5-) 
 
 After God has confided to the Son that it concerns them 
 both closely "to be sure of [their] omnipotence," the lat- 
 ter announces his own point of view, in a mood not dis- 
 similar to that of the satirical sonnets, which reveal the 
 poet in his least amiable mood : 
 
 "Mighty Father, thou thy foes 
 Justly hast in derision, and secure 
 Laugh'st at their vain designs and tumults vain, 
 Matter to me of glory, whom their hate 
 Illustrates, when they see all regal power 
 Given me to quell their pride, and in event 
 Know whether I be dextrous to subdue 
 Thy rebels, or be found the worst in Heaven." 
 
 (P. L., V., 735-42.) 
 
 The same sternness of Jehovah, communicated to the 
 Son, and reflected by him, is maintained as the drama 
 unfolds ; the Almighty says 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 43 
 
 "But whom send I to judge them ? whom but thee, 
 Vicegerent Son? to thee I have transferred 
 All judgment, whether in Heaven, or Earth, or Hell." 
 
 (P. L., X., 5S-7-) 
 
 This is precisely Michael Angelo's conception of Christ 
 in the Last Judgment, and the poet may well have stored 
 in memory the image of the relentless Judge with threat- 
 ening arm, the symbol of divine retribution, "gloomy as 
 night." There is no taint of effeminacy in Milton's pic- 
 ture of the Messiah in the Sixth Book of Paradise Lost. 
 The angels under Lucifer had been temporarily success- 
 ful against the forces of the Archangel Michael : 
 
 "They among themselves in pleasant vein 
 Stood scoffing, heightened in their thoughts beyond 
 All doubts of victory." 
 
 (P. L., VI., 628-30.) 
 
 Soon were they to learn what signifies the wrath of God : 
 
 "Whence to his Son, 
 The assessor * of his throne, he thus began : 
 
 'Effulgence of my glory, Son beloved, 
 Son in whose face invisible is beheld 
 Visibly, what by Deity I am, 
 And in whose hand what by decree I do, 
 Second Omnipotence! * * * 
 
 * * Into thee such virtue and grace 
 
 Immense I have transfused, that all may know 
 
 In Heaven and Hell thy power above compare ; 
 ***** 
 
 Go, then, thou Mightiest, in thy Father's might ; 
 Ascend my chariot, guide the rapid wheels 
 
 * "Assessor" is one who sits with a judge, an assistant. 
 
44 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 That shake Heaven's basis ; bring forth all my war, 
 My bow and thunder, my almighty arms 
 Gird on, and sword upon thy puissant thigh ; 
 Pursue these Sons of Darkness, drive them out 
 From all Heaven's bounds into the utter Deep ; 
 There let them learn, as likes them, to despise 
 God and Messiah his anointed King.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 Thus the Filial Godhead answering spake : 
 ***** 
 
 'Whom thou hat'st I hate, and can put on 
 Thy terrors, as I put thy mildness on, 
 Image of thee in all things ; and shall soon, 
 Armed with thy might, rid Heaven of these rebelled, 
 ***** 
 
 That from thy just obedience could revolt, 
 Whom to obey is happiness entire.' " 
 
 (P. L., VI., 678-741.) 
 
 Milton loved Liberty, but was in no sense a democrat; 
 he had slight sympathy with those who would have men 
 governed by concession, or ruled alone by meek appeal 
 to their reason, contemning all superior authority, even 
 of God on his throne. By temperament and by virtue of 
 his extraordinary intellectual endowment, of which he 
 must have been perfectly aware, he was intellectually 
 an aristocrat of the aristocrats. 
 
 To that inner eye, before which were summoned in the 
 poet's blindness the innumerable visual images stored 
 with such accuracy in his retentive brain, the immuta- 
 ble and priceless records of his youth, may well have 
 appeared the dramatis persona of the Last Judgment 
 of Michael Angelo, when the following lines of Para- 
 dise Lost formed themselves in his mind;— the words 
 are those of the Almighty to the Son : 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 45 
 
 "All knees to thee shall bow. * * 
 
 When thou * * * * 
 
 Shalt in the sky appear, and from thee send 
 The summoning Archangels to proclaim 
 Thy dread tribunal; forthwith from all winds 
 The living, and forthwith the cited dead 
 Of all past ages, to the general doom 
 Shall hasten: * * * * 
 
 Then, all thy Saints assembled, thou shalt judge 
 Bad men and Angels ; they arraigned shall sink 
 Beneath thy sentence." 
 
 (P. L., Ill, 321-32.) 
 
 This is exactly as Michael Angelo depicts them; the 
 turbulent fall of the condemned, dragged down in tor- 
 ment. Milton is describing the very scene which he had 
 beheld in the frescoes of the Vatican. How could he 
 forget them ? It transcends belief. 
 
 Without doubt the mighty panorama of the Sistine 
 Chapel made a permanent impression upon the poet's 
 mind; and we may rest assured that in his blindness he 
 not only summoned again before his inward eye the 
 scenic presentation of the Last Judgment, which he had 
 himself beheld, but we may feel equally confident that 
 to his imagination the personages of that scene moved 
 and breathed and formed themselves in thousandfold 
 variants of Michael Angelo's conception. 
 
 Our age has drifted far from the vivid realization 
 of God's awfulness and the severity of the divine Son; 
 no longer do the terrors of- the Judgment and of Hell 
 hold us dumb arid paralyzed. A more effeminate age 
 has merged into the character of the Son that of his 
 Virgin Mother; it suits our time, so far as it is mildly 
 occupied with these themes at all, to brood over the 
 
46 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 mercy of Christ, his traits of gentleness and tender 
 loving-kindness, to the exclusion of his other and more 
 stern attributes as conceived by an age which took them 
 au grand serieux, with no taint whatever of mental res- 
 ervation. Milton's admiration was of a more virile sort ; 
 to him the power of a stern and relentless judge seemed 
 the dominating characteristic of the Son of God. The 
 poet's attitude is all the more striking since, as Professor 
 Verity points out, the overthrow of the rebels is assigned 
 in the Book of Revelation not to Christ at all but to the 
 Archangel Michael. (Rev. xii., 7-12.) 
 
 In that panel of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel 
 which portrays the Temptation, the painter was success- 
 ful as in no other figure of all those to which his fertile 
 imagination gave existence in presenting the type of a 
 young and beautiful woman, — 
 
 With native honour clad, 
 In naked majesty. 
 
 (P. L., IV., 289-90.) 
 
 The various types of noble women which the sculptor 
 rendered in marble are of a different sort altogether 
 from this presentation of Eve, which is more pleasantly 
 pagan,— dignified and majestic without losing feminine 
 charm. The Madonnas of the sculptor are of a sort so 
 noble that they are lifted quite above the perfectly legiti- 
 mate allurements of sense. Both Michael Angelo and 
 Milton were without doubt sensitive to the power which 
 every strong and normal woman may exercise over man 
 without sacrificing in the least her dignity or the serenity 
 of her womanly estate ; each of these men in a different 
 way responded vigorously to such appeal. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 47 
 
 When it came to the presentation of the Creator, Mil- 
 ton's method was radically different from that of 
 Michael Angelo, and he has wisely left the portrayal of 
 that personage to the imagination; the Almighty is not 
 actually presented to us but remains unseen, "concealed 
 by excess of light." 
 
 In Michael Angelo's representation of the creation it 
 is to be noted that, differently from Milton, it is God 
 and not Christ who instils the breath of life into inani- 
 mate man, but although the poet intrusts the work of 
 creation to the Son, Milton only slightly differs from 
 Michael Angelo in this, since he has both the Father 
 and the Son present at the creation of man : 
 
 "Therefore the omnipotent 
 Eternal Father (for where is not he 
 Present?) thus to his Son audibly spake: 
 
 " 'Let us now make Man in our image, Man 
 In our similitude.' " 
 
 (P. L., VII., 516-20.) 
 
 VI 
 
 Walter Savage Landor has an inspired passage in 
 which he says of Milton: "It may be doubted whether 
 the Creator ever created one altogether so great ; taking 
 into our view at once (as much indeed as can at once be 
 taken into it) his manly virtues, his superhuman genius, 
 his zeal for truth, for true piety, true freedom, his elo- 
 quence in displaying it, his contempt of personal power, 
 his glory and exaltation in his country's." Such, in 
 Landor's opinion, this young scholar was afterwards to 
 prove himself, whom we now see writing love sonnets 
 in Italian to an unknown beauty, or exercising himself 
 
48 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 in Italian verse after well-accepted models. Bearing in 
 mind the Milton that was to be, had ever woman laid at 
 her feet more precious offering than this from him : 
 
 Lady, to thee my heart's poor gift would I 
 
 Offer devoutly ; and by trial sure 
 I know it faithful, fearless, constant, pure, 
 
 In its conceptions graceful, good, and high. 
 
 When the world roars, and flames the startled sky, 
 
 In its own adamant it stands secure, 
 As free from chance and malice ever found, 
 
 And fears and hopes that vulgar minds confuse 
 
 And loyal to each manly thing, 
 As it is to the sounding lyre and to the muse. 
 
 (Sonnet VII., Masson's Translation.) 
 
 While Milton was in Rome he dedicated three Latin 
 epigrams to the singer Leonora Baroni, but we have no 
 reason to believe that the Italian sonnets, although it has 
 been so asserted, were addressed to the same person. 
 Her portrait has come down to us, and reveals intelli- 
 gence; it is not strange, however, that in transmission 
 through the medium of the engraver's art, much of 
 her personal attractiveness has evaporated.* All ac- 
 counts are united that she possessed a voice of great 
 charm; she was the daughter of one who had in her 
 time been herself a famous beauty, and was twenty-two 
 years old when Milton listened enraptured to her song, 
 perhaps at a concert at the Barberini Palace.f 
 
 * The portrait may be seen in Ademollo's monograph on Leonora Baroni, 
 La Leonora di Milton e di dementi IX., A. Ademollo. (No date.) 
 
 fit was not hard for her to find a protector in Rome; she was the 
 favourite of Cardinal Rospigliosi, and for z considerable time afterwards 
 basked in pontifical favour when that dignitary was elevated to the Papal 
 See as Clement IX. 
 
 Having in his mind to bestow praise, Milton did not hesitate to give it 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 49 
 
 The first of the epigrams, Ad Leonoram Romae Ca- 
 nentem, may be thus rendered : 
 
 A winged angel from the ethereal ranks 
 In popular belief guards each man's course ; 
 What wonder, Leonora, if to thee 
 There fall a greater honour, for thy voice 
 Proclaims God present in thee. Either God 
 Or some bright spirit elect from heavenly choir 
 Sings unseen through thy throat, creative sings, 
 And teaches easily that mortal hearts 
 Accustom may themselves to immortal sounds. 
 But if God be all things, through all diffused, 
 In thee alone he speaks, all else inhabits mute. 
 
 The conception of a guardian angel, accompanying us 
 from birth to death, stayed with the poet to the end ; in 
 the Agonistes the Chorus dismisses Samson : 
 
 "Go, and the Holy One 
 
 Of Israel * * 
 
 Send thee the Angel of thy birth, to stand 
 
 Fast by thy side." 
 
 (S. A, 1427-32.) 
 
 The central idea of the epigram, that some higher power 
 found utterance through her song, was little more than 
 a rendering into Latin of that which he had previously 
 expressed in Comus: 
 
 Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould 
 Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment? 
 Sure something holy lodges in that breast, 
 
 with a lavish hand,— so generously, in fact, that to the gentle Cowper the 
 little poem apparently seemed impious, and he has left it out altogether, 
 though translating the other two epigrams ; only deigning to inform us that 
 "they appear to me far superior to what I have omitted." 
 
SO STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
 To testify his hidden residence.* 
 
 (Comus, 244-8.) 
 
 Milton had theories of his own about unseen spirits 
 which surround us all our days, conceptions whose ori- 
 gin was not to be found in the Bible. In those wonder- 
 ful lines in Comus,— hissing like a serpent,— which as 
 we read them give an instinctive thrill, not exactly of 
 fear but of surprise and apprehension as from contact 
 with the unknown and supernatural,— he speaks of 
 
 Airy tongues that syllable men's names, 
 On sands and shores and desert wildernesses ;f 
 
 (Comus, 208-9.) 
 
 and again, in Paradise Lost, when Adam is expounding 
 to Eve the utility of beauty (the converse of the senti- 
 ment that "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen"), 
 he says of the stars,— 
 
 "These, then, though unbeheld in deep of night, 
 Shine not in vain. Nor think, though men were none, 
 That Heaven would want spectators, God want praise. 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the Earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep : 
 All these with ceaseless praise his works behold, 
 Both day and night. How often, from the steep 
 Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air, 
 
 *In terms of pagan mythology, he had given expression to almost the 
 same idea in the Latin epistle to his father which has already been quoted. 
 Ante, p. 32. 
 
 t Compare the following from Keats : 
 
 Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, 
 That come a swooning over hollow grounds, 
 And wither drearily on barren moors. 
 
 (Endymion, I., 285-7.) 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 51 
 
 Sole, or responsive each to other's note, 
 Singing their great Creator ! Oft in bands 
 While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, 
 With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds 
 In full harmonic number joined, their songs 
 Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven." 
 
 (P. L., IV., 674-88.) 
 
 That Milton should give credence to these unseen deni- 
 zens of the air is an imaginative contribution of his own 
 to the accepted mythology of his time. It is a curious 
 note of harmony on his part with mystics like Blake or 
 Swedenborg of a later period, between whom and him- 
 self there is as a rule little in common. Ordinarily Mil- 
 ton was content to accept literally the word of Scripture 
 with slight regard for the gloss of any commentator, 
 whatever the weight of his authority, even if it were 
 Chrysostom or Jerome ; but here exuberant fancy swept 
 him quite off his feet. 
 
 The Italian sonnets and canzone were inspired by 
 admiration for the new sort of beauty which he saw in 
 Bologna; whether any one particular woman was re- 
 sponsible for his youthful enthusiasm, we may not 
 know. In the Third Sonnet he speaks of 
 
 L'erbosa val di Reno e il nobil varco ; 
 
 which makes the reference to Bologna assured, since 
 that city, if not literally on the banks, is in the vale of 
 the winding Reno. It is quite possible that his rhapso- 
 dies were only a tribute to this brilliant new sort of 
 beauty, for, as we have seen, he had confided to Diodati 
 that "his soul was tremulous with emotion by reason of 
 the beauty which it beheld." If there were poetic agita- 
 
52 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 tion it would be natural for him to express himself in 
 verse; he would not be human, far less young and a poet, 
 if he did not occasionally have such impulses of delicious 
 agitation. In the Fifth Sonnet he makes confession to 
 Diodati— a pathetic confidence, since his friend was 
 probably dead when the lines were composed, although 
 it was not until some time afterwards that the news of 
 that event reached him : 
 
 Diodati, and I will tell it thee with wonder, 
 That wayward I, who used to scorn Love, 
 And at his snares have often laughed, 
 At last have fallen, where a good man at times 
 is entangled. 
 
 (Pattison's Translation.) 
 
 We may compare with this a passage from a letter in 
 Latin, written when he was about seventeen. He is 
 describing a walk in the country, and we catch a glimpse 
 of his temperament: 
 
 Here many a virgin troop I may descry 
 
 Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by. 
 
 Oh, forms divine ! Oh, looks that might inspire 
 
 Even Jove himself, grown old, with young desire ! 
 
 Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes, 
 
 Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies ; 
 
 Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestowed 
 
 By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road ! 
 
 Bright locks, Love's wanton snare ! then falling low, 
 
 Then playing wanton o'er the graceful brow ! 
 
 Cheeks too, more winning sweet than after shower 
 
 Adonis turned to Flora's favourite flower ! 
 
 (Elegy I., Cowper's Translation.) 
 
 A little later we find him expressing himself in not 
 dissimilar vein; the passage is found in the Seventh 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 
 
 53 
 
 Elegy, also in Latin, composed while he was at London 
 or Cambridge, and when he was between eighteen and 
 nineteen years of age; Masson gives the meaning in a 
 somewhat stilted translation, through which genuine 
 emotion is not as convincingly apparent as one might 
 desire : 
 
 "Often I scorned the arrows of Cupid as but boyish 
 darts, and derided thy deity, most Great Love. * * * 
 Anon, I am taking my pleasure, now in those places in 
 the city where our citizens walk, and now in the rural 
 neighbourhoods of the hamlets round. A frequent crowd 
 —in appearance it might seem a crowd of goddesses — 
 is going and coming splendidly along the middle of the 
 ways ; and the growing day shines with twofold bright- 
 ness. I do not austerely shun those agreeable sights, 
 but am whirled along wherever my youthful impulse 
 carries me. Too improvident, I let my eyes meet their 
 eyes, and am unable to master them. One by chance 
 I beheld preeminent over the rest, and that chance was 
 the beginning of my malady. Such as she would Venus 
 wish herself to be seen by mortals ; such as she was the 
 queen of gods to be beheld of old. This fair one mis- 
 chievous Cupid, remembering his threat, had thrown in 
 my wa)^; he alone wove the snare for me. Not far off 
 was the sly god himself lurking, his many arrows and 
 the great weight of his torch hanging from his back. 
 And without delay he clings first to the maiden's eye- 
 brow and then to her mouth; now he nestles in her lips 
 and then he settles in her cheeks; and whatever parts 
 the nimble archer wanders over, he wounds my unarmed 
 heart, alas ! in a thousand places."* 
 
 * Masson's translation, Life of Milton, I., 135-6. 
 
54 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 There is a passage in Paradise Lost very similar to 
 this, and it is interesting to note the difference between 
 real poetry and its simulacrum. It is characteristic of 
 the poet to retain in the sea of his memory whatever had 
 once been swept there by any of its innumerable tribu- 
 taries, sure to come to the surface again, perhaps after 
 long lapse of time, in some new form of beauty. The 
 poet is describing Satan's arrival in Paradise : 
 
 As one who long in populous city pent, 
 
 Forth issuing on a summer's morn, to breathe 
 Among the pleasant villages and farms 
 Adjoined, from each thing met conceives delight — 
 The smell of grain, or tedded grass, or kine, 
 Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound ; 
 If chance with nymph-like step, fair virgin pass, 
 What pleasing seemed, for her now pleases more, 
 She most, and in her look sums all delight. 
 
 (P. L., IX., 445-54-) 
 
 And again in his praise of Eve he has thrown into verse 
 the expression of this same youthful sentiment : 
 
 On her as queen 
 A pomp of winning Graces waited still, 
 And from about her shot darts of desire 
 Into all eyes, to wish her still in sight. 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 60-4.) 
 
 The poet elsewhere has his fling at "vulgar amourists," 
 and he was far from being one of these himself, yet we 
 see that in his youth he was by no means impervious to 
 female charm ; let us be thankful for that ! His equip- 
 ment was manifold; his mind, if not of a complexity like 
 that of Shakespeare, was in the realm of scholarship 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 55 
 
 wide-reaching and all-embracing. He knew his Homer 
 almost by heart, and his Euripides, but he was equally 
 familiar with Ovid, and, much as it may surprise us, this 
 amourist was his favourite among all the Latin poets; 
 one would naturally have expected that his allegiance 
 would have been first of all to the mighty Mantuan. 
 
 In the Agonist es he has lifted the veil from a passage 
 of his own biography, one very intimate indeed, the 
 scene of reconciliation with his first wife; and inciden- 
 tally the poet, now no longer young, there acknowledges 
 the irresistible sway of beauty and of passion : 
 
 Chorus. Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, 
 After offence returning, to regain 
 Love once possessed, nor can be easily 
 Repulsed, without much passion felt, 
 And secret sting of amorous remorse. 
 
 (S. A, 1003-07.) 
 
 Does one question whether this Puritan were unimpres- 
 sionable? Let us summon to recollection his portrait of 
 Eve as the fallen Archangel first beheld her, at Adam's 
 side: 
 
 She, as a veil down to the slender waist, 
 Her unadorned golden tresses wore 
 Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved, 
 As the vine curls her tendrils — which implied 
 Subjection, but required with gentle sway, 
 And by her yielded, by him best received, 
 Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, 
 And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.* 
 
 (P. L., IV., 304-n.) 
 
 * "A series of verses so harmonious that my ear is impatient of any other 
 poetry for several days after I have read them. * * * I would rather have 
 written these two lines [the last two quoted] than all the poetry that has 
 
56 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 It was this very susceptibility of the poet which was 
 responsible for the haste of his first marriage. While he 
 was in this mood of idealization, happening to behold 
 her who afterwards became his wife, — 
 
 At first all heavenly under virgin veil, 
 Soft, modest, meek, demure, — 
 
 (S. A., 1035-6.) 
 
 for the moment he was swept off his feet, and plunged 
 into an alliance that was to bring happiness to neither of 
 them. 
 
 VII 
 
 We may well rejoice that when Milton was brought into 
 the presence of splendid Italian beauty he promptly fell 
 in love, or at all events into song! He was either in 
 love, or thought that he was in love, which is the next 
 best thing, or made believe that he was in love, which, so 
 far as poetry is concerned, is better than nothing at all ! 
 With all his transcendent power of mind and strength 
 of will, he was still a very human sort of person indeed. 
 Without question he was a Puritan of the Puritans, 
 but was as well, with a poet's eagerness, responsive to 
 beauty of every sort, in man or woman or sky or flower 
 or in the human heart. Even the little traits of personal 
 vanity which he betrays do not lessen him in our esteem ; 
 for instance, his pride in his youth upon his own skill 
 with the broadsword, and his innocent boast that with 
 this weapon he was more than a match for a larger man 
 
 been written since Milton's time in all the regions of the earth. * * * Here 
 the sweetest of images and sentiments is seized and carried far away from 
 all pursuers." Landor, Southey and Landor; Imaginary Conversations, ed. 
 1876, IV., p. 446. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 57 
 
 than himself. It is not at all improbable that he was; 
 he had a well-knit frame, a quick eye, a vigourotts body, 
 and was of temperate habits; he would as a matter of 
 course, with his passion for thoroughness, have taken 
 the necessary pains to perfect himself in the art. I think 
 we may rest assured that he would render a good ac- 
 count of himself in any manly exercise to which he had 
 devoted sufficient time for practice. No one better than 
 he knew that an indextrous education is but half an 
 education ; unless the hand have its delight as well as the 
 brain, man expresses himself only in part. Proficiency 
 in music was Milton's passion, and the playing of the 
 organ and the bass viol his especial relaxation and de- 
 light. When the angelic host wished to show their gratu- 
 lation at an edict of the Most High, the poet informs 
 us that- 
 All Heaven 
 Admiring stood a space ; then into hymns 
 Burst forth, and in celestial measures moved, 
 Circling the throne and singing, while the hand 
 Sung with the voice. 
 
 (P. R., I., 168-172.) 
 
 Could there be a more emphatic record of the impor- 
 tance which he attached to the harmonious development 
 of all of one's faculties, physical as well as mental? And 
 this is consistent with the larger theme of the relation of 
 body and soul, to which we have referred. 
 
 The graceful homage of the Italian sonnets is but 
 the natural tribute of an idealist to perfection. One 
 reads with delight a certain passage in a letter to Dio- 
 dati in which he says : "God has instilled into me, at all 
 events, a vehement love of the beautiful. Not with so 
 
58 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 much labour is Ceres said to have sought Proserpine as 
 I am wont day and night to seek for the idea of the beau- 
 tiful through all the forms and faces of things, and to 
 follow it leading me on as with certain assured traces." 
 Susceptibility to the charm of woman he had without 
 doubt; we have seen what Johnson had to say about this : 
 —it may all be true, yet the poet had himself well in 
 hand. Burns, if you like, possessed this temperament in 
 fuller and more perilous endowment, but what impresses 
 one above almost anything else in his character is the 
 vigourous human sympathy that he had with every man 
 or woman, or "Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie," 
 with whom he came in. contact. This is not by any 
 means the first thing that strikes one in Milton ; he was 
 ever responsive to beauty, and in women to the charms 
 of sex and womanliness, but it can hardly be maintained 
 that his sympathies with mere human beings, if they had 
 not anything particularly to distinguish them, were very 
 acute ; and as for the ordinary run of mankind, for them 
 he had little better than contempt : 
 
 The common rout, 
 That, wandering loose about, 
 Grow up and perish as the summer fly. 
 
 (S. A., 674-6.) 
 
 Or as he says elsewhere,— 
 
 "A herd confused, 
 A miscellaneous rabble, who extol 
 Things vulgar." 
 
 (P. R., III., 49-si.) 
 
 When we observe that it is from the mouth of Christ, 
 tempted by Satan in the wilderness, that these last words 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 59 
 
 proceed, we can in some degree realize the ill esteem in 
 which he held the mere "breathers" of mankind, "Heads 
 without name, no more remembered" : * 
 
 "For what is glory but the blaze of fame, 
 The people's praise, if always praise unmixed ? 
 And what the people but a herd confused, 
 A miscellaneous rabble, who extol 
 
 Things vulgar, and well weighed, scarce worth the praise ? 
 They praise and they admire they know not what, 
 And know not whom, but as one leads the other ; 
 And what delight to be by such extolled, 
 To live upon their tongues, and be their talk? 
 Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise. 
 
 The intelligent among them and the wise 
 Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised." 
 
 (P. R., III., 47-59) 
 
 Milton, though possessed by the passion for liberty, was 
 as far removed as possible from those who would rank 
 in equality the efficient with the inefficient, and would 
 scale the power of one down to the helplessness of the 
 other. If his were the aristocratic point of view, and if 
 necessarily, in his opinion, there were better and worse 
 among the sons of men, yet should the cleavage between 
 superior and inferior be along lines of character and 
 intellectual endowment and not at all along those of 
 birth and privilege. He had little patience with the arbi- 
 trary and artificial distinctions of caste, inevitably put- 
 ting a premium upon ineptitude, the most unaristocratic 
 thing of all, and the one which he liked least. If he 
 might be willing to concede that in the knapsack of 
 
 * S. A., 679. 
 
60 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 every soldier of the Commonwealth a marshal's baton 
 lay concealed, yet would he have the matter so cunningly 
 contrived that only the eye of the most acute should ever 
 detect it, and the hand of promptest capacity be allowed 
 to grasp it. 
 
 While he was Latin Secretary in London, he lived, 
 as he wrote a correspondent, "very close." This solitari- 
 ness of disposition is a perfectly apparent trait of the 
 poet, and this very aloofness constitutes a part of his 
 distinction.* Wordsworth in his apostrophe to Milton 
 at once seizes upon this characteristic of the poet : 
 
 Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart; 
 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea ; 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 
 
 He was devoted to his friends but not particularly de- 
 sirous of extending their number, pleased rather with 
 "contemplation and profound dispute" than with the 
 refreshment and inspiration to be derived from human 
 contact. Wordsworth was quite fitted to sympathize 
 with this idiosyncrasy of Milton, for besides his shep- 
 herds and cottagers, whom he came to regard as his own 
 discovery and in a way as belonging to him,— being at 
 the same time quite willing that they should get along 
 without aid or interference on his part,— he troubled 
 himself little about the outside world. What he says of 
 shunning personal gossip reveals a similar disposition 
 of his own, — 
 
 * We find the same characteristic revealed in a letter of a later period : 
 "I have very little acquaintance with those in power, inasmuch as I keep 
 very much to my own house, and prefer to do so." Letter to Peter Heim- 
 bach, 1657. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 6l 
 
 Nor can I not believe but that thereby 
 
 Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
 From evil speaking ; rancour, never sought, 
 
 Comes to me not, malignant truth or lie. 
 
 For humanity in the abstract his love was boundless. 
 On the other hand, for the individual with his inevitable 
 foibles and limitations his interest too often failed to be 
 aroused, and this person remained to him the subject of 
 indifference, if not actively of antipathy or disgust. It 
 can hardly be claimed that patience of this particular 
 sort was the distinguishing characteristic of either of 
 these two men. 
 
 VIII 
 
 But three of the English sonnets were written before 
 the blight of an unfortunate marriage fell upon his 
 career, an obscuration destined for years to dim his 
 poetic vision. Soon after this he found himself hope- 
 lessly involved in the intricacies and torments of pam- 
 phlet-writing; and then came blindness to eclipse alto- 
 gether his physical sight. 
 
 Milton returned from the Continent in August, 1639. 
 In Italy he had received delightful welcome as a distin- 
 guished stranger and poet, had experienced the hospi- 
 tality of the Italian Academies, and of learned men in 
 Florence, Rome, and Naples. These were the "gawdy 
 days" of his whole career; never again was he to be so 
 fully at his ease, or so much petted and admired. The 
 life of scholarly relaxation and preferment to which 
 they seemed to point, it was not to be his fortune to con- 
 summate. He had come home brimful of energy and am- 
 bition, and there exists in his own handwriting, recorded 
 
62 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 within a year or two after his return, and probably be- 
 gun immediately after that event, a long list of possible 
 subjects for an epic poem, masque, or drama, in which 
 precedence was given to the subject of Paradise Lost; a 
 poem destined, however, not to be composed for twenty 
 years. 
 
 After he had decided upon the epic form (in 1642), 
 we have his own statement that he did not consider 
 himself as yet fitted, or as sufficiently experienced and 
 mature, for its production. Upon every youthful stu- 
 dent of English literature the fact has been touchingly 
 impressed that Paradise Lost was the creation of the 
 "blind old Milton" ! When he first began to write that 
 poem he was fifty years of age; this, if one stops to re- 
 flect, does not seem so excessively venerable when com- 
 pared with the age at which other men have achieved 
 great things. Goethe was eighty when he finished the 
 second part of Faust, and Tennyson of the same age 
 when he wrote Crossing the Bar. Had Milton composed 
 his epic soon after Lycidas, or at the age at which 
 Ariosto and Tasso and Spenser had composed their epic 
 poems, it would have been on the theme of Arthur, and 
 in the Latin tongue, and we should have had in a foreign 
 and disused language an Homeric rendering of the Idylls 
 of the King; but not at that stage of his career, even if 
 he had attempted to write his great poem in English, 
 could he have presented with convincing majesty the 
 glories of the Celestial City, the revolt of the heavenly 
 host, and the adventures of Lucifer. The period of his 
 life that we are considering was a tremendously forma- 
 tive one; the poet was to be brought into close contact 
 with one of the most masterful personalities of modern 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 63 
 
 times, and in the turmoil of public events was to learn 
 how a rebel might preserve his dignity and his lofty poise 
 of mind even in Hell, or in the reignof that monarch which 
 came next in succession to that of the sainted Charles. 
 
 Milton, upon his return, took rooms in London and 
 devoted himself to the education of his nephews, 
 Edward and John Philips (sons of his only sister, 
 Anne), and of a sufficient number of other scholars to 
 bring him money enough to live upon. The poet's 
 nephew, in his Life of his uncle, carefully sets forth for 
 our instruction the fact that his distinguished relative 
 was never really a mere schoolmaster; "But only was 
 willing to impart his learning and knowledge to his rela- 
 tives and the sons of some gentlemen that were his inti- 
 mate friends." Afterwards he goes on to add: "I am 
 much mistaken, if there were not about this time a de- 
 sign in agitation of making him adjutant-general in Sir 
 William Waller's army." Milton's efficiency with the 
 broadsword would, as they say in the rural districts, 
 "have come in handy" here, and it might seem as if this 
 were about his only qualification for the post. How his 
 nephew's aristocratic proclivities would have amused the 
 poet; Philips was nothing if not genteel ! 
 
 The nephew goes on to inform us about his uncle's 
 acceptance of the Latin Secretaryship. "Being more 
 and more taken notice of for his excellency of stile, and 
 depth of judgment, he was courted into the service of 
 the new Commonwealth, and at last prevailed with (for 
 he never hunted after preferment, nor affected the tin- 
 tamar and hurry of publick business) to take upon him 
 the office of Latin Secretary to the Counsel of State, 
 for all their letters to foreign princes and states ; * * * 
 
64 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 scorning to carry on their affairs in the wheedling, lisp- 
 ing jargon of the cringing French," etc.* The poet had 
 escaped one danger which beset a scholar at that time 
 even more than it would at the present day, the accep- 
 tance of a university fellowship. The man who for civil 
 and personal liberty was willing to sacrifice everything in 
 the world, and who, under what might almost appear to 
 have been a mistaken sense of duty, did actually make the 
 greatest sacrifice that poet could be called upon to offer, — 
 the burying of that "one talent which is death to hide," 
 — was not the man to be bound by the restraints, the limi- 
 tations and conventionalities of a university fellowship. 
 That, it is not unlikely, would have given us a scholar of 
 boundless erudition, but in all human probability he 
 would never have written Paradise Lost. Whether af- 
 filiated with a university or not, he was by nature a 
 scholar to his finger-tips, and traversed in his studies the 
 vast realms of human learning and philosophy. 
 
 Can there be question that at London, and in the very 
 heart of the revolutionary awakening, he felt the force 
 of that movement as could not have been the case had 
 he been instead a Cambridge recluse living in sheltered 
 ease during all that time? The tragedy of the Revo- 
 lution was now in full career; the royal army had been 
 defeated by the Scotch Presbyterians in August, 1640, 
 and the Long Parliament met in November of that year. 
 No man in England was in fuller sympathy with the 
 Puritan cause than Milton, or more alive than he to the 
 
 * Philips's Life of Milton, Lives of Edward and John Philips, edited by 
 Godwin, 1815, P- 372. 
 
 How Denmark's Secretary of State would have loved this "Hntamar"; 
 "That's good ; mobled queen is good !" And Philips's scorn of the frog- 
 eating Frenchman is conceived in his loftiest mood ! 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 65 
 
 abuses in the church. He was at this time among the 
 communicants of that church, but was not among the 
 number of those who were blind to its faults. The poet 
 came from a family of advanced ideas ; in his own case 
 the progress of evolution was from conforming church- 
 man of the Puritan wing,— and of course from the 
 standpoint of this group the state church was just as 
 genuinely their own as it was the church of the reac- 
 tionaries. From Puritan-churchman the progress was 
 easy to Presbyterian, Royalist, Independent, Common- 
 wealth's man, Oliverian, and beyond that to the belief of 
 no sect,— nearer perhaps to that of Fox, the founder of 
 the Quakers, than to any other.* Milton was saved from 
 the logical and extreme attitude toward affairs of con- 
 science, as involved in matters of state, by his intimate 
 knowledge of what was happening in the Council,— 
 whose servant he became, — and by the conviction which 
 he must have had, that the guidance of public affairs, so 
 long as Cromwell lived, was in safe hands. Had his life 
 at this time been at Cambridge or at Horton, far from 
 Whitehall, it is not at all improbable that he would have 
 opposed the Government which he was now eager to 
 support. He was fortunate in being able to see things 
 in their proper perspective. In the poet's development 
 of religious affiliations he was but acting upon the exam- 
 ple of his own father, who was born the son of a devout 
 Catholic, and had been disinherited by him for joining 
 the established church.f Father and son, these two, were 
 
 * "Milton moved forward, not because Cromwell and the rest advanced, 
 but with Cromwell and the rest." Pattison, Milton, 121-2. 
 
 t In Aubrey's Life of Milton it is stated that his father, Richard Milton, 
 "disinherited him [John Milton, Sr.] because he kept not to the Catholique 
 Religion. He found a Bible, in English, in his chamber." 
 
66 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 good consistent rebels. Strange indeed it would have 
 seemed to them had they known that they were to share 
 in the praise bestowed upon the Prince of the revolted 
 hosts of Heaven,— and for the same qualities. 
 
 In Lycidas, written three years before this, he had 
 characterized certain of the clergy in that scathing la- 
 ment of Peter : 
 
 "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, 
 Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake, 
 Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold !" 
 
 —a passage ending in the prophetic lines: 
 
 "But that two-handed engine at the door, 
 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 
 
 So far as in him lay, Milton assisted at that retribution. 
 In 1641 he published his first pamphlet, (I.) Of Re- 
 formation touching Church Discipline in England, and 
 the Causes that hitherto have hindered it, being in two 
 books and attacking the bishops and the Established 
 Church; after this followed in quick succession, (II.) 
 Of Prelatical Episcopacy, being a reply to the most 
 learned man in the English Church, Archbishop Usher, 
 who had written a pamphlet called The Apostolic In- 
 stitution of Episcopacy, and (III.) The Reason of 
 Church Government urged against Prelaty; in this may 
 be found some of the most famous passages of his prose 
 — in this and in the first of the series, that on Reforma- 
 tion. Milton has somewhere spoken of the "cooler 
 realms" of prose; certainly this is fervid enough, and 
 glows with the intensity of emotion.* Then came, in 
 
 * Sometimes even it is actual poetry in disguise, as for instance, the pas- 
 sage quoted later; p. 209. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 67 
 
 1642, (IV.) Animadversions upon the Remonstrant's 
 Defence against Smectymnuus, which was an attack 
 upon Bishop Hall, and, to say the least, a heated and 
 acrimonious attack. One more pamphlet he wrote in this 
 debate, (V.) The Apology for Smectymnuus. 
 
 These are to-day dreary reading for the most part, 
 although they contain passages of noble English scat- 
 tered like stars in the illimitable void of the skies. The 
 Reason of Church Government presents on his part a 
 distinct promise of some great work yet to be accom- 
 plished. 
 
 The energy of Milton's prose, when at its best, finds 
 few parallels in our language,— perhaps none more 
 striking than the prose of Carlyle, particularly in the 
 French Revolution. In the writings of both of these 
 authors a perfectly sane, powerful, and well-regulated 
 intelligence was aroused to emotional intensity by the 
 admiration of desperate endeavour devoted to a noble 
 cause. In Carlyle the dramatic faculty struggled with 
 the ethical as to which should predominate. We behold 
 the poet, a "mute inglorious Milton" so far as song was 
 concerned, expressing himself in concentrated fury, and 
 compelling the periods of a mighty prose to glow and 
 vibrate like impassioned verse. In Milton the rage of 
 conflict, while it lasted, deprived him of anything ap- 
 proaching to judicial impartiality, at times it even 
 robbed him of ordinary fairness; in Carlyle we behold 
 the poetic temperament somewhat schooled to the re- 
 quirements of judicial narrative, but still restive and 
 tumultuous, always to a greater or less degree exalted. 
 But these two men at least had this in common, — besides 
 the fierce energy of their prose composition, each loved 
 
68 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Liberty with uncompromising devotion, and each served 
 her with all his might, according to his several endow- 
 ment. 
 
 Milton was in the midst of the battle, and had no rea- 
 son to accuse himself of being a Laodicean, of living in 
 scholarly ease and security during the heat and struggle 
 of the day, while others were actually bearing arms and 
 risking their lives in defence of their country. He was 
 doing the best that in him lay, though with somewhat of 
 temerity when he attacked a man of Usher's erudition 
 and equipment and exalted station; "Being willing," he 
 says, "to help the Puritans, who were inferior to the 
 Prelates in learning," although "not disposed to this 
 manner of writing, wherein knowing myself inferior to 
 myself, led by the genial powers of nature to another 
 task, I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left 
 hand." 
 
 IX 
 
 Such, then, were the circumstances of his life,— living 
 in London, teaching his nephews, and aiding so far as 
 he could with his pen the cause of Reformation,— when 
 the royal army advanced upon the city, and was met 
 almost in its suburbs, on the thirteenth of November, 
 1642, by the Parliamentary forces under Essex. 
 
 If any single incident in his life reveals Milton the 
 scholar, we see it here. It was the scholar's instinct, 
 deep and inbred, that made him in a time of agitation 
 and distrust, while others were seeking excitement in 
 running about the streets for news, quietly to sit down 
 and express himself with calmness and dignity in verse, 
 the only poetry that he had written in English since the 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 69 
 
 time of Lycidas, five years before. With the two armies, 
 forty thousand men in arms, confronting each other 
 within a few miles of his door, it showed serenity of 
 spirit altogether admirable for him to compose these 
 lines : 
 
 Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms, 
 Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, 
 If deed of honour did thee ever please, 
 Guard them, and him within protect from harms. 
 He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms 
 That call fame on such gentle acts as these, 
 And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, 
 Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. 
 Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower : 
 The great Emathian conqueror bid spare 
 The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 
 Went to the ground ; and the repeated air 
 Of sad Electra's poet had the power 
 To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 
 
 How crisp, and strong, and resonant the verses roll! 
 His own later praise of 
 
 "The secret power 
 Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit, 
 
 * * * and Dorian lyric odes," 
 
 (P. R., IV., 255-7.) 
 
 might with fitness be applied to this sonnet; it, also, is a 
 Dorian lyric ode ! If Milton did not possess a command- 
 ing sense of humour, he at least had a serenity and poise 
 of mind that could lend the note almost of gaiety to what 
 he composed ; he had learned in his own heart the secret 
 of "toil unsevered from tranquillity." How soon was 
 he to be torn from this happy estate and plunged into the 
 misery and distractions of multitudinous conflict ! 
 
70 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 The poet was doubtless familiar with a certain Life of 
 Pindar by a Latin author, wherein the story is told of 
 how the house of that poet was spared by reason of a 
 notice posted on the door : "Burn not the dwelling of the 
 poet Pindar," and it is not unlikely that he had this in 
 mind when he wrote the original title to the sonnet : On 
 his dore when ye Citty expected an assault. These words 
 are found, crossed out, in the Cambridge manuscript. 
 This sonnet structurally has peculiar excellence, — its 
 rhymes are arranged according to strict rule, giving a 
 tone of quiet dignity; the poet is completely master of 
 himself, "playing almost with the steel bow of his 
 verse." * 
 
 Observe the perfectly matter-of-course way in which 
 this scholar, — 
 
 Young in years, but in sage counsel old, — 
 
 ranks himself without vainglory, as without apology, 
 with Pindar and with Euripides. One is reminded that 
 in similar mood, in Paradise Lost, when he is discours- 
 ing of his blindness, he does not hesitate to compare 
 himself with the inspired soothsayer Thamyris, and 
 with great Homer : 
 
 Those other two equalled with me in fate, 
 So were I equalled with them in renown, 
 Blind Thamyris and blind Mseonides. 
 
 (P. L, III., 33-5.) 
 
 From the time of his marriage— 1643— until r 658, the 
 year in which the last sonnet was written, and when we 
 
 * From a letter to the author by the late Prof. F. York Powell of Christ's 
 Church, Oxford. 
 In the fifth line of the sonnet the poet employs the word "charms" in 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST yi 
 
 know that he was continuously at work upon Paradise 
 Lost, Milton wrote about twenty pamphlets in English 
 and Latin. Whether or not these possess a sweet rea- 
 sonableness fitted to shape the opinions of men who dif- 
 fered from him, or whether they are of commanding 
 value to after-times, may be the subject of discussion; 
 this at least can truthfully be said, — Milton was desper- 
 ately in earnest when he wrote them, and was thinking 
 much more of vigourously attacking his adversary than 
 of the verdict of posterity, or of anything else whatever. 
 He was in the thick of the fight, with passions aroused, 
 and it is hardly fair for us two centuries and a half later 
 to judge him in cold blood. At the most, the matter can 
 have for us but an academic interest; while it lasted, it 
 was one of life and death to him.* 
 
 The scurrility and vindictiveness of the political and 
 religious pamphlets were by the temper of the time 
 deemed to be an acceptable service to the State and to 
 the cause of God. It is not at all impossible that Milton 
 may have had in mind his own contribution to the con- 
 flicts of the Commonwealth when, long afterwards, in 
 the Agonistes, he made the Chorus say to Samson — 
 
 the sense of "verses," carmina, an echo of classical usage, always agreeable 
 to him. The word has the same significance as in Paradise Lost: 
 
 "Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
 With charm of earliest birds." 
 
 (P. L., IV., 641-2.) 
 and in the Agonistes, Samson says to Dalila : 
 
 "Thy fair enchanted cup, and warbling charms, 
 No more on me have power." 
 
 (S. A., 934-5-) 
 
 Milton also uses the word "charms" in the ordinary sense of "beguile- 
 ment," as in S. A., 1040. 
 
 * Pattison vigourously characterizes the writings of this period in speak- 
 ing of "the lurid fires which glare in the battailous canticles of his prose 
 pamphlets." Milton, 14. 
 
72 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "In seeking just occasion to provoke 
 The Philistine, thy country's enemy, 
 Thou never wast remiss, I bear thee witness." 
 
 (S. A., 237-39.) 
 
 Even granting that Milton's contribution to the literary 
 controversy of the time did not advance the cause of 
 God's kingdom on earth and of Puritanism in England, 
 yet was it of no slight importance to the man himself; 
 his fighting blood was up, and he was striking good 
 downright blows. He admits us to his confidence in one 
 of the pamphlets : "I cannot praise a fugitive and clois- 
 tered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never 
 sallies out and seeks his adversary, but slinks out of the 
 race, where that immortal garland is to be run for not 
 without dust and heat." If there were fighting to be 
 done, he must have his share. 
 
 Half of the pamphlets were written on church mat- 
 ters, and several of them at the order of the Council, 
 whose servant he became in 1649. Charles was be- 
 headed in January of that year, and on March 15, Mil- 
 ton took the oath of office as Latin Secretary to the 
 Committee on Foreign Affairs, which was composed of 
 six members of the Council of State. In this latter body, 
 which was elected annually, lay the real power of Eng- 
 land, so that Milton as their servant was in close touch 
 with great events. The position which he occupied was 
 not of the first importance; this may be gathered from 
 the circumstance that the English Secretary to the same 
 Council received twice the salary that was paid to the 
 Latin Secretary, and the latter was not intrusted with 
 the original composition of despatches except in a few 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 73 
 
 instances.* The most important thing that he did in 
 this capacity was to write in Latin, among other pam- 
 phlets in the same tongue, his Defence of the English 
 People, Parts First and Second, yet these have but slight 
 value for us to-day, and no one, except the special stu- 
 dent, any longer takes the trouble to read them. 
 
 Milton, without question, was actuated by a sense of 
 duty when he accepted this position of service to the 
 Commonwealth, but it is not at all impossible that to- 
 gether with that motive, and acting as a more or less 
 unconscious element of those complex influences which 
 move one to a decision of moment, was the desire for an 
 active career, and of contact and acquaintance with the 
 leaders of Parliament and the State. This would be a 
 temptation peculiarly hard for a scholar to resist, for 
 one who had seen but little of the world of affairs, and 
 for a man of his courageous temperament. It is exactly 
 what we should expect, that he would take advantage of 
 the opportunity thus offered. As early as the year 1641 
 he has given us a record of his determination to omit 
 nothing that may fit him for his task, and has pledged 
 himself to make use of every available means toward his 
 own preparation for the great work to which he felt 
 himself dedicate. This may not be accomplished except 
 "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 life of whom he pleases. To this must be 
 added industrious and select reading, steady observa- 
 
 * We do know that on one occasion a treaty with Sweden was delayed 
 during Milton's absence owing to illness. 
 
74 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 tion, insight into all seemly and generous acts and 
 affairs." * In this passage we have recorded that theory 
 of life, if it may be so called, which had come to domi- 
 nate him even so early as this,— a full decade before the 
 chance came for him to sit at the council-board of the 
 nation during one of the most exciting periods of her 
 history. In the sonnet written on his twenty-third birth- 
 day, he has admitted us to his confidence; his firm re- 
 solve is shown, the same in youth as in age,— 
 
 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, 
 
 Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven. 
 
 We may find in his later verse a record of his feeling 
 at this time. In that memorable scene in the desert, in 
 Paradise Regained, one of the temptations offered to 
 Christ by Satan is a knowledge of the world and of 
 courts : 
 
 "Empires, and monarchs, and their radiant courts — 
 Best school of best experience." 
 
 (P. R., III., 237-8.) 
 
 Meditating upon the events of those earlier years, the 
 poet doubtless recalled what his own attitude of mind 
 at that time had been. Who, with imagination fired by 
 the success of the Parliamentary cause, could help feel- 
 ing the enticement of the occasion ! There is a passage 
 in Chaucer which, if he could have overlooked the con- 
 
 * The Reason of Church-government urged against Prelaty, Prose 
 Works, Bohn ed., II., 481. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 75 
 
 text, might have expressed his own sentiments as he 
 would wish them to be at the end of his career : 
 
 It doth mine herte boote 
 That I have had my world as in my time. 
 
 Who can say that he chose not wisely! It may have 
 taken participation in the intensest life of his time to 
 fire his genius to the creation of that which he was after- 
 wards to portray in Paradise Lost. So far as the world 
 of letters is concerned, we are the gainers by the misery 
 of the Revolution. That Milton should cease for the 
 time to be a poet might at first seem only ill fortune, 
 but it may have been a blessing in disguise, just as blind- 
 ness itself would appear to have been calamity without 
 compensation, yet the result even of that was to give 
 great and vivid concentration of poetic vision when he 
 afterwards came to write, and without doubt this afflic- 
 tion added an element of pathetic comprehension of his 
 theme when he composed the Agonistes. But as we pon- 
 der on the tragic disappointments of his life it seems at 
 first hard to say which appears the greater misfortune, 
 —that he should be blind at forty-three years of age, or 
 that he should be forced to forego for twenty years, with 
 the risk of never doing it at all, the realization in litera- 
 ture of that great work which he knew himself fitted by 
 genius to perform. 
 
 In the light of after events the closing verse of Lyci- 
 das is not without pathos : 
 
 To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 
 
 When the poet penned these words he had doubtless 
 thought that soon again his hand was to touch— 
 
76 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 The tender stops of various quills, 
 With eager thought warbling his Doric lay ; 
 
 (Lycidas, 188-9.) 
 
 but, instead, they mark the close of a period of his life, 
 one of three divisions, well defined and distinct. Before 
 he was again to resume his singing robes his feet were 
 to wander in the intricate mazes of polemical disquisi- 
 tion, and he was to imperil the performance of that ser- 
 vice to which he believed his life to be consecrated. The 
 awful perils of that delay, had he foreseen the time that 
 was to elapse before he was to resume his appointed 
 task, might well have filled his soul with apprehension. 
 We have the credible evidence of Aubrey's Memoir 
 of Milton, based on the statement of the poet's nephew, 
 Edward Philips, that he had in the same year in which 
 this sonnet was written, or in the succeeding year, al- 
 ready composed certain verses now found in the Fourth 
 Book of Paradise Lost. These were at the time in- 
 tended to be part of a tragedy on the same theme which 
 was afterwards elaborated into the epic poem. The pas- 
 sage has the true Miltonic ring and is of especial interest 
 to us here as belonging to the period which we are now 
 considering. Philips records that these lines then "were 
 shown to me, and some others, as designed for the very 
 beginning of the said tragedy" : * 
 
 "O thou that, with surpassing glory crowned, 
 Look'st from thy sole dominion like the god 
 Of this new World ; at whose sight all the stars 
 Hide their diminished heads ; to thee I call, 
 But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 
 
 * What those others were must in all human probability remain unknown. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST yy 
 
 Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams, 
 
 That bring to my remembrance from what state 
 
 1 fell, how glorious once above thy sphere, 
 Till pride and worse ambition threw me down, 
 Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King !" 
 
 (P. L, IV., 32-4L) 
 
 Philips could not have been literally exact in his rec- 
 ord, since it is impossible that this should have been the 
 opening passage of the Prologue in a drama composed 
 in the classical manner, after the usage of Euripides, 
 but would naturally be spoken by Satan at some time 
 later in the development of the play. 
 
 Milton's plan, which he had long meditated, of making 
 a drama rather than an epic poem on the theme of Para- 
 dise Lost, was not without influence on that poem when 
 the time came to compose it, and helps to account for 
 the fact that it is conceived, not so much in the spirit of 
 the other great world epics,— those of Homer, Dante, 
 and Tasso,— as in that of the ancient classical drama, 
 with whose spirit he was impregnated, and whose dig- 
 nity and stern, swift action appealed with peculiar force 
 to the mingled traits of a character at once that of the 
 scholar and of the Puritan. 
 
 The composition of Paradise Lost began when Milton 
 was fifty years of age, but the idea of it was conceived 
 by him when he was thirty-two; we have in his hand- 
 writing in 1 64 1 four drafts, in greater or less detail, of 
 the plot and general development of Paradise Lost, so 
 that for a quarter of a century the poet was brooding 
 over this theme, and doubtless during that period his 
 mind recurred to it thousands of times, and in the com- 
 pleted poem we have the result of that deliberate medi- 
 
78 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 tation. Only by a method similar to this could the 
 grand scheme of architecture to which the whole 
 edifice conforms, have shaped itself in his imagination 
 so magnificently and in such perfect proportion. 
 
 Two years of civil strife elapsed before Milton com- 
 posed the Ninth Sonnet, addressed To a Virtuous 
 Young Lady, a certain Miss Davis, with whose life, if 
 he might have done so when his wife deserted him the 
 preceding year, he fain would have united his own. The 
 sonnet is conceived in a mood of dignity and tenderness ; 
 one is moved by its very simplicity. 
 
 Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth 
 
 Wisely hath shunned the broad way and the green, 
 And with those few art eminently seen 
 That labour up the hill of heavenly Truth ; 
 
 The better part with Mary and with Ruth 
 Chosen thou hast ; and they that overween, 
 And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, 
 No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. 
 
 Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends 
 
 To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 
 
 And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure 
 
 Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends 
 Passes to bliss at the mid-hour of night, 
 Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. 
 
 If this be a love-song, it is indeed composed after a 
 strictly Puritan formula. 
 
 The second of Milton's four sonnets addressed to 
 women is conceived in a different vein. Philips tells us, 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 79 
 
 in his Life of his uncle, that one of Milton's friends at 
 this time was the wife of a Captain Hobson, the Lady 
 Margaret Ley (or Leigh), daughter of James Ley, 
 knighted when Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench 
 in Ireland, where he was hated for his severity. Even- 
 tually he became the first Earl of Marlborough, was 
 Lord High Treasurer and President of the Council 
 under King James and Charles I., and had been an ac- 
 tive supporter of the Parliamentary cause. Milton 
 addressed to the daughter of this man the quiet and dig- 
 nified sonnet which begins— 
 
 Daughter to that good Earl, once President 
 Of England's Council and her Treasury, 
 Who lived in both unstained with gold or fee, 
 And left them both, more in himself content, 
 
 Till the sad breaking of that Parliament 
 Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
 At Chseronea, fatal to liberty, 
 Killed with report that old man eloquent. 
 
 The reference in the last lines is, of course, to Isocrates, 
 to whom Milton was indebted for the title of the most 
 famous of his prose works, the Areopagitica, named 
 after the treatise of similar title by that philosopher.* 
 The sestet of the sonnet continues,— 
 
 Though later born than to have known the days 
 Wherein your father flourished, yet by you, 
 Madam, methinks I see him living yet : 
 
 * In Milton's great argument for unlicensed printing, he refers to Isoc- 
 rates, in a vein similar to that of the sonnet : "And out of those ages, to 
 whose polite wisdom and letters we owe that we are not yet Goths and 
 Jutlanders, I could name him who from his private house wrote that dis- 
 course to the parliament of Athens, that persuades them to change the form 
 of democracy which was then established." Prose Works, Bohn Ed., 
 II, 52. 
 
80 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 So well your words his noble virtues praise 
 That all both judge you to relate them true 
 And to possess them, honoured Margaret.* 
 
 Structurally the sonnet is correct in one detail which 
 Milton disregards in the majority of his sonnets, 
 —the observance of the pause between the octave and 
 sestet. The last lines come as near the epigrammatic 
 ending, without actually falling into error, as may 
 with safety be approached. Shakespeare's not un- 
 usual custom was to conclude with an epigram,— the 
 form which he employed, of three quatrains and a 
 couplet, favouring this method,— but since his time the 
 practice of English sonneteers has crystallized into a 
 different usage. Shakespeare, although quite ignoring 
 the classical form, as a rule instinctively observes the 
 pause after the octave, and advances the thought to a 
 higher stage in the sestet. The progress of the octave 
 and sestet has been likened to the motion in rise and 
 descent of a ball; the momentary pause at the turn of 
 the ball, where it seems to stop to think about going 
 home again, is that at the end of the octave. The 
 simile just fails of being a perfect one, but a sonnet 
 written on this plan falls into the vice of epigram itself, 
 —the action comes to an end with a crash, instead of 
 
 * In Philips's Life of his uncle he tells us how Milton, being deserted by 
 his wife, and "as it were a single man again, made it his chief diversion 
 now and then of an evening to visit the Lady Margaret Lee. * * * 
 This lady, being a Woman of Great Wit and Ingenuity, had a particular 
 honour for him, and took much delight in his Company, as likewise her 
 Husband, Captain Hobson, a very Accomplished Gentleman." Another of 
 Milton's friends, the poet's nephew informs us, was Lady Ranelagh : "he 
 was frequently visited by persons of quality, particularly by my lady 
 Ranala, whose son for some time he instructed," and when she went to 
 Ireland in 1656, the poet "grieves for the loss of the one acquaintance 
 which was worth all the rest." Lives of Edward and John Philips, etc., 
 edited by William Godwin, 1815, pp. 367, etc. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 81 
 
 quietly lapsing like a spent wave gently receding from 
 the shore. To compare small things with great, the 
 sestet should bear the same relation to the octave that 
 the New Testament does to the Old; it should be the ful- 
 filment and consummation of the former's hopes and 
 promise. The purpose of the former is to prepare our 
 minds for the reflection, inspiration, lesson, or revela- 
 tion held in the latter. 
 
 XI 
 
 In the two sonnets next in order one recognizes an 
 echo of the divorce pamphlets. Only unhappiness had 
 come into Milton's life from his marriage, now two 
 years past. During that time his mind, in hot and rebel- 
 lious ferment, had thrown off the four pamphlets on 
 Divorce, three hundred and seventy-five octavo pages, 
 considerably more in volume than the entire mass of the 
 five pamphlets directed against Episcopacy. Heaven 
 help the man to-day who tries to read them all ; nor is it 
 necessary that one should laboriously toil through their 
 weary pages in order to understand the poet. His soul 
 had been tried in sore distress, and in the end rose 
 stronger from the ordeal. The supreme achievement of 
 Paradise Lost,— placing him, in Shelley's words,— 
 
 The third among the sons of light, — 
 
 was due in part to the trial of this fiery furnace through 
 which he passed. As he bowed his head beneath that 
 torment, little could he see of any conceivable profit or 
 compensation; only after the lapse of many years and 
 after the chastening influence of love and death could he 
 reconcile himself to disappointment and sorrow : 
 
82 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "All is best, though oft we doubt 
 What the unsearchable dispose 
 Of Highest Wisdom brings about, 
 And ever best found in the close." 
 
 (S. A., Chorus, 1745-8.) 
 
 The poet has told us of the unpremeditated and spon- 
 taneous quality of his verse ; the same cannot be said for 
 that of his humour, but he has placed on record his own 
 feeling in regard to the facetious mood in which the two 
 sonnets which followed upon the divorce pamphlets 
 were conceived. In the Apology for Smectymnuus, writ- 
 ten three years previously, he quotes, in homely trans- 
 lation, a passage from the First Satire of Horace : 
 
 Laughing to teach the truth 
 What hinders ? as some teachers give to boys 
 Junkets and knacks, that they may learn apace ; 
 
 and in another passage from the same poem, of similar 
 
 import, he says — 
 
 Joking decides great things 
 Stronglier and better oft than earnest can.* 
 
 In one of these sonnets occurs a happy description of 
 the pamphlets as— 
 
 Woven close, both matter, form, and style. 
 
 The characterization applies equally well to his prose 
 generally; whether the textile which he would describe 
 were or were not always adorned with purple patches, 
 one may rest assured that it was strong and well woven 
 
 * These verses furnish good examples of Milton's well-known use of 
 homely words ; in his hands a weapon of force. He has given us a further 
 commentary in regard to the same subject: "And although in the serious 
 uncasing of a grand imposture there be mixed here and there such a grim 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 83 
 
 and bore a certain mark of quality and distinction, the 
 inherent characteristic of everything that proceeded 
 from his mind.* 
 
 Quite as a matter of , course, and without ostenta- 
 tion, the author states that this treatise had its vogue 
 for a time, among its readers "numbering good intel- 
 lects." He was not one to have doubts in regard to the 
 sort of mind to which his writings would appeal, neither 
 then nor at any period of his career. In the canzone, 
 the reference was to himself when he wrote, — 
 
 Other streams, 
 Other banks await thee, and waters other, 
 On whose green margin 
 Already blooms for thy hair 
 The immortal guerdon of unfading wreaths. 
 
 (Pattison's Translation.) 
 
 In the Introduction to the Doctrine and Discipline of 
 Divorce, addressed "to the Parliament of England, with 
 the Assembly," published two years previously, he had 
 given expression practically to the same idea : "I seek not 
 to seduce the simple and illiterate; my errand is to find 
 out the choicest and the learnedest, who have this high 
 gift of wisdom, to answer solidly or to be convinced." f 
 Halfway toward the completion of Paradise Lost his 
 prayer to the Heavenly Muse is that he may find pre- 
 
 laughter as may appear at the same time in an austere visage, it cannot be 
 taxed of levity or insolence : for even this vein of laughing * * * hath 
 oft-times a strong and sinewy force in teaching and confuting.'' Animad- 
 versions upon the Remonstrant's Defence, etc., Prose Works, Bonn Ed., 
 III., 44- 
 
 * "Milton's prose is not poetical prose, but a different thing, the prose of 
 a poet; not like [Jeremy] Taylor's, loaded with imagery on the outside; 
 but coloured by imagination from within." Mark Pattison, Milton, 68. 
 
 t Prose Works, Bohn Ed., III., 179. 
 
84 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 cisely this group of readers,— Matthew Arnold's "rem- 
 nant,"— 
 
 Still govern thou my song, 
 Urania, and fit audience find, though few. 
 
 (P. L., VII., 30-1.) 
 
 As well of his poetry as of his prose it may be said that 
 it appeals to the aristocracy of readers, to those of dis- 
 criminating understanding and to those sensitive and 
 responsive to the best. Here one finds no idle rhyme to 
 beguile a tedious hour, but strong verse, demanding 
 strength of intelligence to apprehend, and mental vigour 
 and alertness to appreciate and enjoy. Milton cared not 
 at all for the other sort of reader. Half of his early 
 poems were in Latin, and, as we have seen, his original 
 purpose had been that Paradise Lost should be written 
 in that language; both his poetry and his prose were 
 for the edification of scholars, and so far as he was con- 
 cerned all other persons were as if they did not exist. 
 
 XII 
 
 The Thirteenth Sonnet, written in the same year as the 
 preceding, appeared in print for the first time, prefixed 
 to a book of music by Henry Lawes and his brother, two 
 years later. Milton's obligation to Lawes, described by 
 him as a "Gentleman of the King's Chapel, and one of 
 his Majesty's private music," was great. Lawes was 
 twelve years older than the poet, and Milton had known 
 him since his own boyhood, and was doubtless ac- 
 quainted also with the circle of musical people in which 
 he moved. It was Lawes who, being instructed by the 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 85 
 
 Bridgewater family* to produce the music for a 
 masque to be presented before the Countess-Dowager of 
 Derby by the young people of her family, requested 
 Milton to write the libretto. The Arcades was com- 
 posed for that occasion and was presented at Harefield 
 House. It is quite probable that Lawes, although we do 
 not certainly know that such was the case, may have 
 enacted the part of the Genius of the Wood in this, as 
 later in Comus he took the part of the Attendant Spirit. 
 The success of that first musical festival was so evident 
 that when this accomplished musician was again called 
 upon by the Bridgewater family for another masque, 
 this time to celebrate the inauguration of the Earl of 
 Bridgewater as Lord President of Wales, they naturally 
 looked to Milton for the text, and Comus was the result. 
 The Arcades was composed to be acted before Alice, 
 Lady Strange, afterwards the Dowager Lady Derby, by 
 her grandchildren, and Comus was written for her son- 
 in-law, Lord Bridgewater. In the person of Lady Derby 
 we have a connecting link between Milton and Spenser, 
 since both of these poets dedicated verses to her. She 
 was the "sweet Amaryllis" of Spenser's Colin Clout 's 
 Come Home Again, composed nearly forty years before 
 this, and to her Spenser had dedicated his Teares of 
 the Muses, excusing his presumption for so doing by 
 reason of ties of blood. Milton has acknowledged his 
 indebtedness to Spenser, whose elevation of mind and 
 sustained quality of pure poetic imagination appealed 
 with peculiar force to the Puritan poet, and Dryden has 
 reported that he referred to him in conversation as his 
 "master," a distinction accorded to no one else; so it is 
 
 * In 1633. 
 
86 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 not of slight interest to find these two poets engaged 
 in an identical task, binding as with a ring of gold 
 the ages, far separated in so many ways, of Elizabeth 
 and of the Commonwealth. 
 
 The achievement of the Arcades, standing by itself, 
 was slight as compared with that of Comus, since the 
 former consisted merely of three songs and a brief 
 monologue; but the creation of that masque, by a 
 natural sequence of events, led to the production of the 
 latter poem, which was Milton's most sustained poetic 
 effort before the production of Paradise Lost, and 
 which sounds a note of youthfulness and of exuberant 
 vitality which we could ill spare. 
 
 Comus was printed three years later by Lawes with- 
 out the name of its author, who was then twenty-eight 
 years of age. Except a few fragments of this poem 
 which had found their way into print, this was his first 
 appearance before the public. All of .Milton's verse of 
 this middle period was stimulated by some outside cir- 
 cumstance, and English literature stands indebted in no 
 slight degree to Lawes for enlisting him in this particu- 
 lar service. Milton says of him— 
 
 Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing 
 To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire. 
 
 In Comus, the Elder Brother addresses Thyrsis, imper- 
 sonated by Lawes, in words which have a direct applica- 
 tion to the musician : 
 
 "Thyrsis ! whose artful strains have oft delayed 
 The huddling brook to hear his madrigal, 
 And sweetened every musk-rose of the dale." 
 
 (Comus, 494-6.) 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 87 
 
 Earlier in the same poem words of similar import are 
 put into the mouth of the Attendant Spirit, whom Lawes 
 is impersonating: "But first I must," he says, "take the 
 likeness of a swain," — 
 
 "Who with his soft pipe and smooth-dittied song, 
 Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar, 
 And hush the waving woods." 
 
 (Comus, 86-8.) 
 
 The poet's tribute to the musician is most courteous,— 
 having in mind to bestow praise, he gives it with a gen- 
 erous hand, — the circumstance that one was a Puritan 
 and the other a Royalist and courtier does not at all 
 detract from the cordiality of their relations. This was 
 all the more creditable to them both since political feeling 
 at this time was running high. In the political world 
 things were now happening with terrific rapidity; less 
 than a year was to elapse before Charles was to be 
 brought to his death, a lesson in constitutional law that 
 Englishmen over seas were to take to heart. 
 
 The sonnet marks a very pleasant phase of the poet's 
 character. 
 
 Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song 
 First taught our English music how to span 
 Words with just note and accent, * * 
 
 ****** 
 
 Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng, 
 With praise enough for Envy to look wan ; 
 To after ages thou shalt be writ the man 
 That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue. 
 
 The sonnet ends with a reference to another musician 
 whom Dante besought to sing in the nether world, in 
 
88 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 shades milder than those of the Infernal Regions which 
 he had just left : 
 
 Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher 
 Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing, 
 Met in the milder shades of Purgatory. 
 
 It is not often that Milton calls attention to the tech- 
 nical mysteries of his craft. That he was a profound 
 student of every conceivable device of the artist by 
 which the effect of verse is attained we may rest assured ; 
 to refinements of this nature are we indebted in no slight 
 degree for the power and freshness and ever-varying 
 charm of his poetry. That his facility in this was in- 
 stinctive as well as the result of lifelong study — like 
 Turner's mastery of rocks and trees and clouds— makes 
 it none the less remarkable and amazing. In this sonnet 
 he records his conviction that poetry should not use 
 words in unusual guise; the poet is cautioned to "span 
 words with just note and accent," not to scan with dull 
 perception, mismatching short syllables with long ones. 
 Since Milton's ear was faultless, this was exactly the 
 sort of error he was least likely to commit.* The poet's 
 ever-varying skill in versification in a poem of the length 
 of Paradise Lost, exercised with constant variety and 
 without wearying the reader, is to be compared with 
 nothing less than Beethoven's resourcefulness in musical 
 composition, his infinite subtleties of orchestration, the 
 surprise and mystery and sustained majesty of it all. 
 
 Much learned disquisition has been lavished in the 
 
 * It is to be noted that in the sonnet he uses this very word "commit" in 
 the Latin sense of committere "[as] in such a phrase as committere pu- 
 giles, to match gladiators in the circus." Masson, Notes to the Sonnets. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 89 
 
 analysis of the poetic forms of Milton's verse, the mind 
 being thereby too often diverted from its beauty and its 
 meaning to the study of its internal frame, — anatomy 
 being that science which presupposes the death of its 
 subject;— the painstaking investigation of poetic forms 
 and the art of the anatomist being in certain respects 
 very much alike, both of service to mankind, but neither 
 primarily occupied with problems of grace or vitality. 
 Doubtless Milton understood the varying intricacies of 
 "Bacchics and amphibrachs and cretics rare,"* but he 
 did not let it at all interfere with the charm of his words 
 and the flow of his verse. 
 
 XIII 
 
 The next of the sonnets, the fifth of those composed 
 perhaps in this year,f was dedicated to the religious 
 memory of Mistress Catherine Thomson, known only 
 to us as the friend of the poet. When Milton was Latin 
 Secretary he had his lodgings at the house of a man 
 named Thomson, and it is not impossible that this "Mis- 
 tress Thomson" was the unmarried daughter of that per- 
 son. She died in December, 1646. In the manuscript 
 there were several changes in the verse before the poet 
 finally got it to his mind. Three copies exist, and the al- 
 terations, as we might expect, are made with a sure 
 touch. The verse is unornate, almost staid ; no Miltonic 
 grandeur disturbs the humility of spirit in which it is 
 conceived. It is as if he who composed it stood in the 
 presence of a good and simple woman, and being per- 
 mitted to offer the reflections which naturally arose in 
 
 * Prof. Verity, Introduction to Paradise Lost, LXIX. 
 1 1645-6. 
 
90 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 his mind upon her death, had permitted us to share the 
 emotions of the moment. His intent was not other than 
 to render a simple service, and as he has not failed to 
 accomplish this, his verse has succeeded in its purpose; 
 it is in the mood of a Psalm of David. Hallam speaks 
 of "the majestic simplicity, the holy calm, that ennoble 
 many of these short compositions";* in so writing he 
 may well have had this brief poem in mind. 
 
 When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, 
 Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, 
 Meekly thou didst resign this earthy load 
 Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever. 
 
 Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, 
 Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod ; 
 But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, 
 Followed thee up to joy and bliss forever. 
 
 Love led them on ; and Faith, who knew them best 
 Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams 
 And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, 
 
 And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes 
 Before the Judge ; who thenceforth bid thee rest, 
 And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams. 
 
 These were the traits lauded in Comus: 
 
 The crown that Virtue gives, 
 After this mortal change, to her true servants 
 Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats. 
 
 (Comus, 9-1 1.) 
 
 A similar expression of the Puritan's attitude of mind, 
 without qualification or disguise, is found in Paradise 
 Lost in the words of the Almighty to his Son, when the 
 
 * Literature of Europe, III., 264. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 91 
 
 latter has announced his purpose to save man by him- 
 self undergoing death,— the tone is well-nigh identical 
 with that of the sonnet : 
 
 "Because thou hast, though throned in highest bliss 
 Equal to God, and equally enjoying 
 God-like fruition, quitted all to save 
 A world from utter loss, and hast been found 
 By merit more than birthright Son of God- 
 Found worthiest to be so by being good, 
 
 i.Far more than great or high; because in thee 
 
 Love hath abounded more than glory abounds ; 
 
 Therefore thy humiliation shall exalt 
 
 With thee thy manhood also to this throne : 
 ***** 
 
 With Joy and Love triumphing, and fair Truth." 
 
 (P. L, III., 305-338.) 
 
 Milton had long before this written other verses on a 
 similar theme : first, On the Death of a Fair Infant, the 
 child of his sister Anne ; and again, a poem On the Death 
 of the Marchioness of Winchester. The latter was com- 
 posed two years after the Hymn on the Nativity, and 
 shortly before Milton took his Master's degree; in this 
 the youthful poet has made use of the accepted attributes 
 of elegy, but has contributed genuine feeling of his own 
 and a certain poetic charm. This is not an inexperi- 
 enced hand that strikes the lyre, and one listens to the 
 sad, sweet notes convinced that the sensibilities of the 
 poet were aroused. Hallam so highly valued the dis- 
 tinction of this poem that he felt justified in saying of 
 it : "Rarely can we find more feeling of beauty than in 
 some [of its] passages." * 
 
 * Literature of Europe, III., 263. 
 
92 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Again in Lycidas was he called upon to expound a 
 similar theme in recording the loss sustained by the 
 University in the untimely death of Edward King, who 
 was drowned in crossing the Irish Sea, and this poem 
 was undoubtedly tinged by a very real mood of sadness 
 upon the poet's part since he had but recently lost his 
 own mother, and, in a certain sense, we must regard the 
 poem as a tribute to her just as much as to King, with 
 whom his acquaintance had been but slight. His emo- 
 tions had been deeply stirred by his mother's death, and 
 the immortal verses of Lycidas respond to that feeling. 
 The true vibration of this instrument is due to more 
 than the casual touch demanded by perfunctory verse. 
 
 Again, in the Epitaphium Damonis he gave expres- 
 sion to the very real grief which had come to him by 
 reason of the death of his most intimate friend, the 
 dearly beloved Charles Diodati. The poem, in spite of 
 its being in Latin, is pervaded by a very human mood of 
 tenderness which we may still detect in Cowper's sym- 
 pathetic translation, the limpid purity of whose mind 
 was admirably suited to render this affectionate tribute 
 of a youth deploring the death of his companion. Mil- 
 ton, with his sensitive and retiring temperament, was not 
 one readily to respond to close ties of friendship; and 
 having formed this bond of affection, he prized it exactly 
 in proportion to its rareness and to the difficulty,— to the 
 impossibility, — of replacing it when death had deprived 
 him of its comfort and its solace. It is genuine grief 
 that finds its outlet in these verses; the fountain from 
 which they spring lies close to the source of tears : 
 
 We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind; 
 And if the long-sought good at last we find, 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 93 
 
 When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals, 
 And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals.* 
 
 Finally, in the last of the sonnets he again stands in 
 the presence of Death, this time when it has robbed him 
 of the one deepest satisfaction of human companionship 
 which had entered into his life. 
 
 XIV 
 
 The first of the sonnets addressed to statesmen is dedi- 
 cated "To the Lord General Fairfax at the Siege of 
 Colchester,"— or, as the manuscript title reads, On the 
 Lord General Fairfax at the Siege of Colchester. Prob- 
 ably it was never actually presented to the General him- 
 self but was merely composed in his honour, and perhaps 
 handed around to be read by those of like mind who were 
 interested in, and were so eagerly following, the prog- 
 ress of public affairs. It is an expression of delight and 
 of congratulation at the success of the Independent 
 army, rather than a personal address to "the General, or 
 eulogy of the man. The same may be said of the sonnet 
 addressed to Cromwell ; it is the occasion that Milton has 
 in mind rather than the person. In the sonnet which we 
 are considering he is commemorating the successful 
 siege of Colchester, the surrender of which town marked 
 the final defeat of the King's army. Fairfax was the 
 Commander-in-chief of the Parliamentary forces, and 
 for the character and ability of this general the poet had 
 the highest esteem; elsewhere he says of him that he 
 "united the utmost fortitude with the utmost courage." f 
 
 * Epitaphium Damonis, Cowper's translation, 108-11. 
 t Defensio Secunda, translated by Robert Fellowes ; Prose Works, Bohn 
 Ed., I., 286. 
 
94 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings, 
 Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, 
 And all her jealous monarchs with amaze, 
 And rumours loud that daunt remotest kings ; 
 
 Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings 
 
 Victory home, though new rebellions raise 
 Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays 
 Her broken league to imp their serpent wings.* 
 
 Milton's idea is that the winged Hydra of rebellion 
 against the Commonwealth is being strengthened by the 
 Scotch who are now marching an army into England for 
 the purpose of rendering aid to the Royalists ; for them, 
 with "their serpent wings," he has no mercy. 
 
 The closing verses show that, Milton-like, he was not 
 at all disposed to rest satisfied with victory over the op- 
 posing armies while Parliament acted from any motives 
 other than the most pure and the most patriotic : 
 
 O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand 
 
 (For what can war but endless war still breed?) 
 Till truth and right from violence be freed, 
 
 And public faith cleared from the shameful brand 
 Of public fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed, 
 While Avarice and Rapine share the land. 
 
 The sonnets to Fairfax, Cromwell and Sir Henry 
 Vane, and the second of those to Cyriack Skinner, 
 naturally could not be published during the reign of 
 Charles II., being of too radical and republican a tone to 
 make that wise or expedient at the time. They were first 
 printed in a somewhat emended and less irritating form, 
 at the end of the Life of Milton, by his nephew, Edward 
 
 * In the last line Milton makes use of a term of falconry ; a hawk's wing 
 is said to be "imped" when new feathers are added to replace those which 
 are broken. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 95 
 
 Philips, which was prefixed to the translation of his 
 State Papers in 1694, twenty years after the poet's death. 
 They were not included among his poems until the fifth 
 edition in 171 3; fortunately they all exist in manuscript. 
 David Main, whose criticism of Milton is discrim- 
 inating, has said of this group of four sonnets: "It 
 would be difficult to name an equal number of Milton's 
 other poems exhibiting so marked a Miltonic physi- 
 ognomy." * 
 
 The siege of Colchester was in July and August, 
 1648; Charles was beheaded in the following January. 
 At this time Milton was still living quietly in London, 
 his time fully occupied in teaching his nephews and in 
 various literary tasks. We know that he was busy in the 
 compilation of a Latin Dictionary, in the writing of a 
 History of England from the most remote times, in the 
 arrangement of a Digest of Christian Doctrine from the 
 Bible, and in the metrical translation of nine Psalms 
 from the Hebrew. The compilation of a Latin Diction- 
 ary, while still a young man with his career as poet ever 
 in mind,— and before blindness came to render this task 
 impossible,— reveals his passion for words, and his de- 
 light in ascertaining their exact significance; "a power," 
 he assures us, "which is got within me to a passion." f 
 To make such a "Thesaurus" seemed to him one of the 
 things best worth doing. No one in the English-speak- 
 ing world has possessed a surer instinct for the ca- 
 pacities and capabilities of words, and in the compilation 
 of this dictionary we see the record of the poet's pains- 
 taking study. The time spent at this task is to be com- 
 
 * Main's Treasury of English Sonnets, 343. 
 
 t Areopagitka. 
 
96 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 pared with the musician's relentless and persistent 
 hours of practice. This occupation of the poet gives one 
 an insight as to the means employed by him to attain 
 that mastery of language which in its exercise seems so 
 easy, so instinctive and inevitable. 
 
 The next sonnet, addressed to Cromwell, was not 
 written for four years. During this time he had pro- 
 duced the pamphlet, important at the time, on The 
 Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, which was of influ- 
 ence in fixing the choice of the Council upon him for 
 Latin Secretary. After his appointment to this posi- 
 tion he had been fully occupied with the new duties of 
 the office, and in producing pamphlets at the order of the 
 Council. 
 
 When Milton was appointed Latin Secretary, the first 
 Civil War was over and Cromwell was making prepara- 
 tions for his Irish campaign. Milton had now been 
 totally blind for little more than a month, from which 
 cause he was not for the time being in attendance at the 
 meetings of the Council. He therefore made use of his 
 verse to urge Cromwell, who was a member of the Com- 
 mittee before whom the matter was to come, to oppose 
 to the full extent of his power and influence a ministry 
 supported by tithes. Cromwell, however, did not regard 
 this matter in exactly the same light as did Milton, to 
 whom an argument based on right reason was irresis- 
 tibly convincing, apart from all considerations of policy 
 and of the harmonious blending of conflicting interests. 
 
 One naturally turns to the sonnet on Cromwell for 
 Milton's estimate of the other's greatness, but for that 
 we must look elsewhere ; it is set forth in the Defensio 
 Secunda, published two years later. Fortunately we 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 97 
 
 have a translation of this passage full of dignity, by a 
 scholar who was deeply appreciative of elegant Latin, if 
 not altogether approving of Milton himself —by no less 
 an authority than Dr. Johnson : "A translation," he tells 
 us, "may show its servility; but its elegance is less at- 
 tainable. Caesar, when he assumed the perpetual dic- 
 tatorship, had not more servile or more elegant flattery." 
 "Nor, he might have added," comments Dr. Richard 
 Garnett, "had Augustus encomiums more heartfelt and 
 sincere." 
 
 " 'We were left,' says Milton, 'to ourselves; the whole 
 national interest fell into your hands, and subsists only 
 in your abilities. To your virtue, overpowering and 
 resistless, every man gives way, except some who, with- 
 out equal qualifications, aspire to equal honours, who 
 envy the distinctions of merit greater than their own, or 
 who have yet to learn that in the coalition of human 
 society nothing is more pleasing to God, or more agree- 
 able to reason, than that the highest mind should have 
 the sovereign power. Such, sir, are you by general con- 
 fession ; such are the things achieved by you, the great- 
 est and most glorious of our countrymen, the director of 
 our public councils, the leader of unconquered armies, 
 the father of your country ; for by that title does every 
 good man hail you with sincere and voluntary praise.' "* 
 
 The sonnet to Cromwell, as the title in the original 
 
 * The poet may well have had in mind the commanding personality of 
 his great chief when he made Satan say, in sight of Paradise and our first 
 parents : 
 
 "And, should I at your harmless innocence 
 Melt, as I do, yet public reason just- 
 Honour and empire— * * * 
 * * * compels me now 
 To do what else, though damned, I should abhor." 
 
 (P. L., IV., 388-92.) 
 
98 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 manuscript indicates, was written rather invoking aid 
 than in a spirit of adulation. Its title reads— To the 
 Lord General Cromwell, May 1652, on the Proposals of 
 Certain Ministers at the Committee for Propagation of 
 the Gospel. The purpose of the proposal to which Mil- 
 ton refers was to defeat the Presbyterians, who were 
 desirous of providing a maintenance by tithes for their 
 church. 
 
 Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 
 Not of war only, but detractions rude, 
 Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 
 To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, 
 
 And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 
 Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, 
 While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, 
 And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, 
 
 And Worcester's laureate wreath : yet much remains 
 To conquer still ; Peace hath her victories 
 No less renowned than War : new foes arise, 
 
 Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. 
 Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
 Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw. 
 
 The last lines of the sestet have been variously com- 
 mented upon by editors for two centuries and a half. 
 Unless I am mistaken, there is a gleam of Miltonic irony 
 here, a sort of savage playfulness in place of humour. 
 The rhyme is significant of contempt; it is the only 
 instance where Milton used a rhymed couplet for the 
 ending to a sonnet.* 
 
 ♦There is an archaeological aspect of this sonnet which is not without 
 interest; the fourth line reads— 
 
 "To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed." 
 
 The phrase was peculiarly familiar to the people of the time, since certain 
 of the silver coins of the Commonwealth bore this inscription around the 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 99 
 
 So far as he could, Milton was rendering aid to the 
 Parliamentary cause. Elsewhere he has recorded his 
 attitude of mind: "For he who freely magnifies what 
 hath been nobly done, and fears not to declare as freely 
 what might be done better, gives * * * the best 
 covenant of his fidelity." * The subject under discus- 
 sion was one on which he felt very strongly, and with 
 regard to which he entertained no mental reservations 
 whatever. It was his belief that matters pertaining to 
 the life of the spirit should be kept severely separate 
 from material reward. To say that he disbelieved in the 
 desirability of a "hireling ministry" is to state the mat- 
 ter very moderately; he has not left us in any doubt in 
 regard to that. He would scarify with the lash of his 
 ridicule those time-servers of the Rump Parliament who 
 constituted the Committee having this in charge, and who 
 were disposed to treat the matter in a spirit of leniency 
 and compromise. Milton was not in a mood to tem- 
 porize in the slightest degree with such persons as 
 received pay for acting as intermediaries between man 
 and God, or with any one who interfered with the simple, 
 direct relations between the created and his Creator. 
 He believed that God is a Spirit and should be wor- 
 shipped in spirit and in truth; — to attempt to accomplish 
 this by the ministration of another person seemed to 
 him nothing short of an impertinence. 
 
 This was a time of intense conviction in all matters 
 relating to worship ; men freely gave their lives for what 
 they believed to be the truth. Milton's attitude re- 
 mained unchanged on this subject from the period of 
 
 edge : "Truth and Peace : 1651." Bishop Newton, Notes to Poetical Works 
 of Milton. 
 * Areopagitica, Prose Works, Bohn Ed., II., 51. 
 
ioo STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Lycidas to that of Paradise Lost; the tone is identical in 
 both poems. In the latter he says of Satan climbing 
 over the walls of Eden, — 
 
 So clomb this first grand thief into God's fold : 
 So since into his Church lewd hirelings climb. 
 
 (P. L., IV., 192-3.) 
 
 We may not find the uncompromising bitterness of this 
 agreeable to our sense of propriety in these days when 
 the church has become an institution of such decorum. 
 In Milton's time gross corruptions existed, and were ap- 
 parent, and it was far from his purpose to ignore or to 
 condone them. Milton's indignation and wrath on ac- 
 count of these scandals was unbounded.* 
 
 While in matters of scholarship Milton was incom- 
 parably Cromwell's superior, and while there could be 
 but slight interest on Cromwell's part in many of the 
 poet's meditations and literary occupations, and while 
 there was practically no bond of fellowship arising from 
 these interests, — yet in all that concerned religious free- 
 dom and the Commonwealth of England, the Latin Sec- 
 retary was in complete accord with his chief. There is 
 no evidence, however, to show that the two men were 
 friends or ever brought into intimate personal relations. 
 Officially, Milton held but a humble position under the 
 Commonwealth ; Hume's quotation from Whitlocke, Lord 
 
 * "Milton's Italian journey brings out the two conflicting strains of feel- 
 ing which were uttered together in Lycidas, the poet's impressibility by 
 nature, the freeman's indignation at clerical domination." Mark Pattison, 
 Milton, 39. 
 
 This was the same Milton who ten years before had stated the reason 
 why he had not entered the church in accordance with his father's desire : 
 "The church to whose service * * * I was destined as a child till 
 * * * perceiving * * * that he who would take orders must sub- 
 scribe slave * * * I thought it better to prefer a blameless silence 
 before the sacred office of speaking, bought and begun with servitude and 
 forswearing." 1641. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 101 
 
 Keeper of the Seal, is familiar, in which he speaks of 
 "One Milton," as he calls him, "a blind man, who was em- 
 ployed in translating a treaty with Sweden into Latin." * 
 Milton had enormous admiration and, I doubt not, 
 liking for the Protector. A Puritan of the Puritans, 
 how could he help loving one who gave such complete 
 execution to that which they, all so ardently desired? 
 Cromwell, moreover, had his amiable side; we know that 
 his army and his officers loved him, and his letters to his 
 daughter reveal solicitude and warm affection. Though 
 stern and unrelenting in the performance of his duty as 
 it appeared to him, still was he very human indeed, and 
 the union of sensibility and of Puritanism, while our age 
 may scoff at the combination, was dear to the poet's 
 heart.f Whether or not the poet was intimate with 
 Cromwell, it was his supreme good fortune to share the 
 labours and counsels of the most masterful spirit of his 
 age ; he was storing away in his mind rich material from 
 which to draw when, in blindness and solitude, after the 
 heat and turmoil of the fray, he was to resume that occu- 
 pation which had always been regarded by him as the 
 master purpose of his life. 
 
 In Paradise Lost the poet has presented in convincing 
 lineaments the portrait of a statesman in the person of 
 Beelzebub: 
 
 Than whom, 
 Satan except, none higher sat, with grave 
 Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed 
 
 * Hume, Chapter LXIII. This humble functionary was as yet unknown, 
 except to his immediate associates and to a limited circle of scholars. 
 
 t There is a convincing note of sincerity in the letter to his daughter 
 Bridget, a young matron of twenty-two, recently the bride of his general, 
 Ireton. 
 
 "Dear Heart, press on; let not Husband, let not anything cool thy affec- 
 
102 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 A pillar of state ; deep on his front engraven 
 
 Deliberation sat and public care; 
 
 And princely counsel in his face yet shone. 
 
 * * * Sage he stood, 
 
 With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear 
 
 The weight of mightiest monarchies; his look 
 
 Drew audience and attention still as night 
 
 Or summer's noontide air. 
 
 (P. L., II., 299-309.) 
 
 This likeness is not lacking in traits of grandeur, but 
 when it comes to dramatic expression in language befit- 
 ting a great commander, it is Satan himself that most 
 nearly presents a reflex of the great Protector : 
 
 He above the rest 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 Stood like a tower. 
 
 (P. L., L, 589-91-) 
 
 The fallen Archangel is about to undertake the 
 hazardous journey from Hell to the new-created Earth, 
 and does not hesitate with exalted station to accept 
 responsibility. He speaks in downright Cromwellian 
 fashion as the born leader of men : 
 
 "But I should ill become this throne, O Peers, 
 
 And this imperial sovranty, adorned 
 
 With splendour, armed with power, if aught proposed 
 
 And judged of public moment, in the shape 
 
 Of difficulty or danger, could deter 
 
 Me from attempting. Wherefore do I assume 
 
 tions after Christ. I hope he [thy husband] will be an occasion to inflame 
 them. That which is best worthy to love in thy Husband is that of the 
 image of Christ he bears. Look on that, and love it best, and all the rest 
 for that. I pray for thee, and him ; do so for me." Letter to Bridget Ire- 
 ton, October 25, 1646. Carlyle's Cromwell, I., 229. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 
 
 103 
 
 These royalties, and not refuse to reign, 
 
 Refusing to accept as great a share 
 
 Of hazard as of honour, due alike 
 
 To him who reigns, and so much to him due 
 
 Of hazard more, as he above the rest 
 
 High honoured sits ?" 
 
 (P. L, II., 445-56.) 
 
 The sonnet to Vane forms the third of those which, by 
 reason of their republican tone, were not published with 
 Milton's other poems after the Restoration, the year 
 before the poet's death. This one had been printed 
 anonymously in 1662 in a Life of Sir Henry Vane by 
 George Sikes. The Sir Henry Vane, — 
 
 Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old, — 
 
 to whom it was addressed, was at the time a member of 
 the Council of State of forty-one members, in whom re- 
 sided the real power of government, and he was also one 
 of the Sub-committee for Foreign Affairs, consisting of 
 six members, whom Milton served in the capacity of 
 Latin Secretary. The poet sent him the sonnet on the 
 third of July, 1652, when Vane was forty years of age; 
 since his father was still alive, he was known as the 
 "younger Vane." 
 
 It seems strange to speak of one of Milton's sonnets 
 as addressed to an American, yet for a time Vane had 
 been a resident of this country, if he were not so at this 
 time. He came here with the younger Winthrop on his 
 second voyage in 1635, "forsaking," Winthrop says, 
 "the honours and preferments of the court, to enjoy the 
 ordinances of Christ in their purity here." The Puri- 
 tans came to America for "freedom to worship God"; 
 
104 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 they were convinced that they knew exactly what God 
 wanted, and were determined that he should have noth- 
 ing else. When Vane came to these shores, his father 
 was a Privy Councillor and a Secretary of State to 
 Charles I., one of the two or three most important men 
 in political affairs in England at that time. Before the 
 younger Vane, then twenty-three years of age, had been 
 on this side of the water for nine months, the General 
 Court of Massachusetts elected him Governor of the 
 Commonwealth, as she called herself, already aspiring 
 to a republican form of designation. Unfortunately, at 
 a very critical period in the history of the Massachu- 
 setts colony, when the King who had granted it was 
 already threatening the permanence of the charter on 
 which were based all her hopes of independence, Vane 
 became entangled in the controversy then active in the 
 colony, on salvation by faith or works, and championed 
 the cause of the famous Ann Hutchinson. In this he was 
 opposed by Winthrop and the Presbyterian ministers, 
 who eventually succeeded in having the woman ex- 
 pelled from the colony. Ann Hutchinson believed in 
 immediate revelations from on high,— an ever-recurring 
 miracle, and a heresy hateful to Calvinists as savouring 
 of Papist ideas, and as reflecting their belief in miracles 
 which had occurred and were occurring since the time 
 of Christ. (See Appendix II.) 
 
 Vane contrived to stir up very heated opposition on 
 account of his radical views, and left the colony in dis- 
 gust after his failure to be reelected Governor, and after 
 he had been there less than two years. He became Min- 
 ister for Foreign Affairs under Cromwell, and ten 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 105 
 
 years after the sonnet was written was beheaded by 
 Charles II.* 
 
 Lord Clarendon's estimate of Vane is that he was by 
 temperament a fanatic ; like many of the time, he repre- 
 sented an advanced type of zealous enthusiasm in mat- 
 ters of religion. If this were madness, it was of a very 
 noble sort ; and when it took possession of a nation, or of 
 an army, it made them well-nigh invincible, as those who 
 stood up against Cromwell's Ironsides many times dis- 
 covered to their cost. 
 
 Vane was an enthusiast and mystic and thought him- 
 self the inheritor of the sceptre of the millennial year. 
 For Cromwell's estimate of the man, one may recall his 
 words at the time of the dissolution of the Rump Par- 
 liament in April, 1653: "O Sir Henry Vane, Sir Henry 
 Vane! the Lord deliver me from Sir Henry Vane!" 
 uttered in the same breath with that historic outburst: 
 "What shall we do with this Bauble? There, take it 
 away !" But we must bear in mind that although Crom- 
 well might then be impatient with his foibles, he was not 
 unmindful as well of his sterling virtues, and had a 
 genuine affection for the man. After the battle of 
 Preston, in August, 1648, in a letter to his friend Oliver 
 St. John, Cromwell bids him "remember my love to my 
 dear brother H. Vane" ; a phrase conceived in a mood of 
 expansiveness not usual with the great soldier; one 
 hardly recalls in the whole long series of letters, to any 
 one outside of the circle of those directly connected with 
 
 * In 1662, the Lieutenant of the Tower records "that yesterday Sir H. 
 Vane had a full hearing at the King's Bench, and is found guilty ; and that 
 he did never hear any man argue more simply than he in all his life, and 
 so others say." Pepys's Diary, June 7, 1662. 
 
106 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 him by blood and marriage, his calling any one else "dear 
 brother."* What is of chief interest to us is that Mil- 
 ton should have awarded to him such exceedingly high 
 praise : 
 
 Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old, 
 Than whom a better senator ne'er held 
 The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled 
 The fierce Epirot and the African bold ; 
 
 On thy firm hand Religion leans 
 
 In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son. 
 
 The poet specifies five acts of service which Vane has 
 rendered to the State, and it is interesting to note what 
 particular traits he selects for praise. Rome had never 
 a better senator, he informs us, — 
 
 (i) Whether to settle peace, or (2) to unfold 
 The drift of hollow states [Holland perhaps] 
 
 hard to be spelled ; 
 Then to advise (3) how War may, best upheld, 
 Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, 
 In all her equipage ; besides to know 
 (4) Both spiritual power and (5) civil, 
 
 what each means, 
 What severs each, thou hast [thou'st] learned, 
 which few have done. 
 The bounds of either sword to thee we owe. 
 
 The three sonnets to Fairfax, Cromwell and Vane 
 present, as no other portion of his entire poetic work 
 
 * Carlyle's Cromwell, II., 45. Again, after the battle of Dunbar he says 
 in a touching letter to his wife, September 4, 1650 : "The particulars of our 
 late success Harry Vane or Gilbert Pickering will impart to thee." Vane 
 was one of his intimates. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 107 
 
 does, certain characteristics of the man which are appar- 
 ent in his prose.* 
 
 Milton was following close in the footsteps of Spenser 
 when he composed the sonnets addressed to the states- 
 men of his times ; one has but to compare the following, 
 addressed to Lord Burleigh, found among the eighteen 
 sonnets which precede the Faerie Queene: 
 
 To you, right noble Lord, whose careful brest 
 To menage of most grave affairs is bent ; 
 And on whose mightie shoulders most doth rest 
 The burden of this kingdom's government, 
 
 As the wide compasse of the firmament 
 On Atlas mightie shoulders is upstayd, 
 Unfitly I these ydle rimes present, 
 The labour of lost time, and wit unstayd : 
 
 Yet if their deeper sence be inly wayd 
 
 And the dim vele, with which from commune vew 
 Their fairer parts are hid, aside be layd, 
 Perhaps not vaine they may appear to you. 
 
 Such as they be, vouchsafe them to receave, 
 And wipe their faults out of your censure grave. 
 
 XV 
 
 When Milton wrote his famous sonnet On the Late 
 Massacre in Piedmont, three years after the preceding, 
 it is not impossible that his mind was dwelling again on 
 the theme of Paradise Lost. His nephew tells us that 
 three years later than this he was continuously at work 
 
 * Here may be detected some slight echo of that endowment which made 
 Channing say of him : 
 
 "To many he seems only a poet, when in truth he was a profound scholar, 
 a man of vast compass of thought, imbued thoroughly with all ancient and 
 modern learning, and able to master, to mould, to impregnate with his own 
 intellectual power, his great and various acquisitions." W. E. Channing, 
 The Poetical Genius of Milton. 
 
108 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 upon it, and, as we have seen, he had long since written 
 a certain passage, now found in the Fourth Book of 
 that poem, which was intended as a portion of a tragedy 
 on the same theme. 
 
 One does not maintain that the same feeling pervades 
 this sonnet which is the life and atmosphere of Paradise 
 Lost; that is primarily and above all else a work of the 
 imagination, a poem wherein are marshalled those 
 varied traits of imagery which, united, produce their 
 impressive effect of sublimity, and which combine in 
 themselves the richness and grandeur, the manifold 
 qualities of distinction, which a world's epic should 
 possess ; the sonnet is the expression of powerful feeling, 
 clothed in simple, homely words. This may at least be 
 said of it without exaggeration : the sonnet is the product 
 of Milton's genius at the height of its powers, and is in 
 every way worthy of the mind that was so soon to evolve 
 in its intricate simplicity, in its grand and unconfused 
 proportions, the poem of Paradise Lost. 
 
 The event which roused Milton to this "trumpet blast" 
 of wrath, to the solemn invoking of God's anger against 
 the offenders, was the massacre of three hundred inno- 
 cent men, women and children of the people known as 
 Vaudois, or Waldenses, living high up in the Alpine val- 
 leys of Piedmont in Italy. The Vaudois were poor 
 peasants, a few thousand in number, who from time im- 
 memorial had, in spite of persecution, refused to comply 
 with the demands of the Roman Catholic Church. They 
 were "Protestants" long before the Reformation ; it was 
 even claimed that they had maintained in unbroken tra- 
 dition the practices of primitive Christianity from the 
 times of the Apostles, and for this reason they were 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 109 
 
 peculiarly dear to all Protestant countries when the 
 atrocious crime of which they were now the victims was 
 committed. This was the people,— 
 
 Who kept [God's] truth so pure of old, 
 When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones. 
 
 Their valleys were a part of the possessions of the 
 Duke of Savoy, and, by the leniency of the House of 
 Savoy, this humble folk had been somewhat spared for 
 several generations from marked persecution. The pres- 
 ent Duke, on the attainment of his majority, determined 
 to bring them into the church. Catholic friars were sent 
 among them, one of whom was killed; whereupon the 
 edict went forth from the Court of Turin that the entire 
 population of nine of their communes should within 
 three days, unless they pledged themselves to enter the 
 Roman Catholic Church within twenty days thereafter, 
 remove to five of their communes situated higher up in 
 the Alps, an act in itself of great cruelty since these 
 Alpine valleys at this season of the year were cold and 
 forbidding. Remonstrance to the Court was in vain, 
 and toward the end of April, still a time of snow in the 
 Alps, the threat was put into execution.* A body of 
 troops sufficient for the purpose, a part of them Irish 
 mercenaries,— of course good Catholics and of none too 
 tender sensibilities,— was sent among them, and for 
 eight days everything that hatred and resistance could 
 inspire, or brutal cruelty and lust suggest, was wreaked 
 on the helpless villagers. Many were killed, others were 
 
 * Carlyle is in error when he says of the time of the massacre that "the 
 month was December" {Cromwell, V., 117) ; it actually occurred between 
 the seventeenth and twenty-fourth of April, i6sS- See Masson's summary 
 of events, Life of Milton, V., 38 seq. 
 
HO STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 dragged away in chains ; their only safety was in flight 
 higher up the mountains, where, without food or suffi- 
 cient shelter, great hardship was suffered. A circular 
 letter from the representatives of these poor people was 
 addressed to the Protestant Powers of Europe, and the 
 news of the massacre reached England a month later. 
 None felt the calamity more acutely than Cromwell, who 
 said that it came as "near his heart as if his own nearest 
 and dearest had been concerned." 
 
 A day of humiliation was appointed, and by the order 
 of the Lord Protector a very considerable sum for their 
 relief was collected throughout England and Wales, 
 Cromwell himself giving from his private purse a sum 
 equivalent to seven thousand five hundred pounds of the 
 money of our day.* The matter became one of chief 
 importance in the Council, and Milton drew up in Latin 
 no less than seven letters: to the Duke of Savoy, the 
 King of France, the Swiss Cantons, the King of Sweden, 
 and others, invoking aid and demanding redress. 
 
 This whole awful incident of the massacre in Pied- 
 mont for many reasons appealed with peculiar force to 
 Milton's sympathies. We may recall that the most in- 
 timate friendship of his youth had been that with the 
 young physician, Charles Diodati, who was of Italian 
 birth, and this circumstance had been of vital influence 
 in quickening his interest in the Italian tongue and in all 
 things pertaining to the country where it is spoken. His 
 journey to Italy had naturally strengthened his interest 
 in things Italian, so that having vividly in his mind both 
 the land and its people, the massacre of this little group 
 
 * The total amount collected would be equal to £137,000 of our money. 
 Masson, V., 41. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST m 
 
 of primitive Christians wounded his dearest sensibil- 
 ities. The matter necessarily came before him in all its 
 details in his official capacity as scribe to the Council. 
 
 It was the duty of the English Secretary to the Coun- 
 cil of State to write the foreign despatches, which were 
 then rendered into the language of diplomatic correspon- 
 dence by the Latin Secretary. But in several of these 
 papers the hand of Milton is easily recognized. With his 
 mind full of the subject, and with interest and emotions 
 aroused, he naturally sought expression for profound 
 feeling in verse. The result was that he then composed 
 what is certainly one of the most magnificent sonnets in 
 the English language, which may fitly be characterized 
 in the poet's own words : this was indeed the "precious 
 life-blood of a master spirit." * 
 
 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
 Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
 Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 
 When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, 
 
 Forget not : in thy book record their groans 
 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
 Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled 
 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
 
 The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
 
 To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
 
 The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow 
 A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, 
 Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 
 
 His wrath is so kindled that the words pour forth in 
 impetuous torrent. | Mr. Mark Pattison's analysis of 
 
 * Areopagitica. 
 
 t It is characteristic of the quick flow of the verse that in the sixth and 
 seventh lines the poet has omitted the verb : "Forget not those that [were] 
 
H2 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 what constitutes the peculiar excellence of this sonnet 
 is discriminating: "With what homely materials is 
 the effect produced! Not only is there not a single 
 purple patch in the wording, but of thought, or image, 
 all that there is is a borrowed thought, and one repeat- 
 edly borrowed, viz., Tertullian's saying, 'The blood of 
 the martyrs is the seed of the Church.' * * * With 
 a familiar quotation for its only thought, and with dic- 
 tion almost below ordinary, its forceful flood of sup- 
 pressed passion sweeps along the hackneyed biblical 
 phrases of which it is composed, just as a swollen river 
 rolls before it the worn pebbles long ago brought down 
 from the mountain side. From this sonnet one may 
 learn that the poetry of a poem is lodged somewhere else 
 than in its matter, or its thoughts, or its imagery, or its 
 words. Our heart is here taken by storm, but not by 
 any of these things. The poet hath breathed on us, and 
 we have received his inspiration." * 
 
 The excellence of this sonnet lies truly in something 
 else than poetic idea or grandeur of diction; if Words- 
 worth's characterization of poetry be correct, this 
 exactly fulfils its requirements,— it is a "spontaneous 
 outburst of powerful emotion." He may well have had 
 this sonnet in mind when he said of Milton,— 
 
 in their ancient fold slain by the bloody Piemontese.'' There is a similar 
 omission in the nineteenth sonnet: "Though my soul [be] more bent To 
 serve therewith my Maker." 
 
 * Mark Pattison, The Sonnets of John Milton, 59-60. 
 
 Landor's appreciation is always of weight : 
 
 "Porson. [Milton has composed] a magnificent psalm of his own in the 
 form of a sonnet. 
 
 Southey. You mean on the massacre of the Protestants in Piedmont? 
 This is indeed the noblest of sonnets. 
 
 Porson. There are others in Milton comparable to it, but none else- 
 where." Landor, Southey and Porson; Imaginary Conversations, III., 56. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 113 
 
 In his hand 
 The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew 
 Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 
 
 Whether the sonorous ring of its verse is suggested 
 most happily by likening it to the trumpet blast, or 
 whether it approach not nearer to the grand organ roll, 
 whose music is heard, sometimes in faint undertone, 
 again in overpowering volume, surging and resounding 
 through the mighty verse of Paradise Lost, — of this 
 there can be no question, that in its limited compass echo 
 "the solemn and divine harmonies of music." 
 
 It is a satisfaction to know that Cromwell's remon- 
 strance and the forcible presentation of the case in Mil- 
 ton's letters were not without effect. The Duke of Savoy 
 was forced to withdraw his cruel edict, and a treaty was 
 formed by which the Vaudois were permitted for the 
 time to continue in the exercise of their religious free- 
 dom. But, alas ! the poor Piedmontese saw not an end to 
 their persecutions. Three years later we find further 
 correspondence from the Lord Protector to Louis XIV., 
 "Most serene and potent Prince, most close Friend and 
 Ally" : one of Milton's letters. The Latin pulses and vi- 
 brates with intensity, reminding one of the sonnet which 
 we have just read ; fortunately we have it in Carlyle's 
 translation.* "The terms of the Peace were settled in 
 your Town of Pignerol; hard terms; but such as those 
 poor People, indigent and wretched, after suffering all 
 manner of cruelties and atrocities, might gladly ac- 
 quiesce in ; if only, hard and unjust as the bargain is, it 
 
 * Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, V., 152 seq. 
 
H4 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 were adhered to. It is not adhered to : those terms are 
 broken; the purport of every one of them is, by false 
 interpretation and various subterfuges, eluded and vio- 
 lated. Many of these People are ejected from their Old 
 Habitations ; their native Religion is prohibited to many : 
 new taxes are exacted; a new fortress has been built 
 over them, out of which soldiers frequently sallying 
 plunder or kill whomsoever they meet. * * * 
 
 "Which now, O Most Christian King, I beseech and 
 obtest thee, by thy right-hand which pledged a league 
 and Friendship with us, by the sacred honour of that 
 Title of most christian,— permit not to be done: nor 
 let such license of savagery, I do not say to any Prince 
 (for indeed no cruelty like this could come into the 
 mind of any Prince, much less into the tender years 
 of that young Prince, or into the woman's heart of 
 his mother), but to those most accursed Assassins, be 
 given." 
 
 Space forbids the quotation of the entire letter, but it 
 is, as we might expect, most eloquent, and presents the 
 claims of these poor Alpine peasants in very convincing 
 form. "Remember that these very People became sub- 
 jects of thy Ancestor, Henry, most friendly to Protes- 
 tants. * * * The instrument of that their Paction 
 and Surrender is yet extant in the Public Acts of your 
 Kingdom in which this among other things is specified 
 and provided against, that these People of the Valleys 
 should not therefore be delivered over to any one except 
 on the same conditions under which thy invincible An- 
 cestor had received them into fealty." Therefore 
 Oliver, by Milton's hand, now urges Louis to effect an 
 exchange of territory with the Duke of Savoy by which 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 115 
 
 the Piedmontese might be brought under the protection 
 of the French flag. 
 
 Milton's letter was supported and supplemented by 
 one from the Lord Protector himself to the English 
 Ambassador to the French Court. Oliver states all the 
 points to be negotiated explicitly and with force. 
 
 Soon after this correspondence came the fall of Dun- 
 kirk, and Turenne's victory, effected by English aid. 
 Doubtless the French monarch, as requested, took 
 measures to prevent fresh massacres : "Their grievances 
 were again 'settled,' scared away for a season, by nego- 
 tiation." * 
 
 XVI 
 
 The sonnets to Cromwell, Vane, and on the massacre 
 in Piedmont were all written after Milton's blindness; 
 that On his Blindness, in the same year as the last of 
 these. It is the meditation of a wise man schooling him- 
 self to adversity ; not a sound of repining do we hear in 
 the presence of almost overwhelming misfortune, such 
 as the moan echoing in the Agonist es, — 
 
 "O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, 
 Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 
 Without all hope of day I" 
 
 (S. A, 80-2.) 
 
 Only the lament here of a strong man that his voice of 
 song has not been raised in the service of God,— since, 
 as Milton believed, God is best served by the faithful 
 exercise of those talents which he has given, to one five, 
 
 * Carlyle, Cromwell, V., 159. 
 
u6 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 to another two, to another one ; to every man according 
 to his several ability. 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent 
 
 Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 
 And that one talent which is death to hide 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 My true account, lest He returning chide, 
 "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" 
 I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 
 
 That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need 
 Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state 
 
 Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed, 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 They also serve who only stand and wait." 
 
 The note of the sonnet is patience and Christian resig- 
 nation : 
 
 Who best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. 
 
 As in the second of the sonnets addressed to Cyriack 
 Skinner, he reveals his undaunted courage; in spite of 
 all, he is able to, — 
 
 Still bear up and steer 
 Right onward. 
 
 The spirit of his maturity was consistent with that of 
 his youth, but we no longer hear of that incentive which 
 then urged him on to relentless effort and untiring prep- 
 aration. After his college days, and before the Italian 
 journey, we catch a glimpse of the motives that guided 
 him, and although the words are found in the elegy on 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 117 
 
 the death of Edward King and refer to him, yet the un- 
 derlying sentiment springs involuntarily from his own 
 breast, and is the expression of his own determination : 
 
 Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
 
 (That last infirmity of noble mind) 
 
 To scorn delights and live laborious days. 
 
 (Lycidas, 70-2.) 
 
 Then Phoebus, to console the shepherd as he repines over 
 the uncertainties of life, instils into his mind the consola- 
 tion of a fame higher than that of mortal birth : 
 
 "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
 Nor in the glistering foil 
 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, 
 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
 And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
 As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
 Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." 
 
 (Lycidas, 78-84.) 
 
 In both youth and age, so far as the regulation of his 
 own personal conduct was concerned, the one thing of 
 all that seemed to him the best worth while was— 
 
 To scorn delights and live laborious days. 
 
 XVII 
 
 The sonnet under consideration and the second of those 
 to Cyriack Skinner, also on the theme of his blindness, 
 are biographically of peculiar interest. The great 
 misfortune of blindness, which was to wrap him in soli- 
 tude,— "from the cheerful ways of men Cut off,"— a 
 disaster that to one of less courageous temperament 
 
n8 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 might well have proved overwhelming, had been coming 
 on for ten years, and was now complete in his forty-fifth 
 year. The Latin Secretary had received ample warn- 
 ing from his physicians that he must not continue to 
 use his eyes, but in spite of the injunction had delib- 
 erately proceeded with the Defensio {Prima) pro Po- 
 pulo Anglicano, feeling it his duty to aid the cause of 
 Liberty so far as it lay in his power, whatever the result 
 to himself might be. 
 
 It is not impossible that in a double sense we are in- 
 debted to his blindness for the existence of Paradise 
 Lost itself. To begin with, the very vividness of the 
 scenes depicted there we owe in no slight degree to the 
 infirmity of a blind man, who could summon before his 
 inner vision the celestial city and the imaginary charac- 
 ters of his poem with no distracting pictures of the 
 world about him. All was excluded except the radiant 
 fields of his imagination; they were more real than the 
 world itself in which he lived. In addition to this, the 
 very circumstance that he was blind and "In disgrace 
 with fortune and men's eyes" helped without doubt to 
 shield him from the wrath of the avenging judges after 
 the Restoration, and before Paradise Lost was written. 
 Why Milton should have escaped death among the regi- 
 cides has always remained somewhat of a mystery. It is 
 known, however, that he had powerful friends in Parlia- 
 ment, and that every care was taken by them to avert this 
 catastrophe ; the thing seems to have been managed with 
 no slight skill. In particular, the poet Andrew Marvell, 
 whom Milton had formerly recommended to Cromwell 
 as his own assistant Latin Secretary, did all that he could 
 in his behalf; others, to whom his name was not un- 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 119 
 
 known as that of poet and scholar in an age when schol- 
 arship was still reverenced, came to his aid. 
 
 When Milton was finally released from the custody of 
 the Sergeant-at-Arms, after the passage of the Indem- 
 nity Bill, a certain Colonel King was one of the two mem- 
 bers of Parliament who seconded Marvell's motion for 
 an inquiry as to whether the fees charged by the Ser- 
 geant-at-Arms were not in his case excessive. It is not 
 impossible that this Colonel Edward King was a relative 
 of that Edward King in whose honour Lycidas had been 
 composed. It would be no slight satisfaction to know 
 with certainty that this was the case, and that represen- 
 tatives of Edward King's family did at this time make 
 an effort to repay so far as they were able the enormous 
 obligation they were under for the distinction conferred 
 upon their name, — a distinction which will endure as 
 long as English literature itself. Whatever political 
 interest was enlisted in his behalf, the fact that he was 
 blind must have had its influence in averting prosecu- 
 tion, since it has never been a British trait to strike an 
 adversary when he is down.* Although Parliament, 
 after the Restoration, failed to keep faith with the Puri- 
 tans in accordance with the Declaration made at Breda 
 by Charles II., yet this Parliament was composed in 
 large part of English gentlemen, and it is not impossible 
 that they might condone the escape of one who was both 
 blind and, so far as they could see, insignificant. 
 
 * Milton did not, however, get off quite unscathed; besides the fees, to 
 which reference has been made, due to the Sergeant-at-Arms, he was 
 mulcted in not less than two thousand pounds, a sum equivalent to more 
 than three times that amount to-day, and the loss of which robbed his 
 later years in no slight degree of reasonable ease and comfort. While 
 these years were not exactly spent in poverty, the margin which separated 
 them from such estate was but narrow. 
 
120 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 His blindness thus served to protect him, and as well 
 
 it opened to his inward eye celestial scenes. That the 
 
 imaginative vision of the blind is more vivid than that 
 
 of other men is well known. The poet speaks of one in 
 
 blindness,— 
 
 With inward eyes illuminated; 
 
 (S. A., 1689.) 
 
 and in his youth he had written to Diodati of — 
 
 Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight.* 
 
 We have ample evidence that Milton was assured in his 
 own mind of his increased endowment : 
 
 "[He] closed mine eyes. 
 Mine eyes he closed, but open left the cell 
 Of fancy, my internal sight." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 459-61.) 
 
 To that imaginative power, so augmented, are we in- 
 debted for the master works of his genius. 
 
 All of Milton's faculties were unconsciously gathering 
 and solidifying and ordering themselves for the supreme 
 effort of Paradise Lost. 
 
 They also serve who only stand and wait, 
 
 says the man whose "unpremeditated verse," — 
 
 Unmeditated; such prompt eloquence 
 
 Flowed from [his] lips, in prose or numerous verse, 
 
 More tuneable than needed lute or harp 
 
 To add more sweetness ; 
 
 (P. L., V., 149-52.) 
 
 * Elegy VI., Cowper's translation. 
 
1 
 FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 121 
 
 whose verse in two or three years was to flow in the 
 mighty current of Paradise Lost; whose hand was to 
 strike with ease and with firmness those heroic chords, 
 as only two, or three, or four men, in the whole history 
 of the world, have succeeded in doing; in sympathy with 
 which every man that reads, feels himself dignified, and 
 ennobled, and taught infinite lessons of courage and of 
 proud humility. 
 
 Similar to the sonnet which we have been considering, 
 and also on the theme of his blindness, is the second of 
 those addressed to Cyriack Skinner, who was of the little 
 band of young men, one of whom daily read and walked 
 with him ; it was written on the third anniversary of the 
 day on which at last he became totally blind.* 
 
 Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though clear, 
 To outward view, of blemish or of spot, 
 Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
 Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
 
 Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 
 Or man, or woman. 
 
 With harmless vanity he assures his friend that blind- 
 ness has not spoiled his good looks. In the Defensio 
 Secunda we have the poet's own account of his eyes: 
 "They are externally uninjured; they shine with a clear, 
 unclouded light, just like the eyes of those whose vision 
 is most acute." f 
 
 Like enough to be a continuation of the sonnet are 
 
 * March, 1653. 
 
 t St. John's translation, P. W., IV., 267. 
 
 Milton apparently inherited his weak eyes from his mother, who, Aubrey 
 informs us, used spectacles "presently after she • was thirty years old." 
 "His father read without spectacles at 84." The following passage is from 
 the manuscript notes left by John Aubrey, the antiquary of Oxford, for a 
 brief Life of the poet: "Of middle stature. He had light brown, abroun, 
 
122 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 the lines of the Third Book of Paradise Lost, which are 
 almost exactly of the requisite length of a sonnet and 
 are conceived in a mood not unfitted for expression in 
 sonnet form, and may almost be divided into octave and 
 sestet; the latter verses, moreover, being of a reflective 
 tone appropriate to this form of verse : 
 
 Seasons return ; but not to me returns 
 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
 
 Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 
 
 But clouds instead and ever<-during dark 
 
 Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 
 
 Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair, 
 
 Presented with a universal blank 
 
 Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased, 
 
 And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 
 
 So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 
 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
 
 Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from thence 
 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight. 
 
 (P. L., III., 41-55.) 
 
 The sonnet to Cyriack Skinner continues Milton-like ; 
 in nothing that he wrote do we see the fibre of his char- 
 acter more plainly shown than here : 
 
 Yet I argue not 
 Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
 Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer 
 Right onward.* 
 
 hair. His complexion exceeding fayre. He was so fayre that they called 
 him the Lady of Xt. Coll. Ovall face, his eie a darke gray." Aubrey says 
 elsewhere: "Extreme pleasant in his conversation, and at dinner, supper, 
 etc., but satyrical. He pronounced the letter R very hard,— Litera canina, 
 a certain signe of a satyrical wit. (From Jo. Dryden.)" 
 l? * In line 8, the phrase to "bear up" is capable of ambiguous meaning ; in 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 123 
 
 The restoration of Charles II. to the English throne 
 was to take place in less than five years. That restora- 
 tion, to Milton, was to be the shattering of his dearest 
 hopes. The work for which in his youth he had so care- 
 fully trained himself, and to which all his powers were 
 bent, still unperformed; himself in hopeless blindness, 
 in poverty, in hiding, in disgrace, and almost in the pres- 
 ence of old age ; alone, his second wife dead after fifteen 
 months of happy married life (the more pleasing in 
 contrast with the griefs and disappointments of his first 
 marriage)— such a life to another might well have 
 seemed failure indeed! Yet the most sympathetic ad- 
 mirer of Milton, and the most unreserved republican, 
 may be pardoned if he rejoice in the service which 
 Charles II. unwittingly rendered to the cause of civiliza- 
 tion, perhaps the greatest service that he rendered at all, 
 the setting free of the man John Milton from unprofit- 
 able tasks to write Paradise Lost, even if the causes 
 which produced that liberation were apparently misfor- 
 tunes to the man, and for a time postponed Democracy 
 in England and the achievement of those ideals for 
 which Cromwell lived and for which the Commonwealth 
 had been created. 
 
 The ending of this sonnet shows that he had no 
 doubt in regard to the value of the service which he was 
 rendering to the cause of liberty. He is still referring to 
 his eyes, now completely deprived of sight : 
 
 What supports me, dost thou ask ? 
 The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied 
 
 nautical parlance it signifies "to take one's course toward" an object, and 
 is here used in conjunction with the other similar phrase, to "steer right 
 onward." (Verity, Milton's Sonnets* 58.) 
 
124 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 In Liberty's defence, my noble task, 
 Of which all Europe talks from side to side. 
 This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask 
 Content, though blind, had I no better guide.* 
 
 XVIII 
 
 The ending of the sonnet is conceived in a mood of 
 Christian meekness, as different as possible from the 
 dramatic rendering of Satan in Paradise Lost, who 
 through pride and envy was cast with his followers 
 from Heaven; yet does the dramatic presentation of 
 Satan in certain aspects express a similar aspiration. 
 The attitude of mind in which this character is con- 
 ceived, and the action in which he is involved, are also 
 a plea for liberty, and consequently have held the sym- 
 pathies of mankind even when the didactic justice of the 
 Creator, as expounded in the poem, has left them un- 
 moved or, what is worse still,— themselves rebellious 
 and estranged. 
 
 There is an incident in the early life of the poet, 
 which, if taken in conjunction with this which we have 
 been considering, is not lacking in significance. When 
 Milton was on his way home from Italy, in June, 1639, 
 he wrote in the album of his host at Geneva a quotation 
 from Comus, and beneath it the adaptation of a line 
 from Horace : 
 
 Coelum, non animum, muto, dum trans mare curro.f 
 
 *In the twelfth line Masson, in his edition of the Minor Poems, reads 
 "rings" instead of "talks," which he is not justified in doing. The Cam- 
 bridge manuscript has "talks"; this was changed by Philips to "rings." 
 He probably had in mind the first line of Sonnet XV : 
 
 Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings. 
 
 t Coelum non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt. 
 
 Ep. I., ii. 27. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 125 
 
 There seemed to him then, as all his life long, nothing 
 more desirable for a rational man to possess than inflex- 
 ible will and a constant mind. When, long afterwards, 
 in the exuberance of imagination, he came to depict the 
 fallen Archangel, he gave of the very choicest in his own 
 soul, perhaps in more generous measure than he himself 
 was quite aware of, and unconsciously, it may be even 
 in spite of himself, he endowed the fallen Angel with his 
 own unswerving ideals. Almost the first word of Luci- 
 fer to the heavenly host, after their fall, when they had 
 finally recovered sufficient strength to lift themselves 
 from the "fiery gulf," and to stand upon "the firm brim- 
 stone," "the burning marie,"— is the exact echo of the 
 words recorded by Milton in his fervid youth : 
 
 "Nor * * do I [he says] repent, or change 
 
 * * * * that fixed mind." 
 
 (P. L, I, 96-7.) 
 
 A little after this their chief reminds his followers of 
 their one dearest possession, still their own, even if in 
 Hell,— 
 
 "The unconquerable will, 
 
 And courage never to submit or yield," — 
 
 (P. L., I., 106-8.) 
 
 a will not only unsubdued but beyond subjection! Let 
 us, he says to his companion, Beelzebub — 
 
 "Consult * * * * 
 
 What reinforcement we may gain from hope 
 If not what resolution from despair." 
 
 (P. L., L, 187-91.) 
 
 Then follows that noble passage which is but the echo 
 of the poet's own youthful resolution : 
 
126 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "Hail, 
 Infernal world ! And thou, prof oundest Hell, 
 Receive thy new possessor, one who brings 
 A mind not to be changed by place or time." 
 
 (P. L, L, 250-3.) 
 
 If they must accept defeat, they will do it as downright 
 Cromwellians, — like the Ironsides on the eve of Dunbar, — 
 
 Firm and unmoved 
 With dread of death to flight or foul retreat. 
 
 (P. L., I., 5S4-5.) 
 
 Never stronger than in the presence of untoward for- 
 tune: 
 
 "To bow and sue for grace 
 With suppliant knee, and deify his power 
 Who, from the terror of this arm, so late 
 Doubted his empire, — that were low indeed ; 
 That were an ignominy and shame beneath 
 This downfall." 
 
 (P. L., I., 111-116.) 
 
 Beelzebub, "his bold compeer,"— 
 
 One next himself in power, and next in crime, 
 
 (P. L., I., 79) 
 
 replies with determination which is only a reflection of 
 his own God-derived obstinacy,— 
 
 "The mind and spirit remains 
 Invincible." 
 
 (P. L., I., 139-40.) 
 
 The true Miltonic note is heard in the leader's re- 
 joinder : 
 
 "Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable, 
 
 Doing or suffering." 
 
 (P. L., I., 157-8.) 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 127 
 
 His followers respond with eagerness— how could they 
 else?— to the inspiration of his courage: 
 
 Thus they, 
 Breathing united force with fixed thought, 
 Moved on in silence to soft pipes that charmed 
 Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil. 
 
 (P. L., L, 559-62-) 
 
 A further appeal is made to our sympathies by the fact 
 here brought out that before the revolt of the arch- 
 angels it was not fully known and accepted beyond all 
 possible question, that the Ruler of Heaven was omnipo- 
 tent; a circumstance of the drama which is sometimes 
 overlooked. Even God himself, in taking counsel with 
 the Son, vicegerent of his might, admits to him that, — 
 
 "Nearly it now concerns us to be sure 
 Of our omnipotence. * * * 
 
 Let us advise, and to this hazard draw 
 With speed what force is left, and all employ 
 In our defence, lest unawares we lose 
 This our high place, our sanctuary, our hill." 
 
 (P. L, V., 721-32.) 
 
 That does not seem the utterance of one who was abso- 
 lutely impregnable, invulnerable, omnipotent. The in- 
 ference is obvious, that without an exercise of care their 
 own dynasty might be impaired or overthrown. If God 
 himself be constrained to admit contingency of defeat, 
 who can blame Lucifer for sharing the opinion of his 
 Chief ? In the Archangel's address to the army follow- 
 ing his standard he says,— 
 
 "But he, who reigns 
 Monarch in Heaven, till then as one secure 
 
128 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute, 
 Consent or custom." 
 
 (P. L, L, 637-40.) 
 
 In spite of all his magnificence the angels had as yet 
 no positive knowledge based upon experience that their 
 mighty Ruler was all-powerful and irresistible. Previ- 
 ously to this Beelzebub had glanced at the same igno- 
 rance on the part of the fallen angels, by implication 
 asserting that he himself was unaware at the time of 
 God's full strength : 
 
 "But what if he our conqueror (whom I now 
 Of force believe almighty, since no less 
 Than such could have o'erpowered such force as ours)," etc. 
 
 (P. L., I., 143-5.) 
 
 Of course one must receive with a certain degree of 
 mental reservation any communications between Lucifer 
 and Beelzebub; their evidence is necessarily tainted by 
 self-interest and by resentment caused by recent events 
 in Heaven, and may be accepted as of weight only 
 when confirmed by that of some one in whom we have 
 unimpaired confidence. When this evidence however 
 coincides, as here, with the admissions of God himself, 
 one can no longer refuse to give it serious consideration. 
 
 Without question the devout Calvinist of that day to 
 the plea of Beelzebub would instantly have replied that 
 ignorance of the law is no defense to him who has com- 
 mitted crime ; but in the two centuries and a half which 
 have elapsed since this poem was composed the religious 
 conviction of the Anglo-Saxon race has ripened and 
 matured,— the people of that time would doubtless have 
 said that it has since progressed an appreciable degree 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 129 
 
 toward deterioration, perhaps decay; but we of this day, 
 —owing no small part of our enlightenment to Milton 
 himself, and although living in an age far from spiritual, 
 —have grasped one idea of deep significance, to which 
 the people of that time could not attain, that there are 
 laws of spirit which the literal interpretation of the 
 written word serves only to thwart and nullify and to 
 render of no avail. 
 
 In a later book Satan is made to admit that he was 
 created by God, and owes all to him, and that, from the 
 first, he knew God to be omnipotent; but there is an ele- 
 ment of contradiction here. It is not impossible that the 
 fallen angel may, the least bit in the world, have lost 
 somewhat of his fighting edge when he could bring him- 
 self to make this admission, though we may be sure that 
 he himself would be the last person in the world (for he 
 was then in the world) to confess that such was the 
 case. We know that when the "two strong angels," 
 appointed by Gabriel as a guard around the bower of 
 our first parents, discovered Satan there, in the form 
 of a toad, whispering soft nothings into the ear of Eve, 
 one of them, Zephon, taunted him with this very thing, 
 at least in its outward and visible aspects : 
 
 "Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, 
 Or undiminished brightness, to be known 
 As when thou stood'st in Heaven upright and pure." 
 
 (P. L., IV., 835-7.) 
 
 The exuberance of the dawn is reflected in the opening 
 passages of Paradise Lost, and the poet in them has re- 
 vealed his own courage and steadfast determination to 
 do or die. The reader's sympathy is aroused for im- 
 
130 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 mortal spirits punished on account of loyalty to their 
 chief, and is equally aroused in the behalf of one who, 
 if actuated by envy, pride and ambition, yet was a con- 
 sistent rebel, was strong, and was loyal,— almost the 
 noblest virtue of them all,— and who hated the arbitrary 
 exercise of authority. Certainly, Americans, who would 
 not exist except that Englishmen beyond the seas be- 
 lieved in the divine origin of Rebellion, rather than to 
 suffer wrongs unworthy of Englishmen, must acclaim 
 such virtues even if found in Hell. Where they exist is 
 not altogether Hell; a gleam of hope and of celestial 
 light irradiates the gloom. 
 
 We have no reason to doubt that Milton started to 
 compose his epic at its beginning, and slowly progressed, 
 with slight exceptions perhaps, step by step to the end. 
 Thus, in a certain way, the early books may be consid- 
 ered as the youth of that heroic poem, and they possess 
 the attributes of youth, its exuberance and abounding 
 vitality,— particularly this glorious first book has a qual- 
 ity of promise, and of newly awakened hope and purpose, 
 which are the divine attributes of youth. Generations 
 of our blood have responded to the enthusiasm- of these- 
 opening chapters, and will respond long after our cal- 
 lous age has ceased to exist and, so far as creative poetry 
 is considered, has become but an insignificant portion 
 of the Past. 
 
 Any adequate study of the character of Satan would 
 take us far afield, but it is well known that some of the 
 noblest and most generous traits of Milton's tempera- 
 ment are shown in the portrayal of the Archfiend. If 
 the poet in the sonnet reveals the firmness of his own 
 mind, — 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 131 
 
 Yet I argue not 
 Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
 Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer 
 Right onward,— 
 
 Satan echoes the sentiment in words of moral elevation 
 equalling his own, 
 
 "The mind is its own place, and in itself 
 Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. 
 What matter where, if I be still the same ?" 
 
 (P. L., I., 254-6.) 
 
 In Paradise Lost the poet never allows us to forget that 
 the leader of the infernal hosts is an angel, one that has 
 known the beatitudes of Heaven, and who still retains 
 somewhat of divine sensibility. When he first sees the 
 newly created Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden he 
 is rapt in admiration, deeming them little inferior to 
 Heavenly Spirits bright, — 
 
 "Whom my thoughts pursue 
 With wonder, and could love ; 
 
 Whom I could pity thus forlorn, 
 Though I unpitied." 
 
 (P. L., IV., 362-75.) 
 
 He, too, was a "Heavenly Spirit bright" and one whose 
 breeding betrays his celestial origin. His punishment is 
 not merely physical degradation and torture, but is as 
 well exquisite suffering of spirit, — 
 
 The thought 
 Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 
 Torments him. 
 
 (P. L., I., 54-S-) 
 
132 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 When he brings himself to address his cohorts for the 
 first time after they have left the "burning lake," and 
 their ranks have been formed,— 
 
 Attention held them mute. 
 Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn, 
 Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth. 
 
 (P. L., I., 618^20.) 
 
 And again, in a later passage of the poem he is the vic- 
 tim of remorse,— 
 
 Now conscience wakes despair 
 That slumbered ; wakes the bitter memory 
 Of what he was, what is, and what must be 
 Worse ; 
 
 (P. L., IV., 23-6.) 
 
 and a little further on we are informed of his contrite 
 spirit, a mood genuine if of short duration,— 
 
 Abashed the Devil stood, 
 And felt how awful goodness is, and saw 
 Virtue in her shape how lovely, saw and pined 
 His loss. 
 
 (P. L., IV., 846-9.) 
 
 Even the meek and altogether adorable Eve, when she 
 is about to eat of the forbidden fruit, communes with 
 herself in words which are the expression of the poet's 
 own temperament and conviction, and which have been 
 put in her mind by the Archfiend-himself. The tempta- 
 tion of Eve is so subtly contrived that no one with a 
 single trait of nobleness in his composition, no one in 
 whose soul a gleam of godhead still survives, could fail 
 to act precisely as she did. To sin thus was not,— in the 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 133 
 
 eyes of her descendants who still possess a particle of 
 generosity,— to sin thus was not to sin at all: 
 
 "In plain then, what forbids he but to know? 
 Forbids us good, forbids us to be wise ! 
 Such prohibitions bind not. But if death 
 Bind us with after-bands, what profits then 
 Our inward freedom ?" 
 
 (P. L., IX., 75&-&O 
 
 Instead of blame for our Mother we should have only 
 gratitude and thanks, and to Satan must we yield the en- 
 tire credit for her act. The character of Eve as conceived 
 by Milton is dramatically correct; her trespass sprang 
 from an impulse so deep as to be subconscious and 
 instinctive, the inevitable expression of a mind fresh- 
 moulded by the hand of God, created by his hand from 
 the body and soul of one only a little lower than the 
 angels. 
 
 The Greek intelligence evolved its myth of Prome- 
 theus and the theft of fire, the rape of divine and illu- 
 minating knowledge. With a sureness of intuition that 
 one might naturally expect in this new-created child of 
 God, she who plucked the apple knew that the real Para- 
 dise for her children lay in knowledge, in truth, and in 
 the search after truth. In tears was accomplished this 
 parturition of newly awakened aspiration. Fresh from 
 the hand of God, with the seal of perfection upon her, 
 Eve instantly seized for her children a fire more divine 
 even than that which Prometheus brought to mankind 
 concealed in the hollow of a reed. It may be that an 
 enlightened Greek would have maintained that they were 
 one and the same. 
 
134 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 XIX 
 
 We now come to sonnets illustrating a very different 
 phase of the poet's temperament. The other of the two 
 sonnets addressed to Cyriack Skinner and the one to 
 Lawrence could ill be spared in any treatment of his 
 verse written during this period, which should present 
 a well-rounded character, or give a correct estimate of 
 the man. 
 
 The touches of humour in Paradise Lost are forbid- 
 ding; more than once do the austerities of the Hebrew 
 Jehovah yield place to the equally repellent and ungod- 
 like derision of a Jove, looking at man's foibles to laugh 
 at them, as where Raphael in the Eighth Book tells 
 Adam that man's solution of the celestial motions will 
 
 excite God's mirth : 
 
 "The rest 
 
 From Man or Angel the great Architect 
 
 Did wisely to conceal, and not divulge 
 
 His secrets, to be scanned by them who ought 
 
 Rather admire. Or if they list to try 
 
 Conjecture, he his fabric of the heavens 
 
 Had left to their disputes, perhaps to move 
 
 His laughter at their quaint opinions wide," 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 71-8.) 
 
 In the last book, the confusion of tongues provokes God 
 to merriment,— 
 
 "Great laughter was in Heaven." 
 
 (P. L., XII., 59.) 
 
 In the Fifth Book, he holds in contempt the revolt of 
 Lucifer and the Sons of Morn, although they were his 
 own created angels and a third part of the hosts of 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 135 
 
 Heaven, and had been, before the birth of his divine 
 Heir,— which was a quite recent event,— his most fa- 
 voured offspring and his delight. When the Almighty 
 has decided to punish the rebellious angel, he turns smil- 
 ingly to Gabriel,— the smile, not of mercy, but of irony. 
 The plans of Satan, who had hoped to beguile and betray 
 the Son of God, were about to miscarry, but the poet 
 informs us that, — 
 
 Contrary, unweeting, He fulfilled 
 The purposed counsel, pre-ordained and fixed, 
 Of the Most High, who in full frequence bright 
 Of Angels, thus to Gabriel smiling spake. 
 
 (P. R., I., 126-29.) 
 
 That smile is Hebraic, vindictive, cruel. Later, he de- 
 clares his purpose to defy Satan to do his worst, — 
 
 "This man * * I expose 
 
 To Satan ; let him tempt, and now assay 
 His utmost subtlety." 
 
 (P. R., I., 14&-4.) 
 
 Only severe Puritanism and Calvinistic theology could 
 so harden a poet's heart as to make him imagine the plea- 
 sure of the Creator in contemplating the infirmities of 
 his creature. Milton in his prose makes mention of 
 "grim laughter"; and of a certainty this of Jehovah is 
 saturnine enough. 
 
 Again, in the Sixth Book, the derision of the heavenly 
 hosts by Satan is hateful, although here in no way vio- 
 lating dramatic fitness : 
 
 "So they among themselves in pleasant vein 
 Stood scoffing." 
 
 (P. L., VI., 628-9.) 
 
136 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 In the Milton pamphlets are many passages which 
 may well be characterized as conceived in a mood of 
 "savage indignation,"— they are not hard to find,— and 
 once in a Greek motto written by him to be placed be- 
 neath an engraved portrait which did not suit him, affixed 
 as a frontispiece to the first edition of the minor poems, 
 Milton concealed a bitter gibe, sanctioned by the usage 
 of the time perhaps, but in itself a proceeding which 
 would not now be permitted by social ethics, but would 
 be condemned as an act of insincerity, almost of treach- 
 ery; so do fashions change from age to age in regard to 
 such matters.* Marshall, the engraver, had not been 
 successful in rendering the poet's features, and this was 
 a fault and dereliction that the latter could not quite 
 regard with philosophic equanimity, since he was always 
 somewhat vain of his personal appearance, and any 
 trifling with his dignity it was not easy for him to con- 
 done. In this mood of irritation the poet composed a 
 quatrain in Greek and handed it to the poor, deluded 
 artist with the request that it be inscribed beneath the 
 face on the engraved plate. There it will stand for all 
 time as Milton's protest against this specific act of in- 
 competency. For twenty-five years this was the only 
 published likeness of the poet. In the Pro se Defensio 
 contra Alexandrum Morum, Milton says in regard to 
 this portrait, apparently with no repentance for his act : 
 "I allowed myself to be clumsily engraved by an unskil- 
 ful engraver, because there was not another in the city 
 in that time of war." Masson thus translates the verse : 
 
 *The portrait is in an oval frame surrounded by the Muses of Tragic 
 and of Lyric Poetry, of Astronomy and of History, and with a distant 
 scene in miniature of shepherds dancing beneath the wood to the sound 
 of the pipe. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 137 
 
 That an unskilful hand had carved this print 
 You 'd say at once, seeing the living face ; 
 But, finding here no jot of me, my friends 
 Laugh at the botching artist's mis-attempt.* 
 
 In the sonnets to which we have now come we see 
 the amiable side of Milton, as nowhere else more fully. 
 They are peculiarly agreeable, being conceived in a 
 genial spirit, pleasing and dignified, and as far removed 
 as possible from the tone of those poems and passages in 
 prose wherein he attempts to give expression to a mood 
 of irony or f acetiousness : 
 
 Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, 
 
 Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, 
 Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 
 Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 
 
 From the hard season gaining? Time will run 
 On smoother, till Favonius reinspire 
 The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 
 The lily and the rose, that neither sowed nor spun. 
 
 What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, 
 Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 
 To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice 
 
 Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air ? 
 
 He who of these delights can judge, and spare 
 To interpose them oft, is not unwise.f 
 
 When Milton refers to the "lute" in this sonnet he has 
 in mind the bass-viol, in the use of which both he and 
 
 * Masson's Life of Milton, III., 459. 
 
 t Compare the ending of the sonnet, as presenting a moral lesson unex- 
 pectedly following the graceful musings of the poet, with that of one of 
 the Italian love sonnets: 
 
 Oh, were my sluggish heart and hard bosom, 
 As good a soil to him who plants from Heaven. 
 
 (IV. Pattison's Translation.) 
 
138 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Lawes were accomplished; one of the bonds of mutual 
 interest which held them together. 
 
 The last two lines of the sonnet contain one of the 
 most delightful of ambiguities, and one capable of quite 
 opposite signification. Milton does not mean that the 
 man is wise who will "spare to interpose" these relaxa- 
 tions, that is refrain from interposing them at the proper 
 time. He would permit every legitimate indulgence, and 
 accept it with grateful heart. As for the profit to be 
 derived from music, he always believed in that without 
 any mental reservation whatever, as a fountain pure of 
 refreshment and delight. 
 
 Richard Garnett has been happy in his characteriza- 
 tion of this sonnet; "[It] gives," he says, "a pleasing 
 picture of the British Homer in his Horatian hour" ; it 
 reveals a cordial side of Milton's nature and one of ser- 
 vice to us in understanding his attractiveness to men 
 much younger than himself. 
 
 The Lawrence to whom the sonnet was addressed was 
 the son of Henry Lawrence, President of the Council 
 under Cromwell, who had been one of Milton's pupils, 
 and was now twenty- two years old,— Milton being of 
 more than twice that age. When the poet offered this 
 tribute of hospitality he was of course quite blind. 
 
 Milton's praise of wine, if fervent, is always discreet.* 
 
 * Aubrey in his manuscript notes for a Life of the poet says : "Temperate, 
 rarely dranke between meales." The poet's nephew tells us of his uncle's 
 severe regimen: "He himself giving an example to those under him 
 * * * of hard study, and spare diet; only this advantage he had, that 
 once in three weeks or a month, he would drop into the society of some 
 young sparks of his acquaintance, the chief whereof were * * * two 
 gentlemen of Gray's-Inn, the beau's of those times, but nothing near so 
 bad as now-a-days; with these gentlemen he would so far make bold with 
 his body, as now and then to keep a gawdy day." (Philips, Life, 365.) 
 This must be taken cum grano salis, since it was the nephew's consuming 
 passion to have all things elegant; the audience that he had in mind was 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 139 
 
 One recalls from Boswell Dr. Johnson's illuminative 
 comment that "no part of L' Allegro is made to arise 
 from the pleasures of the bottle," a remark seeming, it 
 may be, somewhat deficient in precise grasp of that pre- 
 vailing mood of ideality which characterizes this rev- 
 erie of the Puritan poet. At all events, Johnson's com- 
 ment was in keeping with the spirit of the time in which 
 he wrote.* But Milton himself can on occasion laud "the 
 sweet poison of misused wine":— when he speaks of the 
 "cool crystalline" he does not, it is true, mean propheti- 
 cally to signify with precision that exact wine of our 
 own day to which the words might with fitness be ap- 
 plied, — but with generous praise he sings the virtues of — 
 
 "The dancing ruby, 
 Sparkling out-poured, the flavour or the smell, 
 Or taste, that cheers the hearts of gods and men." 
 
 (S. A., 543-5-) 
 
 He was not neglectful of its charm. In the entertain- 
 ment offered by our first parents to Raphael the juice of 
 the grape was offered to their guest, although the re- 
 freshment could have possessed but little virtue to cheer 
 the hearts of gods or men. It was the "grape juice" of 
 contemporary renown, a strictly temperance drink. 
 Adorable Eve presents the cup,— 
 
 Undecked save with herself, more lovely fair 
 Than wood-nymph, or the fairest goddess, 
 * * At table * * 
 
 the Court and the "sparks" of fashion ; he is constrained to insist that they 
 were "nothing near so bad as now-a-days." Oh, dear, no ! 
 _ * "The chief value of criticism," it has been sagely observed, "is the 
 light that it casts on the critic himself." Johnson in his latter days was 
 himself far from intemperate; his biographer has recorded his utterance, 
 pathetic for one of that day and generation : "The dog under the table is 
 not more unacquainted with the taste of wine than I am." 
 
140 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Ministered naked, and their flowing cups 
 With pleasant liquors crowned. 
 
 (P. L., V., 380-1; 443-5-) 
 
 For drink the grape 
 She crushes, inoffensive must, and meaths 
 From many a berry. 
 
 (P. L., V., 344-6-) 
 
 Fermented wine they had not while in a state of inno- 
 cence, but the fruit of "that forbidden tree" gave to our 
 race, with all its senses unimpaired, its first exhilaration 
 similar to that derived from "turbulent liquor" : 
 
 Her rash hand in evil hour 
 Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she eat : 
 
 * * Such delight till then, as seemed, 
 In fruit she never tasted. * * * 
 
 * * * Satiate at length, 
 And hightened as with wine, jocund and boon, 
 Thus to herself she pleasingly began, etc. 
 
 (P. L., IX., 780-94.) 
 
 Everything for the moment seemed interesting to her, 
 and very much "worth while" ! 
 
 In the Celestial City they had something bearing very 
 close resemblance to good red wine, made from the fruit 
 of the vine. Raphael informs Adam that in Heaven— 
 
 "The trees 
 Of life ambrosial fruitage bear, and vines 
 Yield nectar." 
 
 (P. L., V., 426-8.) 
 
 Whatever it was that they drank and delighted in, like 
 our wine it was the product of the vine. Is it unfair 
 to assume that it was not, as compared with our best 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 141 
 
 vintages, "more refined, more spiritous"? When the 
 empyreal host of angels is gathering before the Al- 
 mighty's throne to listen to his decree after the creation 
 of the Son, and as night comes on, they are, as was fit- 
 ting, regaled with a splendid collation,— tables piled with 
 
 angels' food : 
 
 "And rubied nectar flows 
 In pearl, in diamond, and massy gold, 
 Fruit of delicious vines, the growth of Heaven." 
 
 (P. L., V., 633-5.) 
 
 The passage immediately following, a continuation of 
 this, has an added interest from the fact that it is a fuller 
 expansion in the second edition of that which was more 
 briefly expressed in the first, so that it seems to be the 
 deliberate expression of the poet's mind,— not of great 
 moment in regard to this minute detail, but significant in 
 relation to a theme of more far-reaching import : 
 
 On flowers reposed, and with fresh flowerets crowned, 
 
 They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet 
 
 Quaff immortality and joy, secure 
 
 Of surfeit where full measure only bounds 
 
 Excess, before the all-bounteous King, who showered 
 
 With copious hand, rejoicing in their joy. 
 
 (P. L., V., 636-41.) 
 
 Milton scouted the idea that man's body, whether pure 
 or impure, was simply the tabernacle inhabited by his 
 spirit. He believed fully that man was one, body and 
 soul, the delights of the two were interpenetrating, com- 
 mingled, and interfused; and he believed that after 
 death body and soul alike reposed, awaiting in sleep, 
 almost in annihilation, the trump of the Last Judgment. 
 
142 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 The poet has given us an illuminative word on this very 
 point in the First Book of Paradise Lost, in that passage 
 descriptive of the leader of the rebel host who, "at their 
 great Emperor's call," aroused themselves from the 
 brimstone lake. He is telling us of the identity of male 
 and female spirits, this time of those evilly disposed, of 
 Baalim and Astaroth— that is, of the male and female 
 manifestations of the god Baal : 
 
 For Spirits, when they please 
 Can either sex assume, or both ; so soft 
 And uncompounded is their essence pure, 
 Not tied or manacled with joint or limb, 
 Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones, 
 Like cumbrous flesh ; but, in what shape they choose, 
 Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure, 
 Can execute their aery purposes, 
 And works of love or enmity fulfil. 
 
 (P. L., I, 423-31.) 
 
 This is consistent with his idea that the body is not 
 merely a receptacle of the spirit, "the temple of the Holy 
 Ghost." The vital principle of man is not merely a spirit 
 constrained to accept for a brief space of time its ten- 
 ancy in "this muddy vesture of decay"; his vigour is 
 dependent on "the brittle strength of bones," and upon 
 "cumbrous flesh," as well as upon energy of will and 
 spiritual endowment; the two are so inextricably in- 
 volved that soul deprived of body is doomed to that 
 which is virtually the equivalent of non-existence until 
 the call of the last trump shall summon body and soul 
 alike to a new and ampler existence. 
 
 In the Sixth Book of Paradise Lost the poet returns 
 to this theme. The sword of Michael in the conflict with 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 143 
 
 Lucifer has inflicted upon the Archangel a grievous 
 
 wound : 
 
 "Yet soon he healed ; for Spirits, that live throughout 
 Vital in every part — not, as frail man, 
 In entrails, heart or head, liver or reins — 
 Cannot but by annihilating die ; 
 Nor in their liquid texture mortal wound 
 Receive, no more than can the fluid air : 
 All heart they live, all head, all eye, all ear, 
 All intellect, all sense." 
 
 (P. L, VI., 344-51.) 
 
 The thing of primary importance to be noted in this is 
 that no slur whatsoever is cast upon the senses ; they are 
 not regarded by the poet in the least as an element of 
 disgrace to man or heavenly spirit, and we are assured 
 that the angel in his finer organization is "all sense," 
 just as fully as he is "all intellect." Puritan that he was, 
 his penetrative insight and firm logical sense could not 
 tolerate the idea of inherent degradation in a creature 
 carefully and deliberately contrived by God in his infinite 
 wisdom. The poet, although far from self-indulgent, 
 was not in any sense an ascetic ; mind and body being so 
 closely wedded, he would permit to each all reasonable 
 and legitimate gratification. In the Fifth Book of Para- 
 dise Lost Michael willingly accepts Adam's invitation 
 to share their simple repast, and tells him that the spirits 
 in Heaven also partake of food with satisfaction : 
 
 So down they sat, 
 And to their viands fell ; nor seemingly 
 The Angel, nor in mist — the common gloss 
 Of theologians — but with keen dispatch 
 Of real hunger. 
 
 (P. L., V., 433-7-) 
 
144 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 While enjoining the use and temperate enjoyment of 
 all good things, the Angel enforces the lesson of tem- 
 perance, and instructs Adam of the means by which man 
 may come in peace to the end of his career : 
 
 "If thou well observe 
 The rule of Not too much, by temperance taught, 
 ***** 
 
 Till many years over thy head return. 
 
 So may'st thou live, till, like ripe fruit, thou drop 
 
 Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease 
 
 Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature." 
 
 (P. L., XL, 530-7.) 
 
 The earliest date that can be assigned to the sonnet 
 under consideration is 1656; in November of that year 
 he married the dearly loved Catherine Woodcock, so 
 that it is fair to assume either that the sonnet was writ- 
 ten previous to that date, or what is more likely still, 
 after her death, at some time not later than 1660. As 
 one reads it with this contingency in mind, it is easy 
 to imagine a mood of composition not dissimilar to that 
 which long before had found expression in 77 Penseroso: 
 
 Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
 
 Sober, steadfast, and demure; 
 
 ***** 
 
 And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, 
 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 
 
 (II Pen., 31-46.) 
 
 Milton's revelry would not drive away any of this train, 
 not even "spare Fast"; he would welcome him too, so 
 that he might be permitted— 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 145 
 
 "Oft with gods [to] diet, 
 And [hear] the Muses in a ring 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing." 
 
 (II Pen., 46-8.) 
 
 In a vein similar to that of the sonnet under consid- 
 eration, and in one equally agreeable since it is found in 
 a sonnet addressed by the blind scholar and poet to a 
 youthful friend, is the first of the two to Cyriack Skin- 
 ner, the grandson of Coke-on-Littleton. Milton's nephew 
 informs us that more than any one else of the poet's inti- 
 mates this youth frequented his house.* 
 
 Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench 
 Of British Themis, with no mean applause, 
 Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws, 
 Which others at their bar so often wrench, 
 
 To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench 
 In mirth that after no repenting draws ; 
 Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, 
 And what the Swede intends, and what the French. 
 
 To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 
 Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ; 
 For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, 
 
 And disapproves that care, though wise in show, 
 That with superfluous burden loads the day, 
 And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.f 
 
 Cyriack Skinner, it is known, acted as Milton's amanu- 
 ensis in 1656, and this sonnet was composed during the 
 preceding year. He was an Anabaptist, the sect of Bun- 
 
 * "Above all Mr. Cyriack Skinner." Philips's Life of his uncle. 
 
 t In the fifth line the word "resolve" is in the imperative mood, "Do 
 thou resolve with me to drench deep thoughts In mirth," etc. In the eighth 
 line "intends" is the reading as found in the Cambridge manuscript. This 
 was changed by Philips to "intend" in the edition of 1673; but it is to be 
 
146 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 yan; the belief of those who composed this body being, 
 as the name implies, that infant baptism alone was use- 
 less,— that it was necessary to baptize a person again 
 after he had arrived at the age of moral responsibility, 
 —to "rebaptize." * 
 
 In the essay by Dr. Williamson on the portraits of 
 Milton, published at Cambridge at the time of the Milton 
 Tercentenary, is included the reproduction of a picture 
 by Pieter Van der Plas, now in the National Portrait 
 Gallery, and "considered to represent John Milton." As 
 accessory it has the pilgrim's staff and flask of gourd. 
 It is probably a portrait of Bunyan, and the thing about 
 it of especial interest is that it should look so much like 
 the poet; the mouth, in particular, bearing far greater 
 resemblance to that feature of Milton, as we see it in 
 portraits of established authenticity, than the same fea- 
 ture in what is called the "Woodcock portrait" of the 
 poet, included in this volume. It has been said, — "God 
 may have fashioned the other features but man makes his 
 own mouth." It is the Puritan temperament that both of 
 the portraits reveal, and they reveal strong self-con trol. 
 If these men were not of the ascetic type, at least there 
 was not in the countenance of either of them the slightest 
 stain of sensuality. The commanding delights of both 
 were those of the spirit, and of the intelligence as minis- 
 tering to the spirit; but at the same time a sound and 
 
 borne in mind that Milton did not himself revise the proofs. If the verb 
 were to be in the plural, one would naturally expect the reading: "And 
 what the Swedes intend." 
 
 * In the tract published by Milton the year before his death, Of True 
 Religion, Heresy, Schism, Toleration, etc., he includes the Anabaptists 
 among those to whom he would extend toleration. He would have leniency 
 even for those who have misunderstood Scripture, if it so be that they have 
 prayed in sincerity. The full phials of his wrath were reserved for Roman 
 Catholics; toward them he was relentless. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 147 
 
 healthy body accepted serenely and without perturbation 
 its legitimate satisfactions. 
 
 That Skinner had now become Milton's intimate friend 
 marks the poet's severance at this time both from the 
 Presbyterians and the Independents. It was with Dan- 
 iel Skinner, "merchant," the nephew of Cyriack Skin- 
 ner, that the poet at a later date deposited the manu- 
 script of the Christian Doctrine, destined to disappear 
 and not to be published until a century and a half after 
 his death. 
 
 Johnson's estimate of Paradise Lost, in spite of his 
 antipathy to the Puritan, is generous and discriminat- 
 ing, but upon only two of the sonnets could he bring him- 
 self to bestow even mild approbation,— upon the one that 
 we are considering, and the eighth, that written When 
 the Assault was Intended to the City. "The sonnets 
 deserve not any particular criticism," he tells us, "for 
 of the best it can only be said that they are not bad ; and 
 perhaps only the eighth and the twenty-first are truly 
 entitled to this slender commendation." The noblest one 
 of all, composed in eulogy of the "slaughtered saints" 
 among the Waldenses, was hateful to him as savouring 
 of the Dissenters. It was hard for him to bestow praise 
 unless it were wrung from him by lofty and sustained 
 power in the work of one whom he elsewhere character- 
 ized in lordly Johnsonian formula as "an acrimonious 
 and surly Republican." * 
 
 Landor's criticism of Milton is always illuminating, 
 therefore it is of no slight interest to see what he has 
 
 * If one would see how far blind prejudice can sway a man from a sense 
 of fairness, he has but to note that Johnson deliberately accuses Milton of 
 having himself inserted into the Eikon BasilikS a certain prayer from Sid- 
 ney's Arcadia, for the sake of afterwards accusing the King of plagiarism. 
 Pattison's Milton, 103-4. 
 
148 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 to say in regard to the sonnets: "But what noble ones 
 are the eighth, the fifteenth, the sixteenth, the seven- 
 teenth, and above all the eighteenth. There is a mild 
 and serious sublimity in the nineteenth.* In the twen- 
 tieth there is the festivity of Horace, with a due observ- 
 ance of his precept, applicable metaphorically, 
 
 Simplici myrto nihil adlabores. 
 
 This is among the few English poems which are quite 
 classical, according to our notions, as the Greeks and 
 Romans have impressed them. It is pleasing to find 
 Milton, in his later years, thus disposed to cheerfulness 
 and conviviality. There are climates of the earth, it is 
 said, in which a warm season intervenes between au- 
 tumn and winter, f Such a season came to reanimate, 
 not the earth itself, but what was highest upon it. A 
 few of Milton's sonnets are extremely bad : the rest are 
 excellent. Among all Shakespeare's, not a single one is 
 very admirable, a few sink very low." % 
 
 The sonnets to Lawrence, to Lawes, and the first of 
 those to Cyriack Skinner, were inspired by friendship, 
 as were those To a Virtuous Young Lady, and that to 
 the memory of Catherine Thomson, who had recently 
 
 *The eighth is the one addressed to the "Lady! that in the prime of 
 earliest youth" ; the fifteenth, To the Lord General Fairfax; the sixteenth, 
 To Cromwell; the seventeenth, To Sir Henry Vane; "and above all" the 
 eighteenth, On the Late Massacre in Piedmont. The nineteenth is On 
 his Blindness; the twentieth, that To Lawrence. 
 
 t St. Martin's summer, our Indian summer. 
 
 t May one, at the same time, be a good critic of Milton and a very poor 
 one of Shakespeare? In the words last quoted it was the period in which 
 he lived that spoke through Landor's mouth. If our own time have no other 
 trait of distinction, and if few are now moved by the grandeur of Milton's 
 verse, yet has it been the peculiar good fortune of our age to attain to an 
 intimate and sympathetic comprehension of great Shakespeare's mind. 
 The Elizabethan age, with its loveof adventure, and our own "Locomo- 
 tive Age,"— going with intense rapidity we know not whither,— dissimilar 
 as they are in most respects, at least have this in common. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 
 
 149 
 
 died. Besides these, Milton paid the magnificent tribute 
 of Lycidas to the memory of Edward King, whom he 
 had known but slightly. We have also of a similar na- 
 ture his tribute in Latin verse to his father, for whom he 
 had the deepest affection, and— finest of all as an ex- 
 pression of devotion— the Epitaphium Damonis, to the 
 memory of his cherished Diodati. This was Milton's 
 last poem in Latin, and his best ; we are fortunate in hav- 
 ing a translation by one sensitive to the true signifi- 
 cance of words whether in Latin or English, — the poet 
 Cowper. Milton's friendship for Diodati was, as we 
 have seen, the commanding passion of his early years. 
 More than any one else did that youth share his confi- 
 dence and aspirations. It was a love pure and noble and 
 made sacred by death : 
 
 My Damon lost ; — he too was Tuscan born, 
 Born in your Lucca, city of renown ! 
 And wit possessed, and genius and renown. 
 
 3^ J|C Jp 2|E *|C 
 
 [Oh] who, when summer suns their summit reach, 
 And Pan sleeps hidden by the sheltering beech, 
 ***** 
 
 Who then shall render me the pleasant vein 
 Of Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again ? 
 
 In more serious vein, he laments his own lot, robbed of 
 his friend's affection and sympathy; words of pathetic 
 import that might fittingly be inscribed above the grave 
 of Catherine Woodcock : 
 
 We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind ; 
 And if the long-sought good at last we find, 
 When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals, 
 And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals.* 
 ♦Cowper's translation. 
 
150 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 XX 
 
 Before we consider Milton's last touching utterance 
 in the sonnet form, it may be well to regard for a mo- 
 ment these poems as a whole, and see, if we may, what 
 qualities they possess which warrant a careful study of 
 them, although in a sense they be fragmentary and dis- 
 connected. 
 
 Milton's sonnets reflect the period of his career in 
 which they were written; they give us an insight into 
 many intimate details of his life, and are of enormous 
 interest to his biographer when studied in connection 
 with the poetry of his maturer years ; they are the sim- 
 ple, forceful utterance of a great poet who has sacri- 
 ficed his passion for Poetry to one stronger still, his 
 consuming love of Liberty. The sonnets, in many ways, 
 show the limitations of his life. They are not com- 
 posed in an imaginative vein; while this man was en- 
 dowed with a powerful organic imagination of the first 
 order, capable of expressing itself in myriad and ever 
 varying forms of beauty, the sonnets are of Doric 
 severity and simplicity. 
 
 It is remarkable that the fault of ornateness, which 
 this kind of verse had derived in a perfectly legitimate 
 way from its Italian prototype, but which was not suited 
 to the genius of our language, should have been cor- 
 rected by the one English poet whose imaginative pow- 
 ers were the most stately and the most commanding of 
 them all. Shakespeare and Spenser may well have sur- 
 passed him in variety of imaginative conception, of 
 imaginative fancy, but few will question that in the ren- 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 151 
 
 .dering of sublimity,— that which is "uplifted" above the 
 imperfections of humanity,— his is the greater name. 
 
 In the limited field now under consideration, his was 
 the credit of having penetrated to the life and intimate 
 nature of the Sonnet, and of having recognized its exact 
 scope and place in literature. For twenty years he chose 
 no other form of expression in verse. It would not be 
 surprising if poetical work whose merit so experienced 
 a critic as Dr. Johnson was for the most part unable to 
 detect, and which others since have thought of no great 
 value, should fail to make an impression on cursory 
 acquaintance; but when we have the testimony of 
 Wordsworth, who calls them "soul-animating strains," 
 it behooves one, if he may, to penetrate to the secret of 
 their power. There is in the sonnets of Milton an exer- 
 cise of art displayed which it took the kindred endow- 
 ment of Wordsworth fully to perceive and appreciate: 
 "My admiration of some of the Sonnets of Milton first 
 tempted me to write in that form," he tells us.* "In the 
 cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one afternoon in 1801, 
 my sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I had long 
 been well acquainted with them, but I was particularly 
 struck on that occasion with the dignified simplicity and 
 majestic harmony that runs through most of them— in 
 character so totally different from the Italian, and still 
 more so from Shakespeare's fine sonnets. I took fire, if 
 I may be allowed to say so, and produced three sonnets 
 the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote, except an 
 irregular one at school." f 
 
 The conditions under which were composed Words- 
 
 * Advertisement to the edition of the collected Sonnets, 1838. 
 
 t Note by Wordsworth to Miscellaneous Sonnets, Knight's Ed., VII., 154. 
 
152 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 worth's sonnets and those of Milton were as different as 
 possible; this series of verse by the bard of Windermere 
 was the fruit of a poet's mind at leisure and carefully 
 sheltered from distraction. The key to the working out 
 and to the fertility of Wordsworth's genius may be 
 found in one of his sonnets and in a letter, the two writ- 
 ten more than a quarter of a century apart;— the letter 
 long before success had crowned him, the sonnet after 
 the vast bulk of the poetry on which his fame depends 
 was composed : 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 To pace the ground, if path there be or none, 
 While a fair region round the traveller lies 
 Which he forbears again to look upon ; 
 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 
 The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
 
 // Thought and Love desert us, from that day 
 Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: 
 With Thought and Love companions of our way, 
 
 Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, 
 The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 
 Of inspiration in the humblest lay.* 
 
 Wordsworth had long meditated on the deepest issues 
 of life, and had thrown his whole soul into what he had 
 said. People naturally would not at first accept such doc- 
 trines, their interests being engrossed in the struggle for 
 preferment, and in all sorts of trivial ambitions,— as he 
 himself has confessed,— an admission perhaps all the 
 easier in his case because it was largely the confession 
 of other people's sins ; he has assured us that— 
 
 * Composed in 1833. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 153 
 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. 
 
 "What have the things which I have written," he 
 confides with touching frankness to Lady Beaumont, 
 "to do (to say it all at once) with a life without love? 
 In such a life there can be no thought; for we have no 
 thought (save thoughts of pain), but as far as we have 
 love and admiration." * 
 
 "And without love no happiness," 
 
 said Milton, f Each had discovered what was the best 
 worth while of all. 
 
 In love and thought Wordsworth's life was rounded ; 
 one was possible to him only as the other was abundantly 
 lavished upon him, and those who are familiar with the 
 circumstances of his career know that during the twenty 
 years of his inspired poetic utterance he was surrounded 
 with all the care which the affection of two remark- 
 able women, his wife and his sister, both of them of 
 the highest intelligence and sensibility, could suggest. 
 Forced to live with rigid economy, yet with everything 
 done for him that love could prompt, removed from the 
 distractions of society and the world, nourishing in medi- 
 tative calm and continence a life of sedate reflection, 
 it is no wonder that his mind attained that healthfulness 
 which is revealed in the splendid sanity of his verse, the 
 joy and refreshment and health of which could make 
 conquest even of the scientifically derived dissatisfaction 
 and overwhelming sense of futility and dejection which 
 beset John Stuart Mill at one time, as he tells us in his 
 
 * Letter to Lady Beaumont, 1807. 
 t P. L, VIII., 621. 
 
154 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Autobiography, and which perhaps much oftener pre- 
 vails in the moods of less elaborately and mechanically 
 sustained faculties. 
 
 Solitude and fostering care were absolutely necessary 
 to the accomplishment of that which Wordsworth per- 
 formed ; on the contrary, Milton produced the work that 
 we are considering amid the bustle and distractions of 
 public affairs, and while occupied in fighting the disputa- 
 tious battles of his party. Is it to be wondered at that 
 such work partakes of limitations? Yet "Milton's [son- 
 nets] stand supreme in stateliness, [as] Wordsworth's 
 in depth and delicacy," says Francis Turner Palgrave; 
 a judgment in which most critics will concur. What 
 qualities unite in them to produce their stateliness ? 
 
 The sonnets are not part of Milton's imaginative 
 poetry, are not of the same order of poetry at all as 
 Lycidas, II Penseroso, and Paradise Lost. These would 
 approach, or fulfil, the function of Poetry as Words- 
 worth has defined it, as being the end toward which he 
 himself as a poet aspired: "To console the afflicted; to 
 add sunshine to daylight by making the happy happier ; 
 to teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, 
 to think, and to feel." * No one can question that he had 
 strength of feeling, but a part of his equipment also was 
 an intense desire to elevate the feelings and thoughts 
 and ideals of mankind. 
 
 It is not for clairvoyant sight, a strength of vision 
 penetrating to the inmost life of things, for which these 
 sonnets are remarkable; nor does their value consist in 
 profound thought,— they are not to be compared in this 
 respect with those of Shakespeare, for his are packed 
 
 * Letter to Lady Beaumont. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 155 
 
 full of meaning, a more recondite significance often 
 underlying that which is first apparent. It is strength 
 of feeling which the best of these sonnets reveal ; therein 
 lies their charm, and in the simplicity of the means by 
 which the poet has produced in us the emotions which 
 had possession of his own breast. In the sonnets we do 
 not find the lyrical poet expressing himself ; they are sim- 
 ple, almost staid, but they reveal the man. 
 
 In many moods that beset us, particularly in dejection 
 or disappointment, Wordsworth may recall one to a feel- 
 ing of "Joy in widest commonalty spread" as hardly any 
 other poet can. The "still, sad music of humanity" was 
 an undertone that not even poetic ecstasy, or mood of 
 most remote abstraction, could ever forget. Milton's 
 function is not that ; Paradise Lost, or the Regained, or 
 the Agonistes, or the ode On the Nativity, or the Avenge, 
 O Lord, should be read at the height of one's faculties ; 
 in one's strength must their strength be proved. 
 
 XXI 
 
 The stateliness of Milton's thought is blended with a 
 noble tenderness in the last of the sonnets, the one in 
 memory of his dearly beloved wife, who was but lately 
 dead. We know from his nephew's narrative that he 
 was at work now upon Paradise Lost; living an in- 
 tense, inner, ideal existence, in the presence of arch- 
 angels and of seraphim, surrounded by the realities and 
 splendours of Heaven, or walking in Paradise with our 
 first parents, feeling with them, as none ever felt more 
 vividly, the favour of God and the majesty of innocence, 
 —man's happiest life, "simplicity and spotless inno- 
 cence" : 
 
156 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "Mine eyes he closed, but open left the cell 
 Of fancy, my internal sight." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 460-1.) 
 
 To this "internal sight" his wife appeared in vision : 
 
 Methought I saw my late espoused saint 
 Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave. 
 
 Her face he had never seen, and even here that satisfac- 
 tion was denied him,— she came— 
 
 Vested all in white, pure as her mind. 
 Her face was veiled ; yet to my fancied sight 
 Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined 
 So clear as in no face with more delight. 
 But, oh ! as to embrace me she inclined, 
 I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. 
 
 These verses, composed in his hour of loss and of help- 
 lessness by this man of diametrically opposed endow- 
 ment—one that possessed at the same time sensibility 
 and gigantic strength, to each swaying breath of pas- 
 sion as sensitive as gossamer yet like the tornado in 
 force,— are most touching; they contain the very soul 
 of pathos. Nothing could be more free from any fault 
 of elaboration than the simple words which compose this 
 little masterpiece ; their power lies in the fact that they 
 come straight from the heart of a good and strongly 
 affectionate man. As one reads them his sympathy goes 
 out to the poet in his distress, and if he might he would 
 gladly bear a portion of his burden of sorrow. 
 
 The last verse is the lamentation of the blind, from 
 the cheerful ways of men cut off. Long afterwards, in 
 Paradise Lost, there occurs an echo of this sonnet in the 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 157 
 
 passage where Adam describes the vision in which was 
 revealed to him the creation of Eve : 
 
 "She disappeared, and left me dark ; I waked 
 To find her, or for ever to deplore 
 Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 478-80.) 
 
 The names of Milton and Dante will always be asso- 
 ciated together as of those who have the most vividly 
 portrayed the scenes of the other world; these two men 
 of very different endowment had this also in common,— 
 their devotion to the memory of a good woman. Dante 
 had his Beatrice, and his love for her glorifies and trans- 
 forms his grave and often saturnine temper;— in like 
 manner, though of a very different nature, Milton had 
 Catherine Woodcock, whom he tenderly loved. The 
 year of their married life made Paradise a reality to 
 him, — no dream, — 
 
 But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 
 Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
 
 (Comus, 262-3.) 
 
 as made existence together, even in blindness, a reflec- 
 tion of Heaven. Her memory was an unfailing fount 
 of joy and inspiration when later he came to depict the 
 newly-created Eve, of whom he assures us— 
 
 "Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye, 
 In every gesture dignity and love." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 488-9.) 
 
 The poet's laudation of his heroine is not alone of 
 physical perfection, and we feel that he had her in mind 
 whose memory he so dearly cherished,— 
 
158 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "When I approach 
 Her loveliness, so absolute she seems 
 And in herself complete, so well to know 
 Her own, that what she wills to do or say 
 Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best." 
 
 (P. L, VIII., 546-50.) 
 
 "Neither her outside formed so fair, 
 
 So much delights me as those graceful acts, 
 Those thousand decencies, that daily flow 
 From all her words and actions, mixed with love 
 And sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned 
 Union of mind, or in us both one soul ; 
 Harmony to behold in wedded pair 
 More grateful than harmonious sound to the ear." 
 
 (P. L, VIII., 596-606.) 
 
 These two were in perfect accord; Milton in his Tetra- 
 chordon reminds the reader that never again could there 
 be such perfect alliance between man and woman as that 
 which existed between Adam and Eve, since she was 
 literally a part of his being,— soul of his inmost soul, 
 flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone. Though under 
 irresistible and cruel temptation they sinned, yet was 
 their error mutual and their reconciliation complete. 
 Milton's marriage with Catherine Woodcock had given 
 him a standard of serene union between man and wo- 
 man, the perfect harmony being realized between the 
 senses and the spirit, the two factors of man's existence 
 which he believed in life and death were one and insepa- 
 rable. Having himself been through the awful ordeal 
 of an unfortunate and uncongenial marriage, when he 
 came to be united with this woman of his heart every 
 fibre of his being sang aloud for joy, and the mighty 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 159 
 
 forces of his nature swung into their appointed orbit in 
 rhythm like that of the celestial spheres. One is re- 
 minded of the saying of another great poet: "On the 
 day of my marriage the peace of God settled upon my 
 spirit." 
 
 No longer were angry arguments on divorce, or on the 
 assorted miseries of a literary censorship, or on the or- 
 ganization of Presbyterian ministers (a quarrelsome 
 committee-of-the-whole considering the question of in- 
 dividual salvation), or on the nightmare of the King's 
 execution,— which by the irony of fate it fell to this poet 
 to justify and applaud, and which, although he would 
 not have admitted it, outraged his reverence for order 
 and decency; — no longer were these things to torment 
 him and to wring from his distress titanic pamphlets, 
 full of bitterness and invective, and of ineffectual lash- 
 ings of energy, like those of Gulliver tied with threads 
 and shot at with needles. 
 
 This whole middle period is illuminative by reason of 
 that which it did not contain. It furnished opportunity 
 for the exercise and development of tremendous force, 
 but he knew as well as any one in the world that he was 
 struggling against nature: "having the use but of my 
 left hand," he tells us. When the balm of a happy mar- 
 riage fell upon his soul all of his restless energies 
 subsided into quiet calm ; turmoil and distress were suc- 
 ceeded by peace; remotely then he saw the glories of 
 Paradise; if he perceived them afar, yet was his vision 
 clear. In his mind, thus freed from its hovering clouds 
 of unrest and anxiety, there began to rise the outlines 
 of that sublime structure of which he was soon to be the 
 architect. That the death of his second wife was a pro- 
 
160 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 found grief we have every reason to believe; the mar- 
 riage thus ending had brought to him sorrow, yet, as 
 well, had it brought back the tenderness of youth,— and 
 the creative energy of youth.* 
 
 Of his third marriage it is not so easy to speak. The 
 male principle was strong in this man ; it was commen- 
 surate with his intellectual energy and with his endow- 
 ment as a poet. Lesser men, sitting in sedate judgment 
 long after his death, may not be able to comprehend, but 
 they must accept the facts as they find them. His mar- 
 riage to Elizabeth Minshull satisfied this craving of his 
 nature, and left him free to express his genius in seren- 
 ity of spirit. It is easy to characterize the union as not 
 being in the highest sense a "marriage of true minds," 
 but we are confronted by the results. This woman gave 
 to him affection, and he gave to us Paradise Lost; it 
 seems very simple. Aubrey has recorded that he was 
 "of a very cheerful humour. Seldom took any physique, 
 only sometimes he took manna.t He was very healthy, 
 and free from all diseases, only toward his later end he 
 was visited by the goute, spring and fall. He would be 
 chearfull even in his goute-fitts,— and sing." Could one 
 wish more convincing proof of his wife's care and of his 
 own contentment ? 
 
 Many appreciative criticisms have been written on the 
 dignity and the pathos of this last sonnet. The quality 
 of sublimity perhaps more fully than anything else is 
 the peculiar trait which marks the poetry of Milton as 
 
 *By a strange fatality both his first wife and his second wife died in 
 childbirth. Catherine Woodcock's little daughter survived her but a few 
 months. 
 
 t There was not lacking an element of fitness in the circumstance that 
 he whose "tongue dropt manna" should himself find comfort in one of the 
 gentlest of drugs, honoured by that name. 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 161 
 
 compared with that of other men,— that and its note of 
 high distinction. There was in him entire sincerity, 
 consistent and unfailing, and enthusiasm so convincing 
 that we stand in the presence of that which he portrays.* 
 Even in the brief compass of a sonnet this sublime 
 quality may be recognized, like the murmuring of the 
 ocean in the shell which is cast upon its shore, — and 
 when the mighty reverberations of the Avenge, O Lord 
 resound in our ears, we stand in awe, catching a glimpse 
 of the infinite, and listening for a brief moment to the 
 powerful organ tones of that little masterpiece. In like 
 manner, when we read this last sonnet to the memory of 
 his wife, having in mind the sort of man that Milton 
 was, so far as we are able to comprehend the vastness 
 of his endowment, his greatness of character, the vol- 
 ume and impetuous force of his intellectual equipment, 
 his almost unrivalled poetic gift, the passion for moral 
 perfection which controlled him, and his consuming zeal 
 for liberty, — when we reflect upon all these things, we 
 are profoundly moved by the pathos of the sonnet ; and 
 if our blood be not stirred by awe as in that on the mas- 
 sacre of the Waldenses, we are moved by deep compas- 
 sion,— by "pity and ruth,"— in beholding his reverence 
 for a good woman who in a life of stern devotion to 
 
 *Jowett, in discussing the genius of Plato, has an admirable word of 
 comment upon the quality of sublimity in the poems of Milton: "Both 
 authors [Plato and Milton] attain, perhaps more frequently than almost 
 any others, that highest species of sublimity, — the morally sublime; ar- 
 resting and transfixing the soul by the naked majesty of lofty sentiments 
 and purely spiritual abstractions, and readily dispensing with material and 
 palpable images. It is in such lines as those in which Milton speaks of 
 'thoughts that wander through eternity', or of 'the mind [as] its own 
 place,' which 'Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven,' that his 
 muse soars to the highest pitch, and in which he truly '[unspheres] the 
 spirit of Plato.' " Benjamin Jowett, The Genius of Plato, Edinburgh 
 Review, LXXXVIL, 33s, foot-note. See P. L., I., 254-5, H, 148; II Pen., 
 88-9. I have taken the liberty of correcting the quotations. 
 
162 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 noble causes, in his blindness and in his grief, had for a 
 time all too brief been his solace and joy and admiration : 
 
 Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined 
 So clear as in no face with more delight. 
 
 One may be sure that his capacity for experiencing 
 both pleasure and pain was commensurate with his sen- 
 sibility and with his strength. In this sonnet he has ad- 
 mitted us very intimately to share both his sorrow and 
 his resignation. The unaffected dignity of the lines 
 which form the ending of his utterance of this period, 
 may be compared with the directness and simplicity 
 which characterize the ending of Paradise Lost, of the 
 Regained, and of the Agonistes. In the first of these 
 poems Michael was sent to lead from Paradise "our 
 primitive great Sire," and by his side Eve, repentant 
 and in tears,— 
 
 They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, 
 
 Through Eden took their solitary way. 
 
 (P. L., XII., 648-9.) 
 
 In Paradise Regained, after the angelic escort had borne 
 Christ in safety from the topmost pinnacle of the tem- 
 ple, and had ministered to his refreshment with celestial 
 
 food, — 
 
 He, unobserved, 
 
 Home to his mother's house private returned. 
 
 (P. R., IV., 638-9.) 
 
 And in the Agonistes, the closing verses form a su- 
 premely fitting ending for his last expression in verse,— 
 
 His servants He, * * * 
 
 With peace and consolation hath dismissed, 
 And calm of mind, all passion spent. 
 
 (S. A., 1755-8.) , 
 
FROM LYCIDAS TO PARADISE LOST 163 
 
 In like manner the Sonnets, which for twenty years 
 are the brief record of Milton's poetic life, have their im- 
 pressive close. The realities of worldly happiness for 
 him were at an end. Monarchy restored ; puritanism de- 
 feated; himself wandering in the dark mazes of blind- 
 ness; his wife, who had brought him consolation and 
 joy, dead ; well might he say — 
 
 Though fallen on evil days, 
 On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues ; 
 In darkness, and with dangers compassed round, 
 And solitude; 
 
 (P. L., VII., 25-28.) 
 
 or confess, as he does in his final lament of all — 
 
 "Nor am I in the list of them that hope ; 
 Hopeless are all my evils ; all remediless. 
 This one prayer yet remains : * * 
 
 * * * speedy death, 
 
 The close of all my miseries and the balm." 
 
 (S. A., 647-51-) 
 
 The life in vision, alone now was a reality. To him, 
 made fit by suffering, by unfailing courage, and by the 
 grace of God, was granted to see the glories of Heaven, 
 and to taste of its beatitudes. In a dream the compas- 
 sionate tenderness of God had vouchsafed for a moment 
 again the presence of his wife, but we hear his moan 
 of resignation,— 
 
 I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 
 
 A 
 
 passion for liberty and for moral perfection, per- 
 haps more than any. other traits that could be 
 named, were the leading motives of Milton's 
 life. He was constantly brooding over subjects of an 
 ethical nature. In a Latin epistle in verse addressed to 
 his beloved Diodati, when he was a youth at Cambridge, 
 there is a passage which clearly strikes this note, a note 
 ever recurring, ever triumphant, in the harmony and 
 "perfect diapason" of his life. "As to other points," he 
 writes, "which 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 of any man, he has 
 instilled it into mine." 
 
 Before his Italian journey, in 1638, Milton had cast 
 in his lot with the Puritans, and on his way back from 
 Venice he visited, as a mark of reverence, the home of 
 the reformed faith at Geneva. He was still a member 
 of the Established Church, but of the Puritan and Cal- 
 vinistic party, as contrasted with that of the Arminians, 
 under the leadership of Archbishop Laud. Two years 
 after his return he had become affiliated with the Pres- 
 
 167 
 
168 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 byterians; his purpose being to reform the Church by 
 the abolition of the bishops, and by introducing the 
 form of government which prevailed in the Scottish 
 Church. Before 1649 be had become an Independent; 
 each congregation he would have autonomous, free from 
 the dictation of any synod whatever. 
 
 In the year 1643 bad occurred a tragic circumstance in 
 his life, — his rash marriage, following a courtship all too 
 brief, the failure of the newly married pair to achieve 
 happiness, and the return of the bride, after a few weeks 
 of discontent, to her parents' home. Milton felt the blow 
 in proportion to his capacity for pleasure and for pain, 
 and in the ferment of disappointment, with the energy 
 of a Titan fully aroused, — in the fervour of his distress 
 —struck off at white heat his tractates on divorce. These 
 pamphlets were more advanced in tone than his fellow- 
 churchman could at once be reconciled to accept. They 
 were the cry of an honourable man, wounded almost 
 unto death. After their publication his relations with 
 the Presbyterians became somewhat strained. He was 
 made the subject of adverse criticism and did not hesi- 
 tate to retaliate in kind. The result was that, following 
 this episode, and also by reason of the evolution of his 
 belief, he became estranggdf rom all religious_organiza- 
 tions, and year by year cared less for creeds of any 
 sort. In the end he attained to a simplicity and sincerity 
 of faith, so far as essentials were concerned, almost 
 identical with that of George Fox, the founder of the 
 Society of Friends. It is altogether probable that he 
 would have rejected the formalism of the Quakers, and 
 his own scheme of toleration, as set forth in the Chris- 
 tian Doctrine, did not include that sect. 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 169 
 
 Fox was nearly sixteen years younger than Milton. 
 In many respects they were most unlike : one of them a 
 student, saturated with the learning and with the litera- 
 ture of the ancient world, and sensitively responding to 
 the inspiration of the Renaissance with its passionate 
 love of beauty ; the other with but slight learning of the 
 schools, and, as compared with Milton, so far as scho- 
 lastic equipment is concerned, a pigmy in the presence 
 of a giant, — yet in spiritual matters were they equals 
 and standing upon the same lofty plane. 
 
 Before examining those passages in Milton's poetry 
 which set forth his creed, let us briefly consider Fox's 
 belief, his aspirations, and attitude of mind. As in Mil- 
 ton's case, it had been the intention of his parents that 
 he should enter the Church of England. He tells us of 
 no objection on his own part, "but others persuaded to 
 the contrary," therefore he was apprenticed to a shoe- 
 maker who owned sheep and dealt in wool. Here he 
 won a reputation for veracity, and meditated on the hol- 
 low structure of society. 
 
 Fox's belief, in striking contrast with that of Calvin, 
 is based upon his confidence in the perfectibility of hu- 
 man nature; he felt that every man should set before 
 himself an ideal standard and that he should conform 
 to this, so far as he could, and that he should willingly 
 accept no compromise. Without ceasing, he lauded 
 man's greatest worldly achievement, as he conceived it 
 to be, His happiest life, 
 
 Simplicity and spotless innocence! 
 
 (P. L, IV., 317-18.) 
 
 Goodness and wisdom with him were synonymous; he 
 would have accepted without demur the word of the 
 
170 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Archangel in Paradise Lost, where almost in a paren- 
 thesis, as it were, he enunciates the whole foundation of 
 a creed, in referring to 
 
 "Virtue which is reason." 
 
 (P. L., XII., 98.)* 
 
 He preached early and late that God is light, a light 
 which shines into every man's heart who will open it to 
 this source of delight. The inward assurance of grace 
 came as a blessed refreshment after the hateful blight 
 of foreordained sin and its fatal train of consequences, 
 as accepted by the followers of Calvin. Although Qua- 
 kerism was soon to enter a period of stagnation and to 
 become dull enough, Fox brought to the serious-minded 
 of his generation a message of peace and content. The 
 sunlight of grace flooded their hearts with joy. 
 
 Fox believed that there had come to him a direct 
 word from God. The "inner light" was such a revelation 
 to his own spirit, and acting in conformity with that, he 
 shaped each minute circumstance of his career. Christ 
 was recognized as the continuous divine principle in 
 every man, "the same yesterday, and to-day, and for- 
 ever." As soon as any person accepted that guidance he 
 was at one with God; the awakening was when man 
 realized this possibility of contact with God. Some of 
 the specific messages which Fox received appear to us 
 now to have an exaggerated importance attached to 
 them, but the principle at the bottom of all is the belief 
 that man partakes of the illuminating spirit, and may 
 
 * Conversely to this, sin is un-reason. If one be the sign of health, the 
 other may be regarded as a symptom of moral disease, and I think that 
 both Milton and Fox would so have regarded it. 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 171 
 
 himself attain to a nature of perfection, to freedom from 
 anxiety, and to peace. 
 
 The Friends took pains to make clear that they were 
 not a sect; they were a society,— the Society of Friends, 
 — surely a most fortunate designation. "A man that 
 hath friends must show himself friendly." There was 
 a sort of freemasonry and sodality among them that 
 held them together. They were bound into a close fra- 
 ternity by many ties,— ties of sympathy in the life of the 
 spirit, of devotion to their leader, of suffering together 
 beneath unjust persecution. When this persecution was 
 withdrawn, and their leader had departed, an era of 
 stagnation followed that of growth and enthusiasm. 
 
 The first name for themselves adopted by the Friends 
 was "Children of Light"; there was but one church, 
 composed of those who obeyed that guidance. A trait 
 of mysticism prevented them, as a rule, from indulging 
 in too bald and explicit definitions. We shall see that 
 the blind Milton shared this reverence for light appeal- 
 ing both to the outward and to the inward eye. 
 
 One element of Fox's equipment was his complete 
 familiarity with the Bible; this he knew almost by heart, 
 so that it was a saying: "Though the Bible were lost, 
 it might be found in the mouth of George Fox." Milton 
 also knew his Bible from beginning to end, and his 
 powerful brain grasped the significance of scattered 
 passages in their most complex and diversified signifi- 
 cance; only so could a blind man have arrayed the innu- 
 merable texts of the Christian Doctrine. 
 
 Fox believed that God did not dwell in temples made 
 with hands, and that no particular sacredness attached 
 to any building, or church, or cathedral. All religious 
 
172 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 ceremonies were hateful to him; he bore testimony 
 against the payment of tithes ; protested against a priest- 
 hood, and the paying of any person who rendered reli- 
 gious service. The clergy at that time were corrupt, and 
 a favourite phrase of his was that "priests" were "hollow 
 casks." The Bible, he believed, was the expression of the 
 Spirit of God in the men who wrote its pages, and he 
 believed that that same Spirit was in every man who 
 directly received its message ; God dwelt in his soul. 
 
 The whole religious belief of Fox is founded on the 
 principle of the innate spirituality of man. God is within 
 him; God is within each of his fellows who will receive 
 the light of grace within the heart. Hence every man 
 must be treated with reverence and with equal deference, 
 peasant as well as king, since there is in him a spark of 
 the divine nature. Conforming to this, he refused to 
 doff his hat in the presence of sovereign, or judge, or 
 military officer, or to compliment him by the use of the 
 plural pronoun. That the democratic principle has since 
 been carried to an extreme and absurd length, doubtless 
 many at this day feel assured. In Fox's time the reform 
 in this direction was a much needed one, and the craving 
 for individual dignity also appealed strongly to Milton, 
 who, if he did not to the same extent partake of Fox's 
 proclivities in the direction of democracy, yet shared his 
 passion for liberty, for personal freedom, and for wise 
 governance. 
 
 Fox and his followers refused to take all oaths, main- 
 taining that a man's word should be true, and as solemn 
 and binding as if he summoned God to witness its 
 veracity. This attitude of the Friends caused endless 
 persecution, which only tended to make more firm their 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 173 
 
 belief in the worth and dignity of simple asseveration. 
 In order to cause them annoyance they were subjected 
 to the oaths of allegiance and supremacy, which they 
 declined from motives of conscience, and for which re- 
 fusal they were as regularly thrown into prison. 
 
 Oxford and Cambridge could not make ministers,— 
 this, Fox declared, came to him as a revelation. He felt 
 that something more than human learning was neces- 
 sary to make a man fit to serve the spiritual wants of his 
 brother. As a corollary to this he believed that the min- 
 istry was open to all ; a man's conviction that he had God 
 in his heart constituted him a minister. The "sense of 
 the meeting" acted as the safeguard to this privilege. 
 If it were human conceit and not divine guidance that 
 prompted utterance at their gatherings, the individual 
 was gently but firmly reminded that he was mistaken 
 in his mission. When love and Christian charity regu- 
 lated this supervision, the principle of free speech 
 worked to the happiness of all far more than the casual 
 spectator might have deemed possible. The technical 
 phraseology applying to this situation was that the indi- 
 vidual felt "a call" to speak. Whether it were a true 
 call, it remained for him to demonstrate. He might not 
 speak "until the Spirit moved him," hence the periods of 
 silent worship, moments of solemn anticipation until an 
 angel should trouble the waters. Milton also believed 
 that every member of a church should be authorized to 
 speak "according to his gifts," "these gifts constituting 
 his mission." * 
 
 Account must be taken of the apostolic character of 
 Fox, of his intense fervour, of his glowing passion and 
 
 * William Ellery Charming, Milton, Essays, 60. 
 
174 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 enthusiasm; there was a courageous fidelity in his tem- 
 perament. He had religious insight, and he gave his 
 entire life to bring to others that which had its residence 
 in his own heart. The sincerity of the man was so com- 
 plete, and his love for his fellow-man so genuine, that 
 in true humility of spirit he could offer from this abun- 
 dance of inward grace. His married life was happy, 
 yet he spent the greater part of the time, after his union 
 with Margaret Fell, separated from his "dear heart," 
 as he fondly addresses her in his letters, travelling far 
 and near on innumerable journeys. 
 
 The meeting-houses of the Society were bare of all 
 adornment; within their walls there was nothing to in- 
 terest the eye or to distract the mind. In the fervour of 
 his soul, and in a sort of dry literalness of mind toward 
 things unrelated to the spiritual life, Fox disregarded 
 all that appealed to a sense of worldly beauty, — in this 
 how different from Milton, a poet sensitive to every trait 
 of perfection, equally responding to ideal excellence of 
 character in men and women, and sensitive as well to 
 every outward manifestation of beauty, to the delight 
 of the eye, if not to the lust of the flesh. 
 
 To those who have made it a reproach to Fox that he 
 was not a product of the universities, and versed in hu- 
 man wisdom, may be quoted the words of the Archangel 
 to Adamduringtheir conference in the happy garden. The 
 latter, after a paean of rejoicing for God's mercies, says,— 
 
 "Henceforth I learn *■ * * 
 
 * * that suffering for truth's sake 
 
 Is fortitude to highest victory." * 
 
 To whom thus also the Angel last replied : 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 175 
 
 "This having learned, thou hast attained the sum 
 Of wisdom ; hope no higher, though all the stars 
 Thou knew'st by name, and all the ethereal powers, 
 All secrets of the deep, all Nature's works, 
 Or works of God in Heaven, air, Earth, or sea, 
 And all the riches of this world enjoy'dst, 
 And all the rule, one empire. Only add 
 Deeds to thy knowledge answerable ; add faith ; 
 Add virtue, patience, temperance ; add love, 
 By name to come called charity, the soul 
 Of all the rest : then wilt thou not be loth 
 To leave this Paradise, but shalt possess 
 A Paradise within thee, happier far." 
 
 (P. L, XII., 561-87-) 
 
 II 
 
 In many of the problems of society and life, Milton 
 expressly disagreed with Fox; he believed in the per- 
 missibility of oaths, in the necessity, upon occasion, of 
 war, and in the Hebraic subjection of women,— but 
 when it came to the supreme authority of the Inner 
 Light they were quite in accord. Both were the product 
 of an identical age, and both sensitively responded to the 
 spirit of the time. What happened was that the two 
 men, with natures perfectly honest, sincere, and coura- 
 geous, in a period of spiritual unrest and transforma- 
 tion, had arrived by different paths at the same attitude 
 of mind. The lofty spirituality of Milton's friend Ell- 
 wood was exactly what he himself had realized in his 
 own life for many years : 
 
 Other rites 
 
 Observing none but adoration pure, 
 
 Which God likes best. 
 
 (P. L, IV., 736-8.) 
 
176 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Even Dr. Johnson, while intensely disapproving of Mil- 
 ton's politics, only in part recognizing his genius, and 
 even to some extent unmindful of his art, — by every 
 lifelong prejudice of a Tory and devout churchman led 
 to hate the attitude of mind of a republican and "regi- 
 cide," of one who was a fearless contemner of rites and 
 ceremonies,— even he is forced to do him this justice, 
 admitting that "his studies and meditations were an 
 habitual prayer." Milton had this in common with Fox, 
 —the firm belief that the true end of all learning was "to 
 repair the ruin of our first parents by regaining to know 
 God aright" ; * that is the sum and substance of Fox's 
 teaching. The dream of both was of — 
 
 "New Heavens, new Earth, ages of endless date, 
 Founded in righteousness and peace and love, 
 To bring forth fruits, joy and eternal bliss." 
 
 (P. L., XII., 549-5I-) 
 
 Milton— had he known the man— would never have 
 approved of Coleridge's dictum in regard to Fox, which 
 by many has been accepted as final, that he was an 
 "uneducated man of genius," for he himself had so clear 
 an insight into spirituality of temperament that he would 
 have been willing to admit Fox's qualifications as some- 
 thing apart from and above any considerations of 
 intellectual endowment alone. What William Penn— 
 himself a man of gentle birth and a courtier— said of 
 Fox may be quoted as of wider significance. He 
 was, said Penn, "civil beyond all forms of breeding 
 in his behaviour." There was an innate refinement in 
 the man, with which his simple manners and undecorated 
 
 * Letter to Samuel Hartlib. 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 177 
 
 veracity were not inconsistent. His civility was but the 
 "outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual 
 grace." What Milton has recorded in the Ninth Son- 
 net, the one beginning — 
 
 Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth, 
 with slight change might have been addressed to Fox : 
 
 Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends 
 
 To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 
 
 And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure 
 
 Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends 
 Passes to bliss at the mid-hour of night, 
 Hast gained thy entrance, [Servant] wise and pure. 
 
 (Sonnet IX.) 
 
 The Archangel's admonition he could accept without 
 question or qualification : 
 
 "Be lowly wise, 
 Think only what concerns thee and thy being." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 173-4.) 
 
 Adam's reply to this gives the exact attitude of mind of 
 
 the Children of Truth : 
 
 "To know 
 
 That which before us lies in daily life, 
 
 Is the prime wisdom." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 192-4.) 
 
 Milton has expressed very clearly his estimate of hu- 
 man learning as contrasted with the deeper understand- 
 ing; the words are spoken by Christ to Satan, who has 
 tempted him to achieve fame by wisdom, — 
 
 "However, many books, 
 Wise men have said, are wearisome ; who reads 
 Incessantly, and to his reading brings not 
 
178 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 A spirit and judgment equal or superior, 
 
 (And what he brings what needs he elsewhere seek?) 
 
 Uncertain and unsettled still remains, 
 
 Deep-versed in books and shallow in himself, 
 
 Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys 
 
 And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge, 
 
 As children gathering pebbles on the shore." 
 
 (P. R., IV., 321-30.) 
 
 In an earlier book Milton more fully expounds the same 
 philosophy: 
 
 "But, if there be in glory aught of good, 
 It may by means far different be attained, 
 Without ambition, war, or violence — 
 By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent, 
 By patience, temperance." 
 
 (P. R., III., 88-92.) 
 
 The entire poem of Paradise Regained is the story of 
 one whose 
 
 Weakness [did] o'ercome Satanic strength. 
 
 (P. R., I., 161.) 
 
 This theme has been worked out by Milton more than 
 once. In the Third Book of Paradise Lost, in the fa- 
 mous argument between the Almighty and the Son, 
 wherein the whole scheme of Justice and Mercy is set 
 forth, the former is made to say,— 
 
 "O thou, in Heaven and Earth the only peace 
 Found out for mankind under wrath, * * 
 
 Because thou hast, though throned in highest bliss 
 Equal to God, and equally enjoying 
 God-like fruition, quitted all to save 
 A world from utter loss, and hast been found 
 By merit more than birthright Son of God- 
 Found worthiest to be so by being good, 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 179 
 
 Far more than great or high ; because in thee 
 Love hath abounded more than glory abounds ; 
 Therefore thy humiliation shall exalt 
 With thee thy manhood also to this throne : 
 Here shalt thou sit incarnate, here shalt reign 
 Both God and Man, Son both of God and Man, 
 Anointed universal King." 
 
 (P. L, III., 274-1,17.) 
 
 No more noble essay upon Milton was ever written 
 than that which Emerson, at the midway of his career, 
 contributed to the North American Review. The sus- 
 tained and lofty spirit in which this is conceived reveals 
 a mind of equal purity and of equal reverence for the 
 spiritual life. Emerson, with an insight such as might 
 naturally be expected in him, has emphasized what Mil- 
 ton stands for in the world of character, and has esti- 
 mated aright exactly those traits which the name of 
 Fox represents to those who are familiar with his career. 
 "Few men," says Emerson, "could be cited who have so 
 well understood [as Milton] what is peculiar in the 
 Christian ethics, and the precise aid it has brought to 
 men, in being an emphatic affirmation of the omnipo- 
 tence of spiritual laws, * * * laying its chief stress on 
 humility. * * * The fact that true greatness is a per- 
 fect humility [is a revelation] of Christianity which 
 Milton well understood." 
 
 It may seem strange to associate the quality of hu- 
 mility with the name of Milton, since in matters of the 
 understanding he had a perfectly just estimate of the 
 amplitude of his own powers, and in the world of intelli- 
 gence was so far removed from meekness that he can- 
 not always escape the charge of intellectual arrogance. 
 In his polemics he was intolerant and unyielding, but in 
 
180 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 the world of spirit, how different ! Here he felt himself 
 to be as a little child, willing to accept meekly the admo- 
 nition from on high that— 
 
 "To obey is best ; 
 * * by things deemed weak, 
 
 Subverting worldly-strong, and wOrldly-wise 
 By simply meek; that suffering for Truth's sake 
 Is fortitude to highest victory." 
 
 (P. L., XII, 561-70.) 
 
 This was not merely recorded in dramatic fitness to the 
 situation, but was as well the poet's personal and inmost 
 conviction. Christian meekness was a part of his equip- 
 ment, of his strength. "Christian meekness" and "in- 
 tellectual arrogance" seem strange traits of the same 
 mind ; yet that mind, with all its vast range of scholar- 
 ship, and sweep of imaginative vision, and capacity of 
 sublime creation, was simple and uninvolved in com- 
 parison with that of Shakespeare, of whose genius com- 
 plexity and evasive subtlety are the things that perhaps 
 stand out in strongest relief when contrasted with that 
 of Milton: 
 
 Others abide our question. Thou art free. 
 
 The characteristic of one mind was that of simple gran- 
 deur ; of the other, of complicated fullness. The drama- 
 tist took equal delight in portraying the king, the soldier, 
 the philosopher, the maiden in sweetest mood of serious 
 adolescence, and the buffoon. With the actor's versa- 
 tility, the myriad facets of his mind reflect all the aspects 
 of human character ; his own he conceals. What he gives 
 us is not, as in Milton, the conviction of matured and un- 
 yielding character, but the infinite play and interweaving 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 181 
 
 of human emotions, as hard to seize as the play of sun- 
 light on the shifting ripples of a stream. All may behold 
 it, — who except him can convey an image of that which 
 is presented to the eye ? One of these two men was the 
 conscience of Puritan England, the other not a con- 
 science but a sensitive, sane and powerful brain reflect- 
 ing human nature in its most elusive phases. Our obli- 
 gation to each is greater than we can conceive. Each 
 introduces us to a world separate and commanding. It 
 is probable that Milton sometimes read the plays of 
 Shakespeare with impatience, — we almost have his word 
 for this,— so commanding was his reverence for the 
 classical drama; and it is equally probable that Shake- 
 speare, in spite of all of Milton's puritanical limitations, 
 would have read Paradise Lost with delight, so much 
 greater an endowment of catholicity was his. 
 
 In the Treatise on Christian Doctrine Milton has 
 clearly stated his belief ; he says : "Under the Gospel we 
 possess, as it were, a twofold Scripture: one external, 
 which is the written word, and the other internal, which 
 is the Holy Spirit, written in the heart of believers, ac- 
 cording to the promise of God, and with the intent that 
 it should by no means be neglected. * * * That which 
 is internal * * * is far superior to all, namely the 
 Spirit itself. * * * The external Scripture has been 
 liable to frequent corruption. * * * But the Spirit 
 which leads to truth cannot be corrupted, neither is it 
 easy to deceive a man who is really spiritual." * This 
 statement, said William Ellery Channing, "is genuine 
 Quakerism." f 
 
 In further elaboration of this theme, Milton continues : 
 
 * The Christian Doctrine, XXX. t Works of Channing, I., 57. 
 
182 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "It is difficult to conjecture the purpose of Providence 
 in committing the writings of the New Testament to 
 such uncertain and variable guardianship [as the writ- 
 ten record] unless it were to teach us by this very cir- 
 cumstance that the Spirit which is given to us is a more 
 certain guide than Scripture, whom therefore it is our 
 duty to follow." The comment upon this passage by 
 Bishop Sumner,— a representative of that very church 
 whose faults it had been Milton's appointed lot to cas- 
 tigate,— who by the whirligig of time was destined 
 to make the translation of this treatise from the origi- 
 nal Latin, is significant: "It is singular that Milton 
 should have fallen into this error, which is that of the 
 Quakers." 
 
 Only by the attainment of spiritual insight might one 
 penetrate to the real significance of the Word of God; 
 by diligence, by prayer, by perfect sincerity, man may 
 attain to an understanding of — 
 
 "The truth, 
 
 Left only in those written records pure, 
 Though not but by the Spirit understood." 
 
 (P. L., XIL, 511-14.) 
 
 This is the assurance given by the Archangel to Adam, 
 in that revelation upon the mount which God vouchsafed 
 to man before his expulsion from the Garden of Inno- 
 cence. Elsewhere he gives expression to a somewhat 
 fuller elaboration of the same idea, expounding God's 
 providence : 
 
 "God hath now sent his living Oracle 
 Into the world to teach his final will, 
 And sends his Spirit of Truth henceforth to dwell 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 183 
 
 In pious hearts, an inward oracle 
 
 To all truth requisite for men to know" : 
 
 (P. R., I., 460-4.) 
 
 a precise statement of the doctrine of the inner light 
 which was the very foundation of the teaching of Fox. 
 This inward spirituality of Quakerism Milton con- 
 stantly reflects, as where, in The Doctrine and Discipline 
 of Divorce, he says, "For truth is as impossible to be 
 soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam." (III., 
 173.) In the Agonist es the Chorus voices the same sen- 
 timent : 
 
 "Where the heart joins not, outward acts defile not." 
 
 (S. A., 1368.) 
 
 In Paradise Regained, when Satan urges Christ to 
 accomplish the conquest of David's throne by the aid of 
 the power of Rome, promised to him by the tempter, 
 Christ spurns such domination, and, picturing the lux- 
 ury and degradation of the Romans, asks — 
 
 "What wise and valiant man would seek to free 
 These, thus degenerate, by themselves enslaved, 
 Or could of inward slaves make outward free ?" 
 
 (P. R., IV., 143-5.) 
 
 Consistent with this is Milton's belief that "man is his 
 own dungeon," and his reiterated praise of the "inner 
 liberty," or his indignant rebuke of those— 
 
 That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood, 
 And still revolt when Truth would set them free. 
 License they mean when they cry Liberty ; 
 
 For who loves that must first be wise and good. 
 
 (Sonnet XII., 9-12.) 
 
 Could there be an exposition of man's accountability 
 to himself of more esoteric nature,— to the godlike in 
 
184 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 himself, to conscience and to the inner light, — than the 
 judgment pronounced upon Satan returning to Pande- 
 monium after he has accomplished his evil design against 
 man ! Confident of the applause of the hosts of Hell, he 
 awaits their commendation, when, instead of that, hor- 
 ror seizes upon him and he falls prone in the dust, a 
 grovelling serpent,— 
 
 Punished in the shape he sinned, 
 According to his doom ; 
 
 (P. L, X., 516-17.) 
 
 and his following, angels of the celestial host, are 
 promptly compelled to share the same fate, — 
 
 Like in punishment, 
 
 As in their crime. 
 
 (P. L. ( X., 544-5O 
 
 The idealism of the poet's youth is marked in the 
 rebuke of the lady in Comas to the tempting spirit, — 
 
 "And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not know 
 More happiness than this thy present lot." 
 
 (Comus, 788-9.) 
 
 Our age finds it difficult to appreciate the elevation of 
 mind from which such sentiments sprang exuberantly 
 and without the slightest taint of affectation. "The sin- 
 cere alone can recognize sincerity," saith Carlyle.* 
 
 in 
 
 Early in his career Milton lost all sympathy with the 
 priesthood of the Established Church. When, in 1646, 
 he wrote the sonnet On the New Forcers of Conscience 
 
 * Heroes and Hero Worship, 199. 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 185 
 
 under the Long Parliament, he put himself unequivo- 
 cally on record. It is composed in a contemptuous and 
 ironical vein, which with Milton in his wrath is about as 
 conciliatory and soothing as sulphuric acid applied to 
 the external cuticle of the human frame : 
 
 Because you have thrown off your Prelate Lord, 
 And with stiff vows renounced his Liturgy, 
 To seize the widowed whore Plurality 
 
 From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorred, etc. 
 
 Then, after the regulation fourteen lines of the sonnet 
 have been exhausted and he has still somewhat left 
 unexpressed, he adopts the form known in Italy as the 
 sonetto codato, or tailed sonnet, here a veritable scor- 
 pion's tail with a vigourous sting in the end of it : 
 
 But we do hope to find out all your tricks, 
 Your plots and packing, worse than those of Trent, 
 That so the Parliament 
 May with their wholesome and preventive shears 
 Clip your phylacteries, though baulk your ears, 
 
 And succour our just fears, 
 When they shall read this clearly in your charge : 
 New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large. 
 
 That was a vigourous thrust of a sting, well driven home 
 and slightly agitated afterwards so as to get complete 
 and satisfactory results. 
 
 From the year 1654, Milton was an out-and-out 
 Oliverian, and had severed all church connections, 
 although theoretically sharing the hopes of the Indepen- 
 dents. The salvation of his literary career and that which 
 kept him from intemperate extremes was his passionate 
 devotion to religious liberty, an aspiration which in the 
 
186 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 fullest degree he shared with Fox. No one in England 
 cherished this more cordially than did these two men. 
 Milton also participated in Fox's loathing for the pay- 
 ment by the State of those who participated in religious 
 services,— or, as Fox would have called them, the mem- 
 bers of "a hireling ministry." As early as 1637, in that 
 impassioned passage of Lycidas, Milton had made his 
 protest against this abuse, in verses of no uncertain 
 sound : 
 
 "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, 
 Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake, 
 Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ! 
 Of other care they little reckoning make 
 Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, 
 And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 
 
 But that two-handed engine at the door 
 
 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 
 
 (Lycidas, n 3-31.) 
 
 In the sonnet To the Lord General Cromwell, 1652, 
 "On the Proposals of Certain Ministers for Propaga- 
 tion of the Gospel," the same feeling of indignation 
 
 bursts forth : 
 
 Peace hath her victories 
 No less renowned than War : new foes arise, 
 Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. 
 Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
 Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw. 
 
 In 1659, he wrote a pamphlet on this subject, entitled: 
 Considerations touching Means to remove Hirelings out 
 of the Church. 
 
 In all this agitation Milton was a pure idealist, just as 
 much so as Fox. Religion, he believed, is the relation of 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 187 
 
 man to God ; no intermediary may accept pay ; worship 
 is a state of spiritual contact between the divine within 
 us and the divine above; and Milton believed, just as 
 Fox did, that only a brother is fitted to perform this ser- 
 vice for a brother. He who receives pay therefor has 
 incapacitated himself to render efficient aid in a relation 
 so intimate and so sincere. Cromwell was not of the 
 same mind, however, and saw good and sufficient rea- 
 sons for maintaining a state church.* 
 
 That no especial sanctity adheres to fane or shrine, 
 to church or cathedral, Milton felt as completely as did 
 Fox. The heart of man is the worshipping-place of 
 God. The sanctity of the shrine is derived from the 
 presence of the divine principle within the heart. When 
 from the promontory, the lofty hill, — "of Paradise the 
 highest,"— the panorama of the flood is presented and 
 the destruction of mankind portrayed, Michael enlight- 
 ens Adam as to the significance of that which he beholds, 
 and incidentally gives us Milton's opinion as to the im- 
 portance of man's consecration of the temple of God : 
 
 "God attributes to place 
 No sanctity, if none be thither brought 
 By men who there frequent or therein dwell." 
 
 (P. L, XL, 836-38.) 
 
 If there be a note of pantheism in the belief of Fox 
 and the early Friends, as more than one discriminating 
 critic has maintained, a not dissimilar trait may be 
 found in Milton. Michael and Adam are celebrating the 
 
 * So far as we know, Cromwell had but slight knowledge of Milton or 
 of his views. He was not at all a man of extensive reading, but one of 
 enormous executive and administrative force, resembling in both of these 
 traits Washington, whose library was meagre enough according to the 
 standards of our day. 
 
188 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 first festival of hospitality in Paradise, provided by Eve, 
 and waited upon by her with the perfection of grace : 
 
 Thus when with meats and drinks they had sufficed, 
 * * sudden mind arose 
 
 In Adam not to let the occasion pass, 
 Given him by this great conference, to know 
 Of things above his world, and of their being 
 Who dwell in Heaven. 
 
 (P. L., V., 45I-6-) 
 So very tactfully he makes inquiry : 
 
 To whom the winged Hierarch replied : — 
 "O Adam, one Almighty is, from whom 
 All things proceed, and up to him return, 
 If not depraved from good, created all 
 Such to perfection, one first matter all, 
 Endued with various forms, various degrees 
 Of substance, and, in things that live, of life; 
 But more refined, more spiritous and pure, 
 As nearer to him placed or nearer tending, 
 Each in their several active spheres assigned, 
 Till body up to spirit work." 
 
 (P. L., V., 4 6&-78.) 
 
 IV 
 
 No treatise which purports to set forth Milton's creed 
 can leave unrecorded his utterance on the theme of love. 
 I would not have this statement taken with too literal 
 interpretation, but may it not be accepted, as a general 
 proposition, that the fineness of a man's nature is accu- 
 rately gauged by his estimate of women, and of that 
 passion which at the same time regulates their destiny 
 
 and his own? 
 
 "Love [says Raphael] refines 
 
 The thoughts, and heart enlarges ; hath his seat 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 189 
 
 In Reason, and is judicious ; is the scale 
 
 By which to Heavenly love thou may'st ascend." 
 
 (P. L„ VIII, 589-92.) 
 
 We may be grateful to our primitive great Sire that he 
 did not permit this occasion to pass without deriving all 
 the enlightenment possible on a theme of such impor- 
 tance to us all. So the conversation continues : 
 
 To whom, thus half abashed, Adam replied: 
 
 "To love thou blam'st me not ; for love, thou say'st, 
 Leads up to Heaven, is both the way and guide ; 
 Bear with me, then, if lawful what I ask. 
 Love not the Heavenly Spirits, and how their love 
 Express they?" * * * * 
 
 To whom the Angel, with a smile that glowed 
 Celestial rosy-red, love's proper hue, 
 Answered : "Let it suffice thee that thou know'st 
 Us happy, and without Love no happiness." 
 
 (P. L, VIII, 612-21.) 
 
 It is a very engaging trait of the archangel that in his 
 embarrassment at this inquiry he should have blushed 
 like a maiden, and it is in dramatic keeping with the 
 statement of the First Book,* that the angels could at 
 will enact either male or female role as it suited them; 
 how would the joys of Paradise be complete if either 
 were excluded from the peculiar satisfactions of the 
 other ? It is left to Adam, with exemplary wisdom, in 
 a conference with Eve, to sum up the matter : 
 
 "For smiles from reason flow, 
 * * and are of love the food — 
 
 Love, not the lowest end of human life. 
 
 * P. L, I, 423-4- 
 
igo STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 For not to irksome toil, but to delight, 
 He made us, and delight to reason joined." 
 
 (P. L., IX., 239-43.) 
 
 Into Milton's life, as into Fox's, came the blessed con- 
 solation of reverence for good women. Fox's marriage 
 to Margaret Fell, so far as we know, fulfilled every de- 
 sire of the affections. Nor was Milton denied this 
 solace. His first marriage was without doubt a failure, 
 —we have sufficient evidence of that,— but his second 
 marriage was crowned with fullest happiness; and the 
 exquisite characterization of woman, in the Fourth 
 Book and in the Seventh Book of Paradise Lost, demon- 
 strates his appreciation of her noblest traits. What 
 more adorable praise than the description of the newly 
 created Eve, with "obsequious majesty approved," with 
 "coy submission, modest pride" ! She, saith the poet, — 
 
 With lowliness majestic from her seat, 
 
 And grace that won who saw to wish her stay, 
 
 Rose, and went forth among her fruits and flowers. 
 
 With goddess-like demeanour forth she went, 
 Not unattended ; for on her as queen 
 A pomp of winning Graces waited still, 
 And from about her shot darts of desire 
 Into all eyes, to wish her still in sight. 
 
 (P. L., VIIL, 42-63.) 
 
 Adam's praise is at once tender and discriminating : 
 "In every gesture dignity and love. 
 
 Authority and Reason on her wait, 
 
 * * and to consummate all, 
 
 Greatness of mind and nobleness their seat 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 
 
 191 
 
 Build in her loveliest, and create an awe 
 About her, as a guard angelic placed." 
 
 (P. L, VIII., 489-559-) 
 
 Is there in the whole wonderful treasury of sonnets, one 
 more sweetly touching than the last of Milton's, in hon- 
 our of her whom he had never seen? 
 
 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, though pale and faint. 
 
 Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint 
 Purification in the Old Law did save, 
 And such as yet once more I trust to have 
 Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, 
 
 Came vested all in white, pure as her mind. 
 Her face was veiled ; yet to my fancied sight 
 Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined 
 
 So clear as in no face with more delight. 
 But, oh ! as to embrace me she inclined, 
 I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. 
 
 (Sonnet XXIII.) 
 
 As Milton's blindness made possible that concentra- 
 tion of intellectual energy, and of life in the world of 
 imagination, from which sprang Paradise Lost, the Re- 
 gained, and the Agonistes, so it is not impossible that in 
 the later period of his life, the absence of the deepest 
 affection, of that which thrills the soul, may have made 
 it easier for him to live in the spirit world, and have 
 enabled him, for the delectation and sustenance of all 
 that innumerable host who have partaken of his thought, 
 to create the Celestial City, and the Paradise of our first 
 parents. Such are the compensations mysteriously pro- 
 vided for the children of men; would they scale the 
 
192 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 heights of Dante or of Milton, it may be that the con- 
 crete heaven of passionate compliance should be rather 
 of memory than of daily and hindering contact. 
 
 A recent essayist * has quoted with effect, in connec- 
 tion with Milton's name, the famous phrase of his con- 
 temporary, Archbishop Laud, wherein with happy char- 
 acterization he speaks of "the beauty of holiness." To 
 the fascination of that appeal not even George Herbert 
 responded with quicker sympathy or in more certain 
 accord than did Milton. Not even to Herbert, kneeling 
 in ascetic devotion, was the charm of that beauty more 
 fascinating and more irresistible than to this very hu- 
 man and far from ascetic moralist and scholar and 'poet. 
 Both were men of the highest refinement of mind, of 
 noble and exalted intelligence, and of stainless moral- 
 ity; but an extraordinary difference separated them in 
 temperament, one of them withdrawing in sensitive and 
 shrinking aloofness from those delights which appeal to 
 the normal and healthy man, the other finding satisfac- 
 tion in them all, ever tempered by perfectly wholesome 
 and sane intellectual control and power of will, arising 
 from legitimate contact with things of sense, refreshed 
 and strengthened as the giant in Grecian mythology 
 from contact with his mother Earth. 
 
 The close communion of Fox with those among whom 
 his life was cast was a satisfaction denied to Milton. 
 No truer word was ever spoken of him than that— 
 
 His soul was like a star and dwelt apart. 
 
 Milton's field came to be the vast realm of meditation 
 and of scholarship,— in his moods of concentration up- 
 
 * Mr. Henry A. Beers. 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 
 
 193 
 
 lifted beyond ordinary human intercourse, a realm 
 where excellence was to be achieved only as he was able— 
 
 To scorn delights and live laborious days. 
 
 Even in the chastened pleasure derived from the com- 
 munion of the saints, communion in the spiritual life of 
 the men and women about him, wherein doubtless Fox 
 found deep refreshment, it was not Milton's fortune to 
 partake. Only as he brooded long and alone on themes of 
 celestial grandeur were Paradise Lost and the Agonistes 
 at last achieved. We must accept the result as we find 
 it, and esteem Milton fortunate among the first of our 
 race that he could find companionship in solitary con- 
 verse * 
 
 But with such thoughts 
 
 Accompanied of things past and to come 
 Lodged in his breast as well might recommend 
 Such solitude before choicest society. 
 
 (P. R., I., 299-302.) 
 
 "Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail 
 Or knock the breast ; no weakness, no contempt, 
 Dispraise, or blame ; nothing but well and fair, 
 And what may quiet us in a [life] so noble." 
 
 (S. A., 1721-4.) 
 
 The men and women, united in a common interest, 
 whose enthusiasm Fox aroused, besides adopting for 
 themselves as a designation the name "Children of 
 Light," also took comfort to their souls in being known 
 as the "Friends of Truth." Among them, largely 
 through the controlling power of their leader, there pre- 
 vailed the closest communion of spirit, so that the desig- 
 nation afterwards adopted, the "Society of Friends," 
 
194 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 was peculiarly appropriate; "unity" was the seal of bro- 
 therhood. In their deliberations, there was a suave 
 acquiescence in the prevailing sentiment, — this was ac- 
 cepted as the "sense of the meeting," arrived at in a 
 mood of surrender to the guidance of the inner light. 
 No ballot was needed as a test of unanimity. The min- 
 istry of any individual was acceptable in so far as it 
 partook of this brooding sentiment of solidarity, which 
 Maeterlinck, with a poet's insight, has expounded in his 
 luminous essay on the Bee. This latter-day philosopher 
 makes frequent mention of the "spirit of the hive," com- 
 municated in some mysterious way to all its members. 
 In a Friends' meeting there was such singleness of pur- 
 pose, such conscientious desire to achieve the pure fra- 
 ternity of the spirit, that complete agreement was ar- 
 rived at, and the judgment of the entire congregation 
 became almost like that of a single individual. The 
 analogy with Maeterlinck's hive is very close indeed. 
 
 The Society of Friends long regarded themselves as a 
 "peculiar people" : peculiar in the sense that their minds 
 were concentrated upon the things of the spiritual life, 
 and also peculiar by reason of their disregard of the 
 usual agrements of the world. Had the injunction of 
 the Archangel been intended for each one of them, it 
 could not have been more appropriately conceived : 
 
 To whom thus Michael : "Judge not what is best 
 By pleasure, though to Nature seeming meet, 
 Created, as thou art, to nobler end, 
 Holy and pure, conformity divine." 
 
 (P. L, XI, 603-6.) 
 
 With special fitness might be applied to the Friends of 
 Fox's time the designation of the descendants of Seth : 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 
 
 195 
 
 "That sober race of men, whose lives 
 Religious titled them the Sons of God." 
 
 (P. L., XI., 621-2.) 
 
 Nor does it altogether violate probabilities to assume 
 that certain of those in whom meekness did least prevail 
 may have arrogated to themselves the commendation of 
 that "gracious Voice Divine" in Paradise Lost: 
 
 "Some I have chosen of peculiar grace, 
 Elect above the rest." 
 
 (P. L., III., 183-4.) 
 
 By the singleness of their aspirations were they sepa- 
 rated from the "world's people." Their worship was of 
 one Supreme Being, more often addressed by them as 
 "Our Father" than by the more awful designation of 
 "God." Each devout Friend would literally accept the 
 word of Michael to Adam : 
 
 "Yet doubt not but in valley and in plain 
 God is, as here, and will be found alike 
 Present, and of his presence many a sign, 
 Still following thee, still compassing thee round 
 With goodness and paternal love." 
 
 (P. L., XL, 349-53O 
 
 Those who worshipped Him did so "in spirit and in 
 truth"; the mediation of the Virgin Mary, or of any 
 saint, would have seemed to the devout Friend, as it 
 seemed to Milton, an act of indirectness, and a sign of 
 weakness and vacillation, such as could not be tolerated 
 or condoned by any one who relied strictly upon the 
 unfailing justice and upon the omniscience of his super- 
 mundane Father. 
 
196 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Milton's feeling in regard to Christ, as created by God 
 in exactly the same way that the angels of Heaven and 
 that man were created by him, is revealed in the scene in 
 Paradise where God converses with Adam on the day in 
 which he led him to that place of blissful habitation. 
 A note, half of playfulness, in "the Omnific Word" is 
 here very agreeable as addressed to this youth, abound- 
 ing in health and pleasantness and new-created energy : 
 
 "A nice and subtle happiness, I see, 
 Thou to thyself proposest, in the choice 
 Of thy associates, Adam, and wilt taste 
 No pleasure, though in pleasure, solitary. 
 What think'st thou then of me, and this my state ? 
 Seem I to thee sufficiently possessed 
 Of happiness, or not ? who am alone 
 From all eternity ; for none I know 
 Second to me or like, equal much less. 
 How have I then with whom to hold converse, 
 Save with the creatures which I made, and those 
 To me inferior, infinite descents 
 Beneath what other creatures are to thee ?" 
 
 (P. L, VIII., 399-4"-) 
 
 At the very opening of Paradise Lost Milton strikes 
 a note which is consistently maintained to the end of 
 that poem, and throughout Paradise Regained and the 
 Agonistes as well, that Christ is man, only with a 
 greater share of the divine nature; and both Milton and 
 Fox felt very strongly that in every man was a portion 
 of the divine principle, the "inner light," or God made 
 manifest in man. To them Christ was always the "Son 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 
 
 197 
 
 of man," the "greater man," a circumstance of which 
 the poet takes care to inform us at the very start : 
 
 Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
 Of that forbidden Tree whose mortal taste 
 Brought death into the world, and all our woe, 
 With loss of Eden, till one greater Man 
 Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, 
 Sing, Heavenly Muse. 
 
 (P. L, I., 1-6.) 
 
 I, who erewhile the Happy Garden sung 
 By one man's disobedience lost, now sing 
 Recovered Paradise to all mankind, 
 By one man's firm obedience fully tried. 
 
 (P. R., I., 1-4.) 
 
 And a little later, Satan directs his steps to the "coast 
 of Jordan,"— 
 
 Where he might likeliest find this new-declared, 
 
 This man of men, attested Son of God. 
 
 (P. R., I, 121^.) 
 
 Christ was the Son of God; every person who ap- 
 proaches his Creator in the right mood of devotion is 
 also a son of God. In this same poem we are assured, in 
 the words of Satan, unrebuked, that— 
 
 "Sons of God both Angels are and Men : 
 
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 All men are sons of God." 
 
 (P. R., IV., 197, 520.) 
 
 Milton's fearless mind relentlessly carried this con- 
 ception to its logical conclusion. No one will maintain 
 that the fallen Lucifer lacked in courage, whatever his 
 other failings may have been; he dares say to Christ, 
 with entire dramatic fitness,— 
 
198 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "The son of God I also am, or was ; 
 And if I was, I am ; relation stands." 
 
 (P. R., IV., 51&-19.) 
 
 Christ, in his intercession for man, in Paradise Lost, — 
 words addressed to the "Great Creator,"— founds his 
 plea upon the circumstance that man also is the son of 
 
 God: 
 
 "Thy creature late so loved, thy youngest son." 
 
 (P. L, III., 151.) 
 
 The poet's conception of Christ was not dissimilar to 
 that of Fox; both were Hebraic in the sense that they 
 believed in one God, rather than in a trinity of Gods. 
 With Fox as with Milton everything emanated from 
 God, a single God, and was created by him : "All things 
 were made by him; and without him was not anything 
 made that was made." 
 
 In Paradise Regained, as we have seen, the poet 
 makes mention of 
 
 This man of men, attested Son of God; 
 
 (P. R, I., 122.) 
 
 and a little further on in the same poem, the Eternal 
 Father, in his most amiable mood, — 
 
 In full frequence bright 
 Of Angels, thus to Gabriel smiling spake: 
 
 * * * "I have chose 
 
 This perfect man, by merit called my Son, 
 To earn salvation for the sons of men." 
 
 (P. R., L, 128-9, 165-7.) 
 
 It is perfectly true that the Friends from the beginning 
 accepted as a dogma the doctrine of the atonement, but 
 in a more or less perfunctory way; it was not by any 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 199 
 
 means the foundation-stone of their belief, but something 
 secondary and relatively unimportant. Just as in their 
 worship they could dispense with the Virgin Mary, in 
 like manner they could, in full confidence and without 
 the mediation of Christ, of his mother, or of the saints, 
 approach their Father in Heaven. They were his chil- 
 dren and came to him without fear. So long as man 
 had God in his heart and was directed by the inner light, 
 as Christ before him had been so directed, it was not 
 necessary in order to wash away his sins to have re- 
 course to the atoning blood of the Redeemer. As the 
 love of God for his Son was infinite, so the confidence 
 of each one, who in meekness and sincerity laid his 
 petition before the "throne of Justice," was unbounded. 
 To have asked the mediation of the Son of God, or of 
 his Virgin Mother, would have seemed to a follower 
 of Fox, as to Milton, an act unworthy of a spirit whose 
 reliance upon his Father in Heaven was at the same time 
 untainted by doubt, was absolute and complete. The 
 part of a man was to stand before his Creator, and to 
 rely in absolute confidence upon his understanding of 
 that being whom he had created in his own image, and 
 had endowed with faculties only a little lower than the 
 angels ; a creature whom it was his intention ultimately 
 to transform into an angel himself and to make a deni- 
 zen of the celestial city. 
 
 The poet's belief, as crystallized in the speech of 
 Michael in his final instruction to Adam before leaving 
 Paradise, is identical with that of the "Friends of 
 Truth," the reliance of children on their Father's love: 
 
 "So Law appears imperfect, and but given 
 With purpose to resign them, in full time, 
 
200 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Up to a better covenant, * * 
 
 * * * from servile fear 
 
 To filial, works of law to works of faith." 
 
 (P. L., XII., 300-6.) 
 
 VI 
 
 In an earlier passage of Paradise Lost the poet places 
 in the mouth of the Almighty words of deepest import, 
 the utterance of God, and the belief of Milton as it was 
 of Fox : 
 
 "For I will clear their senses dark, 
 What may suffice, and soften stony hearts 
 To pray, repent, and bring obedience due. 
 
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 And I will place within them as a guide 
 My umpire Conscience ; whom if they will hear, 
 Light after light well used they shall attain, 
 And to the end persisting safe arrive." 
 
 (P. L., III., 188-97.) 
 
 With the Friends, the "inner light," the dictates of con- 
 science, and unswerving conscientiousness became the 
 ruling passion of their existence; for this they bore 
 obloquy and imprisonment. When the parents were 
 thrown into jail, the children assembled in the deserted 
 meeting-houses and sat in silent worship. Instead of 
 resistance they offered the hardest of all things to over- 
 come, complete passivity and non-resistance, the firm 
 inertia of unyielding submission,— that which seemed to 
 them, when contrasted with opposition to authority,— 
 
 The better fortitude 
 Of patience and heroic martyrdom. 
 
 (P. L., IX., 31-2.) 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 201 
 
 No mental reservations of any sort occurred to their 
 minds, they had the absolute, unfaltering reliance of 
 a child; their faith was untainted by the slightest scin- 
 tilla of doubt; they believed literally that God was in 
 their midst, and that the "inner light" was the emana- 
 tion of his presence. Rewards and punishments were 
 not relegated to a future and uncertain state; man's 
 earthly life they believed was also the life of the spirit. 
 Each person was a living spirit, as fully so when alive, 
 with God in his heart, as when dead and comfortably 
 buried. The dilemma of existence caused them no 
 anxiety whatever. Either the immortal soul of each of 
 them reflected the beatitudes of Christ while they lived 
 and went about their daily affairs, or that soul could not 
 exist after death. This position seemed to them logical 
 and unanswerable. 
 
 Milton, both by the mouth of God and of Satan, ex- 
 pounds this theme. In the Fourth Book of Paradise 
 Lost, Lucifer, in prospect of Eden, holds communion 
 with himself, betraying with tragic force his own eleva- 
 tion of mind ; though he has sinned, yet is his nature still 
 celestial, and it is through his godlike attributes that 
 the severity of his punishment is accomplished. We 
 listen to his meditation with commiseration, as for one 
 caught in the toils of fate : 
 
 "Oh, had his powerful destiny ordained 
 Me some inferior Angel, I had stood 
 Then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised 
 Ambition. * * * 
 
 * * Which way shall I fly 
 
 Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ? 
 Which way I fly is Hell ; myself am Hell." 
 
 (P. L., IV., 58-750 
 
202 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Earlier in this book we find the same thought more fully 
 
 elaborated : 
 
 Now conscience wakes despair 
 
 That slumbered ; wakes the bitter memory 
 
 Of what he was, what is, and what must be 
 
 Worse ; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue ! 
 
 (P. L., IV., 23-26.) 
 
 There is a curious passage describing Satan's ap- 
 proach to Eve in Paradise, where she is discovered 
 alone, tending her flowers : 
 
 Herself, though fairest unsupported flower, 
 From her best prop so far, and storm so nigh. 
 
 (P. L., IV., 432-3-) 
 
 In this is revealed the sort of respect in which Milton 
 held merely passive morality, the vis inertia of conven- 
 tional timidity : 
 
 Her heavenly form 
 
 Angelic, but more soft and feminine, 
 Her graceful innocence, her every air 
 Of gesture, or least action, overawed 
 His malice, and with rapine sweet bereaved 
 His fierceness of the fierce intent it brought : 
 That space the Evil One abstracted stood 
 From his own evil, and for the time remained 
 Stupidly good. 
 
 (P. L., IX., 457-6S-) 
 
 May I pause long enough to emphasize the character- 
 ization? The poet proceeds,— 
 
 [Satan remained] of enmity disarmed, 
 Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge. 
 But the hot hell that always in him burns, 
 Though in mid Heaven, soon ended his delight. 
 
 (P. L., IX., 465-68.) 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 
 
 203 
 
 The Grace of God is the theme of the Paradise Re- 
 gained, and from the point of view of a theologian it is 
 this quality as reflected in the Son of God which is 
 the redeeming feature of Paradise Lost; without it, 
 
 Jehovah,— . 
 
 Omnipotent, 
 
 Immutable, Immortal, Infinite, 
 
 Eternal King, — 
 
 (P. L., III., 372-4.) 
 
 would stand forth almost as relentless as Moloch. The 
 Chorus of the Agonistes, like that of the Greek tragedy 
 accurately reflecting the sentiment of the bystanders, 
 refers to him, in terms of highest reverence and praise, 
 as "our living Dread." (S. A., 1673.) Christian theol- 
 ogy has moved far since those words were penned. The 
 angels, says the Almighty, — 
 
 "By their own suggestion fell, 
 Self-tempted, self-depraved ; Man falls deceived 
 By the other first : Man therefore shall find grace ; 
 The other, none. In mercy and justice both, 
 Through Heaven and Earth, so shall my glory excel ; 
 But mercy, first and last, shall brightest shine." 
 
 (P. L, III., 129-34.) 
 
 We thank Milton's God for that note. It has been said 
 of the profession of law that in its ranks may be found 
 two classes of men,— those who possess the "legal mind" 
 and those who have also the "human mind." This was 
 a sweetly human, or as we say when we especially wish 
 to emphasize any trait of human perfection, a "divine" 
 trait; but the finest quality of godlike humility is ever 
 in the words of Christ : 
 
 Thus while God spake ambrosial fragrance filled 
 All Heaven, and in the blessed Spirits elect 
 
204 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Sense of new joy ineffable diffused. 
 Beyond compare the Son of God was seen 
 Most glorious ; in him all his Father shone 
 Substantially expressed ; and in his face 
 Divine compassion visibly appeared, 
 Love without end, and without measure grace ; 
 Which uttering, thus he to his Father spake : 
 
 "O Father, gracious was that word which closed 
 Thy sovran sentence, that Man should find grace ; 
 For which both Heaven and Earth shall high extol 
 Thy praises, with the innumerable sound 
 Of hymns and sacred songs, wherewith thy throne 
 Encompassed shall resound thee ever blest. 
 For should Man finally be lost, should Man, 
 Thy creature late so loved, thy youngest son, 
 Fall circumvented thus by fraud, though joined 
 With his own folly ? that be from thee far, 
 That far be from thee, Father, who art judge 
 Of all things made, and judgest only right !" 
 
 (P. L., III., 135-ss.) 
 
 VII 
 
 When Paradise Lost was composed Milton had been 
 six years blind ; quite sufficient time had elapsed for him, 
 under his limitations, to have evolved the most effective 
 methods of intellectual work. A controlling passion 
 made sustained work a necessity to him. In The Reason 
 of Church Government urged against Prelaty, written 
 soon after his Italian journey, he has admitted us to his 
 confidence about this; he makes note of his life being 
 spent in "labour and intense study, which," he says, "I 
 take to be my portion in this life." 
 
 He has informed us that only between the autumnal 
 and the vernal equinox did his poetic genius fructify. 
 Aubrey records that the poet's nephew had told him of 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 205 
 
 his uncle, that : "His vein never happily flowed but from 
 the autumnal equinoctial to the vernal, and that what- 
 ever he attempted otherwise was never to his satisfac- 
 tion, though he courted his fancy never so much, so that 
 in all the years he was about this poem, he may be said 
 to have spent but half the time therein." When, how- 
 ever, the poet was in the vein of composition, it was his 
 belief that some power above his own brought to his 
 mind full-formed the exact words of his "unpremedi- 
 tated verse." He implores the Heavenly Muse to 
 
 Inspire, 
 As thou art wont, my prompted song, else mute. 
 
 (P. R., L, 11-12.) 
 
 The words of the poem came into his mind most often 
 in the stillness of the night, and then with a firm and per- 
 fectly accurate memory he retained passages of twenty 
 or of forty lines until some one could write them down 
 for him. Of course the written page he never saw, and 
 it is not strange that peculiarities of punctuation, in 
 some cases affecting the sense, should exist. Even Lan- 
 dor, — upon the whole, it seems to me, the ablest critic 
 who has expounded Milton, with a mind most nearly 
 of Miltonic strength,— even he forgets that peculiarities 
 of spelling and punctuation lay beyond the scope of the 
 author's revision. Milton, after his blindness, always 
 arranged his habitations so as to have access to a gar- 
 den, and walking in this he spent several hours daily. 
 This exercise was his source of physical refreshment, 
 and during these periods, also, passages of the poem 
 must have shaped themselves in his mind. 
 
 The subject of direct inspiration in his poetic compo- 
 sition is more than once referred to by him. At the be- 
 
206 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 ginning of Paradise Lost, after the invocation to the 
 Heavenly Muse, he adds this prayer for assistance, ad- 
 dressed to the same Divine Spirit : 
 
 And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer 
 Before all temples the upright heart and pure, 
 Instruct me, for thou know'st ; thou from the first 
 Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread, 
 Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast Abyss, 
 And mad'st it pregnant : what in me is dark 
 Illumine, what is low raise and support ; 
 That to the height of this great argument, 
 I may assert Eternal Providence, 
 And justify the ways of God to men. 
 
 (P. L., I., 17-26.) 
 
 Fox believed that he was directed of God in his mis- 
 sion, that literally and specifically he was guided by the 
 Spirit of God to preach or to refrain from preaching. 
 Milton had exactly the same idea in regard to his poetry. 
 Bishop Newton has informed us that he had been him- 
 self told by persons who had conversed with Milton's 
 widow that the poet looked upon himself as "inspired." 
 She was asked "Whether he did not often read Homer 
 and Virgil; she understood it as an imputation upon 
 him for stealing from those authors, and answered with 
 eagerness, that he stole from nobody but the Muse who 
 inspired him; and being asked by a lady present who 
 the Muse was, replied, it was God's grace and the Holy 
 Spirit that visited him nightly." * 
 
 In the Second Book of The Reason of Church Govem- 
 
 * Life of Milton, by Bishop Newton, prefixed to his edition of Paradise 
 Lost, 1749. Elizabeth Milton, we know, was young— less than half the age 
 of the poet when he married her. She had golden hair, was kind, and 
 made her husband's heart to sing for joy,— even though he was blind and 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 207 
 
 ment, where Milton alludes to his purpose of some day 
 writing a great poem, he gives expression to this same 
 idea ; the achievement of such a task "was not to be ob- 
 tained 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." 
 In the same tract occurs a very noble passage in which 
 the theme is more fully expounded: "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, beside the office of a 
 pulpit, to imbreed 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 cele- 
 brate in glorious and lofty hymns the throne and equi- 
 page 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, whatso- 
 ever 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 
 
 had the gout, Aubrey informs us, he used to sing,— but she had not the 
 equipment of a literary mind ; nor was this a part of Eve's seductive charm ! 
 
- 208 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 whole book of sanctity and virtue, through all the in- 
 stances of example." * 
 
 Elsewhere, in a passage of personal and pathetic im- 
 port, Milton invokes the same divine spirit, under the 
 name of Urania, the muse of the celestial spheres, a 
 designation itself signifying in pagan mythology "the 
 Heavenly One" : 
 
 Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name 
 If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine 
 Following, above the Olympian hill I soar, 
 Above the flight of Pegasean wing ! 
 The meaning, not the name, I call ; for thou 
 Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top 
 Of old Olympus dwell'st ; but, Heavenly-born, 
 Before the hills appeared or fountain flowed, 
 Thou with eternal Wisdom didst converse, 
 Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play 
 In presence of the Almighty Father, pleased 
 With thy celestial song. Up led by thee, 
 Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed, 
 An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air, 
 Thy tempering : with like safety guided down, 
 Return me to my native element. 
 
 ***** 
 
 More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged 
 To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days, 
 On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues, 
 In darkness, and with dangers compassed 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. 
 
 (P. L., VII., 1-31.) 
 
 And still again, in a later passage in Paradise Lost, he 
 refers to aid brought him from some power beyond the 
 
 * Reason of Church Government, Prose Works, II., 479-80. 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 209 
 
 reach of human volition, in sleep or in a mood of wise 
 
 passivity : 
 
 My celestial patroness, who deigns 
 Her nightly visitation unimplored, 
 And dictates to me slumbering, or inspires 
 Easy my unpremeditated verse, 
 Since first this subject for heroic song 
 Pleased me, long choosing and beginning late. 
 
 3|C 3)C 3|« s|S 3ft 
 
 Unless an age too late, or cold 
 Climate, or years, damp my intended wing 
 Depressed ; and much they may, if all be mine, 
 Not hers who brings it nightly to my ear. 
 
 (P. L., IX., 21-47.) 
 
 Sometimes one is bidden by the inner voice to speak that 
 which will be unpleasing to the ear which must perforce 
 listen to the message : 
 
 When God commands to take the trumpet 
 And blow a dolorous or a jarring blast, 
 It lies not in man's will what he shall say, 
 Or what he shall conceal.* 
 
 VIII 
 
 Milton, in the earlier part of his career, — for instance, 
 when he wrote the Tractates on Divorce,— believed in 
 
 * From Milton's prose, not written in the form of verse, but embedded 
 like gold in quartz, and quoted, evidently from memory and inaccurately, 
 by Landor in the Imaginary Conversations; Milton and Marvel; Landor's 
 Works, 1876, V., 152. 
 
 "Marvel: Isaiah seems to be speaking. 
 
 "Milton: The only resemblance is that Isaiah spoke in vain." 
 
 In this dialogue Milton is made to say that poetry should not be allowed 
 to invade the domain of prose : 
 
 "Milton: We should keep them distinct, however impetuous may be the 
 loftier and the stronger. 
 
 "Marvel: If you could have done it, we should have lost the grandest 
 piece of harmony that ever was uttered from the heart of man." 
 
 The reference is to the passage quoted above. Rea. of Ch. Gov., 
 Pr. W., II., 474- 
 
210 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 predestination, and he presents various arguments in 
 support of his position. According to the prevailing be- 
 lief of the day, some persons were born elect, some were 
 foredoomed to sin,— 
 
 . "As if predestination overruled 
 Their will." 
 
 (P. L, III., 114-15.) 
 
 Age, fortunately, brought to him wisdom and a creed 
 more tempered with mercy. When Paradise Lost was 
 shaping itself in his mind he had become emancipated 
 from this bondage to austere Calvinism, whose blight 
 caused to the noblest of that age torments of introspec- 
 tion and despair. Many a devout Calvinist must have 
 reckoned as the chief of his afflictions these brooding 
 thoughts of the future; they poured upon him, "a deadly 
 swarm of hornets armed," till, like the blind Samson, he 
 would cry aloud in his distress— 
 
 "Thoughts, my tormentors, armed with deadly stings, 
 
 $ $ $ $ $ 
 
 Thence faintings, swoonings of despair, 
 And sense of Heaven's desertion." 
 
 (S. A., 623-32.) 
 
 As one might naturally expect, the freedom of the 
 will presents itself for consideration, since on that 
 tragic endowment depends the whole welfare of man- 
 kind. The militant Archangel was sent by God to confer 
 with our first parent : 
 
 "Go, therefore, half this day, as friend with friend, 
 Converse with Adam, * * 
 
 * * and such discourse bring on 
 
 As may advise him of his happy state — 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 211 
 
 Happiness in his power left free to will, 
 Left to his own free will, his will though free 
 Yet mutable." * * * * 
 
 So spake the Eternal Father, and fulfilled 
 All justice. 
 
 (P. L., V., 229-47.) 
 
 Michael is entertained sumptuously in Paradise; and 
 
 exquisite Eve provides for her little party, and waits 
 
 upon their needs with a grace which, captivates the 
 
 courtly visitant.* Then they fall into discourse, and 
 
 Adam interrogates : 
 
 "But say 
 
 What meant that caution joined, // ye be found 
 
 Obedient?" * * * * 
 
 To whom the Angel : — "Son of Heaven and Earth, 
 
 Attend ! That thou art happy, owe to God ; 
 
 That thou continuest such, owe to thyself, 
 
 That is, to thy obedience ; therein stand : 
 
 This was the caution given thee ; be advised. 
 
 God made thee perfect, not immutable ; 
 
 And good he made thee, but to persevere 
 
 He left it in thy power — ordained thy will 
 
 By nature free, not over-ruled by fate 
 
 Inextricable, or strict necessity." 
 
 (P. L., V, 513-28.) 
 
 When Paradise Lost was composed, the freedom of 
 the will had come in the poet's mind to be that trait of 
 our endowment which as clearly as any other revealed 
 its heavenly origin. Even the fallen angels could be in- 
 duced to follow the "Prince of the air" only by reason 
 of the very fineness of their nature. Fallen they were, 
 
 * I cannot deny myself the pleasure of a quotation from Landor, if only 
 as a tribute to his greatness. "Let us," he says, "rise to Eve. * * * The 
 great poet is always greatest at this beatific vision." Landor, Imaginary 
 Conversations, IV., 34. 
 
212 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 but from what noble defect ! If the Son of Morn was 
 moved by pride, by envy, and by ambition, yet must he 
 win his followers through their most divine attributes. 
 Never was it more clearly shown that— 
 
 Spirits are not finely touched 
 But to fine issues. 
 
 The hosts of heaven are beguiled to a distant place, and 
 Lucifer makes his appeal to them with consummate tact ; 
 it is an appeal directed against tyranny, between which 
 and their godlike nature he well knows that there exists 
 an instinctive and ineradicable antipathy : 
 
 "Will ye submit your necks, and choose to bend 
 The supple knee? * * * * 
 
 * * If not. equal all, yet free, 
 
 Equally free." 
 
 (P. L., V., 787-92.) 
 
 He uses the exact argument which with Satanic intu- 
 ition he knows will prove irresistible. In like mood 
 afterwards, among the seraphim, is hurled the taunt to 
 the seraph Abdiel : 
 
 "At first I thought that liberty and Heaven 
 To heavenly souls had been all one ; but now 
 I see that most through sloth had rather serve !" 
 
 (P. L., VI., 164-6.) 
 
 The words of Samson to the remonstrating Chorus 
 might well have been spoken by Lucifer, the champion 
 of liberty : 
 
 "Commands are no constraints. If I obey them 
 I do it freely." 
 
 (S. A., 1372-3O 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 213 
 
 The poet's devotion to the great Protector, and to the 
 causes which his name represents, finds an echo in spite 
 of himself in his delineation of the "Prince of Hell,"— 
 of Lucifer, 
 
 "Brighter once amidst the host 
 Of Angels than that star the stars among." 
 
 (P. L., VII., 132-3.) 
 
 "He, of the first, 
 If not the first Archangel." 
 
 (P. L., V., 659-60.) 
 
 "Great indeed 
 His name, and high was his degree in Heaven : 
 His countenance, as the morning-star that guides 
 The starry flock, allured them, and with lies, 
 Drew after him the third part of Heaven's host." 
 
 (P. L., V., 706-10.) 
 
 If this chief among the cherubim fell through pride, 
 
 his followers, a third part of the heavenly choir, fell 
 
 through love of liberty instilled by their leader and 
 
 through loyalty to him; for his delinquency were they 
 
 banished to Hell, and for him they suffered punishment. 
 
 The same passion rules the poet's age that guided his 
 
 youth. Strangely enough, Lucifer in the poem has this 
 
 trait in common with the delicious lady of Comus, who 
 
 replies to the magician's threat of turning her to stock 
 
 or stone, — 
 
 "Fool, do not boast. 
 
 Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind 
 
 With all thy charms." 
 
 (Comus, 663-5.) 
 
 The term "predestination," of course, had, in Calvin- 
 istic theology, only a merciful significance, applying 
 
214 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 solely to those born to be saved. Milton, in Paradise 
 Lost, does not use the similar and correlated term, "rep- 
 robation," applying to such as were foreordained to 
 eternal woe; like Fox, he came to believe that such a 
 cruel doom for those who through their frailty err was 
 not decreed by God. Milton does, however, speak of 
 "spirits reprobate," * and there still lingered in his mind 
 from the days of his youth the belief that good angels 
 were always about us, and that each of us had one of 
 these from his birth assigned to protect him and to guide 
 his steps. 
 
 There is a very peculiar passage indeed in Paradise 
 Lost, and one not altogether easy to reconcile with the 
 general scheme of the celestial hierarchy as set forth 
 by the poet. It occurs in the conversation between Adam 
 and Eve during that first day in Paradise which we are 
 permitted to share with them. They are in the sweetest 
 accord, and Eve, after a most adorable confession of her 
 love for Adam, has asked why, all night long, the myriad 
 stars continue to shine while they are both asleep and 
 so unable to derive pleasure from their contemplation. 
 Adam's reply is startling with its reference to invisible 
 creatures surrounding their path, spirits that could 
 hardly be escaped angels, if one may so refer to denizens 
 of the Celestial City, and certainly were not spirits from 
 Hell, since Lucifer had come thence unattended, and 
 since— on his way returning— he had met the next to fol- 
 low in his path, the fell shapes of Sin and Death. The 
 stay in Paradise of our first parents had been brief, but 
 
 * P. L., I., 697. "Many shall be purified, and made white, and tried ; but 
 the wicked shall do wickedly: and none of the wicked shall understand, 
 but the wise shall understand." Daniel, XII., 10. 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 215 
 
 already Adam was conscious of mysterious companion- 
 ship: 
 
 "These [stars] though unbeheld in deep of night, 
 Shine not in vain. Nor think, though men were none, 
 That Heaven would want spectators, God want praise. 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the Earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep : 
 
 * * How often, from the steep 
 
 Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air, 
 Sole, or responsive each to other's note, 
 Singing their great Creator ! Oft in bands 
 While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, 
 With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds 
 In full harmonic number joined, their songs 
 Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven." 
 
 (P. L., IV., 674-88.) 
 
 And again, when the patriarch of mankind is holding 
 conference with the archangel, he refers to the same 
 phenomenon: "Thy words 
 
 Attentive, and with more delightful ear, 
 Divine instructor, I have heard, than when 
 Cherubic songs by night from neighbouring hills 
 Aerial music send." (PL V 544-8 ) 
 
 These verses bring to mind that thrilling passage in 
 Comus where creatures of the air crowd, and clamour 
 for recognition : « A thoU sand fantasies 
 
 Begin to throng into my memory, 
 Of calling shapes, * * * 
 
 And airy tongues that syllable men's names 
 On sands and shores and desert wildernesses." 
 
 (Comus, 205-9.)* 
 
 * This last verse has a hiss that is in itself fitted to arouse apprehension. 
 
216 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Alike in youth and age Milton believed in spirits about 
 us, and more than once makes mention of a special angel 
 assigned at his birth to protect each individual. The 
 Latin epigram written at Rome in honour of Leonora 
 Baroni refers to this guardian spirit: "To every one, so 
 let the natives believe, there is allotted, from among the 
 ethereal ranks, his own winged angel."* And long 
 after, in the Agonistes, he gives expression to the same 
 idea,— the Chorus bids Samson: 
 
 "Go, and the Holy One 
 
 Of Israel * * * 
 
 Send thee the Angel of thy birth, to stand 
 
 Fast by thy side, who from thy father's field 
 
 Rode up in flames after his message told 
 
 Of thy conception." ,„ . . 
 
 3 v (S. A., 1427-34-) 
 
 In telling his readers of the giant "causey" built by 
 Sin and Death, the poet describes it as a "passage 
 
 By which the Spirits perverse 
 With easy intercourse pass to and fro 
 To tempt or punish mortals, except whom 
 God and good Angels guard by special grace. 
 
 (P. L., II., 1030-33.) 
 
 This was in accordance with the merciful doctrine of 
 predestination. 
 
 The matter of the freedom of the will recurs many 
 times in Paradise Lost; almost the first communication 
 made by God to man, after his creation, is to assure him 
 of this freedom from constraint : 
 
 "Thus far to try thee, Adam, I was pleased, 
 And find thee knowing not of beasts alone, 
 * * * but of thyself, 
 
 * Masson's translation. 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 217 
 
 Expressing well the spirit within thee free, 
 My image, not imparted to the brute." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 437-4I-) 
 
 Again, in the Third Book, we find recorded the word 
 of God to his only-begotten Son. The Almighty is con- 
 templating from a distance the flight of Satan to the 
 new-created world, and takes especial pains to disclaim 
 all responsibility for human infirmity : 
 
 "Man will hearken to his glozing lies, 
 And * * * so will fall. 
 
 * * * Whose fault? 
 Whose but his own ? * * * 
 
 * * * I made him just and right, 
 Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall. 
 
 Such I created all the ethereal powers 
 
 And Spirits, both them who stood and them who failed : 
 
 Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell. 
 
 Not free, what proof could they have given sincere 
 
 Of true allegiance, constant faith or love? 
 
 * * What praise could they receive, 
 What pleasure I, from such obedience paid, 
 When will and reason— reason also is choice — 
 Useless and vain, of freedom both despoiled, 
 Made passive both, had served necessity, 
 
 Not me?" 
 
 (P. L., III., 93-111.) 
 
 In this passage is there not discernible to the dis- 
 criminating ear a slightly apologetic note, as if Milton's 
 God were in his own mind somewhat ashamed of having 
 created man vulnerable and so doomed to err? One 
 naturally feels a certain shock of surprise at finding the 
 Almighty himself engaged in justifying the ways of 
 God to man. A little further on he cannot refrain from 
 betraying his own disappointment at the imperfection of 
 
218 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 that being whom he has so recently created, and with 
 such sanguine hope. Almost he excites our pity as he 
 murmurs in contemplating man,— 
 
 "How frail 
 His fallen condition I" 
 
 (P. L., III., 180-1.) 
 
 Confirming this criticism, it may be noted that in the 
 Argument to the book in which the passage occurs, the 
 poet, as if strengthening the thought there elaborated, 
 states that "God * * * clears his own justice and wis- 
 dom from all imputation, having created Man free, and 
 able to have withstood his Tempter." The passage 
 quoted is the more significant from the circumstance 
 that it was written three or five years later than the lines 
 of the poem to which it refers, and was inserted by Mil- 
 ton when the first edition was more than half through 
 the press, as a sort of afterthought to reinforce that 
 which most needed support. The theologian in him felt 
 the necessity of insisting with especial emphasis upon 
 the fact that God was just, and that man was free though 
 doomed. In the Argument to Book V., there is a pas- 
 sage concise yet significant. "God," says the poet, "to 
 render man inexcusable, sends Raphael to admonish him 
 of * * * his free estate"; that phrase,— "to render 
 man inexcusable,"— is as relentless as Calvin or as Knox 
 himself could have desired. There is not lacking in this 
 a certain note of cruelty, abhorrent to a more sensitive 
 and to a more lukewarm age. "Necessity and Chance," 
 says the Almighty,— 
 
 "Approach not me, and what I will is Fate." 
 
 (P. L., VII., 172-3.) 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 
 
 IX 
 
 219 
 
 Let us for a moment consider the closing verses of 
 Paradise Lost, where Milton gives the summing up of 
 the whole matter, conceived in a mood of elevation 
 which has come as the solace of his blindness and of his 
 loneliness, a consummation of his lifelong purpose. 
 Michael has foretold the calamities of the church : 
 
 "Wolves shall succeed for teachers, grievous wolves" ; 
 
 (P. L, XII., 508.) 
 
 an echo of that fierce outburst of indignation found in 
 Lycidas, written two full decades before, where he scari- 
 fies such as 
 
 "Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ! 
 
 Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
 A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least 
 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs !" 
 
 (Lycidas, 115-21.) 
 
 These— so does the Archangel instruct Adam— shall 
 
 cloud „„,, 
 
 "The truth, 
 
 ***** 
 
 Left only in those written records pure, 
 Though not but by the Spirit understood." 
 
 (P. L, XII, 511-14.) 
 
 "What the Spirit within 
 Shall on the heart engrave." 
 
 (P. L., XII., 523-4.) 
 
 "The Spirit of God, promised alike and given 
 To all believers." (p L> xn> $I9 _ 2o) 
 
220 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 He ended ; and thus Adam last replied : — 
 
 JJS 3JS SJS J(C «|E 
 
 "Greatly instructed I shall hence depart, 
 Greatly in peace of thought: * * 
 
 Henceforth I learn, that to obey is best, 
 And love with fear the only God, to walk 
 As in his presence. * * * 
 
 * * * With good 
 Still overcoming evil, * * 
 
 * * By things deemed weak 
 Subverting worldly-strong, and worldly-wise 
 By simply meek ; that suffering for truth's sake 
 Is fortitude to highest victory." 
 
 ***** 
 
 To whom thus also the Angel last replied : 
 "This having learned, thou hast attained the sum 
 Of Wisdom." (p L> xn ^ sS2 _ 76 } 
 
 The doctrine of the inner light is more than suggested 
 in these passages. Dr. Rufus Jones has concisely stated 
 the importance of the "inner light" in Quaker literature. 
 "One might say that every early Quaker writing is like 
 a palimpsest. Beneath every word which was written 
 this idea of the inner light also lies written. It is the 
 key to every peculiarity in Quakerism." * A reverence 
 for the inner light was almost as much a distinguishing 
 characteristic of Milton as of Fox; the poet's prayer in 
 the opening of the Third Book was only the expression 
 of a sentiment consistent and sustained : 
 
 [Do thou,] celestial Light, 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
 
 Irradiate - (P. L., III., 5,-3.) 
 
 * Rufus M. Jones, Litt.D., Social Law in the Spiritual World, p. 167. 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 221 
 
 As we have seen, a favourite designation used by Fox 
 of those who possessed a devout spiritual nature was 
 "Children of Light." Many passages might be cited in 
 illustration of Milton's reverence for the divine light,— 
 for instance, from the Agonist es: 
 
 Semichorus. "But he, though blind of sight, 
 
 With inward eyes illuminated." 
 
 (S. A., 1687-9.) 
 
 Again, in the Fourth Book of Paradise Regained, there 
 is a more complete amplification of this idea : 
 
 To whom our Saviour sagely thus replied : — 
 * * * »jj e .^Jjq rece i ves 
 
 Light from above, from the Fountain of Light, 
 No other doctrine needs." 
 
 (P. R., IV., 285-90.) 
 
 So early as the time of Comus he had expressed the same 
 thought : 
 
 "He that has light within his own clear breast 
 May sit i' the centre, and enjoy bright day : 
 But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts 
 Benighted walks under the mid-day sun ; 
 Himself is his own dungeon." 
 
 (Comus, 381-5.) 
 
 In Samson Agonistes is a passage that must have been 
 autobiographical, a moan of suffering, wrung from the 
 heart of a strong man : 
 
 "O worse than chains, 
 Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 
 Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct." 
 
 (S. A., 67-70.) 
 
222 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 The very circumstance of Milton's blindness seems to 
 have made light as a symbol of divine energy all the 
 more vivid to the eye of the spirit. The predilection is 
 one, as we have seen, which existed before that calamity 
 overtook him. In that passage of the tragedy which 
 he contemplated writing in dramatic form on the theme 
 of the fall of man, composed in 1642, ten years before 
 blindness finally closed about him, is an eloquent apos- 
 trophe to the Sun : 
 
 "O thou that, with surpassing glory crowned, 
 Look'st from thy sole dominion like the god 
 Of this new World ; at whose sight all the stars 
 Hide their diminished heads ; to thee I call, 
 But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 
 
 Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams, 
 That bring to my remembrance from what state 
 
 1 fell, how glorious once above thy sphere, 
 Till pride and worse ambition threw me down, 
 Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King!" 
 
 (P. L., IV., 32-41.) 
 
 It would almost seem as if to this great intelligence, 
 groping in darkness, all scenes of grandeur, floating be- 
 fore the inner eye, appeared as shining visions. For in- 
 stance, when Lucifer had returned from our universe 
 to Pandemonium disguised as a common soldier, and 
 had taken his seat, unobserved, on his own regal throne, 
 his presence was revealed by the lustre of his person as 
 he threw off the disguise : 
 
 Down a while 
 He sat, and round about him saw, unseen. 
 At last, as from a cloud, his fulgent head 
 And shape star-bright appeared. * * 
 
 * * * All amazed 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 
 
 223 
 
 At that so sudden blaze, the Stygian throng 
 Bent their aspect, and whom they wished beheld, 
 Their mighty Chief returned. 
 
 (P. L., X., 447-55.) 
 
 Great unhappiness came into Milton's life: disap- 
 pointment in his home ; grief from defeat of his dearest 
 aspirations for the liberties of England; loss of money 
 and of friends ; and, crowning misfortune of all, dark- 
 ness and distress. That which he says of one who is 
 blind is pitifully applicable to his own estate : 
 
 "In most things as a child 
 
 Helpless." ,„ . . 
 
 * (S. A., 942-3.) 
 
 And later the Chorus, in addressing Manoa, gives ex- 
 pression to the poet's own estimate : 
 
 "Thou in old age car'st how to nurse thy son, 
 Made older than thy age through eye-sight lost." 
 
 (S. A., 1488-9.) 
 
 The whole poem very vividly reflects the limitations of 
 blindness and advancing years : 
 
 "But chief of all, 
 O loss of sight, of thee I most complain ! 
 Blind among enemies ! O worse than chains, 
 Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 
 Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, 
 And all her various objects of delight 
 Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased. 
 
 Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half." 
 
 (S. A., 66-79.) 
 
 Blindness with him came to be a symbol for complete 
 and abject helplessness, as where, in Paradise Lost, God 
 
224 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 is endeavouring to justify to himself his ways with men, 
 — is trying to convince himself that he is both just and 
 magnanimous ; the Almighty confides to his Divine Son, 
 in hard, unrelenting Calvinistic fashion,— 
 
 "This my long sufferance and my day of grace 
 They who neglect and scorn shall never taste ; 
 But hard be hardened, blind be blinded more, 
 That they may stumble on, and deeper fall." 
 
 (P. L., III., 198-201.) 
 
 Ah, the pathos of that blindness of the soul ! 
 
 A passion for light, and a hatred of the dark, con- 
 trolled him. Those who possess eyesight find comfort 
 in the darkness of the night; it is a rest to their wearied 
 vision. That which to others is a blessed relief, like 
 silence following the tumult of an orchestra, was to him 
 a thing hated and abhorred. In L' Allegro, "loathed 
 Melancholy" is said to be— 
 
 Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born ; 
 
 and he bids her — 
 
 Find out some uncouth cell, 
 Where brooding Darkness spreads her jealous wings. 
 
 (L'Allegro, 5-6.) 
 
 In his later poems— most of all, of course, in the Ago- 
 nistes—we find repeated indications of the blind man's 
 passion for light, "the prime work of God." In the Bliss- 
 ful City of Paradise Lost night did not exist ; the poet, in 
 his horror of that death of the senses, annuls its terrors 
 and qualifies its sombre hues : 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 225 
 
 "Obsequious darkness enters, till her hour 
 To veil the Heaven, though darkness there might well 
 Seem twilight here." (p L> YI> iQ _ i2) 
 
 Adam's "propitious guest," in telling of the revolt of 
 the angels, had already expounded to him that— 
 
 "The face of brightest Heaven had changed 
 
 To grateful twilight (for night comes not there 
 
 In darker veil)": /T , T ,, , ,. 
 
 > ' (P. L., V., 644-6.) 
 
 and afterwards he characterizes night as "dim" rather 
 than profoundly black : 
 
 "Now ere night, 
 Now ere dim night had disencumbered Heaven." 
 
 (P. L., V, 699-700.) 
 
 Midnight itself is only "dusky," not black: 
 
 "Soon as midnight brought on the dusky hour." 
 
 (P. L., V., 667.) 
 
 All his life — that is, when he was really alive in the 
 senses, while his faculty of seeing still existed— he had 
 loved the half-light of the evening; he plays with this 
 theme more than once. It may be that darkness itself is 
 but too intense light : 
 
 Fountain of light, thyself invisible, 
 Amidst the glorious brightness where thou sitt'st 
 Throned inaccessible ; but when thou shadest 
 The full blaze of thy beams, and through a cloud 
 Drawn round about thee like a radiant shrine 
 Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear, 
 Yet dazzle Heaven, that brightest Seraphim 
 Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes. 
 
 (P. L., Ill, 375-82.) 
 
226 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 One of the first and most hateful things, from the 
 poet's point of view, that occurred after the transgres- 
 sion of our first parents, was that the nights became dark 
 and forbidding in their gloom : 
 
 Thus Adam to himself lamenting loud 
 Through the still night, not now, as ere Man fell, 
 Wholesome and cool and mild, but with black air 
 Accompanied, with damps and dreadful gloom ; 
 Which to his evil conscience represented 
 All things with double terror. 
 
 (P. L., X., 845-50.) 
 
 Darkness, with Milton, came to resemble the sterility 
 of the arctic waste, the equivalent of non-existence, the 
 symbol of death, where, like the open eye of death, all 
 the naked landscape blindly stares at the heavens above. 
 Before all things were created there was naught but 
 darkness ; the spark of life and of light are synonymous. 
 When Adam is repining after the fall, in his soliloquy 
 of dejection he reproaches his Creator with having sum- 
 moned him from darkness into light : 
 
 "Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay 
 To mould me Man ? did I solicit thee 
 From darkness to promote me, or here place 
 In this delicious garden ?" 
 
 (P. L., X, 743-6.) 
 
 Milton mentions three orders of light : first, that which 
 appeals to the visual sense, often lauded by him with 
 touching fervour; then, light as a designation of life 
 itself, of human vitality, as where Samson confides to 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 227 
 
 his father, the aged Manoa, his anticipation of ap- 
 proaching death : 
 
 "These dark orbs no more shall treat with light, 
 Nor the other light of life continue long." 
 
 (S. A., 591-2.) 
 
 And as expressive of his high esteem of light he notes its 
 "speed almost spiritual," * a striking characterization. 
 
 Finally, he treats of the spiritual essence of God and 
 of man's soul as light. Samson, at the beginning of the 
 tragedy, soliloquizes : 
 
 "Since light so necessary is to life, 
 And almost life itself, if it be true 
 That light is in the soul, 
 She all [soul] in every part," etc.f 
 
 (S. A, 90-3.) 
 
 The same idea is confirmed by a passage soon following 
 
 in the Chorus : 
 
 "Thy soul 
 
 $ s|e $ 5$t jfc 
 
 Imprisoned now indeed, 
 
 In real darkness of the body dwells, 
 
 Shut up from outward light ; 
 
 For inward light, alas ! 
 Puts forth no visual beam." 
 
 (S. A, 156-63.) 
 
 In the famous opening to the Third Book of Paradise 
 Lost the poet exults in the recollection of this most ex- 
 
 * P. L., VIII., no. Prophetic beyond the exact knowledge of his day. 
 
 t "He adopts the same view in Christian Doct., Chap. VII., speaking of 
 the soul as 'equally diffused throughout any given whole, and throughout 
 every part of that whole.' P. W., IV., 192." A. W. Verity, M.A., Notes 
 to S. A., 93. 
 
228 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 quisite of created things, and tells us that God himself is 
 
 light: 
 
 Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born ! 
 Or of the Eternal coeternal beam 
 May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light, 
 And never but in unapproached light 
 Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, 
 Bright effluence of bright essence increate ! 
 Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream, 
 Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun, 
 Before the Heavens, thou wert, and at the voice 
 Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
 ' The rising World of waters dark and deep, 
 Won from the void and formless infinite. 
 
 (P. L., III., I-I2.) 
 
 In the description of that supreme moment in Heaven 
 when God prepares to quell the rebel angels, he ad- 
 dresses his only-begotten Son: 
 
 "Effulgence of my glory, Son beloved, 
 Son in whose face invisible is beheld 
 Visibly, what by Deity I am." 
 
 He said ; and on his Son with rays direct 
 Shone full ; he all his Father full expressed 
 Ineffably into his face received. 
 
 (P. L., VI., 680-720.) 
 
 There is a curious parallelism between Milton's con- 
 ception of light and one feature in the description of the 
 Deity, which are carried almost to the point of identical 
 imagery. The abode of light before the creation of the 
 sun, and the abode of God, are in each case a luminous 
 cloud, or nebulous radiance : 
 
 " 'Let there be light !' said God ; and forthwith light 
 Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure, 
 
I 
 
 MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 229 
 
 Sprung from the Deep, * * * 
 
 Sphered in a radiant cloud, for yet the sun 
 
 Was not ; she in a cloudy tabernacle 
 
 Sojourned the while." /T , T ,, TT . 
 
 J (P. L., VII., 243-9.) 
 
 Previous to this,— 
 
 The Most High 
 Eternal Father, from his secret cloud 
 
 AmidSt '~ (P. L., X., 31-3.) 
 
 "The invisible King, 
 
 Only omniscient," — 
 
 (P. L., VII., 122-3.) 
 
 had addressed the "Ethereal people," and, after having 
 committed to the Son the task of judgment, "whether 
 in Heaven, or Earth, or Hell," had made him the par- 
 taker of his power, accomplished through the transmis- 
 sion of light : 
 
 So spake the Father ; and, unfolding bright 
 Toward the right hand his glory, on the Son 
 
 Blazed forth unclouded deity. 
 
 (P. L., X., 63-5.) 
 
 Milton had brooded long upon this theme, and the in- 
 cident as described is consistent with another famous 
 passage wherein he expounds the ties of heavenly sym- 
 pathy and intercommunication. The celestial Cherubin is 
 asked by Adam, — this radiant bridegroom, new-created, 
 whose youthful fancy in springtime naturally turns to 
 thoughts of love,— for more explicit information in 
 regard to that source of delightful agitation which so 
 largely engrosses his mind, and which so amply since 
 that day has occupied the attention of his descendants, 
 and he receives the explicit assurance, — 
 
230 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "Easier than air with air, if Spirits embrace, 
 Total they mix, union of pure with pure." 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 626-7.) 
 
 By some mysterious transmission of energy through 
 the medium of light, the virtue of God finds expression 
 in the temperament of the Son. Reflecting his Father's 
 will, he could be relentless toward those who had failed 
 in the performance of duty to God, but beyond that, in 
 him were apparent the more merciful, the more divine, 
 the less inhuman traits of the Hebrew Jehovah. 
 
 Elsewhere we find the power of the Son referred to 
 as "lightening divine," a characterization implying at- 
 tributes which now perhaps made the strongest of all 
 appeals to him, bereft of the solace of light, with wan- 
 dering steps and slow, groping in darkness. It is found 
 in the narrative of "the sociable Spirit," when he and 
 Adam were holding delightful converse in Paradise : 
 
 "To whom the Son, with calm aspect and clear, 
 
 Lightening divine, ineffable, serene, 
 
 Made answer." 
 
 (P. L., V., 734-6.) 
 
 The words of the Messiah to the Almighty are an ex- 
 pression of the stern doctrine of the Hebrew faith, to 
 Milton a revelation to be accepted without demur : 
 
 "But whom thou hat'st I hate, and can put on 
 Thy terrors, as I put thy mildness on." 
 
 (P. L., VI., 734-5.) 
 
 And, later, to his assembled army of Saints,— 
 
 "So spake the Son and into terror changed 
 His countenance, too severe to be beheld, 
 And full of wrath bent on his enemies." 
 
 (P. L., VI., 824-6.) 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 231 
 
 His foes, it will be remembered, were vanquished by a 
 sort of omnipotent magic emanating from a chariot 
 equipped with eyes, an echo of the Apocalypse : 
 
 "And every eye 
 Glared lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire." 
 
 (P. L., VI., 848-9.) 
 
 It is well for us, however, to bear in mind that the 
 scene here portra)^ed reveals but one side of the Miltonic 
 mind, unrelenting and Hebraic, stern offspring of the 
 Calvinistic faith; there was another, characterized by 
 the most exquisite sensibility, — as for instance in the 
 description of the sorrow of the angels at man's fall, 
 
 Dim sadness did not spare 
 That time celestial visages, yet, mixed 
 With pity, violated not their bliss. 
 
 (P. L., X., 23-S.) 
 
 It would be hard to find a more angelic trait than that, 
 or the expression of a mind more susceptible to a mood 
 of tenderness. Milton's dramatic equipment gave him a 
 wide range of imaginative conceptions. The mind of 
 Fox was not so catholic; it may be that in his compo- 
 sition the divine attribute of pity made this world in 
 reality a prophecy of the world to come, and cast the 
 beatitudes of the saints about his daily path. Perhaps 
 his temperament was more nearly an echo of the gentle- 
 natured Raphael, confiding to Adam a knowledge of 
 Heaven and of man's abode, and he may well have 
 shared the belief of the Archangel in regard to this vale 
 
 ° f teafS : "Though what if Earth 
 
 Be but the shadow of Heaven, and things therein 
 Each to other like, more than on Earth is thought !" 
 
 (P. L., V., 574-6.) 
 
232 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Both Milton and Fox believed that man partook of 
 the divine nature, and that the light of God shone in his 
 heart,— whether it were into that of the Son of Man, or 
 into the hearts of the sons of men, was a matter merely 
 of degree. Both were the Sons of God. 
 
 XI 
 
 Milton had deliberately persisted in writing the Pro 
 Populo Anglicano Defensio, although he knew that 
 blindness would be the result. His utterance soon after 
 this calamity overtook him, explaining why he thus per- 
 sisted, was exactly in the spirit of Fox, who, if he did not 
 court persecution, accepted it with entire equanimity. "I 
 could not," said the poet, "but obey that inward monitor, 
 I know not what, that spoke to me from Heaven." In 
 the same mood the baffled Samson stands firm and un- 
 yielding; the officer of the Philistines had given him 
 solemn warning of the effect which his refusal to appear 
 at the feast of Dagon will have upon the Philistine lords : 
 
 "Regard thyself ; this will offend them highly." 
 
 His reply is an ejaculation of defiance : 
 
 "Myself ! my conscience, and internal peace." 
 
 (S. A., 1333-4.) 
 
 Again, in The Reason of Church Government, he has 
 given utterance to the same thought,— in it is revealed 
 the consecration of his energies : "But were it the mean- 
 est under-service, if God by his secretary conscience en- 
 join it, it were sad for me if I should draw back." 
 
 Milton was far removed from those who would 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 233 
 
 blindly acquiesce in any belief because it had the sanction 
 of usage. Conscience was his guide; the "inner light," 
 emanating from God, was that which illuminated his 
 reason. Michael, "with regard benign," at the Fall 
 expounds many things to Adam. Not without profit to 
 his immortal soul did woman,— 
 
 "Eve rightly called, Mother of all Mankind,"— 
 
 (P. L„ XI, 159.) 
 
 tempt him to eat of the forbidden tree ; had she not done 
 so, there would not have been for him, and for us, ac- 
 cording to the poet, this beginning of academic instruc- 
 tion; so that Adam says — 
 
 "Full of doubt I stand, 
 
 Whether I should repent me now of sin 
 
 By me done and occasioned, or rejoice 
 
 Much more, that much more good thereof shall spring ; 
 
 To God more glory, more good-will to men 
 
 From God, and over wrath grace shall abound." 
 
 (P. L., XII, 473-78.) 
 
 Had not Eve partaken of the fatal fruit, Michael would 
 not thus have expounded the use of right reason : 
 
 "Sometimes nations will decline so low 
 
 From virtue, which is reason, that no wrong, 
 
 But justice, and some fatal curse annexed, 
 
 Deprives them of their outward liberty, 
 
 Their inward lost." /T1 T VTT 
 
 (P. L, XII, 97-101.) 
 
 After the revolt of Lucifer, when Abdiel was return- 
 ing alone from the rebellious angels to the throne of 
 God, the words in his honour might have been proclaimed 
 of Milton or of Fox. And when the voice of God greeted 
 . this faithful servant— 
 
234 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "Than whom none with more zeal adored 
 The Deity,"— 
 
 (P. L., V, 805-6.) 
 
 the praise of "right reason" in that address was only to 
 exalt by different designation that inner light which 
 illumined the path of both of these men : 
 
 "A voice 
 From midst a golden cloud, thus mild was heard : 
 
 'Servant of God, well done ! Well hast thou fought 
 The better fight, who single hast maintained 
 Against revolted multitudes the cause 
 Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms ; 
 And for the testimony of truth hast borne 
 Universal reproach, far worse to bear 
 Than violence ; for this was all thy care — 
 To stand approved in sight of God, though worlds 
 Judged thee perverse. The easier conquest now 
 Remains thee, * * * * 
 
 Back on thy foes more glorious to return, 
 
 * * * * and to subdue 
 
 By force who reason for their law refuse, 
 Right reason for their law.' " 
 
 (P. L., VI., 27-42.) 
 
 Those are the words of God,— "right reason" was to 
 be man's guide, reason directed by Conscience,— a cour- 
 ageous reliance on the strength of God above and of 
 God within. Later in the same poem Michael reminds 
 Adam of the place occupied by this supreme attribute 
 of God and man : 
 
 "Since thy original lapse, true liberty 
 Is lost, which always with right reason dwells 
 Twinned." 
 
 (P. L., XII., 83-5.) 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 235 
 
 Paradise Lost ends in a psean of rejoicing on the part 
 of Adam, who foresees the coming of Messiah : 
 
 "The Seed of Woman: * * * 
 
 * * so God with Man unites." 
 
 (P. L., XII., 379-82.) 
 
 "By that seed 
 Is meant thy great Deliverer, who shall bruise 
 The Serpent's head." 
 
 (P. L., XII., 148-50.) 
 
 As the significance of this mercy which is to come to 
 the race of man,— to Adam's children and to their de- 
 scendants, — found entrance to his mind, his soul was 
 filled with joy,— 
 
 As had, like grief, been dewed in tears,— 
 
 had not the Archangel paused for him to find, instead, 
 expression in words : 
 
 "O prophet of glad tidings, finisher 
 Of utmost hope !" 
 
 (P. L, XII, 373-6.) 
 
 The remainder of the poem is conceived in an eleva- 
 tion of spirit which is not far removed from that arrived 
 at by the followers of Fox. 
 
 Fox believed in man's power to. attain moral perfec- 
 tion as a son of God : a belief which Milton shared to the 
 full capacity of a nature at once powerful and intense, 
 a temperament endowed with a giant's strength and a 
 woman's sensibility. The Tractates on Divorce were 
 the result of this exact attitude of mind, an inability to 
 compromise in the situation wherein he found himself 
 
236 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 involved. He could not temporize in the treatment of a 
 moral problem ; if a thing was wrong, he was unable to 
 tolerate any concession in its behalf. He was so stub- 
 bornly constituted that he could not at all palliate moral 
 delinquency. Moreover, he believed that it was man's 
 duty to be courageous, to live his life bravely and well ; 
 it was his duty to achieve and to maintain happiness. 
 The institution of marriage was of man's creation and 
 for his well-being,— if in any case it resulted in the un- 
 happiness of two individuals, they had a right to expect 
 aid from the same source out of which their union had 
 sprung, and from the same power by which it had been 
 created. He believed with St. Paul: "God hath called 
 us to peace and not to bondage." The Tractates on Di- 
 vorce were essays in moral betterment, a counsel of per- 
 fection. 
 
 So early as 1631 Milton had solemnly recorded the 
 impulse that dominated his life, and until the end was to 
 regulate every thought and every effort. To that aspira- 
 tion, and to that dedication, his whole life was consis- 
 tent. Not Fox himself, folding about his person the man- 
 tle of the Hebrew prophets,— their successor, and, so far 
 as his own conviction went, the anointed of the Lord, as 
 they before him had been the anointed of the Lord, — 
 his lips touched with a coal of fire from the altar of the 
 Most High,— not Fox himself was more completely dedi- 
 cated to the execution of God's will, than this handsome 
 young scholar at the beginning of his career, when he 
 penned the Sonnet on his Twenty-third Birthday, end- 
 ing in that confession of proud humility,— thrilling as 
 Milton's confession of obedience,— the recognition of 
 
MILTON'S CONFESSION OF FAITH 237 
 
 the constant presence of God, and of his duty to God and 
 to himself : 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 
 
 Stolen 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 arrived so near ; 
 
 And inward ripeness doth much less appear, 
 
 That some more timely-happy spirits endu'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, 
 Toward 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. 
 
 Until the day of his death, his life was one sustained 
 and consistent effort to use with unremitting and with 
 persistent care those talents that had been given him,— 
 to use them not for self-aggrandizement, but from a 
 sense of simple duty; never for a moment faltering in 
 his purpose, one guiding motive governing both youth 
 and age, one constant watchword throughout his life : 
 
 As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 
 
 This is in exact conformity with the injunction of 
 Michael to Adam,— -to Adam departing from Paradise 
 after sinning, but with grace implanted in his heart, — 
 
 "Though sorrowing, yet in peace." 
 
 (P. L., XI, 117.) 
 
 To him Michael, "the great Archangel," "of celestial 
 armies prince," brings a word of courage and of cheer : 
 
238 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "Nor love thy life, nor hate ; but what thou liv'st 
 Live well ; how long or short, permit to Heaven." 
 
 (P. L,, XL, 553-40 
 
 The two men, Fox and Milton, felt themselves dedi- 
 cate to the spiritual life, and each pressed forward in 
 confidence toward the mark for the prize of the high 
 calling of God; each in a different way thrilling the 
 hearts of those who listened to them. If it were the 
 mantle of the Hebrew prophets that Fox enfolded him- 
 self within, Milton, when "soaring in the high region 
 of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about 
 him," also stood transfigured; and thousands, with his 
 words ringing in their ears, have thought that they were 
 listening to the celestial choir, and to the songs of cheru- 
 bim and of archangels, "with a sevenfold chorus of hal- 
 lelujahs and harping symphonies," — 
 
 "And the sound 
 Symphonious of ten thousand harps, that tuned 
 Angelic harmonies." 
 
 (P. L, VII, 558-60.) 
 
 As one reads and ponders these glorious verses, and 
 reflects on the richness of endowment which they reveal, 
 —verses deep in significance, exquisite in modulation, 
 with every charm of versification, and transformed by 
 that poetic fire which reflects the radiance of the first 
 morn and of Paradise, — and as one meditates upon 
 the myriads of men since these were created, and which 
 shall yet be, long after we have departed, to whom they 
 have brought, and shall bring, consolation, and the most 
 complete happiness of which the human mind is capable, 
 — he blesses the wisdom and mercy of the Creator who 
 
MILTON'S 'CONFESSION OF FAITH 239 
 
 vouchsafed for our delectation the man John Milton, 
 and he may well murmur to himself the words of Adam 
 to his celestial visitant, — 
 
 "For, while I sit with thee, I seem in heaven," 
 
 (P. L., VIIL, 210.) 
 
 "Pure 
 Intelligence of Heaven, Angel serene." 
 
 (P. L., VIIL, 180-1.) 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE 
 POETIC GENIUS 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE 
 POETIC GENIUS 
 
 'r w a here can be no better way of making love," a cer- 
 tain sage philosopher has assured his readers, 
 
 JL "than to talk about it at the right time and with 
 the proper person." Now love and poetic frenzy are not 
 dissimilar activities of the human mind; in fact, they 
 are expressions of its energy so closely related that one 
 of the wisest and wittiest men that ever lived — even 
 great Plato himself — went so far as to include poet and 
 lover in the same category. 
 
 After the pleasure derived from reading poetry, which 
 is the most intimate of all conferences with the object 
 of one's adoration, the very inbreathing and devouring 
 of the spirit, could there be anything more fitted to 
 stimulate this passion than to meditate upon poetic 
 themes? If others also be admitted to the conference, 
 then it becomes a communion of the soul. 
 
 Surely no one of our time knew the poets better than 
 did our beloved Lowell. Lucky in many things, it was 
 his commanding good fortune, so far as the beauty of 
 poetry was concerned, to possess an eye of sure dis- 
 
 243 
 
244 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 crimination ; he had but to see the best in order to love it. 
 When compared with that, everything of slighter charm 
 faded into insignificance. A thousand times he has 
 recorded his reverence for literature, and in one passage 
 particularly has admitted us to share his intimate con- 
 victions. "Besides that refining pleasure which is re- 
 ceived from Art," he assures us, "the study of it, I am 
 persuaded, makes us acquainted with laws of God and 
 of our own souls whose inspiring thrill cannot leave our 
 lives wholly mean and ordinary. What we truly love 
 we live, and if we truly assimilate the principles of ideal 
 art, we may unconsciously and gradually incorporate 
 into ourselves that truth, order, proportion, simplicity, 
 the power of whose unity shall give us ideal lives." 
 
 Jowett had previously expressed almost identically the 
 same idea in different words, in speaking of Plato : "We 
 do not think it possible for any one to dwell on his im- 
 passioned admiration and sublime and glowing delinea- 
 tions of the morally fair and beautiful, without being in 
 some degree infected with his ennobling enthusiasm, in 
 accordance with that law by which we become more or 
 less assimilated to the image of whatever is the habitual 
 object of our delighted contemplation." * "The reason 
 of [the soul's] great desire," said Socrates, "to behold 
 the Plain of Truth is that the food which is suited to the 
 highest part of the soul comes out of that meadow." 
 "He who loves the beautiful is called a lover because 
 he partakes of it. For every soul of man has in the way 
 of nature beheld true being; this was the condition of 
 her passing into the form of man. But all souls do not 
 easily recall the things of the other world. * * * Few 
 
 * Edinburgh Review, April, 1848, Vol. LXXX VII., p. 335. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 245 
 
 only retain an adequate remembrance of them ; and they, 
 when they behold here any image of that other world, 
 are rapt in amazement; but they are ignorant of what 
 that rapture means, because they do not clearly perceive. 
 * * * There was a time when * * * we were admitted 
 to the sight of apparitions, * * * which we carry about, 
 now that we are imprisoned in the body like an oyster 
 in his shell." * 
 
 Milton brooded long and to good purpose over this 
 theme. In Paradise Lost, "the winged Hierarch,"— 
 "propitious guest,"— in reply to Adam's query, states a 
 belief in "one first matter"; a sort of enlightened pan- 
 theism not abhorrent to the scientific thought of our own 
 
 day : 
 
 "O Adam, one Almighty is, from whom 
 
 All things proceed, and up to him return, 
 
 If not depraved from good, created all 
 
 Such to perfection, one first matter all, 
 
 Endued with various forms, various degrees 
 
 Of substance, and, in things that live, of life; 
 
 But more refined, more spiritous and pure, 
 
 As nearer to him placed or nearer tending, 
 
 Each in their several active spheres assigned, 
 
 Till body up to spirit work, in bounds 
 
 Proportioned to each kind." 
 
 (P. L., V., 469-79-) 
 
 Spirit and body are both an emanation of the energy 
 of the Creator, both are divine in the ascending "scale of 
 Nature" ;f the power which regulates the growth of the 
 crystal according to its exquisite and immutable har- 
 mony is just as fully godlike, in the sense that it is an 
 expression of creative energy, of creative evolution, as 
 
 * Phadrus, Jowett's translation, 249 d, et seq. 
 tP.L.,V.,5oo. 
 
246 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 that which regulates human action when purged of the 
 last taint of self-interest, acting in accordance with so- 
 cial impulse of purest altruism. 
 
 At the very beginning of his poetic career Milton 
 gave expression in Comus to the same idea which near 
 the close he elaborated more fully and with logical pre- 
 cision in The Christian Doctrine. The Elder Brother in 
 Comus is meditating upon this transmutation, and the 
 underlying principle in his statement is the same as that 
 in the passage from Jowett already quoted;— it is the 
 converse of the biblical injunction that "evil communi- 
 cations corrupt good manners." The wise physician bids 
 his patient cultivate the society of the young: "Health," 
 he assures us, "is just as catching as the measles." The 
 poet, in the passage referred to, is speaking of the refin- 
 ing influence of uplifted thought, and of the communion 
 with creatures of the spiritual world : 
 
 "Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
 
 Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape, 
 
 The unpolluted temple of the mind, 
 
 And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence, 
 
 Till all be made immortal." .„ . . 
 
 (Comus, 4S9-63-) 
 
 And long afterwards he wrote in a mood consistent with 
 this earlier poetic statement : 
 
 "O favourable Spirit, propitious guest, 
 Well hast thou taught the way that might direct 
 Our knowledge, and the scale of Nature set 
 From centre to circumference, whereon, 
 In contemplation of created things, 
 By steps we may ascend to God." 
 
 (P. L., V., 507-12.) 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 247 
 
 Then and ever he was half Platonist. A man's life, in 
 the final analysis, is that on which his interest is fixed, 
 is that which, hour by hour and day by day, passes 
 through his mind and occupies his waking thought. 
 Trust the Semitic wit for stating this concisely, if in 
 terms of the market : "For where your treasure is, there 
 will your heart be also." A man's treasure is his heart, 
 whose systole and diastole are his every-day thoughts, 
 impulses, and emotions, his constant wishes and aspira- 
 tions; these in the truest sense are his life, all the rest 
 but fleeting and dissolving images. 
 
 n 
 
 From the heart come great thoughts, and it is in the 
 heart that all great poetry has its origin. The saying 
 of Pascal in regard to Holy Writ is equally true of 
 Poetry : that also is the science not of intelligence but of 
 the heart. 
 
 When the poet thinks he feels, and he is so constituted 
 that what with other men would be the ordinary proc- 
 esses of thought,— cool ratiocination,— are with him 
 accompanied by aroused emotion; he cannot think in 
 cold blood. Shelley, with a poet's sympathetic insight, 
 once said of Wordsworth that he awakened "a sort of 
 thought in sense," which is but to approach the same 
 idea from a different angle. With the poet, both thought 
 and emotion, as if held in their appointed orbits by the 
 same compulsive and governing principle of gravity, in- 
 stantly, and in complete felicity, seek one another, and 
 seek the consummation of harmonious rhythm : 
 
248 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "All heart they live, all head, all eye, all ear, 
 All intellect, all sense." rp L VI e 1 
 
 This endowment of sensibility the poet shares with the 
 musician, whose work is of feeling all compact, only in 
 the case of the poet there is added a more divine element 
 still, one of more celestial origin even than that which 
 music reveals; for here, besides the sensuous and intel- 
 lectual delight which music gives, are found both words 
 and ideas in addition, which transport the soul as well 
 as cheer and stimulate the mind,— 
 
 For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense. 
 
 (P. L., II., 556.) 
 
 The poet is swayed by strong emotion, is carried along, 
 and is carried beyond himself by the creative impulse 
 and instinct. There must be in his mind an endowment 
 of quickened feeling, and in the medium of expression 
 through which he addresses us the unfailing element of 
 beauty, but with the audience and the reader the true 
 poet, in his inspired mood of creation, is not concerned. 
 The intellectual pleasure of the reader is an indirect 
 object, and is not at all the primary purpose of poetic 
 activity. A poet makes poetry because it is his passion to 
 do so ; it is his natural manner of expression, instinctive 
 and inevitable, just as the song of the thrush is the over- 
 flowing of exuberant vitality and joyousness. When he 
 sings, he does so from pure delight of song, the act of 
 creation gives him the keenest possible satisfaction. 
 This faculty he exercises because he cannot help himself. 
 When he surrenders himself to the poetic impulse, he is 
 rapt in the delight of doing, and of doing that in which 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 249 
 
 he is engaged in terms of loveliness and perfection. The 
 contemplation of intellectual beauty not merely thrills, 
 but also satisfies the desire of his soul. Wordsworth 
 has spoken of the poetic impulse as a "spontaneous over- 
 flow of powerful emotion"; and elsewhere, giving ex- 
 pression to a similar idea, he has said: "Poetry is 
 emotion remembered in tranquillity," thus directing the 
 attention of the reader with somewhat of emphasis to 
 a quality which perhaps as fully as any other character- 
 izes his own poetry at its best,— the pure and limpid 
 charm of which, untroubled and serene, like a fountain 
 of pure water,— during his moods of inspiration was 
 ever springing up in his mind and pouring itself forth 
 for our refreshment and delectation. 
 
 The poet Gray once wrote to Horace Walpole: "As 
 to what you say to me civilly, that I ought to write more, 
 I will be candid and avow to you, that till fourscore and 
 upward, whenever the humour takes me, I will write, 
 because I like it and because I like myself better when 
 I do so." Gray was a striking example among the poets 
 of one who was but rarely moved to express himself in 
 verse. The most industrious of men, he was always 
 occupied with all sorts of studies,— for instance, with 
 those of the naturalist, making himself familiar with 
 the wonders of the created universe. Could there be 
 more wholesome recreation for one possessed of the 
 philosophic and poetic mind?— not dissection, nor 
 merely the delineation of species, but the study of life, 
 its marvel and the mystery of its myriad manifes- 
 tations. 
 
 We have the assurance of Coleridge that Poetry is to 
 be contrasted with Science as having not the bestowal of 
 
250 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 knowledge, but of pleasure, for its immediate end. 
 "Beauty," he said, "is the magic circle out of which 
 Poetry must never depart." Whether to contrast Poetry 
 with Science be not to approach the subject from the 
 wrong side, we will not here stop to discuss ; at all events, 
 the poet may be placed in opposition to the man of 
 science, as aiming in his own case rather at delight than 
 at knowledge, and Wordsworth has well expressed the 
 poetic temperament in writing his own "Epitaph," and 
 we may treasure this as a miniature of his own mind, at 
 one stage of his career, rendered with sympathetic 
 touch : 
 
 But who is He with modest looks, 
 
 And clad in homely russet brown? 
 
 He murmurs near the running brooks, 
 
 A music sweeter than their own. 
 
 He is retired as noontide dew, 
 Or fountain in a noon-day grove ; 
 And you must love him, ere to you 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky and earth, 
 Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; 
 And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
 In common things that round us lie 
 Some random truths he can impart, — 
 The harvest of a quiet eye 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
 
 But he is weak ; both Man and Boy, 
 Hath been an idler in the land ; 
 Contented if he might enjoy 
 The things which others understand. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 251 
 
 The admission of the last stanza perhaps jars a little 
 upon our accustomed belief in Wordsworth's equanimity 
 and philosophic poise, but we may love him none the less 
 for the revelation. It is a confession of youth, and the 
 poem in which it occurs was written while he was still a 
 young man, before he was married, and while he was 
 living, with his sister, in Goslar, on the edge of the 
 Hartz Forest in Germany, and was composed as he 
 walked by a certain pond, muffled, he tells us, in a "fur 
 pelisse," and having on his head a "dog's skin bonnet, 
 such as was worn by the peasants." "Here I had no 
 companion but a kingfisher, a beautiful creature that 
 used to glance by me. I consequently became much 
 attached to it."* The reader cannot but share his 
 friendship for this pleasant bird, one of the most lovely 
 of Europe, which is seen darting by the river's edge like 
 a morsel of animated opal ! 
 
 In all really great works of science, — in Newton, or 
 Bacon, or Darwin,— the imagination is stimulated and 
 tempted to endless applications and extensions of the 
 general laws of the universe, and it is an accepted axiom 
 of science, that no really great work can be accomplished 
 within its realm unless the scientific imagination be ever 
 eager and alert. Mere accumulation of facts, though 
 they be piled as high as the moon, is worthless, almost 
 in proportion to its mass, unless the scientific imagination 
 vivify those facts, convert them by the magic of its 
 power into something organic, the nerves and sinews 
 of a consistent plan. In the creation of any commanding 
 work of science, — in the Origin of Species or The De- 
 scent of Man, for instance, — the mind has to run ahead 
 
 * Wordsworth, A Poets Epitaph, Knight's Ed., II., 66. 
 
252 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 of proof and to anticipate a possible conclusion, in the 
 light of which facts may be subordinated and coordinated 
 in their appointed and inevitable sequence. The mind is 
 forced to form a working hypothesis, and, to accomplish 
 this, a delicate and powerful exercise of the scientific 
 imagination is required. This is really an act of crea- 
 tion, and almost the first word to be said of Poetry is 
 that, as the name signifies, it is an act of creation; the 
 poet shares this with God, that he is creator. 
 
 "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was 
 with God, and the Word was God" ; herein lies the power 
 of the poet, that whatever issues from his mouth in his 
 mood of inspiration is creative. Even if a song has long 
 been sung, if Burns sing it anew he creates it, the word 
 springing from his lips becomes alive. "Let there be 
 light," saith God, and instantly light filled the valleys and 
 spread abroad over the deep. Milton addresses light as 
 the "coeternal beam"; from all eternity it has existed 
 in the thought of the Almighty as the sculptor's statue 
 lives hidden in the block of marble, but it demands the 
 creative energy of the artist to release it in its perfec- 
 tion. 
 
 Diotima, the wise woman of Mantineia, when she was 
 instructing Socrates as to the nature of Love, spoke this 
 illuminative word on a kindred theme : "There is Poetry, 
 which, as you know, is complex and manifold. And all 
 creation or passage of non-being into being is poetry or 
 making, and the processes of all art are creative; the 
 masters of all arts are poets." * 
 
 * Socrates, in The Banquet. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 253 
 
 III 
 
 One of the first things that occur to the student who is 
 entering upon an investigation into the nature of the 
 poet's endowment is the distinction between the poetic 
 genius, which is creative, and the poetic art, which is con- 
 cerned with the technique of form ; or, as Wordsworth 
 has admirably contrasted them, the "vision and the 
 faculty divine," on the one hand ; and on the other, the 
 "accomplishment of verse." Only a few men and wo- 
 men of every generation, or of every century, are en- 
 dowed with this accomplishment of adequate and com- 
 plete expression in verse, but nearly everybody, once or 
 twice or a few times in his life, has caught, with greater 
 or less degree of success, the trick of "writing poetry." 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table even went so 
 far as to say that unless a man had composed verses 
 before he was twenty years of age, he would never 
 amount to anything at all; in the opinion of this wise 
 physician of the body and the mind, to be poetical to this 
 degree was only a healthful sign of adolescence. Swayed 
 by this impulse and facility of expression, which also is 
 creative, — and is entitled to a sort of minor reverence, — 
 perhaps when his emotions are under the exaltation of 
 awakening love, the youth would fain convince others 
 and himself that he is possessed as well of that higher 
 and rarer endowment of poetic vision. 
 
 What that genius is, we may perhaps best comprehend 
 if we consult the poets themselves upon the theme. "The 
 poets themselves," Dryden has assured us, "are the most 
 proper, though not the only critics of poetry." * It be- 
 
 * Preface to All for Love. 
 
254 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 hooves us, however, to accept their aid with certain men- 
 tal reservations, keeping in mind Plato's caution that the 
 poets are the poorest judges of their own productions. 
 The truth must perforce lie somewhere between these 
 two extremes, which, although apparently opposed, are 
 still capable of reconciliation. Whether we accept the 
 poets' own estimate or not, we shall certainly find their 
 opinions stimulating in this investigation, since they 
 have long brooded over these problems, to them of pri- 
 mary and vital importance. 
 
 What is the difference between poetry of the first 
 order and every other kind? There is something about 
 the best: that is bewitching, and that makes us regard the 
 rest of it with indifference, nay, almost as an imperti- 
 nence when compared with that, in a way not dissimi- 
 lar to that in which one under the domination of love 
 remains obtuse and immune to all other attractions 
 except to such as emanate from the object of his devo- 
 tion. If one really feels the best poetry, and responds 
 to its power, it simply effaces the second best, and all 
 other; and the purpose of poetic cultivation is to make 
 the reader quick to recognize that which has real excel- 
 lence, and genuinely to prefer it to every other sort. 
 
 The quality which makes poetry perfect and thrilling, 
 —which, for example, distinguishes the best of that of 
 Burns and of Wordsworth from all the rest of it,— may 
 not at first be perceived. Each person may enjoy it ac- 
 cording to his capacity; only he can feel its full excellence 
 whose powers of joy are as strong as the poet's own. 
 Plato has an illuminative word on this when he speaks 
 of "The eye seeing in all things what it brought with it 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 255 
 
 the faculty of seeing." "Never," said Plotinus, "could 
 the eye have beheld the sun had not its own essence been 
 preconfigured to light, neither can a soul not beautiful 
 attain to an intuition of beauty." 
 
 Why should beauty, harmony, proportion, arouse our 
 emotional sensibilities? Is it because the human soul 
 craves perfection, — perfection in the domain of Will, 
 which is the Good; perfection in the domain of Know- 
 ledge, which is the True; perfection in the domain of 
 Sensation and Perception, which is the Beautiful ? Is it 
 because in the contemplation of beauty desire is awak- 
 ened? "Love is only birth in beauty," said Plato, 
 "whether of body or soul." * The longing of the devotee 
 is not for possession but for contemplation. Desire is 
 raised above the concrete, the personal and selfish, to 
 the abstract, the impersonal, the unselfish and immortal. 
 I am lost in contemplation of perfection, of the ideal, of 
 the universal; while the ecstasy of artistic or aesthetic 
 transport remains, I am a part of the unlimited, of the 
 unconditioned, of the Infinite. The few thus equipped 
 are those who in the service of their fellows have broken 
 the bonds which once bound them solely to their own 
 affairs and to their own well-being, — who have escaped 
 from the prison of self, and have come to breathe that 
 ampler ether and diviner air of the impersonal, the un- 
 limited, the Infinite. Studying a great poet, such as this, 
 "my guide, my lord, my master," the reader who is 
 strengthened with his energy, who is inspired by the 
 gladness of his heart, and who partakes of his joy and 
 mirth,— who is lifted on the wings of his ecstasy,— dares 
 
 * The Banquet, I., 498. 
 
256 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 breathe words that are at once an adoration and a 
 prayer : "I, even I, am a living soul !" 
 
 The lover of beauty craves perfection, not with the 
 same intensity of desire, it may be, as the lover of moral 
 perfection, but still the longings are not dissimilar, and, 
 unknown to himself, he responds in a different way to 
 the Christian's aspiration, although it be incapable of 
 complete realization: "Be ye perfect, even as your 
 Father in Heaven is perfect." 
 
 We may rest assured that Aristotle, if ever man pos- 
 sessed this endowment, had both a sound head and the 
 capacity for sane judgment; in the Poetics he has dis- 
 tinctly declared that Poetry is a more philosophic and 
 serious matter than History itself. We need the poet's 
 penetration to read History aright, and to judge of the 
 personages who appear upon its stage. Under a mean 
 exterior may be concealed a noble soul, — the figure of a 
 god within the mask of Silenus, is the simile which Alci- 
 biades uses in describing Socrates. The poet, the one 
 who sees life aright and discerns its real import, appre- 
 hending in the sureness of his poetic vision that which 
 is common to all men, reveals to us our own hidden pow- 
 ers, our own capabilities, which without his aid might 
 have remained hidden and undreamt of by us except 
 perhaps in one of the supreme moments of life. These 
 times of clear-sightedness without doubt come to every 
 person in seasons of mental exaltation, — it may be of 
 great sorrow as well as of rejoicing, — but since they are 
 with us so rarely, and then in periods of mental stress 
 and agitation, they may serve rather to distort the per- 
 spective of life than to assist at a sane comprehension of 
 its meaning. The poets, said Wordsworth, have given 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 257 
 
 us "nobler loves and nobler cares." By the poet's imagi- 
 native gift, we are enabled to live the lives of other men, 
 to see with their eyes, think with their minds, to feel al- 
 most with their senses and with their powers of feeling. 
 If the poet be merely the artist, the creator of the 
 beautiful, a "winged and holy thing" as he is character- 
 ized in Plato's Republic, let us in true catholicity of 
 spirit, take what he can give, — not despising him for 
 what he lacks, for what he is powerless to impart, — ac- 
 cepting thankfully the creation of beauty with the same 
 joy that we should the freshness and delight of a morn- 
 ing in May, or as we welcome the rapture of the sky- 
 lark's song: 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound, 
 Better than all treasures 
 That in books are found, 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground. 
 
 That is one poetic creed. 
 
 There could be no greater error than to imagine any 
 necessary conflict between strong feeling and sound 
 reason,— feeling with joy as well as with, sorrow; man's 
 allotted task on earth being one of appreciation, of sym- 
 pathy, and of joy,— man's "task of happiness," as a poet 
 has finely called it. One remembers that, in the Divine 
 Comedy, Dante and his guide found in the seventh circle 
 of Hell, driven in torment through the Wood of the 
 Suicides, in eternal agony, worried by hell-hounds, 
 among such as had robbed themselves of their bodies 
 and of their possessions, those who had, while upon 
 earth, and in the "sweet light of the sun," "wept there 
 where they should be joyous." 
 
258 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 Man can do violence 
 To himself and his own blessings ; and for this 
 He * * * must aye deplore 
 
 With unavailing penitence his crime ; 
 Whoe'er deprives himself of life and light, 
 In reckless lavishment his talent wastes, 
 And sorrows there where he should dwell in joy.* 
 
 The same sentiment is found in the Faerie Queene: 
 
 For he whose daies in wilful woe are worne, 
 The grace of his Creator doth dispise.f 
 
 And even great Milton, steeped in the spirit of that 
 moral idealism, that sad and compulsive sincerity which 
 swept England like a tornado at the time of the Chris- 
 tian renaissance, of the new awakening of conscience, 
 even he "disapproves that care,"— 
 
 That with superfluous burden loads the day, 
 And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.^ 
 
 The very first words of Adam, newly awakening in the 
 "happy garden," have, as we should expect, the note of 
 youth and exultation : 
 
 " 'Thou Sun/ said I, 'fair light, 
 And thou enlightened Earth, so fresh and gay.' " 
 
 (P. L., VIII., 273-4.) 
 
 All the poets are united in this, the last of them as 
 well as the first : 
 
 Laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of the sky, 
 Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by, 
 
 * Cary's translation, Inferno, XI., 26-32. 
 t IV., viii., 15. % Sonnet XXI. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 259 
 
 Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine outpoured 
 In the dear green Earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord.* 
 
 Poetry must be based upon knowledge of nature and 
 of man, but the poet's knowledge and his science are 
 concealed, they are of the nature of a reserve force, 
 serving to make effective his poetic genius, but not ob- 
 trusive or apparent. They are like the seven out of the 
 eight parts of an iceberg which are beneath the surface 
 of the water, and which must be there, if the iceberg be 
 not stranded, a mere dead and inert mass with not even 
 capacity to do harm. "Poetry is the impassioned ex- 
 pression which is the countenance of all science." 
 
 Man's delight in poetry, said Aristotle, arises from 
 the fact that he is an imitative being. "God createth," 
 saith the old adage, "Man imitateth, Virtue flourisheth,f 
 Death finisheth." Voltaire, with his accustomed wit, 
 followed this idea to its legitimate conclusion, when he 
 said that man had created God in his own image. 
 
 The poet is both imitator and creator. Lamb has a 
 word to say on this : "Therein the great and little wits 
 are differenced; that if the latter wander ever so little 
 from nature or actual existence, they lose themselves 
 and their readers. Their phantoms are lawless; their 
 
 * Masefield, Ballads and Poems; Laugh and be Merry. 
 
 Even the psychologist must "keep up with the procession" and become 
 poetical in spirit: "The highest point reached by laughter, undoubtedly, 
 is intimately related with the highest intellectual, aesthetic, and moral 
 development. * * * Joy, from which all laughter comes, springs from 
 subconsciousness. * * * Laughter is the light of the spirit. Mirth, 
 like Venus, may be born of the foam of life, but under the foam there are 
 the depths of the ocean of being, over which smiles and laughter come up 
 playfully. * * * The highest development of ridicule, true humour, 
 brings one in touch with the Infinite. True humour in its highest stages 
 sees the infinite depth of the soul in the failures, faults, defects, and im- 
 perfections of human nature." Boris Sidis, Ph.D., Why Do We Laugh? 
 
 t That is, causes to flourish. 
 
260 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 visions nightmares. They do not create, which implies 
 shaping and consistency. Their imaginations are not 
 active,— for to be active is to call something into act and 
 form,— but are passive, as men in sick dreams." * 
 
 IV 
 
 Three things of vital importance Coleridge enumerates 
 as essential to the equipment of the poet,— Sensibility, 
 Imagination, Power of Association. The following pas- 
 sage from Emerson is nearly identical in significance 
 with the statement of Coleridge, and it is what we might 
 expect that, meditating upon the same theme, minds so 
 alike in the fullness of their endowment should give 
 expression to the thought in nearly identical words. 
 Referring to Plutarch, Emerson says: "He had many 
 qualities of the poet, in the power of his imagination, 
 the speed of his mental associations, and his sharp, ob- 
 jective eyes." Where Coleridge uses the word "sensibil- 
 ity," Emerson, with a dash of Socratic humour quite 
 characteristic of his New England associations, makes 
 mention of his "sharp, objective eyes." It goes without 
 saying that his faculties are quickly responsive to im- 
 pressions of every sort, otherwise he would not be a 
 poet; it is his metier to be impressionable. Dante, know- 
 ing well what it means quickly to respond both to sor- 
 row and to joy, quotes the words of Aristotle which 
 express his own feeling in the matter: "The more a 
 thing is perfect, the more it feels pleasure and likewise 
 pain." 
 
 This very delicacy of organization and of men- 
 
 *Lamb, Sanity of True Genius. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 261 
 
 tal equipment, and the power of strong feeling which 
 accompanies it, are the things which as much as any- 
 thing else differentiate the poet from other men. Even 
 the great Milton, whom many of our degenerate day (in 
 their blindness perceiving not his clearness of sight) 
 have come to regard as a sort of intellectual giant, a man 
 of unmeasured power, they may be willing to concede, 
 but in temperament like a granite boulder, of perfect 
 solidity and poise,— one who could elaborate an epic with 
 the same sureness with which a well-trained engineer 
 would draw his plans for a suspension bridge across a 
 flood, or for a "giant causey" from Earth to Hell,— this 
 same impassive Milton wrote from Italy to Charles Dio- 
 dati, that his soul was "tremulous with emotion" by rea- 
 son of the beauty which he beheld. Unless he had pos- 
 sessed this quick and sensitive power of apprehension, 
 his mind would never have garnered the innumerable 
 impressions from the external world which afterwards 
 in solitary blindness he poured forth in terms of beauty 
 and of sonorous majesty in the inspired cantos of Para- 
 dise Lost. 
 
 Milton's famous characterization of the essentials of 
 poetry has been misunderstood well-nigh from his own 
 day to our own. What he really said was not that 
 poetry should be "simple, sensuous, passionate," — thus 
 affording a canon of excellence, and enunciating a sort 
 of criterion,— but that, as contrasted with logic, poetry 
 is more simple, sensuous, and passionate ; which is a very 
 different thing altogether. Much more than these three 
 attributes is necessary to constitute poetry as Milton 
 conceived it ; and these traits, although they differentiate 
 poetry from logic, do not attain at all to the element of 
 
262 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 the sublime within whose vast infinite revolves the 
 mighty orbit of Milton's own poetic genius. 
 
 The phrase to which reference is made occurs paren- 
 thetically in a letter to Master Samuel Hartlib, whose 
 name, well known though it was to scholars of his own 
 day, comes down to posterity like the proverbial fly in 
 amber, since he was the means of bringing to us this 
 concise and pregnant criticism. What we are chiefly 
 interested with now, however, in this letter, is the impor- 
 tance which Milton attaches to Poetry when considered 
 relatively to other branches of study in the poet's scheme 
 of intellectual training,— an arduous course under 
 which ordinary youths would hopelessly founder, and to 
 which only the precocity of a Sidis or the colossal 
 strength of a Milton could conform. This scheme of 
 education, even if not practicable for ordinary men, is 
 of value as revealing the power of the man and his en- 
 durance and capacity for assimilation. The achievement 
 which he demanded of the pupil seemed to him the most 
 natural thing in the world. Since in his spare hours it 
 had been a task of slight difficulty for the poet himself to 
 acquire the Hebrew tongue and the "Chaldee and Syrian 
 dialects," why then should it be impossible for other 
 lads ? It is to be borne in mind, when one contemplates 
 the Herculean task which he would set before his pupils, 
 that he has in mind not the teacher of average faculties 
 but always one of exceptional endowment, and to his 
 mind the difficulty of accomplishment was primarily that 
 of the instructor and not of the pupil: "Thus, Mr. 
 Hartlib, you have a general view in writing * * * con- 
 cerning the best and noblest way of education. * * * 
 Only I believe that this is not a bow for every man to 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 263 
 
 shoot with that counts himself as a teacher, but will 
 require sinews almost equal to those which Homer gave 
 Ulysses." * 
 
 Milton assigns to poetry the place of completing and 
 perfecting an otherwise one-sided and dwarfed educa- 
 tion. Only after poetic culture can the most highly en- 
 dowed minds be said to be "liberally educated" or 
 "fraught with an universal insight into things," so that, 
 "whether they be to speak in parliament or council, 
 honour and attention would be waiting on their lips." 
 
 "And now, lastly," he says, "will be the time to read 
 with them those organic arts which enable men to dis- 
 course and write perspicuously, elegantly, and according 
 to the fitted style of lofty, mean, or lowly. Logic, there- 
 fore, so much as is useful, is to be referred to this due 
 place, with all her well-couched heads and topics, until 
 it be time to open her contracted palm into a graceful 
 and ornate rhetoric. To which poetry would be made 
 subsequent, or, indeed, rather precedent, as being less 
 subtile and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passion- 
 ate ; I mean not here the prosody of a verse, which they 
 could not but have hit on before among the rudiments 
 of grammar, but that sublime art which in Aristotle's 
 Poetics, in Horace, and others, teaches what the laws are 
 of a true epic poem, what of a dramatic, what of a lyric, 
 what decorum is, which is the grand masterpiece to 
 observe." 
 
 Let us not, in admiration of the three words to which 
 
 ♦Though the scheme of education as set forth by Milton required the 
 sinews of Ulysses, yet did he himself make trial of it with the youth 
 entrusted to his care, as we learn from the statement of his nephew, Ed- 
 ward Philips. That formidable list of Latin and Greek authors seems less 
 incapable of accomplishment when one learns the method of procedure in 
 the case of Sidis and of others trained under similar methods. 
 
264 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 reference has so often been made,— so concise and full 
 of significance,— overlook that other quality which he 
 states to be "the grand masterpiece to observe," whether 
 in epic, dramatic, or lyric poetry, and which Milton the 
 most fully of all the moderns,— perhaps with Landor 
 next in order as worthy successor of the ancients,— mas- 
 tered and expressed, — the attribute of decorum. The 
 mention of Horace's name in the passage just quoted 
 comes in appropriately here ; that verse of his is familiar, 
 the limpid utterance of a nature perfectly sweet and 
 human,— 
 
 Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. 
 
 We have heard it a thousand times without stopping to 
 think what is involved in the word decorum. Whether 
 in the realm of poetry or of life, none knew better than 
 Milton the true significance of this word ; both his verse 
 and character stand as supreme monuments to this qual- 
 ity of the poet and the man. 
 
 To have and to express decorum is not merely to be 
 decorous ; one might almost say that to be decorous is to 
 be unpoetic, so hatefully have our Puritan ancestors 
 bedevilled and done their best to eliminate from human 
 nature the perfectly natural craving for beauty and for 
 joy. The words "decorum" and "decorate" are derived 
 from the same root; decorum is that quality which the 
 sonatas of Beethoven have, and which perhaps no other 
 music quite so fully reveals ; they are like untroubled 
 sleep, calm and serene, through whose portals one enters 
 a world of pleasant dreams, bringing refreshment to the 
 spirit, like Wisdom in that charming passage from 
 Proverbs: "[Their] ways are ways of pleasantness, and 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 265 
 
 all [their] paths are peace." When we say that Para- 
 dise Lost possesses the quality of decorum, "which is 
 the grand masterpiece to observe," we mean that it is 
 nobly decorated with everything which learning, schol- 
 arship, poetic power, and sensibility could bring. It is 
 the record of an eye and ear ever alert and eager to seize 
 the myriad forms of beauty which others behold and do 
 not apprehend, and it has all those traits of excellence 
 which a deep-brained intellect and sound character could 
 contribute under the majestic rule of Law. 
 
 Every verse, arrayed in majesty, 
 Bold and sublime, 
 
 are the words used by Addison in describing Paradise 
 Lost. 
 
 Milton's decorum is so generous and so rich, has a 
 quality so lavish and so warm, as well as so graceful and 
 so stately, that it wins our regard almost as humour does 
 in another man. Lamb, who was the most humourous 
 and most humane of men, and who loved the quality of 
 humour as much as anybody that ever lived, was yet un- 
 swerving in his allegiance to his best beloved of all the 
 poets, the one who has almost the least of them all any 
 trait of humour whatever. He felt in its complete- 
 ness the spell of Milton's power, and of the marvellous 
 becomingness of every utterance of his muse. Apart 
 from this poet's insight and ardour, Lamb was won by 
 the graciousness and courtesy and distinction of his de- 
 portment, as he would have been by the friendly glance 
 of the eye in another, by the touch of his hand, or an 
 unpretentious, kindly word. 
 
 Lamb's contribution to the study of poetry is of no 
 
266 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 slight value, and he has a word to say about the sanity 
 of true genius, which is very closely related to the faculty 
 of humour, in itself almost a touchstone for mental 
 health. "It is impossible," he tells us, "for the mind to 
 conceive of a mad Shakespeare. The greatness of wit, 
 by which the poetic talent is here chiefly to be under- 
 stood, manifests itself in the admirable balance of all the 
 faculties. Madness is the disproportionate straining or 
 excess of any one of them. 'So strong a wit,' says Cow- 
 ley, speaking of a poetical friend, 
 
 " 'Did Nature to him frame, 
 As all things but his judgment overcame ; 
 His judgment like the heavenly moon did show, 
 Tempering that mighty sea below.' " * 
 
 The powers of ordinary men, heightened, do not be- 
 come poetic, but the poetic endowment, even when its 
 manifestations are but slight, is of its own peculiar sort. 
 It is not a difference of quantity but of quality that one 
 finds here, and it is far-reaching and elemental ; the two 
 may not be compared any more than the heart of oak 
 and the flame into which it is transformed. 
 
 Not only must the poet have the perceiving eye, and 
 behold that which ordinary men overlook,— like Shelley, 
 from the bridge at Florence watching the sun weave its 
 pattern of light on the varying surface of the Arno,— 
 but since the pleasure of the reader is the primary object 
 of poetry, he must have an ear sensitive to delicate sound 
 as well, and must be able to derive and convey,— again 
 to use Coleridge's words, "delight in richness and 
 sweetness of sound." f When Milton was engaged in 
 
 * Lamb, The Sanity of True Genius. 
 t Lectures on Shakespeare, 494. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 267 
 
 the composition of Paradise Lost he spent hours daily at 
 the organ, refreshing his mind and nourishing his soul 
 on its music; and the splendour of that sound is heard 
 reverberating through the cantos of the poem in the 
 same way that it lingers in the aisles and beneath the 
 vaulted roof of a cathedral, caught up in echoing ca- 
 dence,— ever thrilling and satisfying that inward ear of 
 the reader, which, as well as the "inward eye," is also 
 the "bliss of solitude." 
 
 The theme of melody has an esoteric significance ; there 
 must be melody to the ear and to the mind as well. 
 The poet must by penetrative insight detect, and have 
 the power to transmit to others, those inner harmonies 
 of the universe,— of the world of mind as well as of 
 matter, — which only the illuminati recognize and ap- 
 prehend. 
 
 The Greeks were very sensitive to that inherent and 
 vital quality of a poem which penetrates and permeates 
 every part of it, that quality which contributes to the 
 even balance of all the parts and to the certain poise of 
 the whole. This they sometimes commended as the "tem- 
 per" of a poem, just as a swordsman might praise the 
 fine resilience of Damascus steel; a quality which so 
 rules the matter wherein it resides that it cannot err 
 from excellence, but, whether in motion or repose, main- 
 tains an ever just proportion, a felicitous agreement like 
 that of music. 
 
 The fine equipment of the ear and of the eye, and of 
 those penetrative faculties of the mind which correspond 
 
268 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 to them and interpret their meaning, are traits which 
 as much as anything else set the poet apart from ordi- 
 nary men ; possessing these, he moves in a higher sphere. 
 The prayer of the true poet has been well expressed by 
 Milton: 
 
 So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 
 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
 
 Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from thence 
 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight.* 
 
 As well as a musical instinct the poet must have a 
 correct logical sense to insure the proper development 
 of his theme. A lyric or an essay, as well as an epic 
 or a tragedy, has a plot. If his instinct be discriminat- 
 ing, the poet constructs an organic work of art. Matthew 
 Arnold has dwelt upon the perfection of "architec- 
 tonics" in Paradise Lost, in conformity with which the 
 poet has constructed a mighty epic with the same felicity 
 of execution, holding its organic parts in true relation, 
 that is shown by the builder of a great cathedral, 
 where each portion is regulated to conform with the 
 majesty of the whole, and where every detail of decora- 
 tion is so subordinated to the effectiveness of the com- 
 pleted building, that the spectator, while he takes delight 
 in the elaboration of each separate passage, yet never 
 for a moment forgets the ultimate purpose of it all, — 
 the logical end of its existence, — which is the glory of 
 God and the magnificence of his worship. 
 
 The musician, too, would maintain that music is the 
 most logical of all things, in perfect harmony conform- 
 ing to law. The poet gives expression to this idea when 
 
 * Paradise Lost, III., 51-5. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 269 
 
 he bids us listen to the music of the spheres, which to his 
 attent and reverent ear is but the expression, in im- 
 posing rhythm, of serene order, the harmonic obser- 
 vance of law underlying and penetrating all matter and 
 all mind. 
 
 Since logic is the driest thing in the world, it seems 
 strange to demand an endowment of this for the poet; 
 but, whatever happens, he must firmly grasp the true 
 relation of things, one to another. This is a mental act 
 involving an exercise of judgment, the power of justly 
 valuing the relative importance of events and their nec- 
 essary sequence, which, united, form the Action of a 
 poem, a quality so highly prized by Aristotle in the 
 Poetics that he ranks it in epic and tragic poetry as of 
 primary importance. The logical mind is a mechanical 
 necessity; it is a part of the necessary technical equip- 
 ment, as vital to the whole structure as the steel frame- 
 work within its walls making possible a modern cliff- 
 dwelling of the city. 
 
 The poet must have logical power, but the last thing 
 that should happen to him should be to find himself be- 
 neath the domination alone of cold reason. There is a 
 sort of madness, an unreasoning afflatus which Milton 
 thought to be an emanation of the divine spirit, to which 
 the creator of a poem willingly and with joy surrenders 
 himself : 
 
 Camillo: Be advised. 
 
 Florizel: I am, and by my fancy; * if my reason 
 
 Will thereto be obedient, I have reason ; 
 
 If not, my senses, better pleased with madness, 
 
 Do bid it welcome.f 
 
 * Here not "creative fancy" but merely "preference." 
 t Winter's Tale, IV., iii., 48&-92. 
 
270 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 An Elizabethan poet * has said of Marlowe — 
 
 For that fine madness still he did retain 
 That rightly should possess a poet's brain. 
 
 And Milton speaks of himself as— 
 
 Smit with the love of sacred song, 
 
 (P. L., III., 29.) 
 
 just as one might be smitten with unreasoning madness, 
 or with love, which is much the same kind of malady, 
 terribly interesting to the victim while it lasts, but a 
 sort of divine distress, out of which may spring the most 
 ethereal and the most enduring of human affections. 
 
 VI 
 
 In striking contrast with the accurate and logical sense, 
 which, though vital, is but a means to an end, is the sense 
 of humour, and the humourous faculty, one of the divin- 
 est qualities of the human mind. Where that is found in 
 abundance, like threads of gold in quartz, or nuggets 
 in the sand, there is no need to advertise the precious- 
 ness of the metal; people will flock to the diggings. 
 What a mine of mirth and happiness have Chaucer and 
 Cervantes and Moliere been to the elect among, whole 
 generations of mankind! That this gladness of the 
 heart need not necessarily impair the greatness of 
 the philosophic mind, one has but to think of Emerson, 
 or of Shakespeare, or of Plato, to feel assured. 
 
 With a strong sense of humour no one can long take 
 himself too seriously; it is a sort of inspired and glorified 
 
 * Drayton. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 271 
 
 tact, illuminating the mind from within,— a radiance as 
 little related to dull realities as that of the glow-worm 
 or the fire-fly,— an expression also, like their corusca- 
 tions, of health and vital energy. That Wordsworth had 
 not a prevailing sense of humour is well known, else 
 would he not have written verses which sometimes even 
 lay him open to ridicule, the inevitable result of which 
 has been that many well-meaning persons are so antago- 
 nized that it is impossible for them to read him with 
 patience,— as Byron and William Morris could not, — 
 and consequently these people are deprived of one of the 
 most full and satisfying delights of literature. His was 
 the great voice of his time, speaking in a sad sincerity, 
 bringing Heaven very near indeed to those who have 
 sympathy with his meditations and poetic ideals. But 
 as for humour, he had next to none at all of that. One 
 of the Westmoreland peasants who, boy and man, had 
 known the poet well, said of him, "You could tell f ra the 
 man's f aace his po'try would niver have no laugh in it."* 
 Another peasant, who had been a servant at Rydal 
 Mount, said: "I don't remember he ever laughed in his 
 life; he 'd smile, times or two." Let us not forget, in 
 justice to him, that though his "po'try" had no laugh in 
 it, yet it has what is also precious in its way, even better 
 than the downright laugh of another man, a "smile 
 times or two,"— a grave smile of compelling charm. 
 
 Mrs. Wordsworth would seem to have had a sense of 
 humour, or at least something closely akin to that, an 
 endowment of originality so prompt and effective as to 
 make us better understand the remark made by a peas- 
 
 * Those who did not like him, and who perhaps had in mind certain arid 
 stretches of the Excursion, said that his face was long and dreary-looking 
 and resembled that of a horse. They did not know. 
 
272 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 ant of the neighbourhood after the poet's death, that "he 
 supposed the ladies would continue to carry on the busi- 
 ness." But the incident best illustrating her humourous 
 originality was told by the same old servant at Rydal 
 Mount: 
 
 "You said it was hard to get him to his meals ; what 
 did you mean?" I asked. 
 
 "Well, well, it was study as was his delight; he was 
 aw for study, and Mrs. Wordsworth would say, 'Ring 
 the bell,' but he would n't stir, bless ye. 
 
 " 'Goa and see what he 's doing,' she 'd say, and we 
 goa up to study door and hear him a-mumbling and 
 bumming through it. 
 
 " 'Dinner 's ready, sir,' I 'd ca' out, but he 'd goa mum- 
 bling on like a deaf man, ya see. 
 
 "And sometimes Mrs. Wordsworth 'u'd say, 'Goa and 
 break a bottle or let a dish fall just outside door in pas- 
 sage.' Eh ! dear, that mostly 'u'd bring him out, w'u'd 
 that. It was only that as w'u'd, however. For ye kna 
 he was a very careful mon, and he could n't do with 
 breaking the china." * 
 
 Wordsworth had not humour, but when he presented 
 such a scene as this, in the Leech Gatherer, and clothed 
 it in sunshine and exuberance of vitality,— a sort of 
 pervading smile of cheerfulness,— we forget all that he 
 lacked, and, in simple thankfulness, rejoice with him, and 
 call his name blessed. He has seized the very freshness 
 of the morning, and put a spirit of youth in everything : 
 
 ♦Mrs. Wordsworth's solicitude and her means of calling her hungry- 
 philosopher to his meals makes one by contrast think of the manner in 
 which Montaigne's father used to awaken him, when a lad, with music, 
 that he might enter upon the day with spirits serene and unperturbed. In 
 either case there was a nice adjustment of means to end. 
 
CERTAIN 'ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 273 
 
 All things that love the sun are out of doors ; 
 
 The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; 
 
 The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on the moors 
 
 The hare is running races in her mirth ; 
 
 And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
 
 Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, 
 
 Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 
 
 Perhaps Chaucer, of all that have spoken in our tongue, 
 had the fullest endowment of this gift. As one reads 
 him the effect is not necessarily that laughter is pro- 
 voked, but a sort of gladness pervades the spirits, an 
 increasing and cumulative cheerfulness like sunlight 
 after storm ; he feels just as a cat must when she purrs ; 
 a genial glow pervades his spirits and warms the cockles 
 of his heart; an emanation of cordial vapours surrounds 
 him like the fragrance of spring, and puts a spirit of 
 youth in everything, such magic is there in content. If 
 any trait of poetry shows its divine origin, it is this, full 
 of tenderness and akin to mercy. 
 
 Humour, as every one knows, signifies moisture, and 
 the most subtle and exquisitely humourous things in the 
 world often have a strain of sadness about them, as in 
 Hawthorne, at his best, in The Twice Told Tales and 
 The Wonder-Book. Unless a man have deep feeling, — 
 capacity for tears as well as for laughter, — beware the 
 edge of his wit. He may have what is called a "trench- 
 ant humour," which is just about as sensible as to speak 
 of a "slashing caress," but he has never drunk at all 
 from the fountain sources of most precious human 
 experience. The subtlety of such humour as Haw- 
 thorne's would be lost upon him like the benediction of 
 
274 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 the morning's dew gently falling from heaven on the 
 cherished offspring of the cow. "Her smile," said Syd- 
 ney Smith, speaking not of the cow but of a charming 
 woman — "her smile was so sweet that it would make a 
 gooseberry bush burst into flower." 
 
 Humour and courtesy are akin ; humour may be so fine 
 and so humane as to be the very efflorescence and finer 
 breath of courtesy;— on the other hand, courtesy may 
 be so genuine as to have a touch of humour about it, of 
 that sublimated tact which is an element of fine humour ; 
 and as courtesy makes one happy, so may one laugh 
 from content, with never a joke in sight. The joyous 
 temperament and the intense temperament were the two 
 characteristics of the poet that came first to the mind of 
 Keats when he addressed the mighty dead: 
 
 Bards of passion and of mirth. 
 
 Unless a man can laugh with a full heart, it is safe to 
 question the sincerity of his tears, or of his pathetic 
 lucubrations over the miseries of mankind. 
 
 Bards of passion and of mirth, 
 Ye have left your souls on earth! 
 Ye have souls in heaven too, 
 Double-liv'd in regions new. 
 Where the nightingale doth sing 
 Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
 But divine melodious truth ; 
 Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
 Tales and golden histories 
 Of heaven and its mysteries. 
 
 Humour and courtesy are both closely related to true 
 decorum, and while, for instance, there is not a gleam 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 275 
 
 of humour in Paradise Lost, there is a quality of grace 
 and decoration in that poem so satisfying in a similar 
 way that it appeals to more than a single sense of appre- 
 ciation and delight, — like a glass of good old wine, carry- 
 ing a message of cheer to the heart, deeply grateful, at 
 once, to the sense of smell, to the palate, and to the eye. 
 The sublimation and finest flower of humour is in 
 Plato ; the humour of Socrates in the Dialogues is most 
 delicate and soothing and caressing; it hardly resembles 
 in the slightest degree the wit of Swift or Carlyle, for 
 instance, but is of that order of excellence found only 
 in Moliere, and Cervantes, and Lamb, and Hawthorne, 
 and a few others. So delicate is it that one accustomed 
 to the crude intellectual excitement of the professed 
 humourist fails to detect it as having arty existence 
 whatever. The perfect humour and courtesy of the 
 Socratic dialogues, suave and humane, varying only 
 in form of manifestation, are the pervading sunshine 
 which gives warmth and comfortable human quality to 
 the whole. 
 
 VII 
 
 Strong feeling is the one thing without which there 
 cannot be poetry; it must be feeling of a fine order, 
 translated out of the petty and individual into the large 
 and universal. If the poet's passion be sufficiently deep, 
 the "chord of self," it may be "in trembling," passes 
 "out of sight." To teach people "to see, to think, and to 
 feel," said Wordsworth, is the end of poetry; and else- 
 where, with a fine glancing of poetic insight, he has given 
 us a true poetic criticism: "Poetry is the impassioned 
 expression which is the countenance of all science." 
 
276 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 As contrasted with logic, poetry is "less subtile and 
 fine, but more simple, sensuous and passionate." Sim- 
 ple it must be if it is good, for all the best things in life 
 are simple,— poetry, manners, character. Poetry can- 
 not be involved and intricate without diverting the mind 
 from the object which it is the poet's purpose to effect, 
 Carlyle with all his epic force, and Browning with his 
 tremendous vitality, notwithstanding. 
 
 The poet is one whose power of receiving acute im- 
 pressions, increase of years and the deadening paralysis 
 of conventional life have not dulled; in human life the 
 period of first development is often that of fullest 
 equipment. There is in Coleridge a luminous passage 
 of unusual interest, since in it he hints at the secret 
 which we would grasp ; and in him was the rare endow- 
 ment and combination of the metaphysical and thor- 
 oughly logical mind, in union with the sensibility of 
 one whose medium of thought at times is rapt above 
 the terms of ordinary speech, and becomes a harmony of 
 the soul, at once the medium of strong intelligence and 
 of musical expression. "The poet," he tells us, "is one 
 who carries the simplicity of childhood into the powers 
 of manhood; who, with a soul unsubdued by habit, un- 
 shackled by custom, contemplates all things with the 
 freshness and wonder of a child ; and, connecting with it 
 the inquisitive powers of riper years, adds, as far as he 
 can find knowledge, admiration; and, where knowledge 
 no longer permits admiration, gladly sinks back again 
 into the childlike feeling of devout wonder." * 
 
 The parable of the wind, the earthquake, and the fire 
 is true of the poet's spell; for him to be heard when 
 he is inspired, the last thing that is necessary is to shout 
 
 * Lectures on Milton and Shakespeare, 104-5. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 277 
 
 aloud. "And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great 
 and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces 
 the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the 
 wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord 
 was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a 
 fire ; but the Lord was not in the fire : and after the fire 
 a still small voice." 
 
 The poet is intense, or he is no poet. "God be praised ! 
 I live !" said Heine, in a passage which is certainly pos- 
 sessed of frankness, if it have no other virtue : "The red 
 blood courses in my veins, the earth throbs beneath my 
 feet, like a lover I embrace trees and statues and they 
 live in my embrace. Each woman is a world presented 
 to me, I revel in the harmonies of her countenance; 
 with a single glance of my eye I can enjoy more than 
 other men with their whole bodies in a whole lifetime." 
 "A poet in prose or verse," said Emerson, "must have a 
 sensuous eye, but an intellectual co-perception." 
 
 A poem reproduces in the reader, so far as his capac- 
 ity permits, the poet's keenness of impression; it must 
 be "immediate in its impulse on the senses," is the ad- 
 mirable way in which Coleridge gives expression to the 
 idea.* The whole science of ^Esthetics, as the etymol- 
 ogy of the word signifies, is in the beginning based upon 
 accurate sensation; this power of complete apprehen- 
 sion by the senses the poet has in generous endowment. 
 
 VIII 
 
 An element of great poetry, and one that almost as surely 
 as any other distinguishes it from all but the best, is the 
 quality of ease and simplicity. These may be regarded 
 
 * Lectures on Milton and Shakespeare, 57. 
 
278 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 almost as synonymous, since in poetry, as in manners, 
 the best way to be at ease is to be simple and unaffected. 
 Ease implies sincerity, and that has its fountain source 
 in genuineness, a supreme quality of the heart, of which 
 sincerity is the expression. "It is a man's sincerity and 
 depth of vision that makes him a poet," Carlyle has 
 assured us. 
 
 The consideration of the qualities of impersonality, 
 genuineness, ease, and simplicity, inevitably leads the 
 student to the consideration of the precious quality of 
 repose, closely wedded to that which Milton lauded as 
 the "grand masterpiece to observe." Decorum, such 
 as Milton would bid us value aright, implies repose; 
 for there cannot be dignity, and true elegance of adorn- 
 ment, without deep and vital repose as a means to this 
 end; it is the simplicity of pure and solid gold. In 
 Milton we could find a thousand illustrations of what 
 repose signifies, of what decorum. Its significance is 
 not to have a plentiful lack of animation. Grace and 
 lightness in dancing do not imply a lack of power, but its 
 presence and exercise; and in equal degree, genuine 
 artistic repose, such as is found in the Greek Tragedy 
 and in Milton, of course implies vigour and energy and 
 alertness. A work of so-called art may be as void of 
 any vital trait as a withered tree stripped of its bark, 
 long buffeted by wind and storm, a monument of inert- 
 ness and of death, and still not possess a single trait of 
 repose. Aristotle has made mention of the "activity of 
 motionlessness," and in a converse way it is its elemental 
 repose that ennobles the surging sea. 
 
 Now in the considering of the quality of sincerity 
 very grave issues are involved, even to the pass that 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 279 
 
 there have been among those of the most generous and 
 highly endowed minds who have felt a distrust of the 
 histrionic talent altogether, of the endowment of the 
 actor who portrays the emotions of other men, simulat- 
 ing to feel that which he does not really feel, or artificially 
 creating in his mind a mood of feeling, so that for the 
 time being the emotion which he is paid to represent 
 he does feel, it may be to the point of laughter or to 
 the shedding of tears. The puritan temperament, em- 
 phasizing genuineness and sincerity before everything 
 else, found itself so little in accord with this habit of 
 mind, that in revulsion of feeling it pronounced such 
 facility to be little better than the complaisant art of the 
 courtesan. 
 
 The reply to this indictment of course would be that 
 the great actor does not allow his emotions to be stirred. 
 He remains perfectly self-possessed while upon the 
 stage, and thereby is enabled in the most effective man- 
 ner possible to make use of all the resources of his art to 
 arouse the emotions of the spectator. That which he 
 gives us is the product of trained intelligence, and of the 
 imagination schooled to present in equal perfection both 
 the workings of the intelligence of other persons and of 
 their emotions, and of the varying emotions and motives 
 of conduct of all classes of men, under every conceivable 
 combination of circumstances. This it is that distin- 
 guishes the really great actor from the one not so great, 
 — that he does not permit himself to be swayed by his 
 feelings from the accurate representation of nature, pre- 
 sented to him by the creative fancy. The actor's tran- 
 script of nature is just as fully an act of artistic crea- 
 tion,— his advocate would maintain,— as that of the 
 
280 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 painter, the poet, the novelist, the orator, the musician, 
 or of the dramatist himself.* 
 
 IX 
 
 The poet is swayed not alone by the breath of creative 
 frenzy, f but is in full possession of his judgment and of 
 his reason. He is both creator and in the most vital 
 sense philosopher. "No man was ever yet a great poet," 
 says Coleridge, "without being at the same time a pro- 
 found philosopher. For poetry is the blossom and the 
 fragrancy of all human knowledge, human thoughts, 
 human passions, emotions, language." And Shelley, 
 who read and reverenced the poets in a degree commen- 
 surate with his own intense nature, has said in The De- 
 fence of Poetry, in words long to be remembered for 
 their veracity and for their conciseness : "Poetry is the 
 record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest 
 
 and best minds." 
 
 I can approve 
 
 * * * the state of Poesy 
 
 Blessed, eternal, and most true divine. 
 
 says one of the old dramatists %, — 
 
 View her in her glorious ornaments, 
 Attired in the majesty of art, 
 
 * C'est qu'etre sensible est une chose, et sentir est une autre. L'une est 
 une affaire d'ame, l'autre une affaire de jugement. Diderot, VIII., 415. 
 Diderot has presented an admirable discussion of the whole subject. Para- 
 doxe sur le ComSdien, CEuvres Computes, VIII., 361-423. 
 
 t Not without significance does the word inspiration mean an "indrawing 
 of the breath." 
 
 $ Ben Jonson, I believe, but am unable at the moment to lay my hand 
 upon the passage. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 281 
 
 Set high in spirit with the precious taste 
 Of sweet philosophy, and, which is most, 
 Crown'd with the rich traditions of a soul 
 That hates to have her dignity prophaned 
 With any relish of an earthly thought, 
 Oh ! then, how proud a presence doth she bear. 
 
 Great poetry is full of great and solid thought; this 
 is an element of its power and of its grandeur that we 
 must not altogether overlook, in spite of those practi- 
 tioners of the art who by their practice maintain that a/- 
 phrase fully justifies its existence if it only scan indiffer- 
 ently well, even if it be devoid of any intellectual content 
 whatever. "My purpose in writing poetry," said Words- 
 worth, "was to make people see that which without the 
 poet's aid they would have failed to see ; to teach them to 
 see, to think, and to feel." Every great achievement of 
 the human mind, in the last analysis, we may be forced 
 to admit, is but an exhibition of power, an expression of 
 vital force, as we have recognized in the case of artistic 
 repose, but in a poem the result is apparently so fragile, 
 and oftentimes the finish of it a thing of such slight and 
 dainty grace, that, seeing only the ease with which it is 
 achieved, we almost forget the strength that lies behind. 
 Yet the inevitableness and the accuracy of that expres- 
 sion are due to the strength of the poet's endowment. It 
 takes just as steady a hand and as sound nerves to make 
 a salmon-fly alight with unerring accuracy ninety feet 
 away, as by the woodman's art to bring the monarch of 
 the forest crashing to his doom. It is not necessary to 
 institute a comparison between the two kinds of skill; 
 both demand judgment and facility gained by effort and 
 long practice. Strength is required to spin gossamer 
 
282 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 threads of gold as well as to forge iron anchors for 
 the sea. 
 
 The power of sustained thought the poet must have, 
 only in his case we are in the habit of calling it medi- 
 tation. The power of profound reflection and sustained 
 poetic meditation is a necessary part of the poetic equip- 
 ment, whatever those may say to the contrary who be- 
 lieve in the "slap-dash" method of poetic creation, where 
 form is despised and chaos is welcomed again, if only 
 the clouds of inchoate energy whirl with sufficient fury. 
 
 Although the highest heaven of intellectual delight be 
 the celestial circle of most unbounded horizon, yet is 
 the number of those permitted to partake of its trans- 
 port limited to few. To the circle of lesser diameter, 
 yielding merely the interests and pleasures of the world 
 and of the hour,— 
 
 The heaven which has the smallest circle, — 
 
 the doors of entrance are innumerable. We are per- 
 mitted to enter the widest circle of celestial joy only 
 after converse with great minds, and after passionate 
 allegiance to those few who, among the countless mil- 
 lions of mankind, have been able to divest themselves 
 of this muddy vesture of decay, — have been able to attain 
 to the heights of clear thought and serene emotion. 
 These are the masters of poesy, souls that have burst 
 through the limitations of sense and individual person- 
 ality, and have risen strong and transparent as a sun- 
 pierced fountain; whose thought has the intensity of 
 passion, whose power of feeling is so sure and so dis- 
 criminating that it has led them to close sympathy with 
 human suffering and with human joy. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 283 
 
 The poetic temperament, as Emerson, himself a poet, 
 clearly saw, as Plato, a supreme poet, saw,— the poetic 
 temperament, as every one feels at times, however loath 
 he may be to make the admission, is liable to peculiar 
 failings, and, except in the rare instances of the great 
 masters of the art whose endowment is highest in rank, 
 poetic sensibility is almost as often an element of weak- 
 ness as of strength. The estimate formed by the "man 
 of the street" is of value in confirming the judgment of 
 the seers, of the illuminati, and if it be well-nigh univer- 
 sal, is of even greater value than that of the professed 
 critic, whatever his acuteness may be in the recognition 
 of technical excellence or defect. We glean the verdict 
 of wisdom from the judgment of the uninstructed, just 
 as one might look into a well for Truth and see a 
 heavenly star reflected there, hidden by the very light of 
 day in the sky above our heads. The element of weak- 
 ness in poetic sensibility lies not in the power of feeling, 
 but in the impressionability of the poet. The word "emo- 
 tional," as applied to a person, has come in ordinary 
 speech to mean one not necessarily endowed with strong 
 emotion, but having emotions easily aroused. Persons 
 of this order possess sensibility; it is apt to be sensitive- 
 ness as well. Their emotions are easily stirred; it does 
 not at all follow that they possess strength of feeling in 
 an endowment of exceptional degree. 
 
 In reading the poets— all except those of the first 
 order — we shall not the less enjoy the manifestation of 
 their power by permitting ourselves to admit that they 
 are not always in the same measure wise and strong. 
 The very intensity of their nature concentrates their life 
 into short periods by burning up their vitality, as it were, 
 
284 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 in flashes of inspiration, and we certainly are the gain- 
 ers from their ability to do exactly this thing. But they 
 themselves may feel the reaction which naturally comes 
 after great effort, and may experience that lassitude 
 which is apt to follow any concentrated and unusual 
 draft upon vital energy. The intense and artistic tem- 
 perament is only a small part, Jiowever, of the poetic 
 endowment. 
 
 A great poet is not merely a wit,— in the old meaning 
 of the word,— but he possesses in its most complete 
 manifestation the "calm and philosophic mind." Who 
 can doubt that Emerson was right when he said that in 
 looking through Chalmers's collection of five centuries 
 of English poets, we are forced to admit that "These 
 are wits, more than poets, though there have been poets 
 among them." Let us enjoy what the singer can give, 
 uttered from mere lightness of heart, even if it be but 
 a coruscation of alleged fancy, and have not any deep 
 message at all. But it is not necessary to stultify our- 
 selves in so doing. We shall not be detracting from 
 whatever satisfaction is to be derived from their com- 
 panionship by justly appreciating their creations, by 
 responding to their mood, and by withholding the 
 name of poet from all but a few. "The difference be- 
 tween genuine poetry," said Matthew Arnold, "and the 
 poetry of Dryden, Pope, and all their school, is briefly 
 this: Their poetry is conceived and composed in their 
 wits; genuine poetry is conceived and composed in the 
 soul." 
 
 In assisting to a correct determination of what the 
 poet brings to his age and to mankind, we shall find this 
 passage from Emerson of no slight interest. It is from 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 285 
 
 the essay on Prudence. "There are," he tells us, "all 
 degrees of proficiency in knowledge of the world. It 
 is sufficient to our purpose to indicate three. One class 
 live to the utility of the symbol, esteeming health and 
 wealth a final good. Another class live above this mark 
 to the beauty of the symbol, as the poet and artist, and 
 the naturalist and man of science. A third class live 
 above the beauty of the symbol to the beauty of the thing 
 signified ; these are wise men. The first class have com- 
 mon sense; the second, taste; the third, spiritual per- 
 ception. Once in a long time, a man traverses the whole 
 scale, and sees and enjoys the symbol solidly; then also 
 has a clear eye for its beauty; and lastly, whilst he 
 pitches his tent on this sacred volcanic isle of nature, 
 does not offer to build houses and barns thereon, rever- 
 encing the splendour of the God which he sees bursting 
 through each chink and cranny." 
 
 Matthew Arnold it may be was right in refusing the 
 name of poet to all except those who have the power to 
 give us "a criticism of life" ; to all save those who have 
 the genius which permits them to "see clear and think 
 straight" about it, and to distinguish in the ordinary 
 interests and occupations of life those things which are 
 worth while, and those which are not vital to man's 
 happiness and intellectual growth. Arnold doubtless 
 brought out in its full strength the force of his defini- 
 tion of poetry, in a similar manner to that in which he 
 gave added emphasis and meaning, often iterated and 
 reinforced, to Swift's casual words about "sweetness 
 
286 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 and light." It is difficult to imagine any one as using them 
 with more telling effect than he has done, yet this pas- 
 sage from the Phcedrus contains the full significance of 
 Arnold's phrase, suggested if not quite so concisely ex- 
 pressed, that poetry is a "criticism of life." It is pleas- 
 ant to feel that Arnold built upon Plato, and that he did 
 so gives added weight and value to his demonstration. 
 The meeting of three such minds as those of Plato, 
 Swift, and Arnold means an intellectual association, to 
 say the least, of extraordinary range and diversity.* 
 
 Socrates: "But he who thinks that in the written word 
 there is necessarily much which is not serious, and that 
 neither poetry nor prose, spoken or written, are of any 
 great value if, like the compositions of the rhapsodes, 
 they are recited merely to persuade, and not with any 
 view to criticism or instruction; and who thinks that 
 even the best of them are but reminders to knowledge, 
 and that only in principles of justice and goodness and 
 nobility taught and communicated orally and written in 
 the soul (which is the true way of writing), is there 
 clearness and perfection and seriousness, * * * this is 
 the right sort of man, and you and I, Phsedrus, would 
 pray that we may become like them." 
 
 How few of the poets, so called, succeed in giving us, 
 or desire first of all to give us, "principles of goodness 
 written in the soul"! Their meditations are graceful, 
 exquisite, dainty; perhaps full of fancy, playfulness, 
 richness of imagery, splendour of ornament, subtlety and 
 
 * The Greek word which Jowett renders "criticism" is dvaxpitfis, the 
 ordinary meaning of which is "close examination" (implying also "judg- 
 ment," "discernment," and "judgment and discernment based upon close 
 examination") ; an import of almost precisely the same significance as 
 "criticism" in Arnold's use of the word. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 287 
 
 fluency of expression. It may be that they possess ac- 
 curacy and variety of rhyme, — harmony, melody, rhythm; 
 that they are at times adorned with the pearls of sim- 
 plicity, the rubies of passion, pathos, and tenderness, the 
 precious diamonds of imagination. After long periods 
 of darkness, our vision is dazed, it may be, by the light- 
 ning flash of tragic powers, often leaving us the darker 
 when it is past. Or we are surrounded by bewildering 
 enchantments, like pale arctic gleams, of the mysterious, 
 the unreal, and the supernatural, by the intoxicating, 
 all-promising, sunrise blush of love, the pensive, idealiz- 
 ing, pervasive moonlight of reverie and contemplation, 
 and — too often, alas! among those laying claim to the 
 possession of poetic gifts— by the "moonshine" of senti- 
 mentality. But how rarely is the priest of Poesy first of 
 all, whether in outward or in inward vision, a lover of 
 the beautiful as well as an artist ; one who is not merely 
 "a winged and holy thing," but who possesses also, in 
 addition to this special and technical equipment, a mind 
 firm, sane, and well-poised ! Some few there have been, 
 —Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth. It was the last of 
 these who said : "Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of 
 all knowledge." The poet is the true idealist. His oft- 
 repeated message is, "Your plans may often fail; you 
 need never fail." Emerson quotes Bacon's definition 
 of poetry, based on that of Aristotle, and as we might 
 expect, it penetrates to the very root of the matter: 
 "Poetry, not finding the actual world exactly conformed 
 to its idea of good and fair, seeks to accommodate the 
 shows of things to the desires of the mind, and to create 
 an ideal world better than the world of experience." 
 And elsewhere he says : "The young man reveres men of 
 
288 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 genius, because, to speak truly, they are more himself 
 than he is. They receive of the soul as he also receives, 
 but they more." 
 
 The poet who is also the seer gives us not merely 
 forms of beauty to caress the eye, but penetrating the 
 disguise of appearance, he reveals the luminous reality 
 of truth enwrapped in the veil of beauty. "Sight is the 
 keenest of the bodily senses," said Plato, "though not 
 by that is Wisdom seen ; her loveliness would have been 
 transporting if there had been a visible image of her, 
 and the same is true of the loveliness of other ideas as 
 well." "The reason of [the soul's] great desire to be- 
 hold the plain of truth is that the food which is suited 
 to the highest part of the soul comes out of that 
 meadow ; and the wing on which the soul soars is nour- 
 ished by this." "The natural efficacy of a wing is to lift 
 xip heavy substances, and bear them aloft to those upper 
 regions which are inhabited by the race of the gods." 
 "Now of the heaven which is above the heavens no 
 earthly poet has ever sung or will sing worthily. * * * 
 And the divine intelligence, feeding upon mind and pure 
 knowledge, the proper food of every soul, rejoices at 
 beholding reality, and once more, gazing upon truth, is 
 replenished and made glad." 
 
 Calmness of mind Plato regarded as the most divine 
 thing of life. "There is no joy but calm" to him was 
 not merely a telling phrase, demanded by the exigencies 
 of poetry, through the medium of words which are aglow 
 with enthusiasm, but was a profound conviction of the 
 heart. By nature he could not withhold his sympathy 
 from the poetic temperament, which is peculiarly liable 
 to agitation. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 289 
 
 Plato's opinion is of the first importance in any in- 
 vestigation as to the nature of that particular form of 
 genius which finds expression inverse, because, although 
 he wrote in prose, he was possessed of a poetic mind 
 of finest sensibility, and was at the same time one of the 
 wisest of philosophers. He was an idealist in a double 
 sense: his world was one of ideas more real and more 
 vital to him than what our age is in the habit of calling 
 facts, and he was also an idealist in that he believed 
 in perfectibility, in ideal perfection, and believed in 
 unremitting effort to attain perfection. He enforced 
 his meaning by lively imagery; he possessed the power 
 of accurate intuition; he perceived the reflection of 
 opinion in the still waters of truth, and gave us that 
 reflection more perfect than the object itself, as one 
 may see in the pool beneath his feet a star of greater 
 magnitude than shines in the sky above his head. He 
 gives us this spiritual perception of the external object, 
 as did Swedenborg according to his light, robbed of the 
 limitations of human circumstance and imperfection, 
 and, as it were, transfigured by his genius into the im- 
 mortal beauty of the ideal and of the idea. Emerson 
 said that when reading Plato, and when under his spell, 
 the Socratic dialogues seemed the only thing in the world 
 worth reading. "I am a great lover of these processes 
 of division and generalization," said Socrates; "they 
 help me to speak and think." "What motive has a man 
 to live," said Phsedrus, "if not for the pleasures of dis- 
 course?" While the Socratic endowment of trenchant 
 mother-wit was unrivalled, yet one is convinced that the 
 poetic development of these multitudinous images and 
 ideas was due also to the skill of the scholar who has 
 
290 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 recorded them, to his own poetic spirit as well as to his 
 strongly logical and philosophic mind. 
 
 We shall apprehend what Plato means by "philoso- 
 pher," in considering that pursuit or occupation of mind 
 which he contrasts with Philosophy. To Socrates the 
 philosophic life is the antithesis of a "life of ambition." 
 He thought that to a rational being self-advancement 
 could not in any real sense be the greatest good, but that 
 the divinest thing in life was the power of discerning 
 truth ; and that it involved and constituted a life of medi- 
 tation and of right reason, and of passionate love for 
 them and devotion to them. In praise of the "calm and 
 philosophic mind," he rises to sublime heights of elo- 
 quence, to poetic heights of eloquence. 
 
 In considering the attitude toward poetry of Plato on 
 the one hand and of Aristotle on the other we are con- 
 fronted by the incongruous circumstance of declared oppo- 
 sition to the poets in one who was himself a poet, and of 
 "apology" for poetry,— in the old meaning of the word, 
 an exposition and defence of poetry,— in one who was the 
 great high priest of the scientific and inductive manner 
 and spirit of investigation. Aristotle recognized the 
 need of poetic culture, and in the Poetics concisely stated 
 the benefit to the spectator of tragic acting, and to the 
 reader of tragic poetry, with which he is chiefly con- 
 cerned, to be the chastening of the emotions by pity and 
 by fear, effected through a noble representation on the 
 stage of scenes arousing those emotions. The formula of 
 expression used to convey this conception being that the 
 emotions were "purged" by being thus aroused in behold- 
 ing the counterfeit presentment of pity and of fear. 
 
 It is interesting to compare Aristotle's view with that 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 291 
 
 of the great investigator of our time into the laws of the 
 material universe, a man with faculties of generaliza- 
 tion as powerful, it seems to us of this age, as were those 
 of Aristotle himself,— of generalization as vital to the 
 progress of civilization, but whose personality and char- 
 acter were of a quite different type. The name of Dar- 
 win makes one think rather of the sweet and humane 
 simplicity of Socrates, whose personal character is so 
 open to our familiar acquaintance in the dialogues of 
 Plato, than of the abstract and impersonal intellectuality 
 suggested by that of Aristotle. Aristotle seems in com- 
 parison with Plato as a sort of glorified Herbert Spen- 
 cer, only more so, — of greater voltage, if one may use the 
 phrase, — and possessing the wisdom which comes from 
 deeper understanding. Spencer, with his dry dialectic, 
 could never conquer the intellectual devotion of man- 
 kind and hold it as Aristotle undoubtedly did in undis- 
 puted empire for a thousand years. 
 
 Darwin tells us in the autobiographic sketch pub- 
 lished at the beginning of his Life and Letters, that as 
 a boy he was extremely fond of reading poetry, espe- 
 cially Shakespeare. Later in life, and as he became en- 
 grossed in scientific work, he says : "My mind seems to 
 have become a kind of machine for grinding general 
 laws out of large collections of facts, but why this should 
 have caused the atrophy of that part of the brain alone 
 on which the higher tastes depend, I cannot conceive." 
 "The loss of these tastes is a loss of happiness, and may 
 possibly be injurious to the intellect, and more probably 
 to the moral character, by enfeebling the emotional part 
 of our nature." 
 
 It is to be noted that he uses the word "atrophy," thus 
 
292 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 employing a technical term of pathology, to describe the 
 condition of his mind. "But why this" [i.e., great pow- 
 ers of generalization] "should have caused the atrophy 
 of that part of the brain alone on which the higher tastes 
 depend, I cannot conceive." "Were I to begin life over 
 again," he says, "I should make it a point to read a cer- 
 tain amount of poetry daily, as necessary and vital to 
 the complete development of the mental and moral 
 powers." 
 
 XI 
 
 Plato briefly touches the theme of Poetry in several 
 dialogues ; in the Republic, the Banquet, Phcedrus, and 
 Ion. So far as our present inquiry is concerned, that, 
 namely, into the interpretation of the Poetic Genius and 
 the Theory of Poetry, the ars theoretica as applied to po- 
 etry,— the art, that is, of speculation and exposition,— 
 we shall find the most direct assistance, though that is 
 limited, in the Phcedrus.* 
 
 To understand Plato aright, we must never lose from 
 mind a wise caution given by Jowett, that Plato is not 
 a "poet disguised as a philosopher" ; his philosophic spec- 
 ulations are not merely the creation of the poetic imagi- 
 nation, true only in so far as consistent with the dramatic 
 character of Socrates. What Plato means by "philoso- 
 pher," and what Matthew Arnold would signify by 
 "poet," the "critic of life," one who helps us in discern- 
 ing how to live, and who renders assistance by his clearer 
 
 *To examine into the theory of the subject, orto form a theory, is not 
 to theorize; the verb has an element of ignoble significance, but the word 
 "theory," as here used, retains, uncontaminated and undegraded, the origi- 
 nal meaning of the verb SsuosTv, to look at, to view. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 293 
 
 vision,— these are one and the same. And when Arnold 
 describes one sort of poet as— 
 
 Pinnacled dim in the intense inane, 
 not 
 
 Standing on earth [but] rapt above the sky, 
 
 whose Pegasus, although he does not say it, 
 
 Kicks at earth with a disdainful heel, 
 
 And beats at heaven gates with his bright steel, 
 
 we feel that he is referring to the same sort of tempera- 
 ment that Plato has in mind when he speaks of the 
 poet as a "winged and holy thing" whom he would po- 
 litely but firmly exclude from his ideal republic. But 
 Plato's philosopher is a poet, as Arnold understood the 
 word; surely if ever there lived a "critic of life," it was 
 Plato, one whose vision as to what made life most 
 rich was unconfused, — one who saw clear and thought 
 straight — 
 
 On man, on nature, and on human life. 
 
 Plato is not a "poet disguised as a philosopher"; as 
 well speak of the rainbow disguised as the sun, as of 
 the poetic temperament of this master masquerading 
 beneath a calm and philosophic mind. But it is through 
 the delicacy and fineness of illustration and adaptation 
 by which the idea is presented to us and made beautiful 
 and irresistible, and which only a great poet could com- 
 mand, that we feel the superhuman strength and maj- 
 esty, the brilliancy and clearness of that philosophic 
 mind and heart, which vivify and irradiate all. 
 
 The dialogue of the Republic is concerned with the 
 search after justice and the construction of the ideal 
 
294 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 state. This ideal state shall be governed by philosophers, 
 who of all men are most purged from selfishness, and 
 are the most intense lovers of justice, truth, beauty, 
 perfection. In the creation of his ideal Republic, the 
 question of education had to be carefully considered and 
 matured. Involved in this theme arose the discussion 
 of the influence of Homer in the training of youth, and 
 the conclusion was finally arrived at that the poets, 
 meaning thereby chiefly the great epic and didactic 
 poets, Homer and Hesiod, did more harm than good; 
 that poets were "winged and holy things," but that 
 when they came to the gates of the ideal city they should 
 be greeted with all courtesy and honour, but firmly re- 
 fused admission. 
 
 "No one can duly appreciate the dialogues of Plato," 
 says Jowett, in one of his luminous Introductions to the 
 dialogues, "especially the Phoedrus, the Banquet, and 
 portions of the Republic, who has not a sympathy with 
 mysticism. By mysticism we mean, not the extrava- 
 gance of an erring fancy, but the concentration of vision 
 in feeling, the enthusiastic love of the good, the true, the 
 one, the sense of the infinity of knowledge and the mar- 
 vel of the human faculties." 
 
 Mr. R. W. Livingstone, in his recent book on the 
 Greek Genius, has stated with admirable directness 
 Plato's conception of love, a concise resume of one phase 
 of this master's teaching, tainted by doctrines which in 
 a certain totally unexpected way are not vitally Greek 
 at all, but are premonitory of Christian thought. Let us 
 see what he has to say about this passion which so upsets 
 nearly every man's preconceived ideas of the created 
 universe, this ruthless disturber of gods and men : "That 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 295 
 
 potent and surprising emotion to which all humanity is 
 liable [Plato] endeavoured to connect with mystic ex- 
 periences in a former life, when the unborn human souls 
 drove across heaven in the train of Zeus and the other 
 gods. There they caught a passing glimpse of the great 
 Ideas, of essential beauty, essential justice, essential 
 temperance, essential knowledge, and then, falling to the 
 earth, were imprisoned in bodies and born as men. And 
 so when a man meets beauty in the world, his soul, 
 which is languishing in its prison-house, revives, and is 
 fed and refreshed, and remembers once more the vision 
 of ideal beauty which it saw before birth : this is love. 
 Love, therefore, is the intermediary between God and 
 man, the desire of the beautiful which is also the good, 
 an earnest of the divine excellence which resides in 
 heaven, simple and unalloyed." * 
 
 Plato gives the opinion of his master upon the poets, 
 the "winged and holy things." Socrates had expressed 
 his dissatisfaction with them, conceding to them facul- 
 ties only of the sixth order of importance, and banishing 
 them from his Republic, in a similar mood to that in 
 which a poet-philosopher of to-day — such a poet-philoso- 
 pher as Montaigne, or Wordsworth, or Emerson— might 
 object to a too exclusive occupation with the popular 
 novel. This form of literature, the ephemeral epic of 
 our day, is almost universally read now as Homer was 
 in theirs, though we, in our diversified interest in many 
 novels, in the latest novel, scatter our faculties, "lay 
 waste our powers," whereas the Greeks ever recurred 
 to Homer as a fountain of wisdom and refreshment. In 
 the satisfying of our intellectual needs in the field of 
 
 * The Greek Genius and its Meaning to Us, R. W. Livingstone, p. 185. 
 
296 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 fiction it may be said that we are sustained by an infinity 
 of gossamer threads, cumulatively strong while their 
 hold was a twisted rope; in times of stress and emer- 
 gency, perhaps, to say the least, as safe a hold for the 
 sheet-anchor of their craft. Our method requires 
 greater skill, and we are fascinated by the intricacies 
 of the game, by the very complexity of the intellectual 
 interest, and there is not the slightest danger of our 
 going back to old-fashioned methods, far too simple for 
 a sophisticated race and generation. 
 
 Nor would Plato, despite his utterance here and there 
 to that effect, banish the poets. In his heart he valued 
 them aright ; he says of them, in the Lysis, "They are to 
 us, in a manner, the fathers and authors of wisdom." 
 His attitude in the Republic is that of disapproval of 
 those qualities wherein the poets failed of complete ex- 
 cellence, and his unqualified disapproval is a merited 
 rebuke to their failings, under the guise of allegory,— 
 under the guise of that which to the Greek mind was a 
 harmless and perfectly apparent exaggeration. It is 
 only one among innumerable instances of the Socratic 
 irony. The poems of Homer were to the Greeks that 
 which most nearly corresponds to the Bible in a Chris- 
 tian world, or to what the Bible, or Paradise Lost, was 
 to our Puritan ancestors. Everybody with any claim to 
 civilized taste read him, and quoted him on all occasions. 
 Every incident of life out of the common was illumi- 
 nated by associations with the Homeric story, and the 
 Homeric fable cast its glamour over the commonest 
 things. Homer contained the best known stories of their 
 gods ; some of them perhaps not particularly character- 
 ized by propriety. To Plato these were unworthy, and 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 297 
 
 far too much tainted with human imperfection to be the 
 nourishing food of the imagination. Willingly he would 
 have banished such fables, exactly as the philosopher of 
 a certain type would to-day, if he could, prohibit most 
 of our newspapers and much of our current literature; 
 would, if he were able, half of the time exclude the very 
 blood from our veins. 
 
 But to imagine for a moment that an ideal state could 
 long exist without poetic meditation and aspiration 
 would have been to his mind abhorrent and absurd. He 
 himself was a poet in all but verse; the poetic imagery 
 of the Tenth Book of the Republic, for instance, of that 
 very book containing the discussion of the banishment 
 of the poets,— rises to poetic heights. Only a poet could 
 have conceived the vision of Er, and the same may be 
 said of many passages in the other dialogues — for in- 
 stance, of the humourous origin of the sexes, given by 
 Aristophanes in the Banquet, and of the parable of the 
 immortality of the soul, in the Phoedrus. His deepest 
 lessons were enforced by the aid of vigourous poetic 
 imagination, and clothed in a wealth of poetic imagery, 
 two of the supreme and distinguishing characteristics of 
 the poetic genius. 
 
 Nowhere more fully are the mysterious depth and 
 suggestiveness of the Socratic mind revealed than in the 
 Banquet and Phoedrus. When the inward eye, dwelling 
 upon that of which it has caught a tantalizing glimpse, 
 penetrates their quiet and profound depths, suggested 
 rather than revealed, a spell falls upon the mind, of 
 silence, and of profound and exquisite satisfaction. 
 
 The subjects treated in the Phcedrus are various 
 aspects of the art of Rhetoric, and, arising out of the 
 
298 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 discussion of this theme, the inspiration of beauty and 
 of knowledge, wherein incidentally is given, glancingly 
 but with wisdom, Plato's view of poetic inspiration. 
 "Poetic inspiration," says Socrates, "is a kind of 'mad- 
 ness,' but this is not 'simply an evil.' " "There are two 
 kinds of madness," he says; "one produced by human 
 infirmity, and the other by a divine release from the 
 ordinary ways of men." Of this latter sort, he proceeds 
 to maintain, there are four kinds by which men may 
 profit, "the special gift of heaven, and the source of the 
 chief est blessings among men. For prophecy is a mad- 
 ness, and the prophetess at Delphi, and the priestess at 
 Dodona, when out of their senses, have conferred great 
 benefits upon Hellas, both in public and private life ; and 
 when in their senses, few or none." "Again, when 
 plagues and mightiest woes have bred in a race, owing 
 to some ancient wrath, there madness enters with holy 
 prayers and rites, and by inspired utterances finds a way 
 of deliverance for those who are in need." "There is 
 also a third kind of madness, of those who are possessed 
 by the Muses; which enters into a delicate and virgin 
 soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens lyrical and 
 other numbers ; with these adorning the myriad actions 
 of ancient heroes for the instruction of posterity." 
 "The fourth and last kind of madness [is that] which 
 is imputed to him who, when he sees the beauty of earth, 
 is transported with the recollection of the true beauty 
 [which he has seen when a soul preceding his mortal 
 life] ; he would like to fly away, but he cannot, he is like 
 a bird fluttering and looking upward and careless of the 
 world below ; and he is therefore esteemed mad." "The 
 first [is] the inspiration of Apollo, the second that of 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 299 
 
 Dionysus, the third that of the Muses, the fourth that 
 of Aphrodite and Eros." 
 
 In this fourth class, philosopher and lover, having a 
 mystical identity, are treated as synonymous ; in one of 
 them the mind, in the other the emotions and senses, 
 being swayed by desire. Both long with passionate 
 eagerness for beauty and perfection ; he, who loves nobly, 
 craving in his beloved satisfaction of the desire for 
 perfection, that perfection of body which delights and 
 caresses the eye of the body, and that more divine per- 
 fection of intelligence and of right reason which in the 
 Christian world is described as character, and the sight 
 of which by the clear-seeing eye of the mind creates a 
 spiritual transport of deep and penetrating satisfaction. 
 
 Every one is aware that the passion of love arises 
 from superabundance of life and energy. By "falling 
 in love," as by being kicked up-stairs, one rises to a 
 higher plane. The matter of first importance is not by 
 what means he there attains, whether through the in- 
 strumentality of the senses, or by quickened altruism, 
 —the essential thing is that he thereby wins to a higher 
 and to a nobler estate. It is the blossoming of man's 
 finest and most unselfish instincts, filling the soul with 
 beauty and with radiance, which are revealed in the face, 
 in grace of manner, in courtesy, and in conduct. 
 
 "For indeed I knew [said Arthur] 
 Of no more subtle master under heaven 
 Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 
 Not only to keep down the base in man, 
 But teach high thought, and amiable words 
 And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 
 And love of truth, and all that makes a man." 
 
300 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 "Love is a poet," said Agathon, most pertinently to our 
 inquiry, "and the source of poetry in others. * * * At 
 the touch of him every one becomes a poet, even though 
 he had no music in him before." When the turn of Soc- 
 rates came to speak upon this theme, he took the others 
 to task for lavish and indiscriminate praise of Love, yet 
 I doubt if in his heart he would really have questioned 
 that part of Agathon's speech. Emerson deemed it quite 
 true, and he himself had a strong dash of "Uncle 
 Socrates" about him (and used this phrase in speak- 
 ing of him). Could we ask a better demonstration of 
 the excellence of poetry in Plato's view than that it 
 springs naturally and instinctively from man's best and 
 most unselfish state? 
 
 No matter how "contrary" and crabbed the lover may 
 have been in ordinary and normal health, in this season 
 of abnormal health, of concentrated and sublimated 
 energy, contentment exhales from him like perfume 
 from the rugged hawthorn bush in bloom, so that others 
 are bewitched by its mere presence. "All mankind love 
 a lover," said Emerson. "The madness of love," said 
 Socrates, "is the greatest of heaven's blessings"; and 
 the proof of the assertion was so vital and so immensely 
 important to his mind that it involved the demonstra- 
 tion of the immortality of the soul. 
 
 "[The soul's] form is a theme of divine and large 
 discourse; the tongue of man may, however, speak of 
 this briefly in a figure"; and here follows the allegory 
 of the pair of winged horses and the charioteer of the 
 Phcedrus, in which for the first time in the recorded his- 
 tory of intellectual science the threefold nature of the 
 intellect is shown,— Will, Reason, and Emotion. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 301 
 
 In the art of love, Socrates proclaimed himself an 
 adept. It was a bit of his humour that he disclaimed 
 knowledge of everything else. He says to Hippothales 
 in the Lysis: "Simple and foolish as I am, the gods have 
 given me the power of understanding this sort of affec- 
 tions" ; and underneath his half-jesting speech is hidden 
 a deeper philosophic meaning. 
 
 We should only confuse our present inquiry in regard 
 to Poetry if we attempted to dispose of the other inves- 
 tigation in a cursory and hasty manner; but they are 
 involved, to a certain extent, one in the other, and to 
 arrive at Plato's view of poetry it is necessary to be 
 familiar with what he says on this in the Banquet 
 and elsewhere. 
 
 The third class of Plato's division, as given in the 
 Phcedrus, includes the epic poets, and is in the main a 
 criticism of Homer. His fourth class, which includes 
 lover and philosopher, embraces those whom we are 
 accustomed to consider as poets rather than as "philoso- 
 phers" in the modern acceptation of the word. 
 
 In elaboration of the idea of poetic inspiration, of the 
 divine madness of the poetic gift, of the poetic genius, 
 we find a passage in the Apology which is of aid. "Any 
 person in the crowd," said Socrates, "is a better inter- 
 preter of his own powers than the poet himself." "Will 
 you believe me?" he said, again in jesting humour refer- 
 ring to the poets : "I am almost ashamed to confess the 
 truth, but I must say that there is hardly a person who 
 would not have talked better about poetry than they did 
 themselves. Then I knew without going further that 
 not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of 
 genius and inspiration; they are like diviners or sooth- 
 
302 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 sayers, who also say many fine things, but do not under- 
 stand the meaning of them." 
 
 This last touch would seem again to be a coruscation 
 of Socratic wit. In the Ion, Socrates, in delicious irony, 
 asks the rhapsodist whether he would prefer to be 
 thought dishonest or inspired. "But if, as I believe, you 
 have no art," said Socrates, "but speak all these beauti- 
 ful words about Homer unconsciously under his inspir- 
 ing influence, then I acquit you of dishonesty, and shall 
 only say that you are inspired. Which do you prefer 
 to be thought, dishonest or inspired?" 
 
 Ion: "There is a great difference, Socrates, between 
 them; and inspiration is the far nobler alternative." 
 
 Socrates: "Then, Ion, I shall assume the nobler al- 
 ternative, and attribute to you, in your praises of Homer, 
 inspiration and not art." 
 
 Turning again to the Phcedrus, we see the pitfalls that 
 surround the poet. "But he who, having no touch of the 
 Muses' madness in his soul, comes to the door, and 
 thinks he will get into the temple by the help of art,— 
 he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted ; the sane man 
 is nowhere at all when he enters into rivalry with the 
 madman." 
 
 The idea of the inspiration of the Poetic Genius, of 
 the divine frenzy or madness that seizes the poet in the 
 contemplation of beauty and in poetic creation, is ex- 
 pressed most admirably and most beautifully in words 
 issuing from the mouth of Socrates in the dialogue of 
 Ion* It will be well for us to reflect upon the penetra- 
 tive insight of the greatest American "philosopher" and 
 
 * Whether or not the Ion be from the hand of Plato is immaterial to our 
 inquiry. 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 303 
 
 seer in bidding us note that Plato himself, poet though 
 he be, is never rapt and transported beyond the limits of 
 wise and philosophic calm. Like Milton and Emerson, 
 his character had a solidity and poise beyond possi- 
 bility of disquiet and agitation, complete immunity from 
 which was the inevitable prerequisite for the highest 
 nobility of intelligence, or art, or character, in Grecian 
 civilization at the zenith of its brief but splendidly lumi- 
 nous course. 
 
 Before reading the quotation from the Ion, let us lis- 
 ten to great Aristotle, who expresses himself with curi- 
 ous identity of thought: "Poetry is the province either 
 of a man who is clever or of one who is in an enthusiasm 
 akin to madness." * Both Plato and Aristotle were in 
 this agreed, that the faculties of the poet transcend 
 those of ordinary men. Let us now listen to the former : 
 
 Socrates :f "Tynnichus, the Chalcidian, wrote noth- 
 ing that any one would care to remember, but the famous 
 poem which is in every one's mouth, one of the finest 
 poems ever written, and truly an invention of the Muses, 
 as he himself says. For in this way the god would seem 
 to indicate to us that these beautiful poems are not the 
 work of man, but divine, and the work of God; and that 
 the poets are only the interpreters of the gods by whom 
 they are severally possessed. Was not this the lesson 
 which the god intended to teach, when, by the mouth 
 of the worst of poets, he sang the best of songs? Am 
 I not right, Ion ?" 
 
 Ion: "Yes, indeed, Socrates, I feel that you are; for 
 
 * Poetics, IV and XVII., 3. 
 
 t Jowett's translation of Plato's Dialogues, except a portion of the prayer 
 of Socrates, almost at the end, which is from an earlier translation, also 
 by Jowett, in the Edinburgh Review, April, 1848. 
 
304 STUDIES IN MILTON 
 
 your words touch my soul, and I am persuaded some- 
 how that good poets are the inspired interpreters of the 
 gods." 
 
 In conclusion, it would seem that the real belief of 
 Plato in regard to Poetry is indicated in the following 
 extract from the Phcedrus: 
 
 "Neither poetry nor prose, spoken or written, are of 
 any great value, if like the compositions of the rhap- 
 sodes they are only recited in order to be believed, and 
 not with any view to criticism or instruction." * * * 
 "And now the play is played out," said Socrates. * * * 
 "Go and tell Lysias that to the fountain and school of 
 the Nymphs we went down, and were bidden by them 
 to convey a message to him and to other composers of 
 speeches,— to Homer and other writers of poems, 
 whether set to music or not; and to Solon and others 
 who have composed writings which they term laws, — to 
 all of them we are to say that if their compositions are 
 based on knowledge of the truth, and they can defend or 
 prove them, when they are put to the test of spoken 
 arguments, which leave their writings poor in compari- 
 son of them, then they are not only poets, orators, legis- 
 lators, but worthy of a higher name." 
 
 Phcedrus: "What name is that?" 
 
 Socrates: "Wise, I may not call them, for that is a 
 great name which belongs to God alone, — lovers of wis- 
 dom or philosophers is their modest and befitting title." 
 * * * * 
 
 Phcedrus: "Now, as the heat is abated, let us depart." 
 Socrates: "Should we not offer up a prayer first of 
 all to the local deities ?" 
 Phcedrus: "By all means." 
 
CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE POETIC GENIUS 305 
 
 Socrates: "Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who 
 haunt this place, grant that I may become beautiful 
 within, and that whatever of external good I possess 
 may be friendly to my internal purity: let me account 
 the wise man rich; and of wealth let me have only so 
 much as a prudent man can bear or employ. Anything 
 more? That prayer, I think, is enough for me." 
 
 Phcedrus: "Ask the same for me, for friends should 
 have all things in common." 
 
 Socrates: "Let us go." 
 
APPENDIX I 
 
 THE BUST OF MILTON 
 
 The portrait of Milton at the beginning of this volume is from 
 the bust in clay, now in the Master's Lodge, Christ's College, 
 Cambridge, England. It is believed to have been taken from life, 
 and has every appearance of having been the portrait of a living 
 man. We know that it was accepted as a likeness of Milton by 
 those who were so nearly his own contemporaries that their evi- 
 dence is of the greatest weight. 
 
 Various engravings, at one time and another, have been made 
 from this bust, the first of them by George Vertue, in 1738, 
 from a drawing by Jonathan Richardson; "badly designed by 
 Mr. Richardson," Hollis assures us in the passage about to be 
 quoted. 
 
 In the memorial volume published at the time of the Milton 
 Tercentenary by Christ's College, Cambridge, entitled : The Por- 
 traits, Prints and Writings of John Milton, edited by Dr. William- 
 son, there is printed (p. 29), a letter dated 13 Nov. 1875, from 
 W. Aldis Wright, LL.D., Vice-Master of Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge, addressed to the Master of Christ's College, of the same 
 university, in which he calls the latter's attention to a Life 
 of Thomas Hollis (4to, London, 1870). In this book there 
 was reproduced a wretched engraving by Cipriani of the Milton 
 bust, which was said to be "From a bust in plaister modelled 
 from the life, now in the possession of Thomas Hollis." The 
 engraving is dated 1760. Dr. Wright quotes from this book 
 (Vol. II., p. 513) : 
 
 "Mr. Hollis, in a paper dated July 30, 1757, says, 'For an 
 
 307 
 
308 APPENDIX I 
 
 original model in clay of the head of Milton, £9, 12 s., which I 
 intended to have purchased myself, had it not been knocked 
 down to Mr. Reynolds by a mistake of Mr. Ford the auctioneer.' 
 
 "Note, about two years before Mr. Vertue died, he told me that 
 he had been possessed of this head many years; and that he 
 believed it was done by one Pierce, a sculptor of good reputation 
 in those times, the same who made the bust in marble of Sir 
 Christopher Wren, which is in the Bodleian Library. My own 
 impression is that it was modelled by Abraham Simon ; and that 
 afterwards a seal was engraved after it, in profile, by his brother 
 Thomas Simon, a proof impression of which is now in the hands 
 of Mr. Yeo, engraver in Covent Garden. This head was badly 
 designed by Mr. Richardson, and then engraved by Mr. Vertue, 
 and prefixed to Milton's prose-works, in quarto, printed for A. 
 Millar 1753 (Baron's edition) [First edition, 1638]. The bust 
 probably was executed soon after Milton had written his 'De- 
 fensio pro populo Anglicano.' Mr. Reynolds obligingly parted 
 with this bust to Mr. Hollis for twelve guineas." 
 
 Dr. Wright adds: "Vertue, whose seal is mentioned, was the 
 engraver who died in 1756. Who Mr. Reynolds may have been 
 I can only conjecture. Perhaps Sir Joshua." 
 
 It would seem as if the deliberate statement of Vertue, who 
 had owned the bust,— who was an engraver and who had himself 
 made the engraving from it which appears in Milton's Prose 
 Works, 1738, — should be accepted as conclusive, particularly as 
 the Abraham Simon to whom Hollis refers was a medallist and 
 is not credited, so far as appears in the Dictionary of National 
 Biography, with the execution of works of sculpture in the round. 
 
 In Walpole's Anecdotes of Painting (Vol. II., page 315), we 
 find this account of Edward Pierce, the younger: "He made 
 the statues of Sir Thomas Gresham, of Edward III., at the Royal 
 Exchange, and of Sir William Walworth at Fish-monger's Hall ; 
 a marble bust of Thomas Evans, master of, and a great benefac- 
 tor to, the company of Painters in 1687: the bust is in their hall: 
 a model of the head of Milton, which Vertue had, the bust of Sir 
 Christopher Wren in the picture-gallery at Oxford, and a bust 
 of Cromwell sold at an auction in 1714." 
 
APPENDIX I 309 
 
 It is to be borne in mind that Walpole's Anecdotes of Painting 
 was based upon Vertue's own manuscript, as is stated upon the 
 title-page: "Anecdotes of Painting in England; with some Ac- 
 count of the Principal Artists, etc., collected by the late Mr. George 
 Vertue, digested and published from his original MSS. by the 
 Honourable Horace Walpole." In the Dedication to the Baroness 
 Dowager Hervey, in the same book, Walpole pleasantly remarks : 
 "I am rather an editor than an author, yet having little purpose 
 of appearing again in the latter character, I am forced to pay my 
 debts to your Ladyship with Mr. Vertue's coin. If his industry 
 has amassed anything that can amuse one or two of your idle 
 hours * * * I shall think his life was well employed." 
 
 Walpole in his Preface tells us that he was obliged to rewrite 
 the greater portion of the Anecdotes, but the evidence in regard to 
 the Milton bust is explicit and was in all probability recorded by 
 Vertue himself. Walpole's testimony as to the care with which 
 Vertue conducted his researches and as to his absolute veracity 
 is very convincing: "One satisfaction the reader will have in the 
 integrity of Mr. Vertue ; it exceeded his industry which is saying 
 much. No man living, so bigoted to a vocation, was ever so in- 
 capable of falsehood. He did not deal even in hypothesis, scarce 
 in conjecture." 
 
 In all probability the bust was executed long before Paradise 
 Lost was composed, and when Milton was about forty-four or 
 forty-five years of age. Of all the portraits of Milton it presents 
 the most convincing appearance of vitality and of intellectual con- 
 centration. Thus, in the first year of his blindness and in the full 
 vigour of middle age, the poet must have looked. 
 
 We are fortunate indeed to have a reproduction of this likeness, 
 interpreted by the greatest living master of wood-engraving, Mr. 
 Timothy Cole. The face is rendered with the utmost skill and 
 with the sympathetic insight that we might expect of one who is 
 himself a poet. 
 
APPENDIX II 310 
 
 APPENDIX II 
 
 SIR HENRY VANE AND HARVARD COLLEGE 
 
 A recent reviewer in the Nation has called attention to an inter- 
 esting episode of Sir Henry Vane's career while in America. 
 
 Henry Vane's "connection with the college, though, indeed, 
 most transient, was yet very momentous. As Governor of Massa- 
 chusetts Bay in 1636, he presided over the meeting which founded 
 the college, and it was his voice that declared the vote valid, the 
 creative word which gave the institution being. He sat that day 
 in his chair of state, a youth of twenty-four, his great career all 
 before him, with the long hair which had given offence to the 
 soberer Puritans, attired in courtly fashion, with the mien which 
 Clarendon afterwards portrayed as 'unbeautiful,' though making 
 'men think there was somewhat in him of extraordinary.' Mind- 
 ful of the grim pomp he had seen in the camps and courts of 
 Europe, he had at his back a row of stalwart halberdiers, armed 
 cap a pie — an incident in the Harvard story most picturesque, and 
 deeply memorable." 
 
 From a review by Mr. James Kendall Hosmer of The Story of 
 Harvard, by Mr. Arthur Stanwood Pier. The Nation, New York, 
 27 Nov., 1913, p. 513. 
 
 It is to be hoped that some day a statue of Sir Henry Vane will 
 arise in our Cambridge, — a memorial of the Puritan by the banks 
 of that stream which bears the name of him whose reign imme- 
 diately preceded the Commonwealth, a name conferred doubtless 
 in affection by loyal Englishmen beyond the seas who were loath 
 to break with the past, and who only in reverence to something 
 greater even than loyalty itself could be brought to sever the ties 
 which bound them to their beloved England. 
 
 Nothing could be more appropriate than that this monument 
 should be erected as a companion to the noble statue of John Har- 
 vard, — that other youthful Englishman to whom we owe so much, 
 —which is already there. 
 
 Harvard and Vane and Milton; names to conjure with! Do 
 Americans realize their training in liberty which they owe to 
 Milton, and in rebellion to Milton's Lucifer !