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diff --git a/5098-0.txt b/5098-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2db8055 --- /dev/null +++ b/5098-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6692 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Lives of the English Poets: Waller, Milton, +Cowley, by Samuel Johnson, Edited by Henry Morley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Lives of the English Poets: Waller, Milton, Cowley + + +Author: Samuel Johnson + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: October 26, 2014 [eBook #5098] +[This file was first posted on April 24, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIVES OF THE ENGLISH POETS: +WALLER, MILTON, COWLEY*** + + +Transcribed from the 1891 Cassell and Co. edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY. + + * * * * * + + + + + + LIVES + OF THE + ENGLISH POETS + + + Waller Milton Cowley + + BY + SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. + +[Picture: Decorative graphic] + + CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED: + _LONDON_, _PARIS & MELBOURNE_. + 1891. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +SAMUEL JOHNSON, born at Lichfield in the year 1709, on the 7th of +September Old Style, 18th New Style, was sixty-eight years old when he +agreed with the booksellers to write his “Lives of the English Poets.” +“I am engaged,” he said, “to write little Lives, and little Prefaces, to +a little edition of the English Poets.” His conscience was also a little +hurt by the fact that the bargain was made on Easter Eve. In 1777 his +memorandum, set down among prayers and meditations, was “29 March, Easter +Eve, I treated with booksellers on a bargain, but the time was not long.” + +The history of the book as told to Boswell by Edward Dilly, one of the +contracting booksellers, was this. An edition of Poets printed by the +Martins in Edinburgh, and sold by Bell in London, was regarded by the +London publishers as an interference with the honorary copyright which +booksellers then respected among themselves. They said also that it was +inaccurately printed and its type was small. A few booksellers agreed, +therefore, among themselves to call a meeting of proprietors of honorary +or actual copyright in the various Poets. In Poets who had died before +1660 they had no trade interest at all. About forty of the most +respectable booksellers in London accepted the invitation to this +meeting. They determined to proceed immediately with an elegant and +uniform edition of Poets in whose works they were interested, and they +deputed three of their number, William Strahan, Thomas Davies, and +Cadell, to wait on Johnson, asking him to write the series of prefatory +Lives, and name his own terms. Johnson agreed at once, and suggested as +his price two hundred guineas, when, as Malone says, the booksellers +would readily have given him a thousand. He then contemplated only +“little Lives.” His energetic pleasure in the work expanded his Preface +beyond the limits of the first design; but when it was observed to +Johnson that he was underpaid by the booksellers, his reply was, “No, +sir; it was not that they gave me too little, but that I gave them too +much.” He gave them, in fact, his masterpiece. His keen interest in +Literature as the soul of life, his sympathetic insight into human +nature, enabled him to put all that was best in himself into these +studies of the lives of men for whom he cared, and of the books that he +was glad to speak his mind about in his own shrewd independent way. +Boswell was somewhat disappointed at finding that the selection of the +Poets in this series would not be Johnson’s, but that he was to furnish a +Preface and Life to any Poet the booksellers pleased. “I asked him,” +writes Boswell, “if he would do this to any dunce’s works, if they should +ask him.” JOHNSON. “Yes, sir; and _say_ he was a dunce.” + +The meeting of booksellers, happy in the support of Johnson’s +intellectual power, appointed also a committee to engage the best +engravers, and another committee to give directions about paper and +printing. They made out at once a list of the Poets they meant to give, +“many of which,” said Dilly, “are within the time of the Act of Queen +Anne, which Martin and Bell cannot give, as they have no property in +them. The proprietors are almost all the booksellers in London, of +consequence.” + +In 1780 the booksellers published, in separate form, four volumes of +Johnson’s “Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, to the most Eminent of +the English Poets.” The completion followed in 1781. “Sometime in +March,” Johnson writes in that year, “I finished the Lives of the Poets.” +The series of books to which they actually served as prefaces extended to +sixty volumes. When his work was done, Johnson then being in his +seventy-second year, the booksellers added £100 to the price first asked. +Johnson’s own life was then near its close. He died on the 13th of +December, 1784, aged seventy-five. + +Of the Lives in this collection, Johnson himself liked best his Life of +Cowley, for the thoroughness with which he had examined in it the style +of what he called the metaphysical Poets. In his Life of Milton, the +sense of Milton’s genius is not less evident than the difference in point +of view which made it difficult for Johnson to know Milton thoroughly. +They know each other now. For Johnson sought as steadily as Milton to do +all as “in his great Taskmaster’s eye.” + + H. M. + + + + +WALLER. + + +EDMUND WALLER was born on the third of March, 1605, at Coleshill, in +Hertfordshire. His father was Robert Waller, Esquire, of Agmondesham, in +Buckinghamshire, whose family was originally a branch of the Kentish +Wallers; and his mother was the daughter of John Hampden, of Hampden, in +the same county, and sister to Hampden, the zealot of rebellion. + +His father died while he was yet an infant, but left him a yearly income +of three thousand five hundred pounds; which, rating together the value +of money and the customs of life, we may reckon more than equivalent to +ten thousand at the present time. + +He was educated, by the care of his mother, at Eton; and removed +afterwards to King’s College, in Cambridge. He was sent to Parliament in +his eighteenth, if not in his sixteenth year, and frequented the court of +James the First, where he heard a very remarkable conversation, which the +writer of the Life prefixed to his Works, who seems to have been well +informed of facts, though he may sometimes err in chronology, has +delivered as indubitably certain: + +“He found Dr. Andrews, Bishop of Winchester, and Dr. Neale, Bishop of +Durham, standing behind his Majesty’s chair; and there happened something +extraordinary,” continues this writer, “in the conversation those +prelates had with the king, on which Mr. Waller did often reflect. His +Majesty asked the bishops, ‘My Lords, cannot I take my subject’s money, +when I want it, without all this formality of Parliament?’ The Bishop of +Durham readily answered, ‘God forbid, Sir, but you should: you are the +breath of our nostrils.’ Whereupon the king turned and said to the +Bishop of Winchester, ‘Well, my Lord, what say you?’ ‘Sir,’ replied the +bishop, ‘I have no skill to judge of Parliamentary cases. The king +answered, ‘No put-offs, my Lord; answer me presently.’ ‘Then, Sir,’ said +he, ‘I think it is lawful for you to take my brother Neale’s money; for +he offers it.’ Mr. Waller said the company was pleased with this answer, +and the wit of it seemed to affect the king; for a certain lord coming in +soon after, his Majesty cried out, ‘Oh, my lord, they say you lig with my +Lady.’ ‘No, Sir,’ says his lordship in confusion; ‘but I like her +company, because she has so much wit.’ ‘Why, then,’ says the king, ‘do +you not lig with my Lord of Winchester there?’” + +Waller’s political and poetical life began nearly together. In his +eighteenth year he wrote the poem that appears first in his works, on +“The Prince’s Escape at St. Andero:” a piece which justifies the +observation made by one of his editors, that he attained, by a felicity +like instinct, a style which perhaps will never be obsolete; and that +“were we to judge only by the wording, we could not know what was wrote +at twenty, and what at’ fourscore.” His versification was, in his first +essay, such as it appears in his last performance. By the perusal of +Fairfax’s translation of Tasso, to which, as Dryden relates, he confessed +himself indebted for the smoothness of his numbers, and by his own nicety +of observation, he had already formed such a system of metrical harmony +as he never afterwards much needed, or much endeavoured, to improve. +Denham corrected his numbers by experience, and gained ground gradually +upon the ruggedness of his age; but what was acquired by Denham was +inherited by Waller. + +The next poem, of which the subject seems to fix the time, is supposed by +Mr. Fenton to be the “Address to the Queen,” which he considers as +congratulating her arrival, in Waller’s twentieth year. He is apparently +mistaken; for the mention of the nation’s obligations to her frequent +pregnancy proves that it was written when she had brought many children. +We have therefore no date of any other poetical production before that +which the murder of the Duke of Buckingham occasioned; the steadiness +with which the king received the news in the chapel deserved indeed to be +rescued from oblivion. + +Neither of these pieces that seem to carry their own dates could have +been the sudden effusion of fancy. In the verses on the prince’s escape, +the prediction of his marriage with the Princess of France must have been +written after the event; in the other, the promises of the king’s +kindness to the descendants of Buckingham, which could not be properly +praised till it had appeared by its effects, show that time was taken for +revision and improvement. It is not known that they were published till +they appeared long afterwards with other poems. + +Waller was not one of those idolaters of praise who cultivate their minds +at the expense of their fortunes. Rich as he was by inheritance, he took +care early to grow richer, by marrying Mrs. Banks, a great heiress in the +city, whom the interest of the court was employed to obtain for Mr. +Crofts. Having brought him a son, who died young, and a daughter, who +was afterwards married to Mr. Dormer, of Oxfordshire, she died in +childbed, and left him a widower of about five-and-twenty, gay and +wealthy, to please himself with another marriage. + +Being too young to resist beauty, and probably too vain to think himself +resistible, he fixed his heart, perhaps half-fondly and half-ambitiously, +upon the Lady Dorothea Sidney, eldest daughter of the Earl of Leicester, +whom he courted by all the poetry in which Sacharissa is celebrated; the +name is derived from the Latin appellation of “sugar,” and implies, if it +means anything, a spiritless mildness, and dull good-nature, such as +excites rather tenderness and esteem, and such as, though always treated +with kindness, is never honoured or admired. + +Yet he describes Sacharissa as a sublime predominating beauty, of lofty +charms, and imperious influence, on whom he looks with amazement rather +than fondness, whose chains he wishes, though in vain, to break, and +whose presence is “wine” that “inflames to madness.” + +His acquaintance with this high-born dame gave wit no opportunity of +boasting its influence; she was not to be subdued by the powers of verse, +but rejected his addresses, it is said, with disdain, and drove him away +to solace his disappointment with Amoret or Phillis. She married in 1639 +the Earl of Sunderland, who died at Newbury in the king’s cause; and, in +her old age, meeting somewhere with Waller, asked him, when he would +again write such verses upon her; “When you are as young, Madam,” said +he, “and as handsome as you were then.” + +In this part of his life it was that he was known to Clarendon, among the +rest of the men who were eminent in that age for genius and literature; +but known so little to his advantage, that they who read his character +will not much condemn Sacharissa, that she did not descend from her rank +to his embraces, nor think every excellence comprised in wit. + +The lady was, indeed, inexorable; but his uncommon comprised in wit, +qualifications, though they had no power upon her, recommended him to the +scholars and statesmen; and undoubtedly many beauties of that time, +however they might receive his love, were proud of his praises. Who they +were, whom he dignifies with poetical names, cannot now be known. +Amoret, according to Mr. Fenton, was the Lady Sophia Murray. Perhaps by +traditions preserved in families more may be discovered. + +From the verses written at Penshurst, it has been collected that he +diverted his disappointment by a voyage; and his biographers, from his +poem on the Whales, think it not improbable that he visited the Bermudas; +but it seems much more likely that he should amuse himself with forming +an imaginary scene, than that so important an incident, as a visit to +America, should have been left floating in conjectural probability. + +From his twenty-eighth to his thirty-fifth year, he wrote his pieces on +the Reduction of Sallee; on the Reparation of St. Paul’s; to the King on +his Navy; the Panegyric on the Queen Mother; the two poems to the Earl of +Northumberland; and perhaps others, of which the time cannot be +discovered. + +When he had lost all hopes of Sacharissa, he looked round him for an +easier conquest, and gained a lady of the family of Bresse, or Breaux. +The time of his marriage is not exactly known. It has not been +discovered that his wife was won by his poetry; nor is anything told of +her, but that she brought him many children. He doubtless praised some +whom he would have been afraid to marry, and perhaps married one whom he +would have been ashamed to praise. Many qualities contribute to domestic +happiness, upon which poetry has no colours to bestow; and many airs and +sallies may delight imagination, which he who flatters them never can +approve. There are charms made only for distant admiration. No +spectacle is nobler than a blaze. + +Of this wife, his biographers have recorded that she gave him five sons +and eight daughters. + +During the long interval of Parliament, he is represented as living among +those with whom it was most honourable to converse, and enjoying an +exuberant fortune with that independence and liberty of speech and +conduct which wealth ought always to produce. He was, however, +considered as the kinsman of Hampden, and was therefore supposed by the +courtiers not to favour them. + +When the Parliament was called in 1640, it appeared that Waller’s +political character had not been mistaken. The king’s demand of a supply +produced one of those noisy speeches which disaffection and discontent +regularly dictate; a speech filled with hyperbolical complaints of +imaginary grievances: “They,” says he, “who think themselves already +undone, can never apprehend themselves in danger; and they who have +nothing left can never give freely.” Political truth is equally in +danger from the praises of courtiers, and the exclamations of patriots. + +He then proceeds to rail at the clergy, being sure at that time of a +favourable audience. His topic is such as will always serve its purpose; +an accusation of acting and preaching only for preferment: and he exhorts +the Commons “carefully” to “provide” for their “protection against Pulpit +Law.” + +It always gratifies curiosity to trace a sentiment. Waller has in his +speech quoted Hooker in one passage; and in another has copied him, +without quoting. “Religion,” says Waller, “ought to be the first thing +in our purpose and desires; but that which is first in dignity is not +always to precede in order of time; for well-being supposes a being; and +the first impediment which men naturally endeavour to remove, is the want +of those things without which they cannot subsist. God first assigned +unto Adam maintenance of life, and gave him a title to the rest of the +creatures before he appointed a law to observe.” + +“God first assigned Adam,” says Hooker, “maintenance of life, and then +appointed him a law to observe. True it is, that the kingdom of God must +be the first thing in our purpose and desires; but inasmuch as a +righteous life presupposeth life, inasmuch as to live virtuously it is +impossible, except we live; therefore the first impediment which +naturally we endeavour to remove is penury, and want of things without +which we cannot live.” + +The speech is vehement; but the great position, that grievances ought to +be redressed before supplies are granted, is agreeable enough to law and +reason: nor was Waller, if his biographer may be credited, such an enemy +to the king, as not to wish his distresses lightened; for he relates, +“that the king sent particularly to Waller, to second his demand of some +subsidies to pay off the army, and Sir Henry Vane objecting against first +voting a supply, because the king would not accept unless it came up to +his proportion, Mr. Waller spoke earnestly to Sir Thomas Jermyn, +comptroller of the household, to save his master from the effects of so +bold a falsity; ‘for,’ he said, ‘I am but a country gentleman, and cannot +pretend to know the king’s mind:’ but Sir Thomas durst not contradict the +secretary; and his son, the Earl of St. Albans, afterwards told Mr. +Waller, that his father’s cowardice ruined the king.” + +In the Long Parliament, which, unhappily for the nation, met Nov. 3, +1640, Waller represented Agmondesham the third time; and was considered +by the discontented party as a man sufficiently trusty and acrimonious to +be employed in managing the prosecution of Judge Crawley, for his opinion +in favour of ship-money; and his speech shows that he did not disappoint +their expectations. He was probably the more ardent, as his uncle +Hampden had been particularly engaged in the dispute, and, by a sentence +which seems generally to be thought unconstitutional, particularly +injured. + +He was not, however, a bigot to his party, nor adopted all their +opinions. When the great question, whether Episcopacy ought to be +abolished, was debated, he spoke against the innovation so coolly, so +reasonably, and so firmly, that it is not without great injury to his +name that his speech, which was as follows, has been hitherto omitted in +his works: + +“There is no doubt but the sense of what this nation had suffered from +the present bishops hath produced these complaints; and the apprehensions +men have of suffering the like, in time to come, make so many desire the +taking away of Episcopacy: but I conceive it is possible that we may not, +now, take a right measure of the minds of the people by their petitions; +for, when they subscribed them, the bishops were armed with a dangerous +commission of making new canons, imposing new oaths, and the like; but +now we have disarmed them of that power. These petitioners lately did +look upon Episcopacy as a beast armed with horns and claws; but now that +we have cut and pared them (and may, if we see cause, yet reduce it into +narrower bounds), it may, perhaps, be more agreeable. Howsoever, if they +be still in passion, it becomes us soberly to consider the right use and +antiquity thereof; and not to comply further with a general desire, than +may stand with a general good. + +“We have already showed that Episcopacy and the evils thereof are mingled +like water and oil; we have also, in part, severed them; but I believe +you will find, that our laws and the present government of the Church are +mingled like wine and water; so inseparable, that the abrogation of, at +least, a hundred of our laws is desired in these petitions. I have often +heard a noble answer of the Lords, commended in this House, to a +proposition of like nature, but of less consequence; they gave no other +reason of their refusal but this, ‘_Nolumus mutare Leges Angliæ_:’ it was +the bishops who so answered them; and it would become the dignity and +wisdom of this House to answer the people, now, with a ‘_Nolumus +mutare_.’ + +“I see some are moved with a number of hands against the bishops; which, +I confess, rather inclines me to their defence; for I look upon +Episcopacy as a counterscarp, or outwork; which, if it be taken by this +assault of the people, and, withal, this mystery once revealed, ‘that we +must deny them nothing when they ask it thus in troops,’ we may, in the +next place, have as hard a task to defend our property, as we have lately +had to recover it from the Prerogative. If, by multiplying hands and +petitions, they prevail for an equality in things ecclesiastical, the +next demand perhaps may be _Lex Agraria_, the like equality in things +temporal. + +“The Roman story tells us, that when the people began to flock about the +Senate, and were more curious to direct and know what was done, than to +obey, that Commonwealth soon came to ruin; their _Legem regare_ grew +quickly to be a _Legem ferre_: and after, when their legions had found +that they could make a Dictator, they never suffered the Senate to have a +voice any more in such election. + +“If these great innovations proceed, I shall expect a flat and level in +learning too, as well as in Church preferments: _Hones alit Artes_. And +though it be true, that grave and pious men do study for learning-sake, +and embrace virtue for itself; yet it is true, that youth, which is the +season when learning is gotten, is not without ambition; nor will ever +take pains to excel in anything, when there is not some hope of excelling +others in reward and dignity. + +“There are two reasons chiefly alleged against our Church government. + +“First, Scripture, which, as some men think, points out another form. + +“Second, the abuses of the present superiors. + +“For Scripture, I will not dispute it in this place; but I am confident +that, whenever an equal division of lands and goods shall be desired, +there will be as many places in Scripture found out, which seem to favour +that, as there are now alleged against the prelacy or preferment of the +Church. And, as for abuses, when you are now in the remonstrance told +what this and that poor man hath suffered by the bishops, you may be +presented with a thousand instances of poor men that have received hard +measure from their landlords; and of worldly goods abused, to the injury +of others, and disadvantage of the owners. + +“And therefore, Mr. Speaker, my humble motion is that we may settle men’s +minds herein; and by a question, declare our resolution, ‘to reform,’ +that is, ‘not to abolish, Episcopacy.’” + +It cannot but be wished that he, who could speak in this manner, had been +able to act with spirit and uniformity. + +When the Commons begun to set the royal authority at open defiance, +Waller is said to have withdrawn from the House, and to have returned +with the king’s permission; and, when the king set up his standard, he +sent him a thousand broad-pieces. He continued, however, to sit in the +rebellious conventicle; but “spoke,” says Clarendon, “with great +sharpness and freedom, which, now there was no danger of being out-voted, +was not restrained; and therefore used as an argument against those who +were gone upon pretence that they were not suffered to deliver their +opinion freely in the House, which could not be believed, when all men +knew what liberty Mr. Waller took, and spoke every day with impunity +against the sense and proceedings of the House.” + +Waller, as he continued to sit, was one of the commissioners nominated by +the Parliament to treat with the king at Oxford; and when they were +presented, the king said to him, “Though you are the last, you are not +the lowest nor the least in my favour.” Whitelock, who, being another of +the commissioners, was witness of this kindness, imputes it to the king’s +knowledge of the plot, in which Waller appeared afterwards to have been +engaged against the Parliament. Fenton, with equal probability, believes +that his attempt to promote the royal cause arose from his sensibility of +the king’s tenderness. Whitelock says nothing of his behaviour at +Oxford: he was sent with several others to add pomp to the commission, +but was not one of those to whom the trust of treating was imparted. + +The engagement, known by the name of Waller’s plot, was soon afterwards +discovered. Waller had a brother-in-law, Tomkyns, who was clerk of the +queen’s council, and at the same time had a very numerous acquaintance, +and great influence, in the city. Waller and he, conversing with great +confidence, told both their own secrets and those of their friends; and, +surveying the wide extent of their conversation, imagined that they found +in the majority of all ranks great disapprobation of the violence of the +Commons, and unwillingness to continue the war. They knew that many +favoured the king, whose fear concealed their loyalty; and many desired +peace, though they durst not oppose the clamour for war; and they +imagined that, if those who had these good intentions should be informed +of their own strength, and enabled by intelligence to act together, they +might overpower the fury of sedition, by refusing to comply with the +ordinance for the twentieth part, and the other taxes levied for the +support of the rebel army, and by uniting great numbers in a petition for +peace. They proceeded with great caution. Three only met in one place, +and no man was allowed to impart the plot to more than two others; so +that, if any should be suspected or seized, more than three could not be +endangered. + +Lord Conway joined in the design, and, Clarendon imagines, incidentally +mingled, as he was a soldier, some martial hopes or projects, which +however were only mentioned, the main design being to bring the loyal +inhabitants to the knowledge of each other; for which purpose there was +to be appointed one in every district, to distinguish the friends of the +king, the adherents to the Parliament, and the neutrals. How far they +proceeded does not appear; the result of their inquiry, as Pym declared, +was, that within the walls, for one that was for the Royalists, there +were three against them; but that without the walls, for one that was +against them, there were five for them. Whether this was said from +knowledge or guess, was perhaps never inquired. + +It is the opinion of Clarendon, that in Waller’s plan no violence or +sanguinary resistance was comprised; that he intended only to abate the +confidence of the rebels by public declarations, and to weaken their +powers by an opposition to new supplies. This, in calmer times, and more +than this, is done without fear; but such was the acrimony of the +Commons, that no method of obstructing them was safe. + +About this time another design was formed by Sir Nicholas Crispe, a man +of loyalty, that deserves perpetual remembrance; when he was a merchant +in the city, he gave and procured the king, in his exigencies, a hundred +thousand pounds; and, when he was driven from the Exchange, raised a +regiment, and commanded it. + +Sir Nicholas flattered himself with an opinion, that some provocation +would so much exasperate, or some opportunity so much encourage, the +king’s friends in the city, that they would break out in open resistance, +and would then want only a lawful standard, and an authorised commander; +and extorted from the king, whose judgment too frequently yielded to +importunity, a commission of array, directed to such as he thought proper +to nominate, which was sent to London by the Lady Aubigny. She knew not +what she carried, but was to deliver it on the communication of a certain +token which Sir Nicholas imparted. + +This commission could be only intended to lie ready till the time should +require it. To have attempted to raise any forces would have been +certain destruction; it could be of use only when the forces should +appear. This was, however, an act preparatory to martial hostility. + +Crispe would undoubtedly have put an end to the session of Parliament, +had his strength been equal to his zeal; and out of the design of Crispe, +which involved very little danger, and that of Waller, which was an act +purely civil, they compounded a horrid and dreadful plot. + +The discovery of Waller’s design is variously related. + +In “Clarendon’s History” it is told, that a servant of Tomkyns, lurking +behind the hangings when his master was in conference with Waller, heard +enough to qualify him for an informer, and carried his intelligence to +Pym. + +A manuscript, quoted in the “Life of Waller,” relates, that “he was +betrayed by his sister Price, and her Presbyterian chaplain Mr. Goode, +who stole some of his papers; and if he had not strangely dreamed the +night before, that his sister had betrayed him, and thereupon burnt the +rest of his papers by the fire that was in his chimney, he had certainly +lost his life by it.” The question cannot be decided. It is not +unreasonable to believe that the men in power, receiving intelligence +from the sister, would employ the servant of Tomkyns to listen at the +conference, that they might avoid an act so offensive as that of +destroying the brother by the sister’s testimony. + +The plot was published in the most terrific manner. + +On the 31st of May (1643), at a solemn fast, when they were listening to +the sermon, a messenger entered the church, and communicated his errand +to Pym, who whispered it to others that were placed near him, and then +went with them out of the church, leaving the rest in solicitude and +amazement. They immediately sent guards to proper places, and that night +apprehended Tomkyns and Waller; having yet traced nothing but that +letters had been intercepted, from which it appears that the Parliament +and the city were soon to be delivered into the hands of the cavaliers. + +They perhaps yet knew little themselves, beyond some general and +indistinct notices. “But Waller,” says Clarendon, “was so confounded +with fear, that he confessed whatever he had heard, said, thought, or +seen; all that he knew of himself, and all that he suspected of others, +without concealing any person of what degree or quality soever, or any +discourse which he had ever upon any occasion entertained with them; what +such and such ladies of great honour, to whom, upon the credit of his wit +and great reputation, he had been admitted, had spoken to him in their +chambers upon the proceedings in the Houses, and how they had encouraged +him to oppose them; what correspondence and intercourse they had with +some Ministers of State at Oxford, and how they had conveyed all +intelligence thither.” He accused the Earl of Portland and Lord Conway +as co-operating in the transaction; and testified that the Earl of +Northumberland had declared himself disposed in favour of any attempt +that might check the violence of the Parliament, and reconcile them to +the king. + +He undoubtedly confessed much which they could never have discovered, and +perhaps somewhat which they would wish to have been suppressed; for it is +inconvenient in the conflict of factions, to have that disaffection known +which cannot safely be punished. + +Tomkyns was seized on the same night with Waller, and appears likewise to +have partaken of his cowardice; for he gave notice of Crispe’s commission +of array, of which Clarendon never knew how it was discovered. Tomkyns +had been sent with the token appointed, to demand it from Lady Aubigny, +and had buried it in his garden, where, by his direction, it was dug up; +and thus the rebels obtained, what Clarendon confesses them to have had, +the original copy. + +It can raise no wonder that they formed one plot out of these two +designs, however remote from each other, when they saw the same agent +employed in both, and found the commission of array in the hands of him +who was employed in collecting the opinions and affections of the people. + +Of the plot, thus combined, they took care to make the most. They sent +Pym among the citizens, to tell them of their imminent danger and happy +escape; and inform them, that the design was, “to seize the Lord Mayor +and all the Committee of Militia, and would not spare one of them.” They +drew up a vow and covenant, to be taken by every member of either House, +by which he declared his detestation of all conspiracies against the +Parliament, and his resolution to detect and oppose them. They then +appointed a day of thanksgiving for this wonderful delivery; which shut +out, says Clarendon, all doubts whether there had been such a +deliverance, and whether the plot was real or fictitious. + +On June 11, the Earl of Portland and Lord Conway were committed, one to +the custody of the mayor, and the other of the sheriff; but their lands +and goods were not seized. + +Waller was still to immerse himself deeper in ignominy. The Earl of +Portland and Lord Conway denied the charge; and there was no evidence +against them but the confession of Waller, of which undoubtedly many +would be inclined to question the veracity. With these doubts he was so +much terrified, that he endeavoured to persuade Portland to a declaration +like his own, by a letter extant in Fenton’s edition. “But for me,” says +he, “you had never known anything of this business, which was prepared +for another; and therefore I cannot imagine why you should hide it so far +as to contract your own ruin by concealing it, and persisting +unreasonably to hide that truth, which, without you, already is, and will +every day be made more manifest. Can you imagine yourself bound in +honour to keep that secret, which is already revealed by another? or +possible it should still be a secret, which is known to one of the other +sex?—If you persist to be cruel to yourself for their sakes who deserve +it not, it will nevertheless be made appear, ere long, I fear, to your +ruin. Surely, if I had the happiness to wait on you, I could move you to +compassionate both yourself and me, who, desperate as my case is, am +desirous to die with the honour of being known to have declared the +truth. You have no reason to contend to hide what is already +revealed—inconsiderately to throw away yourself, for the interest of +others, to whom you are less obliged than you are aware of.” + +This persuasion seems to have had little effect. Portland sent (June 29) +a letter to the Lords, to tell them that he “is in custody, as he +conceives, without any charge; and that, by what Mr. Waller hath +threatened him with since he was imprisoned, he doth apprehend a very +cruel, long, and ruinous restraint:—He therefore prays, that he may not +find the effects of Mr. Waller’s threats, a long and close imprisonment; +but may be speedily brought to a legal trial, and then he is confident +the vanity and falsehood of those informations which have been given +against him will appear.” + +In consequence of this letter, the Lords ordered Portland and Waller to +be confronted; when the one repeated his charge, and the other his +denial. The examination of the plot being continued (July 1), Thinn, +usher of the House of Lords, deposed, that Mr. Waller having had a +conference with the Lord Portland in an upper room, Lord Portland said, +when he came down, “Do me the favour to tell my Lord Northumberland, that +Mr. Waller has extremely pressed me to save my own life and his, by +throwing the blame upon the Lord Conway and the Earl of Northumberland.” + +Waller, in his letter to Portland, tells him of the reasons which he +could urge with resistless efficacy in a personal conference; but he +overrated his own oratory; his vehemence, whether of persuasion or +entreaty, was returned with contempt. + +One of his arguments with Portland is, that the plot is already known to +a woman. This woman was doubtless Lady Aubigny, who, upon this occasion, +was committed to custody; but who, in reality, when she delivered the +commission, knew not what it was. + +The Parliament then proceeded against the conspirators, and committed +their trial to a council of war. Tomkyns and Chaloner were hanged near +their own doors. Tomkyns, when he came to die, said it was a “foolish +business;” and indeed there seems to have been no hope that it should +escape discovery; for, though never more than three met at a time, yet a +design so extensive must by necessity be communicated to many who could +not be expected to be all faithful and all prudent. Chaloner was +attended at his execution by Hugh Peters. His crime was, that he had +commission to raise money for the king; but it appears not that the money +was to be expended upon the advancement of either Crispe’s or Waller’s +plot. + +The Earl of Northumberland, being too great for prosecution, was only +once examined before the Lords. The Earl of Portland and Lord Conway +persisting to deny the charge, and no testimony but Waller’s yet +appearing against them, were, after a long imprisonment, admitted to +bail. Hassel, the king’s messenger, who carried the letters to Oxford, +died the night before his trial. Hampden [Alexander] escaped death, +perhaps by the interest of his family; but was kept in prison to the end +of his life. They whose names were inserted in the commission of array +were not capitally punished, as it could not be proved that they had +consented to their own nomination; but they were considered as +malignants, and their estates were seized. + +“Waller, though confessedly,” says Clarendon, “the most guilty, with +incredible dissimulation affected such a remorse of conscience, that his +trial was put off, out of Christian compassion, till he might recover his +understanding.” What use he made of this interval, with what liberality +and success he distributed flattery and money, and how, when he was +brought (July 4) before the House, he confessed and lamented, and +submitted and implored, may be read in the “History of the Rebellion” (B. +vii.). The speech, to which Clarendon ascribes the preservation of his +“dear-bought life,” is inserted in his works. The great historian, +however, seems to have been mistaken in relating that “he prevailed” in +the principal part of his supplication, “not to be tried by a council of +war;” for, according to Whitelock, he was by expulsion from the House +abandoned to the tribunal which he so much dreaded, and, being tried and +condemned, was reprieved by Essex; but after a year’s imprisonment, in +which time resentment grew less acrimonious, paying a fine of ten +thousand pounds, he was permitted to “recollect himself in another +country.” + +Of his behaviour in this part of life, it is not necessary to direct the +reader’s opinion. “Let us not,” says his last ingenious biographer, +“condemn him with untempered severity, because he was not a prodigy which +the world hath seldom seen, because his character included not the poet, +the orator, and the hero.” + +For the place of his exile he chose France, and stayed some time at Roan, +where his daughter Margaret was born, who was afterwards his favourite, +and his amanuensis. He then removed to Paris, where he lived with great +splendour and hospitality; and from time to time amused himself with +poetry, in which he sometimes speaks of the rebels, and their usurpation, +in the natural language of an honest man. + +At last it became necessary, for his support, to sell his wife’s jewels; +and being reduced, as he said, at last “to the rump-jewel,” he solicited +from Cromwell permission to return, and obtained it by the interest of +Colonel Scroop, to whom his sister was married. Upon the remains of a +fortune, which the danger of his life had very much diminished, he lived +at Hallbarn, a house built by himself very near to Beaconsfield, where +his mother resided. His mother, though related to Cromwell and Hampden, +was zealous for the royal cause, and, when Cromwell visited her, used to +reproach him; he, in return, would throw a napkin at her, and say he +would not dispute with his aunt; but finding in time that she acted for +the king, as well as talked, he made her a prisoner to her own daughter, +in her own house. If he would do anything, he could not do less. + +Cromwell, now Protector, received Waller, as his kinsman, to familiar +conversation. Waller, as he used to relate, found him sufficiently +versed in ancient history; and, when any of his enthusiastic friends came +to advise or consult him, could sometimes overhear him discoursing in the +cant of the times: but, when he returned, he would say, “Cousin Waller, I +must talk to these men in their own way;” and resumed the common style of +conversation. + +He repaid the Protector for his favours (1654) by the famous Panegyric, +which has been always considered as the first of his poetical +productions. His choice of encomiastic topics is very judicious; for he +considers Cromwell in his exaltation, without inquiring how he attained +it; there is consequently no mention of the rebel or the regicide. All +the former part of his hero’s life is veiled with shades; and nothing is +brought to view but the chief, the governor, the defender of England’s +honour, and the enlarger of her dominion. The act of violence by which +he obtained the supreme power is lightly treated, and decently justified. +It was certainly to be desired that the detestable band should be +dissolved, which had destroyed the Church, murdered the king, and filled +the nation with tumult and oppression; yet Cromwell had not the right of +dissolving them, for all that he had before done could be justified only +by supposing them invested with lawful authority. But combinations of +wickedness would overwhelm the world by the advantage which licentious +principles afford, did not those, who have long practised perfidy, grow +faithless to each other. + +In the poem on the War with Spain are some passages at least equal to the +best parts of the Panegyric; and, in the conclusion, the poet ventures +yet a higher flight of flattery, by recommending royalty to Cromwell and +the nation. Cromwell was very desirous, as appears from his +conversation, related by Whitelock, of adding the title to the power of +monarchy, and is supposed to have been withheld from it partly by fear of +the army, and partly by fear of the laws, which, when he should govern by +the name of king, would have restrained his authority. When, therefore, +a deputation was solemnly sent to invite him to the crown, he, after a +long conference, refused it, but is said to have fainted in his coach +when he parted from them. + +The poem on the death of the Protector seems to have been dictated by +real veneration for his memory. Dryden and Sprat wrote on the same +occasion; but they were young men, struggling into notice, and hoping for +some favour from the ruling party. Waller had little to expect; he had +received nothing but his pardon from Cromwell, and was not likely to ask +anything from those who should succeed him. + +Soon afterwards, the Restoration supplied him with another subject; and +he exerted his imagination, his elegance, and his melody, with equal +alacrity, for Charles the Second. It is not possible to read, without +some contempt and indignation, poems of the same author, ascribing the +highest degree of “power and piety” to Charles the First, then +transferring the same “power and piety” to Oliver Cromwell; now inviting +Oliver to take the Crown, and then congratulating Charles the Second on +his recovered right. Neither Cromwell nor Charles could value his +testimony as the effect of conviction, or receive his praises as +effusions of reverence; they could consider them but as the labour of +invention, and the tribute of dependence. + +Poets, indeed, profess fiction; but the legitimate end of fiction is the +conveyance of truth, and he that has flattery ready for all whom the +vicissitudes of the world happen to exalt must be scorned as a +prostituted mind, that may retain the glitter of wit, but has lost the +dignity of virtue. + +The Congratulation was considered as inferior in poetical merit to the +Panegyric; and it is reported that, when the king told Waller of the +disparity, he answered, “Poets, Sir, succeed better in fiction than in +truth.” + +The Congratulation is indeed not inferior to the Panegyric, either by +decay of genius, or for want of diligence, but because Cromwell had done +much and Charles had done little. Cromwell wanted nothing to raise him +to heroic excellence but virtue, and virtue his poet thought himself at +liberty to supply. Charles had yet only the merit of struggling without +success, and suffering without despair. A life of escapes and indigence +could supply poetry with no splendid images. + +In the first Parliament summoned by Charles the Second (March 8, 1661), +Waller sat for Hastings, in Sussex, and served for different places in +all the Parliaments of that reign. In a time when fancy and gaiety were +the most powerful recommendations to regard, it is not likely that Waller +was forgotten. He passed his time in the company that was highest, both +in rank and wit, from which even his obstinate sobriety did not exclude +him. Though he drank water, he was enabled by his fertility of mind to +heighten the mirth of Bacchanalian assemblies; and Mr. Saville said, that +“no man in England should keep him company without drinking but Ned +Waller.” + +The praise given him by St. Evremond is a proof of his reputation; for it +was only by his reputation that he could be known, as a writer, to a man +who, though he lived a great part of a long life upon an English pension, +never consented to understand the language of the nation that maintained +him. + +In Parliament, “he was,” says Burnet, “the delight of the House, and +though old, said the liveliest things of any among them.” This, however, +is said in his account of the year seventy-five, when Waller was only +seventy. His name as a speaker occurs often in Grey’s Collections, but I +have found no extracts that can be more quoted as exhibiting sallies of +gaiety than cogency of argument. + +He was of such consideration, that his remarks were circulated and +recorded. When the Duke of York’s influence was high, both in Scotland +and England, it drew, says Burnet, a lively reflection from Waller, the +celebrated wit. He said, “The House of Commons had resolved that the +duke should not reign after the king’s death: but the king, in opposition +to them, had resolved that he should reign even in his life.” If there +appear no extraordinary “liveliness” in this “remark,” yet its reception +proves its speaker to have been a “celebrated wit,” to have had a name +which men of wit were proud of mentioning. + +He did not suffer his reputation to die gradually away, which may easily +happen in a long life, but renewed his claim to poetical distinction from +time to time, as occasions were offered, either by public events or +private incidents; and, contenting himself with the influence of his +Muse, or loving quiet better than influence, he never accepted any office +of magistracy. + +He was not, however, without some attention to his fortune, for he asked +from the king (in 1665) the provostship of Eton College, and obtained it; +but Clarendon refused to put the seal to the grant, alleging that it +could be held only by a clergyman. It is known that Sir Henry Wotton +qualified himself for it by deacon’s orders. + +To this opposition, the Biographia imputes the violence and acrimony with +which Waller joined Buckingham’s faction in the prosecution of Clarendon. +The motive was illiberal and dishonest, and showed that more than sixty +years had not been able to teach him morality. His accusation is such as +conscience can hardly be supposed to dictate without the help of malice. +“We were to be governed by Janizaries instead of Parliaments, and are in +danger from a worse plot than that of the fifth of November; then, if the +Lords and Commons had been destroyed, there had been a succession; but +here both had been destroyed for ever.” This is the language of a man +who is glad of an opportunity to rail, and ready to sacrifice truth to +interest at one time, and to anger at another. + +A year after the chancellor’s banishment, another vacancy gave him +encouragement for another petition, which the king referred to the +Council, who, after hearing the question argued by lawyers for three +days, determined that the office could be held only by a clergyman, +according to the Act of Uniformity, since the provosts had always +received institution as for a parsonage from the Bishops of Lincoln. The +king then said he could not break the law which he had made; and Dr. +Zachary Cradock, famous for a single sermon, at most for two sermons, was +chosen by the Fellows. + +That he asked anything else is not known; it is certain that he obtained +nothing, though he continued obsequious to the court through the rest of +Charles’s reign. + +At the accession of King James (in 1685) he was chosen for Parliament, +being then fourscore, at Saltash, in Cornwall; and wrote a Presage of the +Downfall of the Turkish Empire, which he presented to the king on his +birthday. It is remarked, by his commentator Fenton, that in reading +Tasso he had early imbibed a veneration for the heroes of the Holy War, +and a zealous enmity to the Turks, which never left him. James, however, +having soon after begun what he thought a holy war at home, made haste to +put all molestation of the Turks out of his power. + +James treated him with kindness and familiarity, of which instances are +given by the writer of his life. One day, taking him into the closet, +the king asked him how he liked one of the pictures: “My eyes,” said +Waller, “are dim, and I do not know it.” The king said it was the +Princess of Orange. “She is,” said Waller, “like the greatest woman in +the world.” The king asked who was that; and was answered, Queen +Elizabeth. “I wonder,” said the king, “you should think so; but I must +confess she had a wise council.” “And, Sir,” said Waller, “did you ever +know a fool choose a wise one?” Such is the story, which I once heard of +some other man. Pointed axioms, and acute replies, fly loose about the +world, and are assigned successively to those whom it may be the fashion +to celebrate. + +When the king knew that he was about to marry his daughter to Dr. Birch, +a clergyman, he ordered a French gentleman to tell him that “the king +wondered he could think of marrying his daughter to a falling church.” +“The king,” said Waller, “does me great honour in taking notice of my +domestic affairs; but I have lived long enough to observe that this +falling church has got a trick of rising again.” + +He took notice to his friends of the king’s conduct; and said that “he +would be left like a whale upon the strand.” Whether he was privy to any +of the transactions that ended in the revolution is not known. His heir +joined the Prince of Orange. + +Having now attained an age beyond which the laws of nature seldom suffer +life to be extended, otherwise than by a future state, he seems to have +turned his mind upon preparation for the decisive hour, and therefore +consecrated his poetry to devotion. It is pleasing to discover that his +piety was without weakness; that his intellectual powers continued +vigorous; and that the lines which he composed when “he, for age, could +neither read nor write,” are not inferior to the effusions of his youth. + +Towards the decline of life he bought a small house, with a little land, +at Coleshill; and said “he should be glad to die, like the stag, where he +was roused.” This, however, did not happen. When he was at +Beaconsfield, he found his legs grow tumid: he went to Windsor, where Sir +Charles Scarborough then attended the king, and requested him, as both a +friend and physician, to tell him “what that swelling meant.” “Sir,” +answered Scarborough, “your blood will run no longer.” Waller repeated +some lines of Virgil, and went home to die. + +As the disease increased upon him, he composed himself for his departure; +and calling upon Dr. Birch to give him the holy sacrament, he desired his +children to take it with him, and made an earnest declaration of his +faith in Christianity. It now appeared what part of his conversation +with the great could be remembered with delight. He related, that being +present when the Duke of Buckingham talked profanely before King Charles, +he said to him, “My lord, I am a great deal older than your grace and +have, I believe, heard more arguments for atheism than ever your grace +did; but I have lived long enough to see there is nothing in them; and +so, I hope, your grace will.” + +He died October 21, 1687, and was buried at Beaconsfield, with a monument +erected by his son’s executors, for which Rymer wrote the inscription, +and which I hope is now rescued from dilapidation. + +He left several children by his second wife, of whom his daughter was +married to Dr. Birch. Benjamin, the eldest son, was disinherited, and +sent to New Jersey as wanting common understanding. Edmund, the second +son, inherited the estate, and represented Agmondesham in parliament, but +at last turned quaker. William, the third son, was a merchant in London. +Stephen, the fourth, was an eminent doctor of laws, and one of the +commissioners for the union. There is said to have been a fifth, of whom +no account has descended. + +The character of Waller, both moral and intellectual, has been drawn by +Clarendon, to whom he was familiarly known, with nicety, which certainly +none to whom he was not known can presume to emulate. It is therefore +inserted here, with such remarks as others have supplied; after which, +nothing remains but a critical examination of his poetry. + +“Edmund Waller,” says Clarendon, “was born to a very fair estate, by the +parsimony, or frugality, of a wise father and mother; and he thought it +so commendable an advantage, that he resolved to improve it with his +utmost care, upon which in his nature he was too much intent; and in +order to that, he was so much reserved and retired, that he was scarcely +ever heard of, till by his address and dexterity he had gotten a very +rich wife in the city, against all the recommendation and countenance and +authority of the court, which was thoroughly engaged on the behalf of Mr. +Crofts, and which used to be successful, in that age, against any +opposition. He had the good fortune to have an alliance and friendship +with Dr. Morley, who had assisted and instructed him in the reading many +good books, to which his natural parts and promptitude inclined him, +especially the poets; and at the age when other men used to give over +writing verses (for he was near thirty years when he first engaged +himself in that exercise, at least that he was known to do so), he +surprised the town with two or three pieces of that kind; as if a tenth +Muse had been newly born to cherish drooping poetry. The doctor at that +time brought him into that company which was most celebrated for good +conversation, where he was received and esteemed with great applause and +respect. He was a very pleasant discourser in earnest and in jest, and +therefore very grateful to all kind of company, where he was not the less +esteemed for being very rich. + +“He had been even nursed in parliaments, where he sat when he was very +young; and so, when they were resumed again (after a long intermission) +he appeared in those assemblies with great advantage; having a graceful +way of speaking, and by thinking much on several arguments (which his +temper and complexion, that had much of melancholic, inclined him to), he +seemed often to speak upon the sudden, when the occasion had only +administered the opportunity of saying what he had thoroughly considered, +which gave a great lustre to all he said; which yet was rather of delight +than weight. There needs no more be said to extol the excellence and +power of his wit, and pleasantness of his conversation, than that it was +of magnitude enough to cover a world of very great faults; that is, so to +cover them, that they were not taken notice of to his reproach, viz., a +narrowness in his nature to the lowest degree; an abjectness and want of +courage to support him in any virtuous undertaking; an insinuation and +servile flattery to the height, the vainest and most imperious nature +could be contented with; that it preserved and won his life from those +who most resolved to take it, and in an occasion in which he ought to +have been ambitious to have lost it; and then preserved him again from +the reproach and the contempt that was due to him for so preserving it, +and for vindicating it at such a price that it had power to reconcile him +to those whom he had most offended and provoked; and continued to his age +with that rare felicity, that his company was acceptable where his spirit +was odious; and he was at least pitied where he was most detested.” + +Such is the account of Clarendon; on which it may not be improper to make +some remarks. + +“He was very little known till he had obtained a rich wife in the city.” + +He obtained a rich wife about the age of three-and-twenty; an age, before +which few men are conspicuous much to their advantage. He was now, +however, in parliament and at court; and, if he spent part of his time in +privacy, it is not unreasonable to suppose that he endeavoured the +improvement of his mind as well as his fortune. + +That Clarendon might misjudge the motive of his retirement is the more +probable, because he has evidently mistaken the commencement of his +poetry, which he supposes him not to have attempted before thirty. As +his first pieces were perhaps not printed, the succession of his +compositions was not known; and Clarendon, who cannot be imagined to have +been very studious of poetry, did not rectify his first opinion by +consulting Waller’s book. + +Clarendon observes, that he was introduced to the wits of the age by Dr. +Morley; but the writer of his life relates that he was already among +them, when, hearing a noise in the street, and inquiring the cause, they +found a son of Ben Jonson under an arrest. This was Morley, whom Waller +set free at the expense of one hundred pounds, took him into the country +as director of his studies, and then procured him admission into the +company of the friends of literature. Of this fact Clarendon had a +nearer knowledge than the biographer, and is therefore more to be +credited. + +The account of Waller’s parliamentary eloquence is seconded by Burnet, +who, though he calls him “the delight of the House,” adds, that “he was +only concerned to say that which should make him be applauded, he never +laid the business of the House to heart, being a vain and empty, though a +witty man.” + +Of his insinuation and flattery it is not unreasonable to believe that +the truth is told. Ascham, in his elegant description of those whom in +modern language we term wits, says, that they are “open flatterers, and +private mockers.” Waller showed a little of both, when, upon sight of +the Duchess of Newcastle’s verses on the Death of a Stag, he declared +that he would give all his own compositions to have written them, and +being charged with the exorbitance of his adulation, answered, that +“nothing was too much to be given, that a lady might be saved from the +disgrace of such a vile performance.” This, however, was no very +mischievous or very unusual deviation from truth; had his hypocrisy been +confined to such transactions, he might have been forgiven, though not +praised: for who forbears to flatter an author or a lady? + +Of the laxity of his political principles, and the weakness of his +resolution, he experienced the natural effect, by losing the esteem of +every party. From Cromwell he had only his recall; and from Charles the +Second, who delighted in his company, he obtained only the pardon of his +relation Hampden, and the safety of Hampden’s son. + +As far as conjecture can be made from the whole of his writing, and his +conduct, he was habitually and deliberately a friend to monarchy. His +deviation towards democracy proceeded from his connexion with Hampden, +for whose sake he prosecuted Crawley with great bitterness; and the +invective which he pronounced on that occasion was so popular, that +twenty thousand copies are said by his biographer to have been sold in +one day. + +It is confessed that his faults still left him many friends, at least +many companions. His convivial power of pleasing is universally +acknowledged; but those who conversed with him intimately, found him not +only passionate, especially in his old age, but resentful; so that the +interposition of friends was sometimes necessary. + +His wit and his poetry naturally connected him with the polite writers of +his time: he was joined with Lord Buckhurst in the translation of +Corneille’s Pompey; and is said to have added his help to that of Cowley +in the original draft of the Rehearsal. + +The care of his fortune, which Clarendon imputes to him in a degree +little less than criminal, was either not constant or not successful; for +having inherited a patrimony of three thousand five hundred pounds a year +in the time of James the First, and augmented at least by one wealthy +marriage, he left, about the time of the Revolution, an income of not +more than twelve or thirteen hundred; which, when the different value of +money is reckoned, will be found perhaps not more than a fourth part of +what he once possessed. + +Of this diminution, part was the consequence of the gifts which he was +forced to scatter, and the fine which he was condemned to pay at the +detection of his plot; and if his estate, as is related in his life, was +sequestered, he had probably contracted debts when he lived in exile; for +we are told, that at Paris he lived in splendour, and was the only +Englishman, except the Lord St. Albans, that kept a table. + +His unlucky plot compelled him to sell a thousand a year; of the waste of +the rest there is no account, except that he is confessed by his +biographer to have been a bad economist. He seems to have deviated from +the common practice; to have been a hoarder in his first years, and a +squanderer in his last. + +Of his course of studies, or choice of books, nothing is known more than +that he professed himself unable to read Chapman’s translation of Homer +without rapture. His opinion concerning the duty of a poet is contained +in his declaration, that “he would blot from his works any line that did +not contain some motive to virtue.” + +The characters by which Waller intended to distinguish his writing are +sprightliness and dignity; in his smallest pieces, he endeavours to be +gay; in the larger to be great. Of his airy and light productions, the +chief source is gallantry, that attentive reverence of female excellence +which has descended to us from the Gothic ages. As his poems are +commonly occasional, and his addresses personal, he was not so liberally +supplied with grand as with soft images; for beauty is more easily found +than magnanimity. + +The delicacy, which he cultivated, restrains him to a certain nicety and +caution, even when he writes upon the slightest matter. He has, +therefore, in his whole volume, nothing burlesque, and seldom anything +ludicrous or familiar. He seems always to do his best; though his +subjects are often unworthy of his care. + +It is not easy to think without some contempt on an author, who is +growing illustrious in his own opinion by verses, at one time, “To a +Lady, who can do anything but sleep, when she pleases;” at another, “To a +Lady who can sleep when she pleases;” now, “To a Lady, on her passing +through a crowd of people;” then, “On a braid of divers colours woven by +four Ladies;” “On a tree cut in paper;” or, “To a Lady, from whom he +received the copy of verses on the paper-tree, which, for many years, had +been missing.” + +Genius now and then produces a lucky trifle. We still read the Dove of +Anacreon, and Sparrow of Catullus: and a writer naturally pleases himself +with a performance, which owes nothing to the subject. But compositions +merely pretty have the fate of other pretty things, and are quitted in +time for something useful; they are flowers fragrant and fair, but of +short duration; or they are blossoms to be valued only as they foretell +fruits. + +Among Waller’s little poems are some, which their excellency ought to +secure from oblivion; as, To Amoret, comparing the different modes of +regard with which he looks on her and Sacharissa; and the verses on Love, +that begin, “Anger in hasty words or blows.” + +In others he is not equally successful; sometimes his thoughts are +deficient, and sometimes his expression. + +The numbers are not always musical; as, + + Fair Venus, in thy soft arms + The god of rage confine: + For thy whispers are the charms + Which only can divert his fierce design. + What though he frown, and to tumult do incline; + Thou the flame + Kindled in his breast canst tame + With that snow which unmelted lies on thine. + +He seldom indeed fetches an amorous sentiment from the depths of science; +his thoughts are for the most part easily understood, and his images such +as the superfices of nature readily supplies; he has a just claim to +popularity, because he writes to common degrees of knowledge; and is free +at least from philosophical pedantry, unless perhaps the end of a song to +the Sun may be excepted, in which he is too much a Copernican. To which +may be added the simile of the “palm” in the verses “on her passing +through a crowd;” and a line in a more serious poem on the Restoration, +about vipers and treacle, which can only be understood by those who +happen to know the composition of the Theriaca. + +His thoughts are sometimes hyperbolical and his images unnatural + + The plants admire, + No less than those of old did Orpheus’ lyre; + If she sit down, with tops all tow’rds her bow’d, + They round about her into arbours crowd; + Or if she walks, in even ranks they stand, + Like some well-marshall’d and obsequious band. + +In another place: + + While in the park I sing, the listening deer + Attend my passion, and forget to fear: + When to the beeches I report my flame, + They bow their heads, as if they felt the same. + To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers + With loud complaints they answer me in showers. + To thee a wild and cruel soul is given, + More deaf than trees, and prouder than the Heaven! + +On the head of a stag: + + O fertile head! which every year + Could such a crop of wonder bear! + The teeming earth did never bring, + So soon, so hard, so large a thing: + Which might it never have been cast, + Each year’s growth added to the last, + These lofty branches had supplied + The earth’s bold sons’ prodigious pride: + Heaven with these engines had been scaled, + When mountains heap’d on mountains fail’d. + +Sometimes having succeeded in the first part, he makes a feeble +conclusion. In the song of “Sacharissa’s and Amoret’s Friendship,” the +two last stanzas ought to have been omitted. + +His images of gallantry are not always in the highest degree delicate. + + Then shall my love this doubt displace + And gain such trust that I may come + And banquet sometimes on thy face, + But make my constant meals at home. + +Some applications may be thought too remote and unconsequential; as in +the verses on the Lady Dancing: + + The sun in figures such as these + Joys with the moon to play: + To the sweet strains they advance, + Which do result from their own spheres; + As this nymph’s dance + Moves with the numbers which she hears. + +Sometimes a thought, which might perhaps fill a distich, is expanded and +attenuated till it grows weak and almost evanescent. + + Chloris! since first our calm of peace + Was frighted hence, this good we find, + Your favours with your fears increase, + And growing mischiefs make you kind. + So the fair tree, which still preserves + Her fruit, and state, while no wind blows, + In storms from that uprightness swerves; + And the glad earth about her strows + With treasure from her yielding boughs. + +His images are not always distinct; as in the following passage, he +confounds _Love_ as a person with _Love_ as a passion: + + Some other nymphs, with colours faint, + And pencil slow, may Cupid paint, + And a weak heart in time destroy; + She has a stamp, and prints the boy; + Can, with a single look, inflame + The coldest breast, the rudest tame. + +His sallies of casual flattery are sometimes elegant and happy, as that +in return for the Silver Pen; and sometimes empty and trifling, as that +upon the Card torn by the Queen. There are a few lines written in the +Duchess’s Tasso, which he is said by Fenton to have kept a summer under +correction. It happened to Waller, as to others, that his success was +not always in proportion to his labour. + +Of these pretty compositions, neither the beauties nor the faults deserve +much attention. The amorous verses have this to recommend them, that +they are less hyperbolical than those of some other poets. Waller is not +always at the last gasp; he does not die of a frown, nor live upon a +smile. There is, however, too much love, and too many trifles. Little +things are made too important: and the Empire of Beauty is represented as +exerting its influence further than can be allowed by the multiplicity of +human passions, and the variety of human wants. Such books, therefore, +may be considered as showing the world under a false appearance, and, so +far as they obtain credit from the young and unexperienced, as misleading +expectation, and misguiding practice. + +Of his nobler and more weighty performances, the greater part is +panegyrical: for of praise he was very lavish, as is observed by his +imitator, Lord Lansdowne: + + No satyr stalks within the hallow’d ground, + But queens and heroines, kings and gods abound; + Glory and arms and love are all the sound. + +In the first poem, on the danger of the prince on the coast of Spain, +there is a puerile and ridiculous mention of Arion at the beginning; and +the last paragraph, on the cable, is in part ridiculously mean, and in +part ridiculously tumid. The poem, however, is such as may be justly +praised, without much allowance for the state of our poetry and language +at that time. + +The two next poems are upon the king’s behaviour at the death of +Buckingham, and upon his Navy. + +He has, in the first, used the pagan deities with great propriety: + + ’Twas want of such a precedent as this + Made the old heathens frame their gods amiss. + +In the poem on the Navy, those lines are very noble which suppose the +king’s power secure against a second deluge; so noble, that it were +almost criminal to remark the mistake of “centre” for “surface,” or to +say that the empire of the sea would be worth little if it were not that +the waters terminate in land. + +The poem upon Sallee has forcible sentiments; but the conclusion is +feeble. That on the Repairs of St. Paul’s has something vulgar and +obvious; such as the mention of Amphion; and something violent and harsh: +as, + + So all our minds with his conspire to grace + The Gentiles’ great apostle and deface + Those state obscuring sheds, that like a chain + Seem’d to confine, and fetter him again: + Which the glad saint shakes off at his command, + As once the viper from his sacred hand. + So joys the aged oak, when we divide + The creeping ivy from his injured side. + +Of the two last couplets, the first is extravagant, and the second mean. + +His praise of the Queen is too much exaggerated; and the thought, that he +“saves lovers, by cutting off hope, as gangrenes are cured by lopping the +limb,” presents nothing to the mind but disgust and horror. + +Of the Battle of the Summer Islands, it seems not easy to say whether it +is intended to raise terror or merriment. The beginning is too splendid +for jest, and the conclusion too light for seriousness. The +versification is studied, the scenes are diligently displayed, and the +images artfully amplified; but as it ends neither in joy nor sorrow, it +will scarcely be read a second time. + +The panegyric upon Cromwell has obtained from the public a very liberal +dividend of praise, which, however, cannot be said to have been unjustly +lavished; for such a series of verses had rarely appeared before in the +English language. Of the lines some are grand, some are graceful, and +all are musical. There is now and then a feeble verse; or a trifling +thought; but its great fault is the choice of its hero. + +The poem of the War with Spain begins with lines more vigorous and +striking than Waller is accustomed to produce. The succeeding parts are +variegated with better passages and worse. There is something too +farfetched in the comparison of the Spaniards drawing the English on by +saluting St. Lucar with cannon, “to lambs awakening the lion by +bleating.” The fate of the Marquis and his Lady, who were burnt in their +ship, would have moved more, had the poet not made him die like the +Phoenix, because he had spices about him, nor expressed their affection +and their end by a conceit at once false and vulgar: + + Alive, in equal flames of love they burn’d, + And now together are to ashes turn’d. + +The verses to Charles, on his return, were doubtless intended to +counterbalance the panegyric on Cromwell. If it has been thought +inferior to that with which it is naturally compared, the cause of its +deficience has been already remarked. + +The remaining pieces it is not necessary to examine singly. They must be +supposed to have faults and beauties of the same kind with the rest. The +Sacred Poems, however, deserve particular regard; they were the work of +Waller’s declining life, of those hours in which he looked upon the fame +and the folly of the time past with the sentiments which his great +predecessor Petrarch bequeathed to posterity, upon his review of that +love and poetry which have given him immortality. + +That natural jealousy which makes every man unwilling to allow much +excellence in another, always produces a disposition to believe that the +mind grows old with the body; and that he, whom we are now forced to +confess superior, is hastening daily to a level with ourselves. By +delighting to think this of the living, we learn to think it of the dead; +and Fenton, with all his kindness for Waller, has the luck to mark the +exact time when his genius passed the zenith, which he places at his +fifty-fifth year. This is to allot the mind but a small portion. +Intellectual decay is doubtless not uncommon; but it seems not to be +universal. Newton was in his eighty-fifth year improving his chronology, +a few days before his death; and Waller appears not, in my opinion, to +have lost at eighty-two any part of his poetical power. + +His Sacred Poems do not please like some of his other works; but before +the fatal fifty-five, had he written on the same subjects, his success +would hardly have been better. + +It has been the frequent lamentation of good men that verse has been too +little applied to the purposes of worship, and many attempts have been +made to animate devotion by pious poetry. That they have very seldom +attained their end is sufficiently known, and it may not be improper to +inquire why they have miscarried. + +Let no pious ear be offended if I advance, in opposition to many +authorities, that poetical devotion cannot often please. The doctrines +of religion may indeed be defended in a didactic poem; and he, who has +the happy power of arguing in verse, will not lose it because his subject +is sacred. A poet may describe the beauty and the grandeur of nature, +the flowers of the spring, and the harvests of autumn, the vicissitudes +of the tide, and the revolutions of the sky, and praise the Maker for his +works, in lines which no reader shall lay aside. The subject of the +disputation is not piety, but the motives to piety; that of the +description is not God, but the works of God. + +Contemplative piety, or the intercourse between God and the human soul, +cannot be poetical. Man, admitted to implore the mercy of his Creator, +and plead the merits of his Redeemer, is already in a higher state than +poetry can confer. + +The essence of poetry is invention; such invention as by producing +something unexpected, surprises and delights. The topics of devotion are +few, and being few are universally known; but, few as they are, they can +be made no more; they can receive no grace from novelty of sentiment, and +very little from novelty of expression. + +Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to the mind than +things themselves afford. This effect proceeds from the display of those +parts of nature which attract, and the concealment of those which repel, +the imagination: but religion must be shown as it is; suppression and +addition equally corrupt it; and such as it is, it is known already. + +From poetry the reader justly expects, and from good poetry always +obtains, the enlargement of his comprehension and elevation of his fancy: +but this is rarely to be hoped by Christians from metrical devotion. +Whatever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised in the name of +the Supreme Being. Omnipotence cannot be exalted; Infinity cannot be +amplified; Perfection cannot be improved. + +The employments of pious meditation are Faith, Thanksgiving, Repentance, +and Supplication. Faith, invariably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy +with decorations. Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy effusions, +yet addressed to a Being without passions, is confined to a few modes, +and is to be felt rather then expressed. Repentance, trembling in the +presence of the judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets. +Supplication of man to man may diffuse itself through many topics of +persuasion; but supplication to God can only cry for mercy. + +Of sentiments purely religious, it will be found that the most simple +expression is the most sublime. Poetry loses its lustre and its power, +because it is applied to the decoration of something more excellent than +itself. All that pious verse can do is to help the memory and delight +the ear, and for these purposes it may be very useful; but it supplies +nothing to the mind. The ideas of Christian Theology are too simple for +eloquence, too sacred for fiction, and too majestic for ornament; to +recommend them by tropes and figures, is to magnify by a concave mirror +the sidereal hemisphere. + +As much of Waller’s reputation was owing to the softness and smoothness +of his numbers, it is proper to consider those minute particulars to +which a versifier must attend. + +He certainly very much excelled in smoothness most of the writers who +were living when his poetry commenced. The poets of Elizabeth had +attained an art of modulation, which was afterwards neglected or +forgotten. Fairfax was acknowledged by him as his model; and he might +have studied with advantage the poem of Davies, which, though merely +philosophical, yet seldom leaves the ear ungratified. + +But he was rather smooth than strong; of “the full resounding line,” +which Pope attributes to Dryden, he has given very few examples. The +critical decision has given the praise of strength to Denham, and of +sweetness to Waller. + +His excellence of versification has some abatements. He uses the +expletive “do” very frequently; and, though he lived to see it almost +universally ejected, was not more careful to avoid it in his last +compositions than in his first. Praise had given him confidence; and +finding the world satisfied, he satisfied himself. + +His rhymes are sometimes weak words: “so” is found to make the rhyme +twice in ten lines, and occurs often as a rhyme through his book. + +His double rhymes, in heroic verse, have been censured by Mrs. Phillips, +who was his rival in the translation of Corneille’s “Pompey;” and more +faults might be found were not the inquiry below attention. + +He sometimes uses the obsolete termination of verbs, as “waxeth,” +“affecteth;” and sometimes retains the final syllable of the preterite, +as “amazed,” “supposed,” of which I know not whether it is not to the +detriment of our language that we have totally rejected them. + +Of triplets he is sparing; but he did not wholly forbear them: of an +Alexandrine he has given no example. + +The general character of his poetry is elegance and gaiety. He is never +pathetic, and very rarely sublime. He seems neither to have had a mind +much elevated by nature nor amplified by learning. His thoughts are such +as a liberal conversation and large acquaintance with life would easily +supply. They had however then, perhaps, that grace of novelty which they +are now often supposed to want by those who, having already found them in +later books, do not know or inquire who produced them first. This +treatment is unjust. Let not the original author lose by his imitators. + +Praise, however, should be due before it is given. The author of +Waller’s Life ascribes to him the first practice of what Erythræus and +some late critics call “Alliteration,” of using in the same verse many +words beginning with the same letter. But this knack, whatever be its +value, was so frequent among early writers, that Gascoigne, a writer of +the sixteenth century, warns the young poet against affecting it; +Shakespeare, in the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” is supposed to ridicule +it; and in another play the sonnet of Holofernes fully displays it. + +He borrows too many of his sentiments and illustrations from the old +mythology, for which it is vain to plead the example of ancient poets; +the deities, which they introduced so frequently, were considered as +realities, so far as to be received by the imagination, whatever sober +reason might even then determine. But of these images time has tarnished +the splendour. A fiction, not only detected but despised, can never +afford a solid basis to any position, though sometimes it may furnish a +transient allusion, or slight illustration. No modern monarch can be +much exalted by hearing that, as Hercules had his “club” he has his +“navy.” + +But of the praise of Waller, though much may be taken away, much will +remain; for it cannot be denied that he added something to our elegance +of diction, and something to our propriety of thought; and to him may be +applied what Tasso said, with equal spirit and justice, of himself and +Guarini, when, having perused the Pastor Fido, he cried out, “If he had +not read Aminta, he had not excelled it.” + +As Waller professed himself to have learned the art of versification from +Fairfax, it has been thought proper to subjoin a specimen of his work, +which, after Mr. Hoole’s translation, will perhaps not be soon reprinted. +By knowing the state in which Waller found our poetry, the reader may +judge how much he improved it. + + 1. + + Erminia’s steed (this while) his mistresse bore + Through forrests thicke among the shadie treene, + Her feeble hand the bridle raines forelore, + Halfe in a swoune she was for fear I weene; + But her flit courser spared nere the more, + To beare her through the desart woods unseene + Of her strong foes, that chas’d her through the plaine + And still pursu’d, but still pursu’d in vaine. + + 2. + + Like as the wearie hounds at last retire, + Windlesse, displeased, from the fruitlesse chace, + When the slie beast Tapisht in bush and brire, + No art nor paines can rowse out of his place: + The Christian knights so full of shame and ire + Returned backe, with faint and wearie pace! + Yet still the fearfull Dame fled, swift as winde + Nor euer staid, nor euer lookt behinde. + + 3. + + Through thicke and thinne, all night, all day, she driued, + Withouten comfort, companie, or guide, + Her plaints and teares with euery thought reuiued, + She heard and saw her greefes, but nought beside. + But when the sunne his burning chariot diued + In Thetis wane, and wearie teame vntide, + On Iordans sandie banks her course she staid, + At last, there downe she light, and downe she laid + + 4. + + Her teares, her drinke; her food, her sorrowings, + This was her diet that vnhappie night; + But sleepe (that sweet repose and quiet brings) + To ease the greefes of discontented wight, + Spred forth his tender, soft, and nimble wings, + In his dull armes foulding the virgin bright; + And loue, his mother, and the graces kept + Strong watch and warde, while this faire Ladie slept + + 5. + + The birds awakte her with their morning song, + Their warbling musicke pearst her tender eare, + The murmuring brookes and whistling windes among + The rattling boughes, and leaues, their parts did beare; + Her eies vnclos’d beheld the groues along + Of swaines and shepherd groomes, that dwellings weare; + And that sweet noise, birds, winds, and waters sent, + Prouokt again the virgin to lament. + + 6. + + Her plaints were interrupted with a sound, + That seem’d from thickest bushes to proceed, + Some iolly shepherd sung a lustie round, + And to his voice had tun’d his oaten reed; + Thither she went, an old man there she found, + (At whose right hand his little flock did feed) + Sat making baskets, his three sonnes among + That learn’d their father’s art, and learn’d his song. + + 7. + + Beholding one in shining armes appeare + The seelie man and his were sore dismaid; + But sweet Erminia comforted their feare, + Her ventall vp, her visage open laid + You happie folke, of heau’n beloued deare, + Work on (quoth she) upon your harmless traid, + These dreadfull armes I beare no warfare bring + To your sweet toile, nor those sweet tunes yon sing. + + 8. + + But father, since this land, these townes and towres, + Destroied are with sword, with fire and spoile, + How may it be unhurt, that you and yours + In safetie thus, applie your harmlesse toile? + My sonne (quoth he) this pore estate of ours + Is euer safe from storm of warlike broile; + This wilderneese doth vs in safetie keepe, + No thundering drum, no trumpet breakes our sleepe. + + 9. + + Haply iust heau’ns defence and shield of right, + Doth loue the innocence of simple swains, + The thunderbolts on highest mountains light, + And seld or neuer strike the lower plaines; + So kings have cause to feare _Bellonaes_ might, + Not they whose sweat and toile their dinner gaines, + Nor ever greedie soldier was entised + By pouertie, neglected and despised. + + 10. + + O Pouertie, chefe of the heau’nly brood, + Dearer to me than wealth or kingly crowne! + No wish for honour, thirst of others good, + Can moue my hart, contented with mine owne: + We quench our thirst with water of this flood, + Nor fear we poison should therein be throwne; + These little flocks of sheepe and tender goates + Giue milke for food, and wool to make us coates. + + 11. + + We little wish, we need but little wealth, + From cold and hunger vs to cloath and feed; + These are my sonnes, their care preserues from stealth + Their fathers flocks, nor servants moe I need: + Amid these groues I walks oft for my health, + And to the fishes, birds, and beastes give heed, + How they are fed, in forrest, spring and lake, + And their contentment for ensample take. + + 12. + + Time was (for each one hath his doting time, + These siluer locks were golden tresses than) + That countrie life I hated as a crime, + And from the forrests sweet contentment ran, + To Memphis’ stately pallace would I clime, + And there became the mightie Caliphes man + And though I but a simple gardner weare, + Yet could I marke abuses, see and heare. + + 13. + + Entised on with hope of future gaine, + I suffred long what did my soule displease; + But when my youth was spent, my hope was vaine, + I felt my native strength at last decrease; + I gan my losse of lustie yeeres complaine, + And wisht I had enjoy’d the countries peace; + I bod the court farewell, and with content + My later age here have I quiet spent. + + 14. + + While thus he spake, Erminia husht and still + His wise discourses heard, with great attention, + His speeches graue those idle fancies kill, + Which in her troubled soule bred such dissention; + After much thought reformed was her will, + Within those woods to dwell was her intention, + Till fortune should occasion new afford, + To turne her home to her desired Lord. + + 15. + + She said therefore, O shepherd fortunate! + That troubles some didst whilom feele and proue. + Yet liuest now in this contented state, + Let my mishap thy thoughts to pitie moue, + To entertaine me as a willing mate + In shepherds life, which I admire and loue; + Within these plessant groues perchance my hart, + Of her discomforts, may vnload some part. + + 16. + + If gold or wealth of most esteemed deare, + If iewels rich, thou diddest hold in prise, + Such store thereof, such plentie haue I seen, + As to a greedie minde might well suffice: + With that downe trickled many a siluer teare, + Two christall streames fell from her watrie eies; + Part of her sad misfortunes then she told, + And wept, and with her wept that shepherd old. + + 17. + + With speeches kinde, he gan the virgin deare + Towards his cottage gently home to guide; + His aged wife there made her homely cheare, + Yet welcomde her, and plast her by her side. + The Princesse dond a poor pastoraes geare, + A kerchiefe course vpon her head she tide; + But yet her gestures and her lookes (I gesse) + Were such, as ill beseem’d a shepherdesse. + + 18. + + Not those rude garments could obscure, and hide + The heau’nly beautie of her angels face, + Nor was her princely ofspring damnifide, + Or ought disparag’de, by those labours bace; + Her little flocks to pasture would she guide, + And milke her goates, and in their folds them place, + Both cheese and butter could she make, and frame + Her selfe to please the shepherd and his dame. + + + + +MILTON. + + +THE life of Milton has been already written in so many forms, and with +such minute inquiry, that I might perhaps more properly have contented +myself with the addition of a few notes on Mr. Fenton’s elegant +abridgment, but that a new narrative was thought necessary to the +uniformity of this edition. + +John Milton was by birth a gentleman, descended from the proprietors of +Milton, near Thame, in Oxfordshire, one of whom forfeited his estate in +the times of York and Lancaster. Which side he took I know not; his +descendant inherited no veneration for the White Rose. + +His grandfather, John, was keeper of the forest of Shotover, a zealous +Papist, who disinherited his son because he had forsaken the religion of +his ancestors. + +His father, John, who was the son disinherited, had recourse for his +support to the profession of a scrivener. He was a man eminent for his +skill in music, many of his compositions being still to be found; and his +reputation in his profession was such, that he grew rich, and retired to +an estate. He had probably more than common literature, as his son +addresses him in one of his most elaborate Latin poems. He married a +gentlewoman of the name of Caston, a Welsh family, by whom he had two +sons, John, the poet, and Christopher, who studied the law and adhered, +as the law taught him, to the king’s party, for which he was a while +persecuted; but having by his brother’s interest obtained permission to +live in quiet, he supported himself so honourably by chamber-practice, +that, soon after the accession of King James, he was knighted and made a +judge; but, his constitution being too weak for business, he retired +before any disreputable compliances became necessary. + +He had likewise a daughter Anne, whom he married with a considerable +fortune to Edward Philips, who came from Shrewsbury, and rose in the +Crown-office to be secondary: by him she had two sons, John and Edward, +who were educated by the poet, and from whom is derived the only +authentic account of his domestic manners. + +John the poet, was born in his father’s house, at the Spread Eagle, in +Bread Street, Dec. 9, 1608, between six and seven in the morning. His +father appears to have been very solicitous about his education; for he +was instructed at first by private tuition under the care of Thomas +Young, who was afterwards chaplain to the English merchants at Hamburgh, +and of whom we have reason to think well, since his scholar considered +him as worthy of an epistolary elegy. + +He was then sent to St. Paul’s school, under the care of Mr. Gill; and +removed, in the beginning of his sixteenth year, to Christ’s College, in +Cambridge, where he entered a sizar, Feb. 12, 1624. + +He was at this time eminently skilled in the Latin tongue; and he +himself, by annexing the dates to his first compositions, a boast of +which the learned Politian has given him an example, seems to commend the +earliness of his own proficiency to the notice of posterity. + +But the products of his vernal fertility have been surpassed by many, and +particularly by his contemporary Cowley. Of the powers of the mind it is +difficult to form an estimate: many have excelled Milton in their first +essays, who never rose to works like “Paradise Lost.” + +At fifteen, a date which he uses till he is sixteen, he translated or +versified two Psalms, 114 and 136, which he thought worthy of the public +eye; but they raise no great expectations: they would in any numerous +school have obtained praise, but not excited wonder. + +Many of his elegies appear to have been written in his eighteenth year, +by which it appears that he had then read the Roman authors with very +nice discernment. I once heard Mr. Hampton, the translator of Polybius, +remark, what I think is true, that Milton was the first Englishman who, +after the revival of letters, wrote Latin verses with classic elegance. +If any exceptions can be made, they are very few: Haddon and Ascham, the +pride of Elizabeth’s reign, however they may have succeeded in prose, no +sooner attempt verse than they provoke derision. If we produced anything +worthy of notice before the elegies of Milton, it was perhaps Alabaster’s +“Roxana.” + +Of these exercises, which the rules of the University required, some were +published by him in his maturer years. They had been undoubtedly +applauded; for they were such as few can form: yet there is reason to +suspect that he was regarded in his college with no great fondness. That +he obtained no fellowship is certain; but the unkindness with which he +was treated was not merely negative. I am ashamed to relate what I fear +is true, that Milton was one of the last students in either University +that suffered the public indignity of corporal correction. + +It was, in the violence of controversial hostility, objected to him, that +he was expelled: this he steadily denies, and it was apparently not true; +but it seems plain, from his own verses to “Diodati”, that he had +incurred “rustication,” a temporary dismission into the country, with +perhaps the loss of a term. + + Me tenet urbs refluâ quam Thamesis alluit undâ, + Meque nec invitum patria dulcis habet. + Jam nec arundiferum mihi cura revisere Camum + Nec dudum _vetiti_ me _laris_ angit amor.— + Nec duri libet usque minas preferre magistri, + Cæteraque ingenio non subeunda meo. + Si sit hoc exilium patrias adiisse penates, + Et vacuum curis otia greta sequi, + Non ego vel _profugi_ nomen sortemve recuso, + Lætus et _exilii_ conditione fruor. + +I cannot find any meaning but this, which even kindness and reverence can +give to the term, “vetiti laris,” “a habitation from which he is +excluded;” or how “exile” can be otherwise interpreted. He declares yet +more, that he is weary of enduring “the threats of a rigorous master, and +something else which a temper like his cannot undergo.” What was more +than threat was probably punishment. This poem, which mentions his +“exile,” proves likewise that it was not perpetual; for it concludes with +a resolution of returning some time to Cambridge. And it may be +conjectured, from the willingness with which he has perpetuated the +memory of his exile, that its cause was such as gave him no shame. + +He took both the usual degrees: that of bachelor in 1628, and that of +master in 1632; but he left the University with no kindness for its +institution, alienated either by the injudicious severity of his +governors, or his own captious perverseness. The cause cannot now be +known, but the effect appears in his writings. His scheme of education, +inscribed to Hartlib, supersedes all academical instruction, being +intended to comprise the whole time which men usually spend in +literature, from their entrance upon grammar, till they proceed, as it is +called Masters of Art. And in his discourse “on the likeliest Way to +remove Hirelings out of the Church,” he ingeniously proposes that the +profits of the lands forfeited by the act for superstitious uses should +be applied to such academies all over the land where languages and arts +may be taught together that youth may be at once brought up to a +competency of learning and an honest trade, by which means such of them +as had the gift, being enabled to support themselves (without tithes) by +the latter, may, by the help of the former, become worthy preachers. + +One of his objections to academical education, as it was then conducted, +is, that men designed for orders in the church were permitted to act +plays, writhing and unboning their clergy limbs to all the antic and +dishonest gestures of Trincalos, buffoons, and bawds, prostituting the +shame of that ministry which they had, or were near having, to the eyes +of courtiers and court-ladies, their grooms and mademoiselles. + +This is sufficiently peevish in a man, who, when he mentions his exile +from the college, relates, with great luxuriance, the compensation which +the pleasures of the theatre afford him. Plays were therefore only +criminal when they were acted by academics. + +He went to the university with a design of entering into the church, but +in time altered his mind; for he declared, that whoever became a +clergyman, must “subscribe slave, and take an oath withal, which, unless +he took with a conscience that could retch, he must straight perjure +himself. He thought it better to prefer a blameless silence before the +office of speaking, bought and begun with servitude and forswearing.” + +These expressions are, I find, applied to the subscription of the +Articles; but it seems more probable that they relate to canonical +obedience. I know not any of the Articles which seem to thwart his +opinions: but the thoughts of obedience, whether canonical or civil, +raise his indignation. + +His unwillingness to engage in the ministry, perhaps not yet advanced to +a settled resolution of declining it, appears in a letter to one of his +friends, who had reproved his suspended and dilatory life, which he seems +to have imputed to an insatiable curiosity, and fantastic luxury of +various knowledge. To this he writes a cool and plausible answer, in +which he endeavours to persuade him, that the delay proceeds not from the +delights of desultory study, but from the desire of obtaining more +fitness for his task; and that he goes on, “not taking thought of being +late, so it gives advantage to be more fit.” + +When he left the University, he returned to his father, then residing at +Horton, in Buckinghamshire, with whom he lived five years, in which time +he is said to have read all the Greek and Latin writers. With what +limitations this universality is to be understood, who shall inform us? + +It might be supposed, that he who read so much should have done nothing +else; but Milton found time to write the “Masque of Comus,” which was +presented at Ludlow, then the residence of the Lord President of Wales, +in 1634; and had the honour of being acted by the Earl of Bridgewater’s +sons and daughter. The fiction is derived from Homer’s “Circe;” but we +never can refuse to any modern the liberty of borrowing from Homer: + + —a quo ceu fonte perenni + Vatum Pieriis ora rigantur aquis. + +His next production was Lycidas, an elegy, written in 1637, on the death +of Mr. King, the son of Sir John King, Secretary for Ireland in the time +of Elizabeth, James, and Charles. King was much a favourite at +Cambridge, and many of the wits joined to do honour to his memory. +Milton’s acquaintance with the Italian writers may be discovered by a +mixture of longer and shorter verses, according to the rules of Tuscan +poetry, and his malignity to the church by some lines which are +interpreted as threatening its extermination. + +He is supposed about this time to have written his Arcades; for while he +lived at Horton he used sometimes to steal from his studies a few days, +which he spent at Harefield, the house of the Countess Dowager of Derby, +where the Arcades made part of a dramatic entertainment. + +He began now to grow weary of the country, and had some purpose of taking +chambers in the Inns of Court, when the death of his mother set him at +liberty to travel, for which he obtained his father’s consent, and Sir +Henry Wotton’s directions; with the celebrated precept of prudence, _i +pensieri stretti_, _ed il viso sciolto_; “thoughts close, and looks +loose.” + +In 1638 he left England, and went first to Paris; where, by the favour of +Lord Scudamore, he had the opportunity of visiting Grotius, then residing +at the French court as ambassador from Christina of Sweden. From Paris +he hasted into Italy, of which he had with particular diligence studied +the language and literature; and, though he seems to have intended a very +quick perambulation of the country, stayed two months at Florence; where +he found his way into the academies, and produced his compositions with +such applause as appears to have exalted him in his own opinion, and +confirmed him in the hope, that, “by labour and intense study, which,” +says he, “I take to be my portion in this life, joined with a strong +propensity of nature,” he might “leave something so written to +after-times, as they should not willingly let it die.” + +It appears, in all his writings, that he had the usual concomitant of +great abilities, a lofty and steady confidence in himself, perhaps not +without some contempt of others, for scarcely any man ever wrote so much, +and praised so few. Of his praise he was very frugal; as he set its +value high, and considered his mention of a name as a security against +the waste of time, and a certain preservative from oblivion. + +At Florence he could not indeed complain that his merit wanted +distinction. Carlo Dati presented him with an encomiastic inscription, +in the tumid lapidary style; and Francini wrote him an ode, of which the +first stanza is only empty noise; the rest are perhaps too diffuse on +common topics: but the last is natural and beautiful. + +From Florence he went to Sienna, and from Sienna to Rome, where he was +again received with kindness by the learned and the great. Holstenius, +the keeper of the Vatican library, who had resided three years at Oxford, +introduced him to Cardinal Barberini: and he, at a musical entertainment, +waited for him at the door, and led him by the hand into the assembly. +Here Selvaggi praised him in a distich, and Salsilli in a tetrastich: +neither of them of much value. The Italians were gainers by this +literary commerce; for the encomiums with which Milton repaid Salsilli, +though not secure against a stern grammarian, turn the balance +indisputably in Milton’s favour. + +Of these Italian testimonies, poor as they are, he was proud enough to +publish them before his poems; though he says, he cannot be suspected but +to have known that they were said _non tam de se_, _quam supra se_. + +At Rome, as at Florence, he stayed only two months: a time indeed +sufficient, if he desired only to ramble with an explainer of its +antiquities, or to view palaces and count pictures; but certainly too +short for the contemplation of learning, policy, or manners. + +From Rome he passed on to Naples, in company of a hermit, a companion +from whom little could be expected; yet to him Milton owed his +introduction to Manso, Marquis of Villa, who had been before the patron +of Tasso. Manso was enough delighted with his accomplishments to honour +him with a sorry distich, in which he commends him for everything but his +religion: and Milton, in return, addressed him in a Latin poem, which +must have raised a high opinion of English elegance and literature. + +His purpose was now to have visited Sicily and Greece; but hearing of the +differences between the king and parliament, he thought it proper to +hasten home, rather than pass his life in foreign amusements while his +countrymen were contending for their rights. He therefore came back to +Rome, though the merchants informed him of plots laid against him by the +Jesuits, for the liberty of his conversations on religion. He had sense +enough to judge that there was no danger, and therefore kept on his way, +and acted as before, neither obtruding nor shunning controversy. He had +perhaps given some offence by visiting Galileo, then a prisoner in the +Inquisition for philosophical heresy; and at Naples he was told by Manse, +that, by his declarations on religious questions, he had excluded himself +from some distinctions which he should otherwise have paid him. But such +conduct, though it did not please, was yet sufficiently safe; and Milton +stayed two months more at Rome, and went on to Florence without +molestation. + +From Florence he visited Lucca. He afterwards went to Venice; and, +having sent away a collection of music and other books, travelled to +Geneva, which he probably considered as the metropolis of orthodoxy. + +Here he reposed as in a congenial element, and became acquainted with +John Diodati and Frederick Spanheim, two learned professors of divinity. +From Geneva he passed through France; and came home, after an absence of +a year and three months. + +At his return he heard of the death of his friend, Charles Diodati; a man +whom it is reasonable to suppose of great merit, since he was thought by +Milton worthy of a poem, entitled “Epitaphium Damonis,” written with the +common but childish imitation of pastoral life. + +He now hired a lodging at the house of one Russel a tailor in St. Bride’s +Churchyard, and undertook the education of John and Edward Philips, his +sister’s sons. Finding his rooms too little, he took a house and garden +in Aldersgate Street, which was not then so much out of the world as it +is now; and chose his dwelling at the upper end of a passage, that he +might avoid the noise of the street. Here he received more boys, to be +boarded and instructed. + +Let not our veneration for Milton forbid us to look with some degree of +merriment on great promises and small performance, on the man who hastens +home, because his countrymen are contending for their liberty, and, when +he reaches the scene of action, vapours away his patriotism in a private +boarding-school. This is the period of his life from which all his +biographers seem inclined to shrink. They are unwilling that Milton +should be degraded to a schoolmaster; but since it cannot be denied that +he taught boys, one finds out that he taught for nothing, and another +that his motive was only zeal for the propagation of learning and virtue; +and all tell what they do not know to be true, only to excuse an act +which no wise man will consider as in itself disgraceful. His father was +alive; his allowance was not ample; and he supplied its deficiencies by +an honest and useful employment. + +It is told, that in the art of education he performed wonders; and a +formidable list is given of the authors, Greek and Latin, that were read +in Aldersgate Street by youth between ten and fifteen or sixteen years of +age. Those who tell or receive these stories should consider, that +nobody can be taught faster than he can learn. The speed of the horseman +must be limited by the power of his horse. Every man that has ever +undertaken to instruct others can tell what slow advances he has been +able to make, and how much patience it requires to recall vagrant +inattention, to stimulate sluggish indifference, and to rectify absurd +misapprehension. + +The purpose of Milton, as it seems, was to teach something more solid +than the common literature of schools, by reading those authors that +treat of physical subjects, such as the Georgic, and astronomical +treatises of the ancients. This was a scheme of improvement which seems +to have busied many literary projectors of that age. Cowley, who had +more means than Milton of knowing what was wanting to the embellishments +of life, formed the same plan of education in his imaginary college. + +But the truth is, that the knowledge of external nature, and the sciences +which that knowledge requires or includes, are not the great or the +frequent business of the human mind. Whether we provide for action or +conversation, whether we wish to be useful or pleasing, the first +requisite is the religious and moral knowledge of right and wrong; the +next is an acquaintance with the history of mankind, and with those +examples which may be said to embody truth, and prove by events the +reasonableness of opinions. Prudence and justice are virtues and +excellences of all times and of all places; we are perpetually moralists, +but we are geometricians only by chance. Our intercourse with +intellectual nature is necessary; our speculations upon matter are +voluntary, and at leisure. Physiological learning is of such rare +emergence, that one may know another half his life without being able to +estimate his skill in hydrostatics or astronomy; but his moral and +prudential character immediately appears. + +Those authors, therefore, are to be read at schools that supply most +axioms of prudence, most principles of moral truth, and most materials +for conversation; and these purposes are best served by poets, orators, +and historians. + +Let me not be censured for this digression as pedantic or paradoxical; +for, if I have Milton against me, I have Socrates on my side. It was his +labour to turn philosophy from the study of Nature to speculations upon +life; but the innovators whom I oppose are turning off attention from +life to nature. They seem to think that we are placed here to watch the +growth of plants, or the motions of the stars. Socrates was rather of +opinion that what we had to learn was how to do good and avoid evil. + + Οτι ποι ὲν μεγάροισι κακόντ’ άγαθόντε τέτυκται + +Of institutions we may judge by their effects. From this wonder-working +academy I do not know that there ever proceeded any man very eminent for +knowledge: its only genuine product, I believe, is a small History of +Poetry, written in Latin by his nephew Philips, of which perhaps none of +my readers has ever heard. + +That in his school, as in everything else which he undertook, he laboured +with great diligence, there is no reason for doubting. One part of his +method deserves general imitation. He was careful to instruct his +scholars in religion. Every Sunday was spent upon theology, of which he +dictated a short system, gathered from the writers that were then +fashionable in the Dutch universities. + +He set his pupils an example of hard study and spare diet; only now and +then he allowed himself to pass a day of festivity and indulgence with +some gay gentlemen of Gray’s Inn. + +He now began to engage in the controversies of the times, and lent his +breath to blow the flames of contention. In 1641 he published a treatise +of Reformation in two books, against the Established Church, being +willing to help the Puritans, who were, he says, “inferior to the +Prelates in learning.” + +Hall, Bishop of Norwich, had published an Humble Remonstrance, in defence +of Episcopacy; to which, in 1641, five ministers, of whose names the +first letters made the celebrated word _Smectymnuus_, gave their answer. +Of this answer a confutation was attempted by the learned Usher; and to +the confutation Milton published a reply, entitled, “Of Prelatical +Episcopacy, and whether it may be deduced from the Apostolical Times, by +virtue of those Testimonies which are alleged to that purpose in some +late Treatises, one whereof goes under the Name of James, Lord Bishop of +Armagh.” + +I have transcribed this title to show, by his contemptuous mention of +Usher, that he had now adopted the Puritanical savageness of manners. +His next work was, “The Reason of Church Government urged against +Prelacy,” by Mr. John Milton, 1642. In this book he discovers, not with +ostentatious exultation, but with calm confidence, his high opinion of +his own powers, and promises to undertake something, he yet knows not +what, that may be of use and honour to his country. “This,” says he, “is +not to be obtained but by devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit that can +enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out His seraphim, with +the hallowed fire of His altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom He +pleases. To this must be added, industrious and select reading, steady +observation, and insight into all seemly and generous arts and affairs +till which in some measure be compassed, I refuse not to sustain this +expectation.” From a promise like this, at once fervid, pious, and +rational, might be expected the “Paradise Lost.” + +He published the same year two more pamphlets, upon the same question. +To one of his antagonists, who affirms that he was “vomited out of the +university,” he answers in general terms: “The fellows of the college +wherein I spent some years, at my parting, after I had taken two degrees, +as the manner is, signified many times how much better it would content +them that I should stay.—As for the common approbation or dislike of that +place, as now it is, that I should esteem or disesteem myself the more +for that, too simple is the answerer, if he think to obtain with me. Of +small practice were the physician who could not judge by what she and her +sister have of long time vomited, that the worser stuff she strongly +keeps in her stomach, but the better she is ever kecking at, and is +queasy; she vomits now out of sickness; but before it will be well with +her, she must vomit with strong physic. The university, in the time of +her better health, and my younger judgment, I never greatly admired, but +now much less.” + +This is surely the language of a man who thinks that he has been injured. +He proceeds to describe the course of his conduct, and the train of his +thoughts; and, because he has been suspected of incontinence, gives an +account of his own purity: “That if I be justly charged,” says he, “with +this crime, it may come upon me with tenfold shame.” + +The style of his piece is rough, and such perhaps was that of his +antagonist. This roughness he justifies by great examples, in a long +digression. Sometimes he tries to be humorous: “Lest I should take him +for some chaplain in hand, some squire of the body to his prelate, one +who serves not at the altar only, but at the court-cupboard, he will +bestow on us a pretty model of himself; and sets me out half-a-dozen +phthisical mottoes, wherever he had them, hopping short in the measure of +convulsion fits; in which labour the agony of his wit having escaped +narrowly, instead of well-sized periods, he greets us with a quantity of +thumb-ring posies.—And thus ends this section, or rather dissection, of +himself.” Such is the controversial merriment of Milton; his gloomy +seriousness is yet more offensive. Such is his malignity, “that hell +grows darker at his frown.” + +His father, after Reading was taken by Essex, came to reside in his +house, and his school increased. At Whitsuntide, in his thirty-fifth +year, he married Mary, the daughter of Mr. Powel, a justice of the peace +in Oxfordshire. He brought her to town with him, and expected all the +advantages of a conjugal life. The lady, however, seems not much to have +delighted in the pleasures of spare diet and hard study; for, as Philips +relates, “having for a month led a philosophic life, after having been +used at home to a great house, and much company and joviality, her +friends, possibly by her own desire, made earnest suit to have her +company the remaining part of the summer, which was granted, upon a +promise of her return at Michaelmas.” + +Milton was too busy to much miss his wife; he pursued his studies, and +now and then visited the Lady Margaret Leigh, whom he has mentioned in +one of his sonnets. At last Michaelmas arrived; but the lady had no +inclination to return to the sullen gloom of her husband’s habitation, +and therefore very willingly forgot her promise. He sent her a letter, +but had no answer; he sent more with the same success. It could be +alleged that letters miscarry; he therefore despatched a messenger, being +by this time too angry to go himself. His messenger was sent back with +some contempt. The family of the lady were Cavaliers. + +In a man whose opinion of his own merit was like Milton’s, less +provocation than this might have raised violent resentment. Milton soon +determined to repudiate her for disobedience; and, being one of those who +could easily find arguments to justify inclination, published (in 1644) +“The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce,” which was followed by the +“Judgment of Martin Bucer concerning Divorce,” and the next year his +“Tetrachordon, Expositions upon the four chief Places of Scripture which +treat of Marriage.” + +This innovation was opposed, as might be expected, by the clergy, who, +then holding their famous assembly at Westminster, procured that the +author should be called before the Lords; “but that house,” says Wood, +“whether approving the doctrine, or not favouring his accusers, did soon +dismiss him.” + +There seems not to have been much written against him, nor anything by +any writer of eminence. The antagonist that appeared is styled by him, +“A Serving Man turned Solicitor.” Howel, in his Letters, mentions the +new doctrine with contempt; and it was, I suppose, thought more worthy of +derision than of confutation. He complains of this neglect in two +sonnets, of which the first is contemptible, and the second not +excellent. + +From this time it is observed that he became an enemy to the +Presbyterians, whom he had favoured before. He that changes his party by +his humour is not more virtuous than he that changes it by his interest; +he loves himself rather than truth. + +His wife and her relations now found that Milton was not an unresisting +sufferer of injuries; and perceiving that he had begun to put his +doctrine in practice, by courting a young woman of great accomplishments, +the daughter of one Doctor Davis, who was, however, not ready to comply, +they resolved to endeavour a reunion. He went sometimes to the house of +one Blackborough, his relation, in the lane of St. Martin’s-le-Grand, and +at one of his usual visits was surprised to see his wife come from +another room, and implore forgiveness on her knees. He resisted her +entreaties for a while; “but partly,” says Philips, “his own generous +nature, more inclinable to reconciliation than to perseverance in anger +or revenge, and partly the strong intercession of friends on both sides, +soon brought him to an act of oblivion and a fair league of peace.” It +were injurious to omit that Milton afterwards received her father and her +brothers in his own house, when they were distressed, with other +Royalists. + +He published about the same time his “Areopagitica, a speech of Mr. John +Milton for the liberty of unlicensed Printing.” The danger of such +unbounded liberty, and the danger of bounding it, have produced a problem +in the science of government, which human understanding seems hitherto +unable to solve. If nothing may be published but what civil authority +shall have previously approved, power must always be the standard of +truth; if every dreamer of innovations may propagate his prospects, there +can be no settlement; if every murmurer at government may diffuse +discontent, there can be no peace; and if every sceptic in theology may +teach his follies, there can be no religion. The remedy against these +evils is to punish the authors; for it is yet allowed that every society +may punish, though not prevent, the publication of opinions which that +society shall think pernicious; but this punishment, though it may crush +the author, promotes the book; and it seems not more reasonable to leave +the right of printing unrestrained because writers may be afterwards +censured, than it would be to sleep with doors unbolted, because by our +laws we can hang a thief. + +But whatever were his engagements, civil or domestic poetry was never +long out of his thoughts. + +About this time (1645) a collection of his Latin and English poems +appeared, in which the “Allegro,” and “Penseroso,” with some others, were +first published. + +He had taken a larger house in Barbican for the reception of scholars; +but the numerous relations of his wife, to whom he generously granted +refuge for a while, occupied his rooms. In time, however, they went +away; “and the house again,” says Philips, “now looked like a house of +the Muses only, though the accession of scholars was not great. Possibly +his having proceeded so far in the education of youth may have been the +occasion of his adversaries calling him pedagogue and schoolmaster; +whereas it is well known he never set up for a public school, to teach +all the young fry of a parish, but only was willing to impart his +learning and knowledge to his relations, and the sons of gentlemen who +were his intimate friends, and that neither his writings nor his way of +teaching savoured in the least of pedantry.” + +Thus laboriously does his nephew extenuate what cannot be denied, and +what might be confessed without disgrace. Milton was not a man who could +become mean by a mean employment. This, however, his warmest friends +seem not to have found; they therefore shift and palliate. He did not +sell literature to all comers at an open shop; he was a chamber-milliner, +and measured his commodities only to his friends. + +Philips, evidently impatient of viewing him in this state of degradation, +tells us that it was not long continued; and, to raise his character +again, has a mind to invest him with military splendour: “He is much +mistaken,” he says, “if there was not about this time a design of making +him an adjutant-general in Sir William Waller’s army. But the +new-modelling of the army proved an obstruction to the design.” An event +cannot be set at a much greater distance than by having been only +“designed, about some time,” if a man “be not much mistaken.” Milton +shall be a pedagogue no longer; for, if Philips be not much mistaken, +somebody at some time designed him for a soldier. + +About the time that the army was new-modelled (1645), he removed to a +smaller house in Holborn, which opened backward into Lincoln’s Inn +Fields. He is not known to have published anything afterwards till the +king’s death, when, finding his murderers condemned by the Presbyterians, +he wrote a treatise to justify it, “and to compose the minds of the +people.” + +He made some remarks on the Articles of Peace between Ormond and the +Irish rebels. While he contented himself to write, he perhaps did only +what his conscience dictated; and if he did not very vigilantly watch the +influence of his own passions, and the gradual prevalence of opinions, +first willingly admitted, and then habitually indulged; if objections, by +being overlooked, were forgotten, and desire superinduced conviction, he +yet shared—only the common weakness of mankind, and might be no less +sincere than his opponents. But, as faction seldom leaves a man honest, +however it might find him, Milton is suspected of having interpolated the +book called “Icon Basilike,” which the council of state, to whom he was +now made Latin Secretary, employed him to censure, by inserting a prayer +taken from Sidney’s “Arcadia,” and imputing it to the king, whom he +charges, in his “Iconoclastes,” with the use of this prayer, as with a +heavy come, in the indecent language with which prosperity had emboldened +the advocates for rebellion to insult all that is venerable or great: +“Who would have imagined so little fear in him of the true all-seeing +deity—as, immediately before his death, to pop into the hands of the +grave bishop that attended him, as a special relic of his saintly +exercises, a prayer stolen word for word from the mouth of a heathen +woman praying to a heathen god?” + +The papers which the king gave to Dr. Juxon on the scaffold the regicides +took away; so that they were at least the publishers of this prayer; and +Dr. Birch, who had examined the question with great care, was inclined to +think them the forgers. The use of it by adaptation was innocent, and +they who could so noisily censure it, with a little extension of their +malice could contrive what they wanted to accuse. + +King Charles the Second, being now sheltered in Holland, employed +Salmasius, professor of polite learning at Leyden, to write a defence of +his father and of monarchy; and, to excite his industry, gave him, as was +reported, a hundred Jacobuses. Salmasius was a man of skill in +languages, knowledge of antiquity, and sagacity of emendatory criticism, +almost exceeding all hope of human attainment; and having, by excessive +praises, been confirmed in great confidence of himself, though he +probably had not much considered the principles of society or the right +of government, undertook the employment without distrust of his own +qualifications; and, as his expedition in writing was wonderful, in 1649 +published “Defensio Regis.” + +To this Milton was required to write a sufficient answer; which he +performed (1651) in such a manner, that Hobbes declared himself unable to +decide whose language was best, or whose arguments were worst. In my +opinion, Milton’s periods are smoother, neater, and more pointed; but he +delights himself with teasing his adversary as much as with confuting +him. He makes a foolish allusion of Salmasius, whose doctrine he +considers as servile and unmanly, to the stream of Salmasius, which, +whoever entered, left half his virility behind him. Salmasius was a +Frenchman, and was unhappily married to a scold. _Tu es Gallus_, says +Milton, _et_, _ut aiunt_, _nimium gallinaceus_. But his supreme pleasure +is to tax his adversary, so renowned for criticism, with vicious Latin. +He opens his book with telling that he has used _Persona_, which, +according to Milton, signifies only a _Mask_, in a sense not known to the +Romans, by applying it as we apply _Person_. But as Nemesis is always on +the watch, it is memorable that he has enforced the charge of a solecism +by an expression in itself grossly solecistical, when for one of those +supposed blunders, he says, as Ker, and I think some one before him, has +remarked, “_propino te grammatistis tuis vapulandum_.” From _vapulo_, +which has a passive sense, _vapulandus_ can never be derived. No man +forgets his original trade: the rights of nations, and of kings, sink +into questions of grammar, if grammarians discuss them. + +Milton, when he undertook this answer, was weak of body and dim of sight; +but his will was forward, and what was wanting of health was supplied by +zeal. He was rewarded with a thousand pounds, and his book was much +read; for paradox, recommended by spirit and elegance, easily gains +attention; and he, who told every man that he was equal to his king, +could hardly want an audience. + +That the performance of Salmasius was not dispersed with equal rapidity, +or read with equal eagerness, is very credible. He taught only the stale +doctrine of authority, and the unpleasing duty of submission; and he had +been so long not only the monarch, but the tyrant of literature, that +almost all mankind were delighted to find him defied and insulted by a +new name, not yet considered as any one’s rival. If Christina, as is +said, commended the defence of the people, her purpose must be to torment +Salmasius, who was then at court; for neither her civil station, nor her +natural character, could dispose her to favour the doctrine, who was by +birth a queen, and by temper despotic. + +That Salmasius was, from the appearance of Milton’s book, treated with +neglect, there is not much proof; but to a man, so long accustomed to +admiration, a little praise of his antagonist would be sufficiently +offensive, and might incline him to leave Sweden, from which however he +was dismissed, not with any mark of contempt, but with a train of +attendants scarce less than regal. + +He prepared a reply, which, left as it was imperfect, was published by +his son in the year of the Restoration. In the beginning, being probably +most in pain for his Latinity, he endeavours to defend his use of the +word _persona_; but, if I remember right, he misses a better authority +than any that he has found, that of Juvenal in his fourth satire: + + —Quid agis cum dira et fœdior omni + Crimine _persona_ est? + +As Salmasius reproached Milton with losing his eyes in the quarrel, +Milton delighted himself with the belief that he had shortened +Salmasius’s life, and both perhaps with more malignity than reason. +Salmasius died at the Spa, Sept. 3, 1653; and, as controvertists are +commonly said to be killed by their last dispute, Milton was flattered +with the credit of destroying him. + +Cromwell had now dismissed the parliament by the authority of which he +had destroyed monarchy, and commenced monarch himself, under the title of +Protector, but with kingly and more than kingly power. That his +authority was lawful, never was pretended; he himself founded his right +only in necessity; but Milton, having now tasted the honey of public +employment, would not return to hunger and philosophy, but, continuing to +exercise his office under a manifest usurpation, betrayed to his power +that liberty which he had defended. Nothing can be more just than that +rebellion should end in slavery; that he, who had justified the murder of +his king, for some acts which seemed to him unlawful, should now sell his +services, and his flatteries, to a tyrant, of whom it was evident that he +could do nothing lawful. + +He had now been blind for some years; but his vigour of intellect was +such, that he was not disabled to discharge his office of Latin +secretary, or continue his controversies. His mind was too eager to be +diverted, and too strong to be subdued. + +About this time his first wife died in childbed, having left him three +daughters. As he probably did not much love her, he did not long +continue the appearance of lamenting her; but after a short time married +Catharine, the daughter of one Captain Woodcock, of Hackney, a woman +doubtless educated in opinions like his own. She died, within a year, of +childbirth, or some distemper that followed it; and her husband honoured +her memory with a poor sonnet. + +The first reply to Milton’s “Defensio Populi” was published in 1651, +called “Apologia pro Rege et Populo Anglicano, contra Johannis +Polypragmatici (alias Miltoni) defensionem destructivam Regis et Populi.” +Of this the author was not known; but Milton and his nephew Philips, +under whose name he published an answer so much corrected by him, that it +might be called his own, imputed it to Bramhal; and, knowing him no +friend to regicides, thought themselves at liberty to treat him as if +they had known what they only suspected. + +Next year appeared “Regii Sanguinis clamor ad Cœlum.” Of this the author +was Peter du Moulin, who was afterwards prebendary of Canterbury; but +Morus, or More, a French minister, having the care of its publication, +was treated as the writer by Milton, in his “Defensio Secunda,” and +overwhelmed by such violence of invective, that he began to shrink under +the tempest, and gave his persecutors the means of knowing the true +author. Du Moulin was now in great danger; but Milton’s pride operated +against his malignity; and both he and his friends were more willing that +Du Moulin should escape than that he should be convicted of mistake. + +In this second Defence he shows that his eloquence is not merely +satirical; the rudeness of his invective is equalled by the grossness of +his flattery, _Deserimur_, _Cromuelle tu solus superes_, _ad te summa +nostrarum rerum_, _rediit_, _in te solo consistit_, _insuperabili tuæ +virtuti cedimus cuncti_, _nemine vel obloquente_, _nisi qui æquales +inæqualis ipse honores sibi quærit_, _aut digniori concessos invidet_, +_aut non intelligit nihil esse in societate hominum magis vel Deo +gratum_, _vel rationi consentaneum_, _esse in civitate nihil æquius_, +_nihil utilius_, _quam potiri rerum dignissimum_. _Eum te agnoscunt +omnes_, _Cromuelle_, _ea tu civis maximus_, _et gloriosissimus_, _dux +publici consilii_, _exercituum fortissimorum imperator_, _pater patriæ +gessisti_. _Sic tu spontanea bonorum omnium et animitus missa voce +salutaris_. + +Cæsar, when he assumed the perpetual dictatorship, had not more servile +or more elegant flattery. A translation may show its servility; but its +elegance is less attainable. Having exposed the unskilfulness or +selfishness of the former government, “We were left,” says Milton, “to +ourselves: the whole national interest fell into our hands, and subsists +only in your abilities. To your virtue, overpowering and resistless, +every man gives way, except some who, without 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 agreeable to reason, +than that the highest mind should have the sovereign power. Such, sir, +are you by general confession; such are the things achieved by you, the +greatest 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 doss every good man hail you with sincere and voluntary +praise.” + +Next year, having defended all that wanted defence, he found leisure to +defend himself. He undertook his own vindication against More, whom he +declares in his title to be justly called the author of the “Regii +Sanguinis Clamor.” In this there is no want of vehemence nor eloquence, +nor does he forget his wonted wit. _Morus es_? _an Momus_? _an uterque +idem est_? He then remembers that Morus is Latin for a mulberry-tree, +and hints at the known transformation: + + —Poma alba ferebat + Quæ post nigra tulit Morus. + +With this piece ended his controversies; and he from this time gave +himself up to his private studies and his civil employment. + +As secretary to the Protector he is supposed to have written the +Declaration of the reasons for a war with Spain. His agency was +considered as of great importance; for, when a treaty with Sweden was +artfully suspended, the delay was publicly imputed to Mr. Milton’s +indisposition; and the Swedish agent was provoked to express his wonder +that only one man in England could write Latin, and that man blind. + +Being now forty-seven years old, and seeing himself disencumbered from +external interruptions, he seems to have recollected his former purposes, +and to have resumed three great works which he had planned for his future +employment—an epic poem, the history of his country, and a dictionary of +the Latin tongue. + +To collect a dictionary seems a work of all others least practicable in a +state of blindness, because it depends upon perpetual and minute +inspection and collation. Nor would Milton probably have begun it, after +he had lost his eyes; but, having had it always before him, he continued +it, says Philips, “almost to his dying day; but the papers were so +discomposed and deficient, that they could not be fitted for the press.” +The compilers of the Latin dictionary, printed at Cambridge, had the use +of those collections in three folios; but what was their fate afterwards +is not known. + +To compile a history from various authors, when they can only be +consulted by other eyes, is not easy, nor possible, but with more skilful +and attentive help than can be commonly obtained; and it was probably the +difficulty of consulting and comparing that stopped Milton’s narrative at +the Conquest—a period at which affairs were not very intricate, nor +authors very numerous. + +For the subject of his epic poem, after much deliberation, long choosing, +and beginning late, he fixed upon “Paradise Lost,” a design so +comprehensive, that it could be justified only by success. He had once +designed to celebrate King Arthur, as he hints in his verses to Mansus; +but “Arthur was reserved,” says Fenton, “to another destiny.” + +It appears, by some sketches of poetical projects left in manuscript, and +to be seen in a library at Cambridge, that he had digested his thoughts +on this subject into one of those wild dramas which were anciently called +Mysteries; and Philips had seen what he terms part of a tragedy, +beginning with the first ten lines of Satan’s address to the Sun. These +mysteries consist of allegorical persons, such as Justice, Mercy, Faith. +Of the tragedy or mystery of “Paradise Lost” there are two plans + + _The Persons_. _The Persons_. + +Michael. Moses. + +Chorus of Angels. Divine Justice, Wisdom + +Heavenly Love. Heavenly Love. + +Lucifer. The Evening Star, Hesperus. + +Adam, Eve, with the Serpent Chorus of Angels. + +Conscience. Lucifer. + +Death. Adam. + +Labour, } Eve. + +Sickness, } Conscience. + +Discontent, } Mutes. Labour, } + +Ignorance, } Sickness, } + +with others; } Discontent, } Mutes + +Faith. Ignorance, } + +Hope. Fear, } + +Charity. Death, } + + Faith. + + Hope. + + Charity. + +PARADISE LOST. + + + _The Persons_. + +Moses, προλογίζει, recounting how he assumed his true body; that it +corrupts not, because it is with God in the mount; declares the like of +Enoch and Elijah; besides the purity of the place, that certain pure +winds, dews, and clouds, preserve it from corruption; whence exhorts to +the sight of God; tells they cannot see Adam in the state of innocence, +by reason of their sin. + +Justice, Mercy, Wisdom } debating what should become of man, if he fall. + +Chorus of Angels singing a hymn of the Creation. + + +ACT II. + + +Heavenly Love. + +Evening Star. + +Chorus sing the marriage-song, and describe Paradise. + + +ACT III. + + +Lucifer contriving Adam’s ruin. + +Chorus fears for Adam, and relates Lucifer’s rebellion and fall. + + +ACT IV. + + +Adam, Eve } fallen. + +Conscience cites them to God’s examination. + +Chorus bewails, and tells the good Adam has lost. + + +ACT V. + + +Adam and Eve driven out of Paradise. + +— — presented by an angel with Labour, Grief, Hatred, Envy, War, Famine, +Pestilence, Sickness, Discontent, Ignorance, Fear, Death } Mutes. + +To whom he gives their names. Likewise Winter, Heat, Tempest, etc. + +Faith, Hope, Charity, comfort him and instruct him. + +Chorus briefly concludes. + + * * * * * + +Such was his first design, which could have produced only an allegory or +mystery. The following sketch seems to have attained more maturity. + + + +ADAM UNPARADISED. + + +The angel Gabriel, either descending or entering; showing, since this +globe was created, his frequency as much on earth as in heaven; describes +Paradise. Next the Chorus, showing the reason of his coming to keep his +watch in Paradise, after Lucifer’s rebellion, by command from God; and +withal expressing his desire to see and know more concerning this +excellent new creature, man. The angel Gabriel, as by his name +signifying a prince of power, tracing Paradise with a more free office, +passes by the station of the Chorus, and, desired by them, relates what +he knew of man; as the creation of Eve, with their love and marriage. +After this, Lucifer appears; after his overthrow, bemoans himself, seeks +revenge on man. The Chorus prepare resistance on his first approach. At +last, after discourse of enmity on either side, he departs: whereat the +Chorus sings of the battle and victory in Heaven, against him and his +accomplices: as before, after the first act, was sung a hymn of the +creation. Here again may appear Lucifer, relating and exulting in what +he had done to the destruction of man. Man next, and Eve, having by this +time been seduced by the serpent, appears confusedly covered with leaves. +Conscience in a shape accuses him; Justice cites him to the place whither +Jehovah called for him. In the meanwhile, the Chorus entertains the +stage, and is informed by some angel the manner of the fall. Here the +Chorus bewails Adam’s fall; Adam then and Eve return; accuse one another; +but especially Adam lays the blame to his wife; is stubborn in his +offence. Justice appears, reasons with him, convinces him. The Chorus +admonishes Adam, and bids him beware of Lucifer’s example of impenitence. +The angel is sent to banish them out of Paradise; but before causes to +pass before his eyes, in shapes, a mask of all the evils of this life and +world. He is humbled, relents, despairs; at last appears Mercy, comforts +him, promises the Messiah; then calls in Faith, Hope, and +Charity;—instructs him; he repents, gives God the glory, submits to his +penalty. The Chorus briefly concludes. Compare this with the former +draft. + +These are very imperfect rudiments of “Paradise Lost;” but it is pleasant +to see great works in their seminal state, pregnant with latent +possibilities of excellence; nor could there be any more delightful +entertainment than to trace their gradual growth and expansion, and to +observe how they are sometimes suddenly advanced by accidental hints, and +sometimes slowly improved by steady meditation. + +Invention is almost the only literary labour which blindness cannot +obstruct, and therefore he naturally solaced his solitude by the +indulgence of his fancy, and the melody of his numbers. He had done what +he knew to be necessarily previous to poetical excellence; he had made +himself acquainted with “seemly arts and affairs;” his comprehension was +extended by various knowledge, and his memory stored with intellectual +treasures. He was skilful in many languages, and had, by reading and +composition, attained the full mastery of his own. He would have wanted +little help from books, had he retained the power of perusing them. + +But while his greater designs were advancing, having now, like many other +authors, caught the love of publication, he amused himself, as he could, +with little productions. He sent to the press (1658) a manuscript of +Raleigh, called “The Cabinet Council;” and next year gratified his +malevolence to the clergy, by a “Treatise of Civil Power in +Ecclesiastical Cases, and the Means of removing Hirelings out of the +Church.” + +Oliver was now dead; Richard constrained to resign; the system of +extemporary government, which had been held together only by force, +naturally fell into fragments when that force was taken away; and Milton +saw himself and his cause in equal danger. But he had still hope of +doing something. He wrote letters, which Toland has published, to such +men as he thought friends to the new commonwealth; and even in the year +of the Restoration he “bated no jot of heart or hope,” but was +fantastical enough to think that the nation, agitated as it was, might be +settled by a pamphlet, called “A Ready and Easy Way to Establish a Free +Commonwealth;” which was, however, enough considered to be both seriously +and ludicrously answered. + +The obstinate enthusiasm of the commonwealth-men was very remarkable. +When the king was apparently returning, Harrington, with a few associates +as fantastical as himself, used to meet, with all the gravity of +political importance, to settle an equal government by rotation; and +Milton, kicking when he could strike no longer, was foolish enough to +publish, a few weeks before the Restoration, Notes upon a Sermon preached +by one Griffiths, entitled, “The Fear of God and the King.” To these +notes an answer was written by L’Estrange, in a pamphlet petulantly +called “No Blind Guides.” + +But whatever Milton could write, or men of greater activity could do, the +king was now about to be restored with the irresistible approbation of +the people, he was therefore no longer secretary, and was consequently +obliged to quit the house which he held by his office; the importance of +his writings, thought it convenient to seek some shelter, and hid himself +for a time in Bartholomew Close, by West Smithfield. + +I cannot but remark a kind of respect, perhaps unconsciously paid to this +great man by his biographers: every house in which he resided is +historically mentioned, as if it were an injury to neglect naming any +place that he honoured by his presence. + +The king, with lenity of which the world has had perhaps no other +example, declined to be the judge or avenger of his own or his father’s +wrongs; and promised to admit into the Act of Oblivion all except those +whom the Parliament should except; and the Parliament doomed none to +capital punishment but the wretches who had immediately co-operated in +the murder of the king. Milton was certainly not one of them; he had +only justified what they had done. + +This justification was indeed sufficiently offensive; and (June 16) an +order was issued to seize Milton’s “Defence,” and Goodwin’s “Obstructors +of Justice,” another book of the same tendency, and burn them by the +common hangman. The attorney-general was ordered to prosecute the +authors; but Milton was not seized, nor perhaps very diligently pursued. + +Not long after (August 19) the flutter of innumerable bosoms was stilled +by an Act, which the king, that his mercy might want no recommendation of +elegance, rather called an Act of Oblivion than of Grace. Goodwin was +named, with nineteen more, as incapacitated for any public trust; but of +Milton there was no exception. + +Of this tenderness shown to Milton the curiosity of mankind has not +forborne to inquire the reason. Burnet thinks he was forgotten; but this +is another instance which may confirm Dalrymple’s observation, who says, +“that whenever Burnet’s narrations are examined, he appears to be +mistaken.” + +Forgotten he was not; for his prosecution was ordered; it must be +therefore by design that he was included in the general oblivion. He is +said to have had friends in the House, such as Marvel, Morrice, and Sir +Thomas Clarges: and undoubtedly a man like him must have had influence. +A very particular story of his escape is told by Richardson in his +Memoirs, which he received from Pope, as delivered by Betterton, who +might have heard it from Davenant. In the war between the King and +Parliament, Davenant was made prisoner and condemned to die; but was +spared at the request of Milton. When the turn of success brought Milton +into the like danger, Davenant repaid the benefit by appearing in his +favour. Here is a reciprocation of generosity and gratitude so pleasing, +that the tale makes its own way to credit. But if help were wanted, I +know not where to find it. The danger of Davenant is certain from his +own relation; but of his escape there is no account. Betterton’s +narration can be traced no higher; it is not known that he hid it from +Davenant. We are told that the benefit exchanged was life for life; but +it seems not certain that Milton’s life ever was in danger. Goodwin, who +had committed the same kind of crime, escaped with incapacitation; and, +as exclusion from public trust is a punishment which the power of +Government can commonly inflict without the help of a particular law, it +required no great interest to exempt Milton from a censure little more +than verbal. Something may be reasonably ascribed to veneration and +compassion; to veneration of his abilities, and compassion for his +distresses, which made it fit to forgive his malice for his learning. He +was now poor and blind; and who would pursue with violence an illustrious +enemy, depressed by fortune and disarmed by nature? + +The publication of the “Act of Oblivion” put him in the same condition +with his fellow-subjects. He was, however, upon some pretence now not +known, in the custody of the serjeant in December; and when he was +released, upon his refusal of the fees demanded, he and the serjeant were +called before the House. He was now safe within the shade of oblivion, +and knew himself to be as much out of the power of a griping officer as +any other man. How the question was determined is not known. Milton +would hardly have contended but that he knew himself to have right on his +side. + +He then removed to Jewin Street, near Aldersgate Street, and, being blind +and by no means wealthy, wanted a domestic companion and attendant; and +therefore, by the recommendation of Dr. Paget, married Elizabeth Minshul, +of a gentleman’s family in Cheshire, probably without a fortune. All his +wives were virgins; for he has declared that he thought it gross and +indelicate to be a second husband: upon what other principles his choice +was made cannot now be known; but marriage afforded not much of his +happiness. The first wife left him in disgust, and was brought back only +by terror; the second, indeed, seems to have been more a favourite, but +her life was short. The third, as Philips relates, oppressed his +children in his lifetime, and cheated them at his death. + +Soon after his marriage, according to an obscure story, he was offered +the continuance of his employment, and, being pressed by his wife to +accept it, answered, “You, like other women, want to ride in your coach; +my wish is to live and die an honest man.” If he considered the Latin +secretary as exercising any of the powers of government, he that had +shared authority, either with the Parliament or Cromwell, might have +forborne to talk very loudly of his honesty; and if he thought the office +purely ministerial, he certainly might have honestly retained it under +the King. But this tale has too little evidence to deserve a +disquisition; large offers and sturdy rejections are among the most +common topics of falsehood. + +He had so much either of prudence or gratitude, that he forbore to +disturb the new settlement with any of his political or ecclesiastical +opinions, and from this time devoted himself to poetry and literature. +Of his zeal for learning in all its parts, he gave a proof by publishing, +the next year (1661), “Accidence commenced Grammar;” a little book which +has nothing remarkable, but that its author, who had been lately +defending the supreme powers of his country, and was then writing +“Paradise Lost,” could descend from his elevation to rescue children from +the perplexity of grammatical confusion, and the trouble of lessons +unnecessarily repeated. + +About this time, Elwood the Quaker, being recommended to him as one who +would read Latin to him for the advantage of his conversation, attended +him every afternoon except on Sundays. Milton, who, in his letter to +Hartlib, had declared, that “to read Latin with an English mouth is as +ill a hearing as Law French,” required that Elwood should learn and +practise the Italian pronunciation, which, he said, was necessary, if he +would talk with foreigners. This seems to have been a task troublesome +without use. There is little reason for preferring the Italian +pronunciation to our own, except that it is more general; and to teach it +to an Englishman is only to make him a foreigner at home. He who +travels, if he speaks Latin, may so soon learn the sounds which every +native gives it, that he need make no provision before his journey; and +if strangers visit us, it is their business to practise such conformity +to our modes as they expect from us in their own countries. Elwood +complied with the directions, and improved himself by his attendance; for +he relates, that Milton, having a curious ear, knew by his voice when he +read what he did not understand, and would stop him, and “open the most +difficult passages.” + +In a short time he took a house in the Artillery Walk, leading to Bunhill +Fields; the mention of which concludes the register of Milton’s removals +and habitations. He lived longer in this place than any other. + +He was now busied by “Paradise Lost.” Whence he drew the original design +has been variously conjectured by men who cannot bear to think themselves +ignorant of that which, at last, neither diligence nor sagacity can +discover. Some find the hint in an Italian tragedy. Voltaire tells a +wild and unauthorised story of a farce seen by Milton in Italy which +opened thus: “Let the Rainbow be the Fiddlestick of the Fiddle of +Heaven.” It has been already shown, that the first conception was a +tragedy or mystery, not of a narrative, but a dramatic work which he is +supposed to have began to reduce to its present form about the time +(1655) when he finished his dispute with the defenders of the king. + +He long had promised to adorn his native country by some great +performance, while he had yet perhaps no settled design, and was +stimulated only by such expectations as naturally arose from the survey +of his attainments, and the consciousness of his powers. What he should +undertake it was difficult to determine. He was “long choosing, and +began late.” + +While he was obliged to divide his time between his private studies and +affairs of state, his poetical labour must have been often interrupted; +and perhaps he did little more in that busy time than construct the +narrative, adjust the episodes, proportion the parts, accumulate images +and sentiments, and treasure in his memory, or preserve in writing, such +hints as books or meditation would supply. Nothing particular is known +of his intellectual operations while he was a statesman; for, having +every help and accommodation at hand, he had no need of uncommon +expedients. + +Being driven from all public stations, he is yet too great not to be +traced by curiosity to his retirement; where he has been found by Mr. +Richardson, the fondest of his admirers, sitting before his door in a +grey coat of coarse cloth, in warm sultry weather, to enjoy the fresh +air; and so, as in his own room, receiving the visits of people of +distinguished parts as well as quality. His visitors of high quality +must now be imagined to be few; but men of parts might reasonably court +the conversation of a man so generally illustrious, that foreigners are +reported, by Wood, to have visited the house in Bread Street where he was +born. + +According to another account, he was seen in a small house, neatly enough +dressed in black clothes, sitting in a room hung with rusty green; pale +but not cadaverous, with chalkstones in his hands. He said that, if it +were not for the gout, his blindness would be tolerable. + +In the intervals of his pain, being made unable to use the common +exercises, he used to swing in a chair, and sometimes played upon an +organ. + +He was now confessedly and visibly employed upon his poem, of which the +progress might be noted by those with whom he was familiar; for he was +obliged, when he had composed as many lines as his memory would +conveniently retain, to employ some friend in writing them, having, at +least for part of the time, no regular attendant. This gave opportunity +to observations and reports. + +Mr. Philips observes, that there was a very remarkable circumstance in +the composure of “Paradise Lost,” “which I have a particular reason,” +says he, “to remember; for whereas I had the perusal of it from the very +beginning, for some years, as I went from time to time to visit him, in +parcels of ten, twenty, or thirty verses at a time (which, being written +by whatever hand came next, might possibly want correction as to the +orthography and pointing), having, as the Summer came on, not been showed +any for a considerable while, and desiring the reason thereof, was +answered, that his vein never happily flowed but from the autumnal +equinox to the vernal; and that whatever he attempted at other times was +never to his satisfaction, 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 half his time therein.” + +Upon this relation Toland remarks, that in his opinion Philips has +mistaken the time of the year; for Milton, in his Elegies, declares, that +with the advance of the spring he feels the increase of his poetical +force, _redeunt in carmina vires_. To this it is answered, that Philips +could hardly mistake time so well marked; and it may be added, that +Milton might find different times of the year favourable to different +parts of life. Mr. Richardson conceives it impossible that “such a work +should be suspended for six months, or for one. It may go on faster or +slower, but it must go on.” By what necessity it must continually go on, +or why it might not be laid aside and resumed, it is not easy to +discover. + +This dependence of the soul upon the seasons, those temporary and +periodical ebbs and flows of intellect, may, I suppose, justly be derided +as the fumes of vain imagination. _Sapiens dominabitur astris_. The +author that thinks himself weather-bound will find, with a little help +from hellebore, that he is only idle or exhausted. But while this notion +has possession of the head, it produces the inability which it supposes. +Our powers owe much of their energy to our hopes; _possunt quia posse +videntur_. When success seems attainable, diligence is enforced; but +when it is admitted that the faculties are suppressed by a cross wind, or +a cloudy sky, the day is given up without resistance; for who can contend +with the course of nature? + +From such prepossessions Milton seems not to have been free. There +prevailed in his time an opinion, that the world was in its decay, and +that we have had the misfortune to be produced in the decrepitude of +nature. It was suspected that the whole creation languished, that +neither trees nor animals had the height or bulk of their predecessors, +and that everything was daily sinking by gradual diminution. Milton +appears to suspect that souls partake of the general degeneracy, and is +not without some fear that his book is to be written in “an age too late” +for heroic poesy. + +Another opinion wanders about the world, and sometimes finds reception +among wise men; an opinion that restrains the operations of the mind to +particular regions, and supposes that a luckless mortal may be born in a +degree of latitude too high or too low for wisdom or for wit. From this +fancy, wild as it is, he had not wholly cleared his head, when he feared +lest the _climate_ of his country might be _too cold_ for flights of +imagination. + +Into a mind already occupied by such fancies, another, not more +reasonable, might easily find its way. He that could fear lest his +genius had fallen upon too old a world, or too chill a climate, might +consistently magnify to himself the influence of the seasons, and believe +his faculties to be vigorous only half the year. + +His submission to the seasons was at least more reasonable than his dread +of decaying nature, or a frigid zone; for general causes must operate +uniformly in a general abatement of mental power; if less could be +performed by the writer, less likewise would content the judges of his +work. Among this lagging race of frosty grovellers he might still have +risen into eminence by producing something which “they should not +willingly let die.” However inferior to the heroes who were born in +better ages, he might still be great among his contemporaries, with the +hope of growing every day greater in the dwindle of posterity. He might +still be the giant of the pigmies, the one-eyed monarch of the blind. + +Of his artifices of study, or particular hours of composition, we have +little account, and there was perhaps little to be told. Richardson, who +seems to have been very diligent in his inquiries, but discovers always a +wish to find Milton discriminated from other men, relates that “he would +sometimes lie awake whole nights, but not a verse could he make; and on a +sudden his poetical faculty would rush upon him with an _impetus_ or +_æstrum_, and his daughter was immediately called to secure what came. +At other times he would dictate perhaps forty lines in a breath, and then +reduce them to half the number.” + +These bursts of light, and involutions of darkness, these transient and +involuntary excursions and retrocessions of invention, having some +appearance of deviation from the common train of nature, are eagerly +caught by the lovers of a wonder. Yet something of this inequality +happens to every man in every mode of exertion, manual or mental. The +mechanic cannot handle his hammer and his file at all times with equal +dexterity; there are hours, he knows not why, when _his hand is out_. By +Mr. Richardson’s relation, casually conveyed, much regard cannot be +claimed. That, in his intellectual hour, Milton called for his daughter +“to secure what came,” may be questioned; for unluckily it happens to be +known that his daughters were never taught to write; nor would he have +been obliged, as it is universally confessed, to have employed any casual +visitor in disburdening his memory, if his daughter could have performed +the office. + +The story of reducing his exuberance has been told of other authors; and, +though doubtless true of every fertile and copious mind, seems to have +been gratuitously transferred to Milton. + +What he has told us, and we cannot now know more, is, that he composed +much of this poem in the night and morning, I suppose before his mind was +disturbed with common business; and that he poured out with great fluency +his “unpremeditated verse.” Versification, free, like this, from the +distresses of rhyme, must, by a work so long, be made prompt and +habitual; and, when his thoughts were once adjusted, the words would come +at his command. + +At what particular times of his life the parts of his work were written, +cannot often be known. The beginning of the third book shows that he had +lost his sight, and the introduction to the seventh, that the return of +the king had clouded him with discountenance; and that he was offended by +the licentious festivity of the Restoration. There are no other internal +notes of time. Milton, being now cleared from all effects of his +disloyalty, had nothing required from him but the common duty of living +in quiet, to be rewarded with the common right of protection; but this, +which, when he skulked from the approach of his king, was perhaps more +than he hoped, seems not to have satisfied him; for no sooner is he safe, +than he finds himself in danger, “fallen on evil days and evil tongues, +and with darkness and with danger compassed round.” This darkness, had +his eyes been better employed, had undoubtedly deserved compassion; but +to add the mention of danger was ungrateful and unjust. He was fallen +indeed on “evil days;” the time was come in which regicides could no +longer boast their wickedness. But of “evil tongues” for Milton to +complain, required impudence at least equal to his other powers; Milton, +whose warmest advocates must allow that he never spared any asperity of +reproach or brutality of insolence. + +But the charge itself seems to be false; for it would be hard to +recollect any reproach cast upon him, either serious or ludicrous, +through the whole remaining part of his life. He pursued his studies or +his amusements, without persecution, molestation, or insult. Such is the +reverence paid to great abilities, however misused; they, who +contemplated in Milton the scholar and the wit, were contented to forget +the reviler of his king. + +When the plague (1665) raged in London, Milton took refuge at Chalfont, +in Bucks; where Elwood, who had taken the house for him, first saw a +complete copy of “Paradise Lost,” and, having perused it, said to him, +“Thou hast said a great deal upon Paradise Lost; what hast thou to say +upon Paradise Found?” + +Next year, when the danger of infection had ceased, he returned to +Bunhill Fields, and designed the publication of his poem. A licence was +necessary, and he could expect no great kindness from a chaplain of the +Archbishop of Canterbury. He seems, however, to have been treated with +tenderness; for, though objections were made to particular passages, and +among them to the simile of the sun eclipsed in the first book, yet the +licence was granted; and he sold his copy, April 27, 1667, to Samuel +Simmons, for an immediate payment of five pounds, with a stipulation to +receive five pounds more when thirteen hundred should be sold of the +first edition; and again, five pounds after the sale of the same number +of the second edition; and another five pounds after the same sale of the +third. None of the three editions were to be extended beyond fifteen +hundred copies. + +The first edition was ten books, in a small quarto. The titles were +varied from year to year; and an advertisement and the arguments of the +books were omitted in some copies, and inserted in others. + +The sale gave him in two years a right to his second payment, for which +the receipt was signed April 26, 1669. The second edition was not given +till 1674; it was printed in small octave; and the number of books was +increased to twelve, by a division of the seventh and twelfth; and some +other small improvements were made. The third edition was published in +1678; and the widow, to whom the copy was then to devolve, sold all her +claims to Simmons for eight pounds, according to her receipt given +December 21, 1680. Simmons had already agreed to transfer the whole +right to Brabazon Aylmer for £25; and Aylmer sold to Jacob Tonson half, +August 17, 1683, and half, March 24, 1690, at a price considerably +enlarged. In the history of “Paradise Lost” a deduction thus minute will +rather gratify than fatigue. + +The slow sale and tardy reputation of this poem have been always +mentioned as evidences of neglected merit, and of the uncertainty of +literary fame; and inquiries have been made, and conjectures offered, +about the causes of its long obscurity and late reception. But has the +case been truly stated? Have not lamentation and wonder been lavished on +an evil that was never felt? + +That in the reigns of Charles and James the “Paradise Lost” received no +public acclamations is readily confessed. Wit and literature were on the +side of the court: and who that solicited favour or fashion would venture +to praise the defender of the regicides? All that he himself could think +his due, from “evil tongues” in “evil days,” was that reverential silence +which was generously preserved. But it cannot be inferred that his poem +was not read, or not, however unwillingly, admired. + +The sale, if it be considered, will justify the public. Those who have +no power to judge of past times but by their own, should always doubt +their conclusions. The call for books was not, in Milton’s age, what it +is at present. To read was not then a general amusement; neither +traders, nor often gentlemen, thought themselves disgraced by ignorance. +The women had not then aspired to literature, nor was every house +supplied with a closet of knowledge. Those, indeed, who professed +learning, were not less learned than at any other time; but of that +middle race of students who read for pleasure or accomplishment, and who +buy the numerous products of modern typography, the number was then +comparatively small. To prove the paucity of readers, it may be +sufficient to remark, that the nation had been satisfied from 1623 to +1664—that is, forty-one years—with only two editions of the works of +Shakespeare, which probably did not together make one thousand copies. + +The sale of thirteen hundred copies in two years, in opposition to so +much recent enmity, and to a style of versification new to all and +disgusting to many, was an uncommon example of the prevalence of genius. +The demand did not immediately increase; for many more readers than were +supplied at first the nation did not afford. Only three thousand were +sold in eleven years; for it forced its way without assistance; its +admirers did not dare to publish their opinion; and the opportunities now +given of attracting notice by advertisements were then very few; the +means of proclaiming the publication of new books have been produced by +that general literature which now pervades the nation through all its +ranks. But the reputation and price of the copy still advanced, till the +Revolution put an end to the secrecy of love, and “Paradise Lost” broke +into open view with sufficient security of kind reception. + +Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what temper Milton surveyed +the silent progress of his work, and marked its reputation stealing its +way in a kind of subterraneous current through fear and silence. I +cannot but conceive him calm and confident, little disappointed, not at +all dejected, relying on his own merit with steady consciousness, and +waiting without impatience the vicissitudes of opinion, and the +impartiality of a future generation. + +In the meantime he continued his studies, and supplied the want of sight +by a very odd expedient, of which Phillips gives the following account:— + +Mr. Philips tells us, “that though our author had daily about him one or +other to read, some persons of man’s estate, who, of their own accord, +greedily catched at the opportunity of being his readers, that they might +as well reap the benefit of what they read to him, as oblige him by the +benefit of their reading; and others of younger years were sent by their +parents to the same end; yet excusing only the eldest daughter by reason +of her bodily infirmity and difficult utterance of speech (which, to say +truth, I doubt was the principal cause of excusing her), the other two +were condemned to the performance of reading and exactly pronouncing of +all the languages of whatever book he should, at one time or other, think +fit to peruse, viz., the Hebrew (and I think the Syriac), the Greek, the +Latin, the Italian, Spanish, and French. All which sorts of books to be +confined to read, without understanding one word, must needs be a trial +of patience almost beyond endurance. Yet it was endured by both for a +long time, though the irksomeness of this employment could not be always +concealed, but broke out more and more into expressions of uneasiness; so +that at length they were all, even the eldest also, sent out to learn +some curious and ingenious sorts of manufacture, that are proper for +women to learn, particularly embroideries in gold or silver.” + +In the scene of misery which this mode of intellectual labour sets before +our eyes, it is hard to determine whether the daughters or the father are +most to be lamented. A language not understood can never be so read as +to give pleasure, and very seldom so as to convey meaning. If few men +would have had resolution, to write books with such embarrassments, few +likewise would have wanted ability to find some better expedient. + +Three years after his “Paradise Lost” (1667) he published his “History of +England,” comprising the whole fable of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and +continued to the Norman Invasion. Why he should have given the first +part, which he seems not to believe, and which is universally rejected, +it is difficult to conjecture. The style is harsh; but it has something +of rough vigour, which perhaps may often strike, though it cannot please. + +On this history the licenser again fixed his claws, and before he could +transmit it to the press tore out several parts. Some censures of the +Saxon monks were taken away, lest they should be applied to the modern +clergy; and a character of the Long Parliament, and Assembly of Divines, +was excluded; of which the author gave a copy to the Earl of Anglesea, +and which, being afterwards published, has been since inserted in its +proper place. + +The same year were printed “Paradise Regained;” and “Samson Agonistes,” a +tragedy written in imitation of the ancients, and never designed by the +author for the stage. As these poems were published by another +bookseller, it has been asked whether Simmons was discouraged from +receiving them by the slow sale of the former. Why a writer changed his +bookseller a hundred years ago, I am far from hoping to discover. +Certainly, he who in two years sells thirteen hundred copies of a volume +in quarto, bought for two payments of five pounds each, has no reason to +repent his purchase. + +When Milton showed “Paradise Regained” to Elwood, “This,” said he, “is +owing to you; for you put it in my head by the question you put to me at +Chalfont, which otherwise I had not thought of.” + +His last poetical offspring was his favourite. He could not, as Elwood +relates, endure to hear “Paradise Lost” preferred to “Paradise Regained.” +Many causes may vitiate a writer’s judgment of his own works. On that +which has cost him much labour he sets a high value, because he is +unwilling to think that he has been diligent in vain; what has been +produced without toilsome efforts is considered with delight, as a proof +of vigorous faculties and fertile invention; and the last work, whatever +it be, has necessarily most of the grace of novelty. Milton, however it +happened, had this prejudice, and had it to himself. + +To that multiplicity of attainments, and extent of comprehension, that +entitled this great author to our veneration, may be added a kind of +humble dignity, which did not disdain the meanest services to literature. +The epic poet, the controvertist, the politician, having already +descended to accommodate children with a book of rudiments, now, in the +last years of his life, composed a book of logic for the initiation of +students in philosophy; and published (1672) “Artis Logicæ plenior +Institutio ad Petri Rami Methodum concinnata;” that is, “A new Scheme of +Logic, according to the method of Ramus.” I know not whether, even in +this book, he did not intend an act of hostility against the +universities; for Ramus was one of the first oppugners of the old +philosophy, who disturbed with innovations the quiet of the schools. + +His polemical disposition again revived. He had now been safe so long +that he forgot his fears, and published a “Treatise of True Religion, +Heresy, Schism, Toleration, and the Best Means to Prevent the Growth of +Popery.” + +But this little tract is modestly written, with respectful mention of the +Church of England and an appeal to the Thirty-nine Articles. His +principle of toleration is, agreement in the sufficiency of the +Scriptures; and he extends it to all who, whatever their opinions are, +profess to derive them from the sacred books. The Papists appeal to +other testimonies, and are therefore, in his opinion, not to be permitted +the liberty of either public or private worship; for though they plead +conscience, “we have no warrant,” he says, “to regard conscience which is +not grounded in Scripture.” + +Those who are not convinced by his reasons, may perhaps be delighted with +his wit. The term “Roman Catholic is,” he says, “one of the Pope’s +Bulls; it is particular universal, or Catholic schismatic.” + +He has, however, something better. As the best preservative against +Popery, he recommends the diligent perusal of the Scriptures, a duty from +which he warns the busy part of mankind not to think themselves excused. + +He now reprinted his juvenile poems, with some additions. + +In the last year of his life he sent to the press, seeming to take +delight in publication, a collection of “Familiar Epistles in Latin;” to +which, being too few to make a volume, he added some academical +exercises, which perhaps he perused with pleasure, as they recalled to +his memory the days of youth; but for which nothing but veneration for +his name could now procure a reader. + +When he had attained his sixty-sixth year, the gout, with which he had +been long tormented, prevailed over the enfeebled powers of nature. He +died by a quiet and silent expiration, about the 10th of November, 1674, +at his house in Bunhill Fields; and was buried next his father in the +chancel of St. Giles at Cripplegate. His funeral was very splendidly and +numerously attended. + +Upon his grave there is supposed to have been no memorial; but in our +time a monument has been erected in Westminster Abbey “To the Author of +‘Paradise Lost,’” by Mr. Benson, who has in the inscription bestowed more +words upon himself than upon Milton. + +When the inscription for the monument of Philips, in which he was said to +be _soli Miltono secundus_, was exhibited to Dr. Sprat, then Dean of +Westminster, he refused to admit it; the name of Milton was, in his +opinion, too detestable to be read on the wall of a building dedicated to +devotion. Atterbury, who succeeded him, being author of the inscription, +permitted its reception. “And such has been the change of public +opinion,” said Dr. Gregory, from whom I heard this account, “that I have +seen erected in the church a statue of that man, whose name I once knew +considered as a pollution of its walls.” + +Milton has the reputation of having been in his youth eminently +beautiful, so as to have been called the lady of his college. His hair, +which was of a light brown, parted at the fore-top, and hung down upon +his shoulders, according to the picture which he has given of Adam. He +was, however, not of the heroic stature, but rather below the middle +size, according to Mr. Richardson, who mentions him as having narrowly +escaped from being “short and thick.” He was vigorous and active, and +delighted in the exercise of the sword, in which he is related to have +been eminently skilful. His weapon was, I believe, not the rapier, but +the back-sword, of which he recommends the use in his book on education. + +His eyes are said never to have been bright; but, if he was a dexterous +fencer, they must have been once quick. + +His domestic habits, so far as they are known, were those of a severe +student. He drank little strong drink of any kind, and fed without +excess in quantity, and in his earlier years without delicacy of choice. +In his youth he studied late at night; but afterwards changed his hours, +and rested in bed from nine to four in the summer and five in the winter. +The course of his day was best known after he was blind. When he first +rose, he heard a chapter in the Hebrew Bible, and then studied till +twelve; then took some exercise for an hour; then dined, then played on +the organ, and sang, or heard another sing, then studied till six; then +entertained his visitors till eight; then supped, and, after a pipe of +tobacco and a glass of water, went to bed. + +So is his life described; but this even tenour appears attainable only in +colleges. He that lives in the world will sometimes have the succession +of his practice broken and confused. Visitors, of whom Milton is +represented to have had great numbers, will come and stay unseasonably; +business, of which every man has some, must be done when others will do +it. + +When he did not care to rise early, he had something read to him by his +bedside; perhaps at this time his daughters were employed. He composed +much in the morning, and dictated in the day, sitting obliquely in an +elbow-chair, with his leg thrown over the arm. Fortune appears not to +have had much of his care. In the civil wars, he lent his personal +estate to the Parliament; but when, after the contest was decided, he +solicited repayment, he met not only with neglect, but “sharp rebuke;” +and, having tired both himself and his friends, was given up to poverty +and hopeless indignation, till he showed how able he was to do greater +service. He was then made Latin Secretary, with two hundred pounds a +year; and had a thousand pounds for his “Defence of the People.” His +widow, who, after his death, retired to Nantwich, in Cheshire, and died +about 1729, is said to have reported that he lost two thousand pounds by +entrusting it to a scrivener; and that, in the general depredation upon +the Church, he had grasped an estate of about sixty pounds a year +belonging to Westminster Abbey, which, like other sharers of the plunder +of rebellion, he was afterwards obliged to return. Two thousand pounds +which he had placed in the Excise Office were also lost. There is yet no +reason to believe that he was ever reduced to indigence. His wants, +being few, were competently supplied. He sold his library before his +death, and left his family fifteen hundred pounds, on which his widow +laid hold, and only gave one hundred to each of his daughters. + +His literature was unquestionably great. He read all the languages which +are considered either as learned or polite: Hebrew, with its two +dialects, Greek, Latin, Italian, French, and Spanish. In Latin his skill +was such as places him in the first rank of writers and critics; and he +appears to have cultivated Italian with uncommon diligence. The books in +which his daughter, who used to read to him, represented him as most +delighting, after Homer, which he could almost repeat, were Ovid’s +“Metamorphoses” and Euripides. His Euripides is, by Mr. Cradock’s +kindness, now in my hands: the margin is sometimes noted; but I have +found nothing remarkable. + +Of the English poets he set most value upon Spenser, Shakespeare, and +Cowley. Spenser was apparently his favourite; Shakespeare he may easily +be supposed to like, with every other skilful reader; but I should not +have expected that Cowley, whose ideas of excellence were different from +his own, would have had much of his approbation. His character of +Dryden, who sometimes visited him, was, that he was a good rhymist, but +no poet. + +His theological opinions are said to have been first Calvinistical; and +afterwards, perhaps when he began to hate the Presbyterians, to have +tended towards Arminianism. In the mixed questions of theology and +government, he never thinks that he can recede far enough from Popery, or +Prelacy; but what Baudius says of Erasmus seems applicable to him, +“_Magis habuit quod fugeret_, _quam quod sequeretur_.” He had determined +rather what to condemn, than what to approve. He has not associated +himself with any denomination of Protestants: we know rather what he was +not than what he was. He was not of the Church of Rome; he was not of +the Church of England. + +To be of no Church is dangerous. Religion, of which the rewards are +distant, and which is animated only by faith and hope, will glide by +degrees out of the mind, unless it be invigorated and reimpressed by +external ordinances, by stated calls to worship, and the salutary +influence of example. Milton, who appears to have had a full conviction +of the truth of Christianity, and to have regarded the Holy Scriptures +with the profoundest veneration, to have been untainted by any heretical +peculiarity of opinion, and to have lived in a confirmed belief of the +immediate and occasional agency of Providence, yet grew old without any +visible worship. In the distribution of his hours, there was no hour of +prayer, either solitary or with his household; omitting public prayers, +he omitted all. + +Of this omission the reason has been sought upon a supposition which +ought never to be made, that men live with their own approbation, and +justify their conduct to themselves. Prayer certainly was not thought +superfluous by him, who represents our first parents as praying +acceptably in the state of innocence, and efficaciously after their fall. +That he lived without prayer can hardly be affirmed; his studies and +meditations were an habitual prayer. The neglect of it in his family was +probably a fault for which he condemned himself, and which he intended to +correct; but that death, as too often happens, intercepted his +reformation. + +His political notions were those of an acrimonious and surly Republican; +for which it is not known that he gave any better reason than that “a +popular government was the most frugal; for the trappings of a monarchy +would set up an ordinary commonwealth.” It is surely very shallow policy +that supposes money to be the chief good; and even this, without +considering that the support and expense of a court is, for the most +part, only a particular kind of traffic, for which money is circulated, +without any national impoverishment. + +Milton’s Republicanism was, I am afraid, founded in an envious hatred of +greatness, and a sullen desire of independence; in petulance impatient of +control, and pride disdainful of superiority. He hated monarchs in the +State, and prelates in the Church; for he hated all whom he was required +to obey. It is to be suspected that his predominant desire was to +destroy rather than establish, and that he felt not so much the love of +liberty as repugnance to authority. + +It has been observed that they who most loudly clamour for liberty do not +most liberally grant it. What we know of Milton’s character, in domestic +relations, is, that he was severe and arbitrary. His family consisted of +women; and there appears in his books something like a Turkish contempt +of females, as subordinate and inferior beings. That his own daughters +might not break the ranks, he suffered them to be depressed by a mean and +penurious education. He thought woman made only for obedience, and man +only for rebellion. + +Of his family some account may be expected. His sister, first married to +Mr. Philips, afterwards married Mr. Agar, a friend of her first husband, +who succeeded him in the Crown office. She had, by her first husband, +Edward and John, the two nephews whom Milton educated; and by her second, +two daughters. + +His brother, Sir Christopher, had two daughters, Mary and Catharine, and +a son, Thomas, who succeeded Agar in the Crown office, and left a +daughter living in 1749 in Grosvenor Street. + +Milton had children only by his first wife: Anne, Mary, and Deborah. +Anne, though deformed, married a master-builder, and died of her first +child. Mary died single. Deborah married Abraham Clark, a weaver in +Spitalfields, and lived seventy-six years, to August, 1727. This is the +daughter of whom public mention has been made. She could repeat the +first lines of Homer, the “Metamorphoses,” and some of Euripides, by +having often read them. Yet here incredulity is ready to make a stand. +Many repetitions are necessary to fix in memory lines not understood; and +why should Milton wish or want to hear them so often? These lines were +at the beginning of the poems. Of a book written in a language not +understood, the beginning raises no more attention than the end; and as +those that understand it know commonly the beginning best, its rehearsal +will seldom be necessary. It is not likely that Milton required any +passage to be so much repeated as that his daughter could learn it; nor +likely that he desired the initial lines to be read at all; nor that the +daughter, weary of the drudgery of pronouncing unideal sounds, would +voluntarily commit them to memory. + +To this gentlewoman Addison made a present, and promised some +establishment, but died soon after. Queen Caroline sent her fifty +guineas. She had seven sons and three daughters; but none of them had +any children, except her son Caleb and her daughter Elizabeth. Caleb +went to Fort St. George, in the East Indies, and had two sons, of whom +nothing now is known. Elizabeth married Thomas Foster, a weaver in +Spitalfields, and had seven children, who all died. She kept a petty +grocer’s or chandler’s shop, first at Holloway, and afterwards in Cock +Lane, near Shoreditch Church. She knew little of her grandfather, and +that little was not good. She told of his harshness to his daughters, +and his refusal to have them taught to write; and, in opposition to other +accounts, represented him as delicate, though temperate, in his diet. + +In 1750, April 5th, _Comus_ was played for her benefit. She had so +little acquaintance with diversion or gaiety, that she did not know what +was intended when a benefit was offered her. The profits of the night +were only one hundred and thirty pounds, though Dr. Newton brought a +large contribution; and twenty pounds were given by Tonson, a man who is +to be praised as often as he is named. Of this sum one hundred pounds +were placed in the stocks, after some debate between her and her husband +in whose name it should be entered; and the rest augmented their little +stock, with which they removed to Islington. This was the greatest +benefaction that “Paradise Lost” ever procured the author’s descendants; +and to this he who has now attempted to relate his Life, had the honour +of contributing a Prologue. + +In the examination of Milton’s poetical works, I shall pay so much regard +to time as to begin with his juvenile productions. For his early pieces +he seems to have had a degree of fondness not very laudable; what he has +once written he resolves to preserve, and gives to the public an +unfinished poem which he broke off because he was “nothing satisfied with +what he had done,” supposing his readers less nice than himself. These +preludes to his future labours are in Italian, Latin, and English. Of +the Italian I cannot pretend to speak as a critic; but I have heard them +commended by a man well qualified to decide their merit. The Latin +pieces are lusciously elegant: but the delight which they afford is +rather by the exquisite imitation of the ancient writers, by the purity +of the diction, and the harmony of the numbers, than by any power of +invention or vigour of sentiment. They are not all of equal value; the +elegies excel the odes; and some of the exercises on Gunpowder Treason +might have been spared. + +The English poems, though they make no promises of “Paradise Lost,” have +this evidence of genius—that they have a cast original and unborrowed. +But their peculiarity is not excellence; if they differ from the verses +of others, they differ for the worse; for they are too often +distinguished by repulsive harshness; the combinations of words are new, +but they are not pleasing; the rhymes and epithets seem to be laboriously +sought, and violently applied. + +That in the early parts of his life he wrote with much care appears from +his manuscripts, happily preserved at Cambridge, in which many of his +smaller works are found as they were first written, with the subsequent +corrections. Such relics show how excellence is acquired; what we hope +ever to do with ease, we must learn first to do with diligence. + +Those who admire the beauties of this great poet sometimes force their +own judgment into false approbation of his little pieces, and prevail +upon themselves to think that admirable which is only singular. All that +short compositions can commonly attain is neatness and elegance. Milton +never learned the art of doing little things with grace; he overlooked +the milder excellence of suavity and softness; he was a “Lion” that had +no skill in “dandling the Kid.” + +One of the poems on which much praise has been bestowed is “Lycidas;” of +which the diction is harsh, the rhymes uncertain, and the numbers +unpleasing. What beauty there is we must therefore seek in the +sentiments and images. It is not to be considered as the effusion of +real passion; for passion runs not after remote allusions and obscure +opinions. Passion plucks no berries from the myrtle and ivy, nor calls +upon Arethuse and Mincius, nor tells of rough “satyrs” and “fauns with +cloven heel.” Where there is leisure for fiction, there is little grief. + +In this poem there is no nature, for there is no truth; there is no art, +for there is nothing new. Its form is that of a pastoral; easy, vulgar, +and therefore disgusting; whatever images it can supply are long ago +exhausted; and its inherent improbability always forces dissatisfaction +on the mind. When Cowley tells of Hervey, that they studied together, it +is easy to suppose how much he must miss the companion of his labours, +and the partner of his discoveries; but what image of tenderness can be +excited by these lines?— + + We drove afield, and both together heard + What time the grey fly winds her sultry horn, + Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night. + +We know that they never drove afield, and that they had no flocks to +batten; and though it be allowed that the representation may be +allegorical, the true meaning is so uncertain and remote, that it is +never sought, because it cannot be known when it is found. + +Among the flocks, and copses, and flowers, appear the heathen deities; +Jove and Phœbus, Neptune and Æolus, with a long train of mythological +imagery, such as a college easily supplies. Nothing can less display +knowledge, or less exercise invention, than to tell how a shepherd has +lost his companion, and must now feed his flocks alone, without any judge +of his skill in piping; and how one god asks another god what is become +of Lycidas, and how neither god can tell. He who thus grieves will +excite no sympathy; he who thus praises will confer no honour. + +This poem has yet a grosser fault. With these trifling fictions are +mingled the most awful and sacred truths, such as ought never to be +polluted with such irreverent combinations. The shepherd likewise is now +a feeder of sheep, and afterwards an ecclesiastical pastor, a +superintendent of a Christian flock. Such equivocations are always +unskilful; but here they are indecent, and at least approach to impiety, +of which, however, I believe the writer not to have been conscious. + +Such is the power of reputation justly acquired, that its blaze drives +away the eye from nice examination. Surely no man could have fancied +that he read Lycidas with pleasure, had he not known the author. + +Of the two pieces, “L’Allegro” and “il Penseroso,” I believe, opinion is +uniform; every man that reads them, reads them with pleasure. The +author’s design is not, what Theobald has remarked, merely to show how +objects derive their colours from the mind, by representing the operation +of the same things upon the gay and the melancholy temper, or upon the +same man as he is differently disposed; but rather how, among the +successive variety of appearances, every disposition of mind takes hold +on those by which it may be gratified. + +The _cheerful_ man hears the lark in the morning; the _pensive_ man hears +the nightingale in the evening. The _cheerful_ man sees the cock strut, +and hears the horn and hounds echo in the wood; then walks, _not unseen_, +to observe the glory of the rising sun, or listen to the singing +milkmaid, and view the labours of the ploughman and the mower; then casts +his eyes about him over scenes of smiling plenty, and looks up to the +distant tower, the residence of some fair inhabitant; thus he pursues +real gaiety through a day of labour or of play, and delights himself at +night with the fanciful narratives of superstitious ignorance. + +The _pensive_ man at one time walks _unseen_ to muse at midnight, and at +another hears the sullen curfew. If the weather drives him home, he sits +in a room lighted only by “glowing embers;” or by a lonely lamp +outwatches the North Star, to discover the habitation of separate souls, +and varies the Shades of meditation by contemplating the magnificent or +pathetic scenes of tragic and epic poetry. When the morning comes—a +morning gloomy with rain and wind—he walks into the dark, trackless +woods, falls asleep by some murmuring water, and with melancholy +enthusiasm expects some dream of prognostication, or some music played by +aërial performers. + +Both mirth and melancholy are solitary, silent inhabitants of the breast, +that neither receive nor transmit communication; no mention is therefore +made of a philosophical friend, or a pleasant companion. The seriousness +does not arise from any participation of calamity, nor the gaiety from +the pleasures of the bottle. + +The man of _cheerfulness_, having exhausted the country, tries what +“towered cities” will afford, and mingles with scenes of splendour, gay +assemblies, and nuptial festivities; but he mingles a mere spectator, as, +when the learned comedies of Jonson, or the wild dramas of Shakespeare, +are exhibited, he attends the theatre. + +The _pensive_ man never loses himself in crowds, but walks the cloister, +or frequents the cathedral. Milton probably had not yet forsaken the +Church. + +Both his characters delight in music; but he seems to think that cheerful +notes would have obtained from Pluto a complete dismission of Eurydice, +of whom solemn sounds procured only a conditional release. + +For the old age of Cheerfulness he makes no provision: but Melancholy he +conducts with great dignity to the close of life. His Cheerfulness is +without levity, and his Pensiveness without asperity. + +Through these two poems the images are properly selected and nicely +distinguished; but the colours of the diction seem not sufficiently +discriminated. I know not whether the characters are kept sufficiently +apart. No mirth can, indeed, be found in his melancholy; but I am afraid +that I always meet some melancholy in his mirth. They are two noble +efforts of imagination. + +The greatest of his juvenile performances is the “Mask of _Comus_,” in +which may very plainly be discovered the dawn or twilight of “Paradise +Lost.” Milton appears to have formed very early that system of diction, +and mode of verse, which his maturer judgment approved, and from which he +never endeavoured nor desired to deviate. + +Nor does _Comus_ afford only a specimen of his language; it exhibits +likewise his power of description and his vigour of sentiment, employed +in the praise and defence of virtue. A work more truly poetical is +rarely found; allusions, images, and descriptive epithets, embellish +almost every period with lavish decoration. As a series of lines, +therefore, it may be considered as worthy of all the admiration with +which the votaries have received it. + +As a drama it is deficient. The action is not probable. A mask, in +those parts where supernatural intervention is admitted, must indeed be +given up to all the freaks of imagination, but so far as the action is +merely human, it ought to be reasonable, which can hardly be said of the +conduct of the two brothers; who, when their sister sinks with fatigue in +a pathless wilderness, wander both away together in search of berries too +far to find their way back, and leave a helpless lady to all the sadness +and danger of solitude. This, however, is a defect over-balanced by its +convenience. + +What deserves more reprehension is, that the prologue spoken in the wild +wood by the attendant Spirit is addressed to the audience; a mode of +communication so contrary to the nature of dramatic representation, that +no precedents can support it. + +The discourse of the Spirit is too long; an objection that may be made to +almost all the following speeches; they have not the sprightliness of a +dialogue animated by reciprocal contention, but seem rather declamations +deliberately composed, and formally repeated, on a moral question. The +auditor therefore listens as to a lecture, without passion, without +anxiety. + +The song of Comus has airiness and jollity; but, what may recommend +Milton’s morals as well as his poetry, the invitations to pleasure are so +general, that they excite no distinct images of corrupt enjoyment, and +take no dangerous hold on the fancy. + +The following soliloquies of Comus and the Lady are elegant but tedious. +The song must owe much to the voice if it ever can delight. At last the +Brothers enter with too much tranquillity; and, when they have feared +lest their Sister should be in danger, and hoped that she is not in +danger, the elder makes a speech in praise of chastity, and the younger +finds how fine it is to be a philosopher. + +Then descends the Spirit in form of a shepherd; and the Brother, instead +of being in haste to ask his help, praises his singing, and inquires his +business in that place. It is remarkable, that at this interview the +Brother is taken with a short fit of rhyming, The Spirit relates that the +Lady is in the power of Comus; the Brother moralises again; and the +Spirit makes a long narration, of no use because it is false, and +therefore unsuitable to a good being. + +In all these parts the language is poetical, and the sentiments are +generous; but there is something wanting to allure attention. + +The dispute between the Lady and Comus is the most animated and affecting +scene of the drama, and wants nothing but a brisker reciprocation of +objections and replies to invite attention, and detain it. + +The songs are vigorous and full of imagery; but they are harsh in their +diction, and not very musical in their numbers. + +Throughout the whole the figures are too bold, and the language too +luxuriant for dialogue. It is a drama in the epic style, inelegantly +splendid, and tediously instructive. + +The sonnets were written in different parts of Milton’s life, upon +different occasions. They deserve not any particular criticism; for of +the best it can only be said, that they are not bad; and perhaps only the +eighth and twenty-first are truly entitled to this slender commendation. +The fabric of a sonnet, however adapted to the Italian language, has +never succeeded in ours, which, having greater variety of termination, +requires the rhymes to be often changed. + +Those little pieces may be despatched without much anxiety; a greater +work calls for greater care. I am now to examine “Paradise Lost;” a poem +which, considered with respect to design, may claim the first place, and +with respect to performance, the second, among the productions of the +human mind. + +By the general consent of critics the first praise of genius is due to +the writer of an epic poem, as it requires an assemblage of all the +powers which are singly sufficient for other compositions. Poetry is the +art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling imagination to the help of +reason. Epic poetry undertakes to teach the most important truths by the +most pleasing precepts, and therefore relates some great event in the +most affecting manner. History must supply the writer with the rudiments +of narration, which he must improve and exalt by a nobler art, must +animate by dramatic energy, and diversify by retrospection and +anticipation; morality must teach him the exact bounds, and different +shades, of vice and virtue; from policy, and the practice of life, he has +to learn the discriminations of character, and the tendency of the +passions, either single or combined; and physiology must supply him with +illustrations and images. To put those materials to poetical use, is +required an imagination capable of painting nature and realising fiction. +Nor is he yet a poet till he has attained the whole extension of his +language, distinguished all the delicacies of phrase, and all the colours +of words, and learned to adjust their different sounds to all the +varieties of metrical modulation. + +Bossu is of opinion, that the poet’s first work is to find a _moral_, +which his fable is afterwards to illustrate and establish. This seems to +have been the process only of Milton; the moral of other poems is +incidental and consequent; in Milton’s only it is essential and +intrinsic. His purpose was the most useful and the most arduous: “to +vindicate the ways of God to man;” to show the reasonableness of +religion, and the necessity of obedience to the Divine Law. + +To convey this moral there must be a _fable_, a narration artfully +constructed, so as to excite curiosity and surprise expectation. In this +part of his work Milton must be confessed to have equalled every other +poet. He has involved in his account of the Fall of Man the events which +preceded and those that were to follow it: he has interwoven the whole +system of theology with such propriety, that every part appears to be +necessary; and scarcely any recital is wished shorter for the sake of +quickening the progress of the main action. + +The subject of an epic poem is naturally an event of great importance. +That of Milton is not the destruction of a city, the conduct of a colony, +or the foundation of an empire. His subject is the fate of worlds, the +revolutions of heaven and of earth; rebellion against the Supreme King, +raised by the highest order of created beings; the overthrow of their +host, and the punishment of their crime; the creation of a new race of +reasonable creatures; their original happiness and innocence, their +forfeiture of immortality, and their restoration to hope and peace. + +Great events can be hastened or retarded only by persons of elevated +dignity. Before the greatness displayed in Milton’s poem, all other +greatness shrinks away. The weakest of his agents are the highest and +noblest of human beings, the original parents of mankind; with whose +actions the elements consented; on whose rectitude or deviation of will, +depended the state of terrestrial nature, and the condition of all the +future inhabitants of the globe. + +Of the other agents in the poem, the chief are such as it is irreverence +to name on slight occasions. The rest were lower powers— + + Of which the least could wield + Those elements, and arm him with the force + Of all their regions; + +powers, which only the control of Omnipotence restrains from laying +creation waste, and filling the vast expanse of space with ruin and +confusion. To display the motives and actions of beings thus superior, +so far as human reason can examine them, or human imagination represent +them, is the task which this mighty poet has undertaken and performed. + +In the examination of epic poems much speculation is commonly employed +upon the _characters_. The characters in the “Paradise Lost,” which +admit of examination, are those of angels and of man; of angels good and +evil; of man in his innocent and sinful state. + +Among the angels, the virtue of Raphael is mild and placid, of easy +condescension and free communication; that of Michael is regal and lofty, +and, as may seem, attentive to the dignity of his own nature. Abdiel and +Gabriel appear occasionally, and act as every incident requires; the +solitary fidelity of Abdiel is very amiably painted. + +Of the evil angels the characters are more diversified. To Satan, as +Addison observes, such sentiments are given as suit “the most exalted and +most depraved being.” Milton has been censured by Clarke, for the +impiety which sometimes breaks from Satan’s mouth; for there are +thoughts, as he justly remarks, which no observation of character can +justify, because no good man would willingly permit them to pass, however +transiently, through his own mind. To make Satan speak as a rebel, +without any such expression as might taint the reader’s imagination, was +indeed one of the great difficulties in Milton’s undertaking; and I +cannot but think that he has extricated himself with great happiness. +There is in Satan’s speeches little that can give pain to a pious ear. +The language of rebellion cannot be the same with that of obedience. The +malignity of Satan foams in haughtiness and obstinacy; but his +expressions are commonly general, and no otherwise offensive than as they +are wicked. + +The other chiefs of the celestial rebellion are very judiciously +discriminated in the first and second books; and the ferocious character +of Moloch appears, both in the battle and the council, with exact +consistency. + +To Adam and to Eve are given, during their innocence, such sentiments as +innocence can generate and utter. Their love is pure benevolence and +mutual veneration; their repasts are without luxury, and their diligence +without toil. Their addresses to their Maker have little more than the +voice of admiration and gratitude. Fruition left them nothing to ask; +and innocence left them nothing to fear. + +But with guilt enter distrust and discord, mutual accusation, and +stubborn self-defence; they regard each other with alienated minds, and +dread their Creator as the avenger of their transgression. At last they +seek shelter in His mercy, soften to repentance, and melt in +supplication. Both before and after the fall, the superiority of Adam is +diligently sustained. + +Of the _probable_ and the _marvellous_, two parts of a vulgar epic poem +which immerge the critic in deep consideration, the “Paradise Lost” +requires little to be said. It contains the history of a miracle, of +creation and redemption; it displays the power and the mercy of the +Supreme Being; the probable therefore is marvellous, and the marvellous +is probable. The substance of the narrative is truth; and, as truth +allows no choice, it is, like necessity, superior to rule. To the +accidental or adventitious parts, as to everything human, some slight +exceptions may be made; but the main fabric is immovably supported. + +It is justly remarked by Addison, that this poem has, by the nature of +its subject, the advantage above all others, that it is universally and +perpetually interesting. All mankind will, through all ages, bear the +same relation to Adam and to Eve, and must partake of that good and evil +which extend to themselves. + +Of the _machinery_, so called from Θεòς ὰπò μηχανης, by which is meant +the occasional interposition of supernatural power, another fertile topic +of critical remarks, here is no room to speak, because everything is done +under the immediate and visible direction of Heaven; but the rule is so +far observed, that no part of the action could have been accomplished by +any other means. + +Of _episodes_, I think there are only two—contained in Raphael’s relation +of the war in Heaven, and Michael’s prophetic account of the changes to +happen in this world. Both are closely connected with the great action; +one was necessary to Adam as a warning, the other as a consolation. + +To the completeness or _integrity_ of the design nothing can be objected; +it has distinctly and clearly what Aristotle requires—a beginning, a +middle, and an end. There is perhaps no poem, of the same length, from +which so little can be taken without apparent mutilation. Here are no +funeral games, nor is there any long description of a shield. The short +digressions at the beginning of the third, seventh, and ninth books, +might doubtless be spared, but superfluities so beautiful who would take +away? or who does not wish that the author of the “Iliad” had gratified +succeeding ages with a little knowledge of himself? Perhaps no passages +are more attentively read than those extrinsic paragraphs; and, since the +end of poetry is pleasure, that cannot be unpoetical with which all are +pleased. + +The questions, whether the action of the poem be strictly _one_, whether +the poem can be properly termed _heroic_, and who is the hero, are raised +by such readers as draw their principles of judgment rather from books +than from reason. Milton, though he entitled “Paradise Lost” only a +“poem,” yet calls it himself “heroic song.” Dryden petulantly and +indecently denies the heroism of Adam, because he was overcome; but there +is no reason why the hero should not be unfortunate, except established +practice, since success and virtue do not go necessarily together. Cato +is the hero of Lucan; but Lucan’s authority will not be suffered by +Quintilian to decide. However, if success be necessary, Adam’s deceiver +was at last crushed; Adam was restored to his Maker’s favour, and +therefore may securely resume his human rank. + +After the scheme and fabric of the poem, must be considered its component +parts, the sentiments and the diction. + +The _sentiments_, as expressive of manners, or appropriated to +characters, are, for the greater part, unexceptionably just. + +Splendid passages, containing lessons of morality, or precepts of +prudence, occur seldom. Such is the original formation of this poem, +that, as it admits no human manners till the Fall, it can give little +assistance to human conduct. Its end is to raise the thoughts above +sublunary cares or pleasures. Yet the praise of that fortitude, with +which Abdiel maintained his singularity of virtue against the scorn of +multitudes, may be accommodated to all times; and Raphael’s reproof of +Adam’s curiosity after the planetary motions, with the answer returned by +Adam, may be confidently opposed to any rule of life which any poet has +delivered. + +The thoughts which are occasionally called forth in the progress are such +as could only be produced by an imagination in the highest degree fervid +and active, to which materials were supplied by incessant study and +unlimited curiosity. The heat of Milton’s mind may be said to sublimate +his learning, to throw off into his work the spirit of science, unmingled +with its grosser parts. + +He had considered creation in its whole extent, and his descriptions are +therefore learned. He had accustomed his imagination to unrestrained +indulgence, and his conceptions therefore were extensive. The +characteristic quality of his poem is sublimity. He sometimes descends +to the elegant, but his element is the great. He can occasionally invest +himself with grace; but his natural port is gigantic loftiness. He can +please when pleasure is required; but it is his peculiar power to +astonish. + +He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know +what it was that Nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon +others—the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, +enforcing the awful, darkening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful; +he therefore chose a subject on which too much could not be said, on +which he might tire his fancy without the censure of extravagance. + +The appearances of nature, and the occurrences of life, did not satiate +his appetite of greatness. To paint things as they are requires a minute +attention, and employs the memory rather than the fancy. Milton’s +delight was to sport in the wide regions of possibility; reality was a +scene too narrow for his mind. He sent his faculties out upon discovery, +into worlds where only imagination can travel, and delighted to form new +modes of existence, and furnish sentiment and action to superior beings; +to trace the counsels of hell, or accompany the choirs of heaven. + +But he could not be always in other worlds; he must sometimes revisit +earth, and tell of things visible and known. When he cannot raise wonder +by the sublimity of his mind, he gives delight by its fertility. + +Whatever be his subject, he never fails to fill the imagination. But his +images and descriptions of the scenes or operations of nature do not seem +to be always copied from original form, nor to have the freshness, +raciness, and energy of immediate observation. He saw nature, as Dryden +expresses it, “through the spectacles of books;” and on most occasions +calls learning to his assistance. The garden of Eden brings to his mind +the vale of Enna, where Proserpine was gathering flowers. Satan makes +his way through fighting elements, like Argo between the Cyanean rocks, +or Ulysses between the two Sicilian whirlpools, when he shunned Charybdis +on the larboard. The mythological allusions have been justly censured, +as not being always used with notice of their vanity; but they contribute +variety to the narration, and produce an alternate exercise of the memory +and the fancy. + +His similes are less numerous, and more various, than those of his +predecessors. But he does not confine himself within the limits of +rigorous comparison: his great excellence is amplitude; and he expands +the adventitious image beyond the dimensions which the occasion required. +Thus, comparing the shield of Satan to the orb of the moon, he crowds the +imagination with the discovery of the telescope, and all the wonders +which the telescope discovers. + +Of his moral sentiments it is hardly praise to affirm that they excel +those of all other poets; for this superiority he was indebted to his +acquaintance with the sacred writings. The ancient epic poets, wanting +the light of Revelation, were very unskilful teachers of virtue; their +principal characters may be great, but they are not amiable. The reader +may rise from their works with a greater degree of active or passive +fortitude, and sometimes of prudence; but he will be able to carry away +few precepts of justice, and none of mercy. + +From the Italian writers it appears that the advantages of even Christian +knowledge may be possessed in vain. Ariosto’s pravity is generally +known; and, though the “Deliverance of Jerusalem” may be considered as a +sacred subject, the poet has been very sparing of moral instruction. + +In Milton every line breathes sanctity of thought, and purity of manners, +except when the train of the narration requires the introduction of the +rebellious spirits; and even they are compelled to acknowledge their +subjection to God, in such a manner as excites reverence and confirms +piety. + +Of human beings there are but two; but those two are the parents of +mankind, venerable before their fall for dignity and innocence, and +amiable after it for repentance and submission. In the first state their +affection is tender without weakness, and their piety sublime without +presumption. When they have sinned, they show how discord begins in +mutual frailty, and how it ought to cease in mutual forbearance; how +confidence of the Divine favour is forfeited by sin, and how hope of +pardon may be obtained by penitence and prayer. A state of innocence we +can only conceive, if indeed, in our present misery, it be possible to +conceive it; but the sentiments and worship proper to a fallen and +offending being, we have all to learn, as we have all to practise. + +The poet, whatever be done, is always great. Our progenitors in their +first state conversed with angels; even when folly and sin had degraded +them, they had not in their humiliation “the port of mean suitors;” and +they rise again to reverential regard, when we find that their prayers +were heard. + +As human passions did not enter the world before the Fall, there is in +the “Paradise Lost” little opportunity for the pathetic; but what little +there is has not been lost. That passion, which is peculiar to rational +nature, the anguish arising from the consciousness of transgression, and +the horrors attending the sense of the Divine displeasure, are very +justly described and forcibly impressed. But the passions are moved only +on one occasion; sublimity is the general and prevailing quality in this +poem; sublimity variously modified—sometimes descriptive, sometimes +argumentative. + +The defects and faults of “Paradise Lost”—for faults and defects every +work of man must have—it is the business of impartial criticism to +discover. As, in displaying the excellence of Milton, I have not made +long quotations, because of selecting beauties there had been no end, I +shall in the same general manner mention that which seems to deserve +censure; for what Englishman can take delight in transcribing passages, +which, if they lessen the reputation of Milton, diminish in some degree +the honour of our country? + +The generality of my scheme does not admit the frequent notice of verbal +inaccuracies; which Bentley, perhaps better skilled in grammar and +poetry, has often found, though he sometimes made them, and which he +imputed to the obtrusions of a reviser, whom the author’s blindness +obliged him to employ; a supposition rash and groundless, if he thought +it true; and vile and pernicious, if, as is said, he in private allowed +it to be false. + +The plan of “Paradise Lost” has this inconvenience, that it comprises +neither human actions nor human manners. The man and woman who act and +suffer are in a state which no other man or woman can ever know. The +reader finds no transaction in which he can be engaged—beholds no +condition in which he can by any effort of imagination place himself; he +has, therefore, little natural curiosity or sympathy. + +We all, indeed, feel the effects of Adam’s disobedience; we all sin like +Adam, and like him must all bewail our offences; we have restless and +insidious enemies in the fallen angels, and in the blessed spirits we +have guardians and friends; in the redemption of mankind we hope to be +included; in the description of heaven and hell we are surely interested, +as we are all to reside hereafter either in the regions of horror or +bliss. + +But these truths are too important to be new; they have been taught to +our infancy; they have mingled with our solitary thoughts and familiar +conversations, and are habitually interwoven with the whole texture of +life. Being therefore not new, they raise no unaccustomed emotion in the +mind; what we knew before, we cannot learn; what is not unexpected, +cannot surprise. + +Of the ideas suggested by these awful scenes, from some we recede with +reverence, except when stated hours require their association; and from +others we shrink with horror, or admit them only as salutary inflictions, +as counterpoises to our interests and passions. Such images rather +obstruct the career of fancy than incite it. + +Pleasure and terror are indeed the genuine sources of poetry; but +poetical pleasure must be such as human imagination can at least +conceive, and poetical terrors such as human strength and fortitude may +combat. The good and evil of eternity are too ponderous for the wings of +wit; the mind sinks under them in passive helplessness, content with calm +belief and humble adoration. + +Known truths, however, may take a different appearance, and be conveyed +to the mind by a new train of intermediate images. This Milton has +undertaken and performed with pregnancy and vigour of mind peculiar to +himself. Whoever considers the few radical positions which the +Scriptures afforded him, will wonder by what energetic operation he +expanded them to such extent, and ramified them to so much variety, +restrained as he was by religious reverence from licentiousness of +fiction. + +Here is a full display of the united force of study and genius—of a great +accumulation of materials, with judgment to digest and fancy to combine +them: Milton was able to select from nature or from story, from an +ancient fable or from modern science, whatever could illustrate or adorn +his thoughts. An accumulation of knowledge impregnated his mind, +fermented by study and exalted by imagination. + +It has been therefore said, without an indecent hyperbole, by one of his +encomiasts, that in reading “Paradise Lost” we read a book of universal +knowledge. + +But original deficiency cannot be supplied. The want of human interest +is always felt. “Paradise Lost” is one of the books which the reader +admires and lays down, and forgets to take up again. None ever wished it +longer than it is. Its perusal is a duty rather than a pleasure. We +read Milton for instruction, retire harassed and overburdened, and look +elsewhere for recreation; we desert our master, and seek for companions. + +Another inconvenience of Milton’s design is, that it requires the +description of what cannot be described, the agency of spirits. He saw +that immateriality supplied no images, and that he could not show angels +acting but by instruments of action; he therefore invested them with form +and matter. This, being necessary, was therefore defensible; and he +should have secured the consistency of his system, by keeping +immateriality out of sight, and enticing his reader to drop it from his +thoughts. But he has unhappily perplexed his poetry with his philosophy. +His infernal and celestial powers are sometimes pure spirit, and +sometimes animated body. When Satan walks with his lance upon the +“burning marl,” he has a body; when, in his passage between hell and the +new world, he is in danger of sinking in the vacuity, and is supported by +a gust of rising vapours, he has a body; when he animates the toad, he +seems to be more spirit, that can penetrate matter at pleasure; when he +“starts up in his own shape,” he has at least a determined form; and when +he is brought before Gabriel, he has “a spear and a shield,” which he had +the power of hiding in the toad, though the arms of the contending angels +are evidently material. + +The vulgar inhabitants of Pandæmonium, being “incorporeal spirits,” are +“at large, though without number,” in a limited space: yet in the battle, +when they were overwhelmed by mountains, their armour hurt them, “crushed +in upon their substance, now grown gross by sinning.” This likewise +happened to the uncorrupted angels, who were overthrown the “sooner for +their arms, for unarmed they might easily as spirits have evaded by +contraction or remove.” Even as spirits they are hardly spiritual: for +“contraction” and “remove” are images of matter; but if they could have +escaped without their armour, they might have escaped from it, and left +only the empty cover to be battered. Uriel, when he rides on a sunbeam, +is material; Satan is material when he is afraid of the prowess of Adam. + +The confusion of spirit and matter, which pervades the whole narration of +the war of heaven, fills it with incongruity; and the book in which it is +related is, I believe, the favourite of children, and gradually neglected +as knowledge is increased. + +After the operation of immaterial agents, which cannot be explained, may +be considered that of allegorical persons which have no real existence. +To exalt causes into agents, to invest abstract ideas with form, and +animate them with activity, has always been the right of poetry. But +such airy beings are, for the most part, suffered only to do their +natural office, and retire. Thus Fame tells a tale, and Victory hovers +over a general, or perches on a standard; but Fame and Victory can do no +more. To give them any real employment, or ascribe to them any material +agency, is to make them allegorical no longer, but to shock the mind by +ascribing effects to nonentity. In the “Prometheus” of Æschylus, we see +Violence and Strength, and in the “Alcestis” of Euripides we see Death, +brought upon the stage, all as active persons of the drama; but no +precedents can justify absurdity. + +Milton’s allegory of Sin and Death is undoubtedly faulty. Sin is indeed +the mother of Death, and may be allowed to be the portress of hell; but +when they stop the journey of Satan, a journey described as real, and +when Death offers him battle, the allegory is broken. That Sin and Death +should have shown the way to hell, might have been allowed; but they +cannot facilitate the passage by building a bridge, because the +difficulty of Satan’s passage is described as real and sensible, and the +bridge ought to be only figurative. The hell assigned to the rebellious +spirits is described as not less local than the residence of man. It is +placed in some distant part of space, separated from the regions of +harmony and order by a chaotic waste and an unoccupied vacuity; but Sin +and Death worked up a “mole of aggravated soil” cemented with +_asphaltus_, a work too bulky for ideal architects. + +This unskilful allegory appears to me one of the greatest faults of the +poem; and to this there was no temptation but the author’s opinion of its +beauty. + +To the conduct of the narrative some objections may be made. Satan is +with great expectation brought before Gabriel in Paradise, and is +suffered to go away unmolested. The creation of man is represented as +the consequence of the vacuity left in heaven by the expulsion of the +rebels; yet Satan mentions it as a report “rife in Heaven” before his +departure. + +To find sentiments for the state of innocence was very difficult; and +something of anticipation perhaps is now and then discovered. Adam’s +discourse of dreams seems not to be the speculation of a new-created +being. I know not whether his answer to the angel’s reproof for +curiosity does not want something of propriety; it is the speech of a man +acquainted with many other men. Some philosophical notions, especially +when the philosophy is false, might have been better omitted. The angel, +in a comparison, speaks of “timorous deer,” before deer were yet +timorous, and before Adam could understand the comparison. + +Dryden remarks, that Milton has some flats among his elevations. This is +only to say, that all the parts are not equal. In every work, one part +must be for the sake of others; a palace must have passages; a poem must +have transitions. It is no more to be required that wit should always be +blazing, than that the sun should always stand at noon. In a great work +there is a vicissitude of luminous and opaque parts, as there is in the +world a succession of day and night. Milton, when he has expatiated in +the sky, may be allowed sometimes to revisit earth; for what other author +ever soared so high, or sustained his flight so long? + +Milton, being well versed in the Italian poets, appears to have borrowed +often from them; and, as every man catches something from his companions, +his desire of imitating Ariosto’s levity has disgraced his work with the +Paradise of Fools; a fiction not in itself ill-imagined, but too +ludicrous for its place. + +His play on words, in which he delights too often; his equivocations, +which Bentley endeavours to defend by the example of the ancients; his +unnecessary and ungraceful use of terms of art; it is not necessary to +mention, because they are easily remarked, and generally censured; and at +last bear so little proportion to the whole, that they scarcely deserve +the attention of a critic. + +Such are the faults of that wonderful performance “Paradise Lost;” which +he who can put in balance with its beauties must be considered not as +nice but as dull, as less to be censured for want of candour than pitied +for want of sensibility. + +Of “Paradise Regained,” the general judgment seems now to be right, that +it is in many parts elegant, and everywhere instructive. It was not to +be supposed that the writer of “Paradise Lost” could ever write without +great effusions of fancy, and exalted precepts of wisdom. The basis of +“Paradise Regained” is narrow; a dialogue without action can never please +like a union of the narrative and dramatic powers. Had this poem been +written not by Milton, but by some imitator, it would have claimed and +received universal praise. + +If “Paradise Regained” has been too much depreciated, “Samson Agonistes” +has, in requital, been too much admired. It could only be by long +prejudice, and the bigotry of learning, that Milton could prefer the +ancient tragedies, with their encumbrance of a chorus, to the exhibitions +of the French and English stages; and it is only by a blind confidence in +the reputation of Milton that a drama can be praised in which the +intermediate parts have neither cause nor consequence, neither hasten nor +retard the catastrophe. + +In this tragedy are, however, many particular beauties, many just +sentiments and striking lines; but it wants that power of attracting the +attention which a well connected plan produces. + +Milton would not have excelled in dramatic writing; he knew human nature +only in the gross, and had never studied the shades of character, nor the +combinations of concurring, or the perplexity of contending passions. He +had read much, and knew what books could teach; but had mingled little in +the world, and was deficient in the knowledge which experience must +confer. + +Through all his greater works there prevails a uniform peculiarity of +_diction_, a mode and cast of expression which bears little resemblance +to that of any former writer; and which is so far removed from common +use, that an unlearned reader, when he first opens his book, finds +himself surprised by a new language. + +This novelty has been, by those who can find nothing wrong in Milton, +imputed to his laborious endeavours after words suitable to the grandeur +of his ideas. “Our language,” says Addison, “sank under him.” But the +truth is, that, both in prose and verse, he had formed his style by a +perverse and pedantic principle. He was desirous to use English words +with a foreign idiom. This, in all his prose, is discovered and +condemned; for there judgment operates freely, neither softened by the +beauty, nor awed by the dignity of his thoughts; but such is the power of +his poetry, that his call is obeyed without resistance, the reader feels +himself in captivity to a higher and a nobler mind, and criticism sinks +in admiration. + +Milton’s style was not modified by his subject; what is shown with +greater extent in “Paradise Lost” may be found in “Comus.” One source of +his peculiarity was his familiarity with the Tuscan poets; the +disposition of his words is, I think, frequently Italian; perhaps +sometimes combined with other tongues. Of him, at last, may be said what +Jonson says of Spenser, that “he wrote no language,” but has formed what +Butler calls a “Babylonish dialect,” in itself harsh and barbarous, but +made by exalted genius and extensive learning the vehicle of so much +instruction and so much pleasure, that, like other lovers, we find grace +in its deformity. + +Whatever be the faults of his diction, he cannot want the praise of +copiousness and variety. He was master of his language in its full +extent; and has selected the melodious words with such diligence, that +from his book alone the Art of English Poetry might be learned. + +After his diction something must be said of his _versification_. The +_measure_, he says, “is the English heroic verse without rhyme.” Of this +mode he had many examples among the Italians, and some in his own +country. The Earl of Surrey is said to have translated one of Virgil’s +books without rhyme; and, beside our tragedies, a few short poems had +appeared in blank verse, particularly one tending to reconcile the nation +to Raleigh’s wild attempt upon Guiana, and probably written by Raleigh +himself. These petty performances cannot be supposed to have much +influenced Milton, who more probably took his hint from Trissino’s +“Italia Liberata;” and, finding blank verse easier than rhyme, was +desirous of persuading himself that it is better. + +“Rhyme,” he says, and says truly, “is no necessary adjunct of true +poetry.” But, perhaps, of poetry, as a mental operation, metre or music +is no necessary adjunct: it is, however, by the music of metre that +poetry has been discriminated in all languages; and, in languages +melodiously constructed with a due proportion of long and short +syllables, metre is sufficient. But one language cannot communicate its +rules to another; where metre is scanty and imperfect, some help is +necessary. The music of the English heroic lines strikes the ear so +faintly, that it is easily lost, unless all the syllables of every line +co-operate together; this co-operation can only be obtained by the +preservation of every verse unmingled with another as a distinct system +of sounds; and this distinctness is obtained and preserved by the +artifice of rhyme. The variety of pauses, so much boasted by the lovers +of blank verse, changes the measures of an English poet to the periods of +a declaimer; and there are only a few skilful and happy readers of +Milton, who enable their audience to perceive where the lines end or +begin. “Blank verse,” said an ingenious critic, “seems to be verse only +to the eye.” + +Poetry may subsist without rhyme, but English poetry will not often +please; nor can rhyme ever be safely spared but where the subject is able +to support itself. Blank verse makes some approach to that which is +called the “lapidary style;” has neither the easiness of prose, nor the +melody of numbers, and therefore tires by long continuance. Of the +Italian writers without rhyme, whom Milton alleges as precedents, not one +is popular; what reason could urge in its defence has been confuted by +the ear. + +But, whatever be the advantages of rhyme, I cannot prevail on myself to +wish that Milton had been a rhymer; for I cannot wish his work to be +other than it is; yet like other heroes, he is to be admired rather than +imitated. He that thinks himself capable of astonishing may write blank +verse; but those that hope only to please must condescend to rhyme. + +The highest praise of genius is original invention. Milton cannot be +said to have contrived the structure of an epic poem, and therefore owes +reverence to that vigour and amplitude of mind to which all generations +must be indebted for the art of poetical narration, for the texture of +the fable, the variation of incidents, the interposition of dialogue, and +all the stratagems that surprise and enchain attention. But, of all the +borrowers from Homer, Milton is perhaps the least indebted. He was +naturally a thinker for himself, confident of his own abilities, and +disdainful of help or hindrance: he did not refuse admission to the +thoughts or images of his predecessors, but he did not seek them. From +his contemporaries he neither courted nor received support; there is in +his writings nothing by which the pride of other authors might be +gratified, or favour gained; no exchange of praise, nor solicitation of +support. His great works were performed under discountenance and in +blindness; but difficulties vanished at his touch; he was born for +whatever is arduous; and his work is not the greatest of heroic poems, +only because it is not the first. + + + + +COWLEY. + + +THE Life of Cowley, notwithstanding the penury of English biography, has +been written by Dr. Sprat, an author whose pregnancy of imagination and +elegance of language have deservedly set him high in the ranks of +literature; but his zeal of friendship, or ambition of eloquence, has +produced a funeral oration rather than a history: he has given the +character, not the life, of Cowley; for he writes with so little detail, +that scarcely anything is distinctly known, but all is shown confused and +enlarged through the mist of panegyric. + + * * * * * + +ABRAHAM COWLEY was born in the year one thousand sir hundred and +eighteen. His father was a grocer, whose condition Dr. Sprat conceals +under the general appellation of a citizen; and, what would probably not +have been less carefully suppressed, the omission of his name in the +register of St. Dunstan’s parish gives reason to suspect that his father +was a sectary. Whoever he was, he died before the birth of his son, and +consequently left him to the care of his mother: whom Wood represents as +struggling earnestly to procure him a literary education, and who, as she +lived to the age of eighty, had her solicitude rewarded by seeing her son +eminent, and, I hope, by seeing him fortunate, and partaking his +prosperity. We know at least, from Sprat’s account, that he always +acknowledged her care, and justly paid the dues of filial gratitude. + +In the window of his mother’s apartment lay Spenser’s “Fairy Queen,” in +which he very early took delight to read, till by feeling the charms of +verse, he became, as he relates, irrecoverably a poet. Such are the +accidents which, sometimes remembered, and perhaps sometimes forgotten, +produce that particular designation of mind, and propensity for some +certain science or employment, which is commonly called Genius. The true +Genius is a mind of large general powers, accidentally determined to some +particular direction. Sir Joshua Reynolds, the great painter of the +present age, had the first fondness for his art excited by the perusal of +Richardson’s treatise. + +By his mother’s solicitation he was admitted into Westminster school, +where he was soon distinguished. He was wont, says Sprat, to relate, +“that he had this defect in his memory at that time, that his teachers +never could bring it to retain the ordinary rules of grammar.” + +This is an instance of the natural desire of man to propagate a wonder. +It is surely very difficult to tell anything as it was heard, when Sprat +could not refrain from amplifying a commodious incident, though the book +to which he prefixed his narrative contained its confutation. A memory +admitting some things, and rejecting others, an intellectual digestion +that concocted the pulp of learning, but refused the husks, had the +appearance of an instinctive elegance, of a particular provision made by +nature for literary politeness. But in the author’s own honest relation, +the marvel vanishes: he was, he says, such “an enemy to all constraint, +that his master never could prevail on him to learn the rules without +book.” He does not tell that he could not learn the rules; but that, +being able to perform his exercises without them, and being an “enemy to +constraint,” he spared himself the labour. + +Among the English poets, Cowley, Milton, and Pope might be said “to lisp +in numbers;” and have given such early proofs, not only of powers of +language, but of comprehension of things, as to more tardy minds seems +scarcely credible. But of the learned puerilities of Cowley there is no +doubt, since a volume of his poems was not only written, but printed in +his thirteenth year; containing, with other poetical compositions, “The +tragical History of Pyramus and Thisbe,” written when he was ten years +old; and “Constantia and Philetus,” written two years after. + +While he was yet at school he produced a comedy called “Love’s Riddle,” +though it was not published till he had been some time at Cambridge. +This comedy is of the pastoral kind, which requires no acquaintance with +the living world, and therefore the time at which it was composed adds +little to the wonders of Cowley’s minority. + +In 1636 he was removed to Cambridge, where he continued his studies with +great intenseness; for he is said to have written, while he was yet a +young student, the greater part of his “Davideis;” a work of which the +materials could not have been collected without the study of many years, +but by a mind of the greatest vigour and activity. + +Two years after his settlement at Cambridge, he published “Love’s +Riddle,” with a poetical dedication to Sir Kenelm Digby, of whose +acquaintance all his contemporaries seem to have been ambitious; and +“Naufragium Joculare,” a comedy written in Latin, but without due +attention to the ancient models; for it is not loose verse, but mere +prose. It was printed, with a dedication in verse to Dr. Comber, master +of the college; but having neither the facility of a popular, nor the +accuracy of a learned work, it seems to be now universally neglected. + +At the beginning of the civil war, as the prince passed through Cambridge +in his way to York, he was entertained with the representation of “The +Guardian,” a comedy which Cowley says was neither written nor acted, but +rough-drawn by him, and repeated by the scholars. That this comedy was +printed during his absence from his country he appears to have considered +as injurious to his reputation; though, during the suppression of the +theatres, it was sometimes privately acted with sufficient approbation. + +In 1643, being now master of arts, he was, by the prevalence of the +Parliament, ejected from Cambridge, and sheltered himself at St. John’s +College in Oxford; where, as is said by Wood, he published a satire, +called “The Puritan and Papist,” which was only inserted in the last +collection of his works; and so distinguished himself by the warmth of +his loyalty, and the elegance of his conversation, that he gained the +kindness and confidence of those who attended the king, and amongst +others of Lord Falkland, whose notice cast a lustre on all to whom it was +extended. + +About the time when Oxford was surrendered to the Parliament, he followed +the Queen to Paris, where he became secretary to the Lord Jermyn, +afterwards Earl of St. Albans, and was employed in such correspondence as +the royal cause required, and particularly in ciphering and deciphering +the letters that passed between the king and queen; an employment of the +highest confidence and honour. So wide was his province of intelligence, +that for several years it filled all his days and two or three nights in +the week. + +In the year 1647, his “Mistress” was published; for he imagined, as he +declared in his preface to a subsequent edition, that “poets are scarcely +thought freemen of their company, without paying some duties, or obliging +themselves to be true to love.” + +This obligation to amorous ditties owes, I believe, its original to the +fame of Petrarch, who, in an age rude and uncultivated, by his tuneful +homage to his Laura refined the manners of the lettered world, and filled +Europe with love and poetry. But the basis of all excellence is truth: +he that professes love ought to feel its power. Petrarch was a real +lover, and Laura doubtless deserved his tenderness. Of Cowley, we are +told by Barnes, who had means enough of information, that, whatever he +may talk of his own inflammability, and the variety of characters by +which his heart was divided, he in reality was in love but once, and then +never had resolution to tell his passion. + +This consideration cannot but abate in some measure the reader’s esteem +for the works and the author. To love excellence is natural; it is +natural likewise for the lover to solicit reciprocal regard by an +elaborate display of his own qualifications. The desire of pleasing has +in different men produced actions of heroism, and effusions of wit; but +it seems as reasonable to appear the champion as the poet of an airy +“nothing,” and to quarrel as to write for what Cowley might have learned +from his master Pindar to call “the dream of a shadow.” + +It is surely not difficult, in the solitude of a college, or in the +bustle of the world, to find useful studies and serious employment. No +man needs to be so burdened with life as to squander it in voluntary +dreams of fictitious occurrences. The man that sits down to suppose +himself charged with treason or peculation, and heats his mind to an +elaborate purgation of his character from crimes which he was never +within the possibility of committing, differs only by the infrequency of +his folly from him who praises beauty which he never saw; complains of +jealousy which he never felt; supposes himself sometimes invited, and +sometimes forsaken; fatigues his fancy, and ransacks his memory for +images which may exhibit the gaiety of hope or the gloominess of despair; +and dresses his imaginary Chloris or Phyllis sometimes in flowers fading +as her beauty, and sometimes in gems lasting as her virtues. + +At Paris, as secretary to Lord Jermyn, he was engaged in transacting +things of real importance with real men and real women, and at that time +did not much employ his thoughts upon phantoms of gallantry. Some of his +letters to Mr. Bennet, afterwards Earl of Arlington, from April to +December, in 1650, are preserved in “Miscellanea Aulica,” a collection of +papers published by Brown. These letters, being written like those of +other men whose minds are more on things than words, contribute no +otherwise to his reputation, than as they show him to have been above the +affectation of unseasonable elegance, and to have known that the business +of a statesman can be little forwarded by flowers of rhetoric. + +One passage, however, seems not unworthy of some notice. Speaking of the +Scotch treaty then in agitation: + +“The Scotch treaty,” says he, “is the only thing now in which we are +vitally concerned; I am one of the last hopers, and yet cannot now +abstain from believing that an agreement will be made; all people upon +the place incline to that opinion. The Scotch will moderate something of +the rigour of their demands; the mutual necessity of an accord is +visible; the king is persuaded of it. And to tell you the truth (which I +take to be an argument above all the rest), Virgil has told me something +to that purpose.” + +This expression, from a secretary of the present time, would be +considered as merely ludicrous, or at most as an ostentatious display of +scholarship; but the manners of that time were so tinged with +superstition, that I cannot but suspect Cowley of having consulted on +this great occasion the Virgilian lots, and to have given some credit to +the answer of his oracle. + +Some years afterwards, “business,” says Sprat, “passed of course into +other hands;” and Cowley, being no longer useful at Paris, was in 1656 +sent back into England, that, “under pretence of privacy and retirement, +he might take occasion of giving notice of the posture of things in this +nation.” + +Soon after his return to London, he was seized by some messengers of the +usurping powers, who were sent out in quest of another man; and being +examined, was put into confinement, from which he was not dismissed +without the security of a thousand pounds given by Dr. Scarborough. + +This year he published his poems, with a preface, in which he seems to +have inserted something suppressed in subsequent editions, which was +interpreted to denote some relaxation of his loyalty. In this preface he +declares, that “his desire had been for some days past, and did still +very vehemently continue, to retire himself to some of the American +plantations, and to forsake this world for ever.” + +From the obloquy which the appearance of submission to the usurpers +brought upon him, his biographer has been very diligent to clear him, and +indeed it does not seem to have lessened his reputation. His wish for +retirement we can easily believe to be undissembled; a man harassed in +one kingdom, and persecuted in another, who, after a course of business +that employed all his days and half his nights, in ciphering and +deciphering, comes to his own country and steps into a prison, will be +willing enough to retire to some place of quiet and of safety. Yet let +neither our reverence for a genius, nor our pity for a sufferer, dispose +us to forget, that, if his activity was virtue, his retreat was +cowardice. + +He then took upon him the character of physician, still, according to +Sprat, with intention “to dissemble the main design of his coming over;” +and, as Mr. Wood relates, “complying with the men then in power (which +was much taken notice of by the royal party), he obtained an order to be +created doctor of physic; which being done to his mind (whereby he gained +the ill-will of some of his friends), he went into France again, having +made a copy of verses on Oliver’s death.” + +This is no favourable representation; yet even in this not much wrong can +be discovered. How far he complied with the men in power is to be +inquired before he can be blamed. It is not said that he told them any +secrets, or assisted them by intelligence or any other act. If he only +promised to be quiet, that they in whose hands he was might free him from +confinement, he did what no law of society prohibits. + +The man whose miscarriage in a just cause has put him in the power of his +enemy, may, without any breach of his integrity, regain his liberty, or +preserve his life, by a promise of neutrality: for the stipulation gives +the enemy nothing which he had not before. The neutrality of a captive +may be always secured by his imprisonment or death. He that is at the +disposal of another may not promise to aid him in any injurious act, +because no power can compel active obedience. He may engage to do +nothing, but not to do ill. + +There is reason to think that Cowley promised little. It does not appear +that his compliance gained him confidence enough to be trusted without +security, for the bond of his bail was never cancelled; nor that it made +him think himself secure, for, at that dissolution of government which +followed the death of Oliver, he returned into France, where he resumed +his former station, and stayed till the restoration. + +“He continued,” says his biographer, “under these bonds till the general +deliverance;” it is therefore to be supposed that he did not go to +France, and act again for the king, without the consent of his bondsman: +that he did not show his loyalty at the hazard of his friend, but by his +friend’s permission. + +Of the verses on Oliver’s death, in which Wood’s narrative seems to imply +something encomiastic, there has been no appearance. There is a +discourse concerning his government, indeed, with verses intermixed, but +such as certainly gained its author no friends among the abettors of +usurpation. + +A doctor of physic, however, he was made at Oxford in December, 1657; and +in the commencement of the Royal Society, of which an account has been +published by Dr. Birch, he appears busy among the experimental +philosophers with the title of Doctor Cowley. + +There is no reason for supposing that he ever attempted practice: but his +preparatory studies have contributed something to the honour of his +country. Considering botany as necessary to a physician, he retired into +Kent to gather plants; and as the predominance of a favourite study +affects all subordinate operations of the intellect, botany in the mind +of Cowley turned into poetry. He composed, in Latin, several books on +plants, of which the first and second display the qualities of herbs, in +elegiac verse; the third and fourth, the beauties of flowers, in various +measures; and the fifth and sixth, the use of trees, in heroic numbers. + +At the same time were produced, from the same university, the two great +poets, Cowley and Milton, of dissimilar genius, of opposite principles, +but concurring in the cultivation of Latin poetry; in which the English, +till their works and May’s poem appeared, seemed unable to contest the +palm with any other of the lettered nations. + +If the Latin performances of Cowley and Milton be compared (for May I +hold to be superior to both), the advantage seems to lie on the side of +Cowley. Milton is generally content to express the thoughts of the +ancients in their language; Cowley, without much loss of purity or +elegance, accommodates the diction of Rome to his own conceptions. + +At the Restoration, after all the diligence of his long service, and with +consciousness, not only of the merit of fidelity, but of the dignity of +great abilities, he naturally expected ample preferments; and, that he +might not be forgotten by his own fault, wrote a song of triumph. But +this was a time of such general hope, that great numbers were inevitably +disappointed; and Cowley found his reward very tediously delayed. He had +been promised, by both Charles the First and Second, the mastership of +the Savoy; “but he lost it,” says Wood, “by certain persons, enemies to +the Muses.” + +The neglect of the court was not his only mortification; having by such +alteration as he thought proper, fitted his old comedy of “The Guardian” +for the stage, he produced it under the title of “The Cutter of Coleman +Street.” It was treated on the stage with great severity, and was +afterwards censured as a satire on the king’s party. + +Mr. Dryden, who went with Mr. Sprat to the first exhibition, related to +Mr. Dennis, “that, when they told Cowley how little favour had been shown +him, he received the news of his ill success, not with so much firmness +as might have been expected from so great a man.” + +What firmness they expected, or what weakness Cowley discovered, cannot +be known. He that misses his end will never be as much pleased as he +that attains it, even when he can impute no part of his failure to +himself; and when the end is to please the multitude, no man perhaps has +a right, in things admitting of gradation and comparison, to throw the +whole blame upon his judges, and totally to exclude diffidence and shame, +by a haughty consciousness of his own excellence. + +For the rejection of this play it is difficult now to find the reason: it +certainly has, in a very great degree, the power of fixing attention and +exciting merriment. From the charge of disaffection he exculpates +himself in his preface, by observing how unlikely it is, that, having +followed the royal family through all their distresses, “he should choose +the time of their restoration to begin a quarrel with them.” It appears, +however, from the theatrical register of Downes the prompter, to have +been popularly considered as a satire on the royalists. + +That he might shorten this tedious suspense, he published his pretensions +and his discontent in an ode called “The Complaint;” in which he styles +himself the _melancholy_ Cowley. This met with the usual fortune of +complaints, and seems to have excited more contempt than pity. + +These unlucky incidents are brought, maliciously enough, together in some +stanzas, written about that time on the choice of a laureate; a mode of +satire, by which, since it was first introduced by Suckling, perhaps +every generation of poets has been teased. + + Savoy-missing Cowley came into the court, + Making apologies for his bad play; + Every one gave him so good a report, + That Apollo gave heed to all he could say: + + Nor would he have had, ’tis thought, a rebuke, + Unless he had done some notable folly; + Writ verses unjustly in praise of Sam Tuke, + Or printed his pitiful Melancholy. + +His vehement desire of retirement now came again upon him. “Not +finding,” says the morose Wood, “that preferment conferred upon him which +he expected, while others for their money carried away most places, he +retired discontented into Surrey.” + +“He was now,” says the courtly Sprat, “weary of the vexations and +formalities of an active condition. He had been perplexed with a long +compliance to foreign manners. He was satiated with the arts of a court; +which sort of life, though his virtue made it innocent to him, yet +nothing could make it quiet. Those were the reasons that moved him to +follow the violent inclination of his own mind, which, in the greatest +throng of his former business, had still called upon him, and represented +to him the true delights of solitary studies, of temperate pleasures, and +a moderate revenue below the malice and flatteries of fortune.” + +So differently are things seen! and so differently are they shown! But +actions are visible, though motives are secret. Cowley certainly +retired; first to Barn Elms, and afterwards to Chertsey, in Surrey. He +seems, however, to have lost part of his dread of the _hum of men_. He +thought himself now safe enough from intrusion, without the defence of +mountains and oceans; and, instead of seeking shelter in America, wisely +went only so far from the bustle of life as that he might easily find his +way back when solitude should grow tedious. His retreat was at first but +slenderly accommodated; yet he soon obtained, by the interest of the Earl +of St. Alban’s, and the Duke of Buckingham, such lease of the queen’s +lands as afforded him an ample income. + +By the lovers of virtue and of wit it will be solicitously asked, if he +now was happy. Let them peruse one of his letters accidentally preserved +by Peck, which I recommend to the consideration of all that may hereafter +pant for solitude. + + “TO DR. THOMAS SPRAT, + + “_Chertsey_, _May_ 21, 1665. + + “The first night that I came hither I caught so great a cold, with a + defluxion of rheum, as made me keep my chamber ten days. And, two + after, had such a bruise on my ribs with a fall, that I am yet unable + to move or turn myself in my bed. This is my personal fortune here + to begin with. And, besides, I can get no money from my tenants, and + have my meadows eaten up every night by cattle put in by my + neighbours. What this signifies, or may come to in time, God knows; + if it be ominous, it can end in nothing less than hanging. Another + misfortune has been, and stranger than all the rest, that you have + broke your word with me and failed to come, even though you told Mr. + Bois that you would. This is what they call _monstri simile_. I do + hope to recover my late hurt so far within five or six days (though + it be uncertain yet whether I shall ever recover it) as to walk about + again. And then, methinks, you and I and the dean might be very + merry upon St. Ann’s Hill. You might very conveniently come hither + the way of Hampton Town, lying there one night. I write this in + pain, and can say no more: _verbum sapienti_.” + +He did not long enjoy the pleasure or suffer the uneasiness of solitude; +for he died at the Porch-house in Chertsey, in 1667 [28th July], in the +forty-ninth year of his age. + +He was buried with great pomp near Chaucer and Spenser; and King Charles +pronounced, “That Mr. Cowley had not left behind him a better man in +England.” He is represented by Dr. Sprat as the most amiable of mankind; +and this posthumous praise may safely be credited, as it has never been +contradicted by envy or by faction. + +Such are the remarks and memorials which I have been able to add to the +narrative of Dr. Sprat; who, writing when the feuds of civil war were yet +recent, and the minds of either party were easily irritated, was obliged +to pass over many transactions in general expressions, and to leave +curiosity often unsatisfied. What he did not tell cannot, however, now +be known; I must therefore recommend the perusal of his work, to which my +narration can be considered only as a slender supplement. + +Cowley, like other poets who have written with narrow views, and, instead +of tracing intellectual pleasure to its natural sources in the minds of +men, paid their court to temporary prejudices, has been at one time too +much praised, and too much neglected at another. + +Wit, like all other things subject by their nature to the choice of man, +has its changes and fashions, and at different times takes different +forms. About the beginning of the seventeenth century appeared a race of +writers that may be termed the metaphysical poets; of whom, in a +criticism on the works of Cowley, it is not improper to give some +account. + +The metaphysical poets were men of learning, and to show their learning +was their whole endeavour; but, unluckily resolving to show it in rhyme, +instead of writing poetry they only wrote verses, and very often such +verses as stood the trial of the finger better than of the ear; for the +modulation was so imperfect, that they were only found to be verses by +counting the syllables. + +If the father of criticism had rightly denominated poetry τéχνη μιμητικὴ, +_an imitative art_, these writers will, without great wrong, lose their +right to the name of poets; for they cannot be said to have imitated +anything; they neither copied nature nor life; neither painted the forms +of matter, nor represented the operations of intellect. + +Those, however, who deny them to be poets, allow them to be wits. Dryden +confesses of himself and his contemporaries, that they fall below Donne +in wit; but maintains that they surpass him in poetry. + +If wit be well described by Pope, as being “that which has been often +thought, but was never before so well expressed,” they certainly never +attained, nor ever sought it; for they endeavoured to be singular in +their thoughts, and were careless of their diction. But Pope’s account +of wit is undoubtedly erroneous; he depresses it below its natural +dignity, and reduces it from strength of thought to happiness of +language. + +If by a more noble and more adequate conception, that be considered as +wit which is at once natural and new, that which, though not obvious, is, +upon its first production, acknowledged to be just; if it be that which +he that never found it, wonders how he missed; to wit of this kind the +metaphysical poets have seldom risen. Their thoughts are often new, but +seldom natural; they are not obvious, but neither are they just; and the +reader, far from wondering that he missed them, wonders more frequently +by what perverseness of industry they were ever found. + +But wit, abstracted from its effects upon the hearer, may be more +rigorously and philosophically considered as a kind of _discordia +concors_; a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult +resemblances in things apparently unlike. Of wit, thus defined, they +have more than enough. The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by +violence together; nature and art are ransacked for illustrations, +comparisons, and allusions; their learning instructs, and their subtlety +surprises; but the reader commonly thinks his improvement dearly bought, +and though he sometimes admires, is seldom pleased. + +From this account of their compositions it will be readily inferred that +they were not successful in representing or moving the affections. As +they were wholly employed on something unexpected and surprising, they +had no regard to that uniformity of sentiment which enables us to +conceive and to excite the pains and the pleasure of other minds: they +never inquired what, on any occasion, they should have said or done; but +wrote rather as beholders than partakers of human nature; as beings +looking upon good and evil, impassive and at leisure; as epicurean +deities, making remarks on the actions of men, and the vicissitudes of +life, without interest and without emotion. Their courtship was void of +fondness, and their lamentation of sorrow. Their wish was only to say +what they hoped had been never said before. + +Nor was the sublime more within their reach than the pathetic; for they +never attempted that comprehension and expanse of thought which at once +fills the whole mind, and of which the first effect is sudden +astonishment, and the second rational admiration. Sublimity is produced +by aggregation, and littleness by dispersion. Great thoughts are always +general, and consist in positions not limited by exceptions, and in +descriptions not descending to minuteness. It is with great propriety +that subtlety, which in its original import means exility of particles, +is taken in its metaphorical meaning for nicety of distinction. Those +writers who lay on the watch for novelty, could have little hope of +greatness; for great things cannot have escaped former observation. +Their attempts were always analytic; they broke every image into +fragments; and could no more represent, by their slender conceits and +laboured particularities, the prospects of nature, or the scenes of life, +than he who dissects a sunbeam with a prism can exhibit the wide +effulgence of a summer noon. + +What they wanted, however, of the sublime they endeavoured to supply by +hyperbole; their amplifications had no limits; they left not only reason +but fancy behind them; and produced combinations of confused +magnificence, that not only could not be credited, but could not be +imagined. + +Yet great labour, directed by great abilities, is never wholly lost; if +they frequently threw away their wit upon false conceits, they likewise +sometimes struck out unexpected truth; if their conceits were far +fetched, they were often worth the carriage. To write on their plan, it +was at least necessary to read and think. No man could be born a +metaphysical poet, nor assume the dignity of a writer, by descriptions +copied from descriptions, by imitations borrowed from imitations, by +traditional imagery, and hereditary similes, by readiness of rhyme, and +volubility of syllables. + +In perusing the works of this race of authors, the mind is exercised +either by recollection or inquiry; something already learned is to be +retrieved, or something new is to be examined. If their greatness seldom +elevates, their acuteness often surprises; if the imagination is not +always gratified, at least the powers of reflection and comparison are +employed; and in the mass of materials which ingenious absurdity has +thrown together, genuine wit and useful knowledge may be sometimes found +buried perhaps in grossness of expression, but useful to those who know +their value; and such as, when they are expanded to perspicuity and +polished to elegance, may give lustre to works which have more propriety +though less copiousness of sentiment. + +This kind of writing, which was, I believe, borrowed from Marino and his +followers, had been recommended by the example of Donne, a man of very +extensive and various knowledge, and by Jonson, whose manner resembled +that of Donne more in the ruggedness of his lines than in the cast of his +sentiments. + +When their reputation was high, they had undoubtedly more imitators than +time has left behind. Their immediate successors, of whom any +remembrance can be said to remain, were Suckling, Waller, Denham, Cowley, +Clieveland, and Milton. Denham and Waller sought another way to fame, by +improving the harmony of our members. Milton tried the metaphysic style +only in his lines upon Hobson the carrier. Cowley adopted it, and +excelled his predecessors, having as much sentiment and more music. +Suckling neither improved versification nor abounded in conceits. The +fashionable style remained chiefly with Cowley; Suckling could not reach +it, and Milton disdained it. + +Critical remarks are not easily understood without examples; and I have +therefore collected instances of the modes of writing by which this +species of poets (for poets they were called by themselves and their +admirers) was eminently distinguished. + +As the authors of this race were perhaps more desirous of being admired +than understood, they sometimes drew their conceits from recesses of +learning not very much frequented by common readers of poetry. Thus, +Cowley on Knowledge: + + The sacred tree ’midst the fair orchard grew; + The phœnix truth did on it rest, + And built his perfumed nest, + That right Porphyrian tree which did true logic show. + Each leaf did learned notions give, + And the apples were demonstrative; + So clear their colour and divine, + The very shads they cast did other lights outshine. + +On Anacreon continuing a lover in his old age: + + Love was with thy life entwined, + Close as heat with fire is join’d; + A powerful brand prescribed the date + Of thine, like Meleager’s fate. + Th’ antiperistasis of age + More enflam’d thy amorous rage. + +In the following verses we have an allusion to a rabbinical opinion +concerning manna: + + Variety I ask not: give me one + To live perpetually upon. + The person Love does to us fit, + Like manna, has the taste of all in it. + +Thus Donne shows his medicinal knowledge in some encomiastic verses: + + In everything there naturally grows + A balsamum to keep it fresh and new, + If ’twere not injured by extrinsic blows: + Your youth and beauty are this balm in you. + But you, of learning and religion, + And virtue and such ingredients, have made + A mithridate, whose operation + Keeps off, or cures what can be done or said. + +Though the following lines of Donne, on the last night of the year, have +something in them too scholastic, they are not inelegant: + + This twilight of two years, not past nor next, + Some emblem is of me, or I of this, + Who, meteor-like, of stuff and form perplext, + Whose what and where in disputation is, + If I should call me anything, should miss. + I sum the years and me, and find me not + Debtor to th’ old, nor creditor to th’ new. + That cannot say, my thanks I have forget, + Nor trust I this with hopes; and yet scarce true + This bravery is, since these times show’d me you.—DONNE. + +Yet more abstruse and profound is Donne’s reflection upon man as a +microcosm: + + If men be worlds, there is in every one + Something to answer in some proportion; + All the world’s riches; and in good men, this + Virtue, our form’s form, and our soul’s soul, is + +Of thoughts so far-fetched, as to be not only unexpected, but unnatural, +all their books are full. + +To a lady, who wrote posies for rings: + + They, who above do various circles find, + Say, like a ring, th’ equator Heaven does bind + When Heaven shall be adorned by thee, + (Which then more Heaven than ’tis will be) + ’Tis thou must write the poesy there, + For it wanteth one as yet, + Then the sun pass through’t twice a year, + The sun, which is esteem’d the god of wit.—COWLEY. + +The difficulties which have been raised about identity in philosophy are +by Cowley, with still more perplexity applied to love: + + Five years ago (says story) I loved you, + For which you call me most inconstant now; + Pardon me, madam, you mistake the man; + For I am not the same that I was then: + No flesh is now the same ’twas then in me, + And that my mind is changed yourself may see. + The same thoughts to retain still, and intents + Were more inconstant far; for accidents + Must of all things most strangely inconstant prove, + If from one subject they t’ another move; + My members then the father members were, + From whence these take their birth, which now are here + If then this body love what th’ other did, + ’Twere incest, which by nature is forbid. + +The love of different women is, in geographical poetry, compared to +travels through different countries: + + Hast thou not found each woman’s breast + (The land where thou hast travelled) + Either by savages possest, + Or wild, and uninhabited? + What joy could’st take, or what repose, + In countries so uncivilis’d as those? + Lust, the scorching dog-star, here + Rages with immoderate heat; + Whilst Pride, the ragged northern bear, + In others makes the cold too great. + And where these are temperate known, + The soil’s all barren sand, or rocky stone.—COWLEY. + +A lover, burnt up by his affection, is compared to Egypt: + + The fate of Egypt I sustain, + And never feel the dew of rain, + From clouds which in the head appear; + But all my too-much moisture ewe + To overflowings of the heart below.—COWLEY. + +The lover supposes his lady acquainted with the ancient laws of augury +and rites of sacrifice: + + And yet this death of mine, I fear, + Will ominous to her appear: + When, sound in every other part, + Her sacrifice is found without an heart. + For the last tempest of my death + Shall sigh out that too, with my breath. + +That the chaos was harmonised, has been recited of old; but whence the +different sounds arose remained for a modern to discover: + + Th’ ungovern’d parts no correspondence knew; + An artless war from thwarting motions grew; + Till they to number and fixed rules were brought. + Water and air he for the tenor chose, + Earth made the base; the treble flame arose.—COWLEY. + +The tears of lovers are always of great poetical account; but Donne has +extended them into worlds. If the lines are not easily understood, they +may be read again: + + On a round ball + A workman, that hath copies by, can lay + An Europe, Afric, and an Asia, + And quickly make that which was nothing, all. + So doth each tear, + Which thee doth wear, + A globe, yea world, by that impression grow, + Till thy tears mixed with mine do overflow + This world, by waters sent from thee my heaven dissolved so. + +On reading the following lines, the reader may perhaps cry out “Confusion +worse confounded.” + + Hers lies a she sun, and a he moon here, + She gives the best light to his sphere, + Or each is both, and all, and so, + They unto one another nothing owe.—DONNE. + +Who but Donne would have thought that a good man is a telescope? + + Though God be our true glass through which we see + All, since the being of all things is He, + Yet are the trunks, which do to us derive + Things in proportion fit, by perspective + Deeds of good men; for by their living here, + Virtues, indeed remote, seem to be near. + +Who would imagine it possible that in a very few lines so many remote +ideas could be brought together? + + Since ’tis my doom, love’s undershrieve, + Why this reprieve? + Why doth my she advowson fly + Incumbency? + To sell thyself dust thou intend + By candles end, + And hold the contract thus in doubt, + Life’s taper out? + Think but how soon the market fails, + Your sex lives faster than the males; + And if to measure age’s span, + The sober Julian were th’ account of man, + Whilst you live by the fleet Gregorian.—CLEVELAND. + +Of enormous and disgusting hyperboles, these may be examples: + + By every wind that comes this way, + Send me at least a sigh or two, + Such and so many I’ll repay + As shall themselves make winds to get to you.—COWLEY. + + In tears I’ll waste these eyes, + By love so vainly fed: + So lust of old the deluge punished.—COWLEY. + + All arm’d in brass, the richest dress of war, + (A dismal glorious sight!) he shone afar. + The sun himself started with sudden fright, + To see his beams return so dismal bright.—COWLEY. + +A universal consternation: + + His bloody eyes he hurls round, his sharp paws + Tear up the ground; then runs he wild about, + Lashing his angry tail and roaring out. + Beasts creep into their dens, and tremble there; + Trees, though no wind is stirring, shake with fear; + Silence and horror fill the place around; + Echo itself dares scarce repeat the sound.—COWLEY. + +Their fictions were often violent and unnatural. + +Of his mistress bathing: + + The fish around her crowded, as they do + To the false light that treacherous fishers show, + And all with as much ease might taken be, + As she at first took me; + For ne’er did light so clear + Among the waves appear, + Though every night the sun himself set there.—COWLEY. + +The poetical effect of a lover’s name upon glass: + + My name engraved herein + Both contribute my firmness to this glass: + Which, ever since that charm, hath been + As hard as that which graved it was.—DONNE. + +Their conceits were sometimes slight and trifling. On an inconstant +woman: + + He enjoys the calmy sunshine now, + And no breath stirring hears, + In the clear heaven of thy brow + No smallest cloud appears. + He sees thee gentle, fair and gay, + And trusts the faithless April of thy May.—COWLEY. + +Upon a paper written with the juice of lemon, and read by the fire: + + Nothing yet in thee is seen, + But when a genial heat warms thee within, + A new-born wood of various lines there grows; + Hers buds an L, and there a B, + Here sprouts a V, and there a T, + And all the flourishing letters stand in rows.—COWLEY. + +As they sought only for novelty, they did not much inquire whether their +allusions were to things high or low, elegant or gross; whether they +compared the little to the great, or the great to the little. + +Physic and chirurgery for a lover: + + Gently, ah gently, madam, touch + The wound, which you yourself have made; + That pain must needs be very much + Which makes me of your hand afraid. + Cordials of pity give me now, + For I too weak of purgings grow.—COWLEY. + +The world and a clock + + Mahol th’ inferior world’s fantastic face + Through all the turns of matter’s maze did trace; + Great Nature’s well-set clock in pieces took; + On all the springs and smallest wheels did look + Of life and motion, and with equal art + Made up the whole again of every part.—COWLEY. + +A coal-pit has not often found its poet; but, that it may not want its +due honour, Cleveland has paralleled it with the sun: + + The moderate value of our guiltless ore + Makes no man atheist, and no woman whore; + Yet why should hallow’d vestal’s sacred shrine + Deserve more honour than a flaming mine? + These pregnant wombs of heat would fitter be, + Than a few embers, for a deity. + Had he our pits, the Persian would admire + No sun, but warm’s devotion at our fire: + He’d leave the trotting whipster, and prefer + Our profound Vulcan ’bove that waggoner. + For wants he heat, or light? or would have store + Of both? ’tis here: and what can suns give more? + Nay, what’s the sun but, in a different name, + A coal-pit rampant, or a mine on flame? + Then let this truth reciprocally run, + The sun’s heaven’s coalery, and coals our sun. + +Death, a voyage: + + No family + E’er rigg’d a soul for Heaven’s discovery, + With whom more venturers might boldly dare + Venture their stakes with him in joy to share.—DONNE. + +Their thoughts and expressions were sometimes grossly absurd, and such as +no figures or licence can reconcile to the understanding. + +A lover neither dead nor alive: + + Then down I laid my head + Down on cold earth; and for a while was dead, + And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled. + + Ah, sottish soul, said I, + When back to its cage again I saw it fly; + Fool to resume her broken chain, + And row her galley here again! + Fool, to that body to return + Where it condemned and destined is to burn! + Once dead, how can it be, + Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee, + That thou should’st come to live it o’er again in me?—COWLEY. + +A lover’s heart, a hand grenado: + + Woe to her stubborn heart, if once mine come + Into the self same room; + ’Twill tear and blow up all within, + Like a grenade shot into a magazine. + Then shall Love keep the ashes and torn parts, + Of both our broken hearts; + Shalt out of both one new one make; + From hers th’ allay, from mine the metal take.—COWLEY. + +The poetical propagation of light: + + The prince’s favour is diffused o’er all, + From which all fortunes names, and natures fall: + Then from those wombs of stars, the Bride’s bright eyes, + At every glance a constellation flies, + And sows the court with stars, and doth prevent + In light and power, the all-ey’d firmament: + First her eye kindles other ladies’ eyes, + Then from their beams their jewels’ lustres rise; + And from their jewels torches do take fire, + And all is warmth, and light, and good desire.—DONNE. + +They were in very little care to clothe their notions with elegance of +dress, and therefore miss the notice and the praise which are often +gained by those who think less, but are more diligent to adorn their +thoughts. + +That a mistress beloved is fairer in idea than in reality is by Cowley +thus expressed: + + Thou in my fancy dost much higher stand + Than woman can be placed by Nature’s hand; + And I must needs, I’m sure, a loser be, + To change thee as thou’rt there, for very thee. + +That prayer and labour should co-operate are thus taught by Donne: + + In none but us are such mix’d engines found, + As hands of double office; for the ground + We till with them; and them to heaven we raise + Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays, + Doth but one half, that’s none. + +By the same author, a common topic, the danger of procrastination, is +thus illustrated: + + That which I should have begun + In my youth’s morning, now late must be done; + And I, as giddy travellers must do, + Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost + Light and strength, dark and tired, must then ride post. + +All that man has to do is to live and die; the sum of humanity is +comprehended by Donne in the following lines: + + Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie + After enabled but to suck and cry. + Think, when ’twas grown to most, ’twas a poor inn, + A province pack’d up in two yards of skin, + And that usurp’d, or threaten’d with a rage + Of sicknesses or their true mother, age. + But think that death hath now enfranchised thee; + Thou hast thy expansion now, and liberty; + Think, that a rusty piece discharged is flown + In pieces, and the bullet is his own, + And freely flies: this to thy soul allow, + Think thy shell broke, think thy soul hatch’d but now. + +They were sometimes indelicate and disgusting. Cowley thus apostrophises +beauty: + + Thou tyrant which leav’st no man free! + Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be! + Thou murtherer, which has kill’d, and devil, which would’st damn me! + +Thus he addresses his mistress: + + Thou who, in many a propriety, + So truly art the sun to me, + Add one more likeness, which I’m sure you can, + And let me and my sun beget a man. + +Thus he represents the meditations of a lover: + + Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracts have been + So much as of original sin, + Such charms thy beauty wears, as might + Desires in dying confest saints excite. + Thou with strange adultery + Dost in each breast a brothel keep; + Awake all men do lust for thee, + And some enjoy thee when they sleep. + +The true taste of tears: + + Hither with crystal vials, lovers, come, + And take my tears, which are love’s wine, + And try your mistress’ tears at home; + For all are false, that taste not just like mine.—DONNE. + +This is yet more indelicate: + + As the sweet sweat of roses in a still, + As that which from chas’d musk-cat’s pores doth trill, + As th’ almighty balm of th’ early east; + Such are the sweet drops of my mistress’ breast. + And on her neck her skin such lustre sets, + They seem no sweat drops, but pearl coronets: + Rank, sweaty froth thy mistress’ brow defiles.—DONNE. + +Their expressions sometimes raise horror, when they intend perhaps to be +pathetic: + + As men in hell are from diseases free, + So from all other ills am I, + Free from their known formality: + But all pains eminently lie in thee.—COWLEY. + +They were not always strictly curious, whether the opinions from which +they drew their illustrations were true; it was enough that they were +popular. Bacon remarks, that some falsehoods are continued by tradition, +because they supply commodious allusions. + + It gave a piteous groan, and so it broke: + In vain it something would have spoke; + The love within too strong for’t was, + Like poison put into a Venice-glass.—COWLEY. + +In forming descriptions, they looked out not for images, but for +conceits. Night has been a common subject, which poets have contended to +adorn. Dryden’s Night is well known; Donne’s is as follows: + + Thou seest me here at midnight, now all rest: + Time’s dead low-water; when all minds divest + To-morrow’s business; when the labourers have + Such rest in bed, that their last church-yard grave, + Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this; + Now when the client, whose last hearing is + To-morrow, sleeps; when the condemned man, + Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them the + Again by death, although sad watch he keep; + Doth practise dying by a little sleep: + Thou at this midnight seest me. + +It must be, however, confessed of these writers, that if they are upon +common subjects often unnecessarily and unpoetically subtle; yet, where +scholastic speculation can be properly admitted, their copiousness and +acuteness may justly be admired. What Cowley has written upon Hope shows +an unequalled fertility of invention: + + Hops, whose weak being mind is, + Alike if it succeed and if it miss; + Whom good or ill does equally confound, + And both the horns of fate’s dilemma wound; + Vain shadow! which dust vanish quite, + Both at full noon and perfect night! + The stars have not a possibility + Of blessing thee; + If things then from their end we happy call + ’Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all. + Hope, thou bold tester of delight, + Who, whilst thou shouldst but taste, devour’st it quite! + Thou bring’st us an estate, yet leav’st us poor + By clogging it with legacies before! + The joys, which we entire should wed, + Come deflowr’d virgins to our bed; + Good fortunes without gain imported be, + Such mighty custom’s paid to thee: + For joy, like wine kept close, does better taste + If it take air before its spirits waste. + +To the following comparison of a man that travels, and his wife that +stays at home, with a pair of compasses, it may be doubted whether +absurdity or ingenuity has the better claim: + + Our two souls, therefore, which are one, + Though I must go, endure not yet + A breach, but an expansion, + Like gold to airy thinness beat. + If they be two, they are two so + As stiff twin compasses are two; + Thy soul, the fix’d foot, makes no show + To move, but doth if th’ other do. + And, though it in the centre sit, + Yet, when the other far doth roam, + It leans and hearkens after it, + And grows erect as that comes home. + Such wilt thou be to me, who must + Like th’ other foot obliquely run. + Thy firmness makes my circle just, + And makes me end where I begun.—DONNE. + +In all these examples it is apparent, that whatever is improper or +vicious, is produced by a voluntary deviation from nature in pursuit of +something new and strange; and that the writers fail to give delight, by +their desire of exciting admiration. + +Having thus endeavoured to exhibit a general representation of the style +and sentiments of the metaphysical poets, it is now proper to examine +particularly the works of Cowley, who was almost the last of that race, +and undoubtedly the best. + +His Miscellanies contain a collection of short compositions, written some +as they were dictated by a mind at leisure, and some as they were called +forth by different occasions; with great variety of style and sentiment, +from burlesque levity to awful grandeur. Such an assemblage of +diversified excellence no other poet has hitherto afforded. To choose +the best, among many good, is one of the most hazardous attempts of +criticism. I know not whether Scaliger himself has persuaded many +readers to join with him in his preference of the two favourite odes, +which he estimates in his raptures at the value of a kingdom. I will, +however, venture to recommend Cowley’s first piece, which ought to be +inscribed “To my Muse,” for want of which the second couplet is without +reference. When the title is added, there wills till remain a defect; +for every piece ought to contain in itself whatever is necessary to make +it intelligible. Pope has some epitaphs without names; which are +therefore epitaphs to be let, occupied indeed for the present, but hardly +appropriated. + +The “Ode on Wit” is almost without a rival. It was about the time of +Cowley that _wit_, which had been till then used for _intellection_, in +contradistinction to _will_, took the meaning, whatever it be, which it +now bears. + +Of all the passages in which poets have exemplified their own precepts, +none will easily be found of greater excellence than that in which Cowley +condemns exuberance of wit:— + + Yet ’tis not to adorn and gild each part, + That shows more cost than art. + Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear; + Rather than all things wit, let none be there. + Several lights will not be seen, + If there be nothing else between. + Men doubt, because they stand so thick i’ th’ sky, + If those be stars which paint the galaxy. + +In his verses to Lord Falkland, whom every man of his time was proud to +praise, there are, as there must be in all Cowley’s compositions, some +striking thoughts, but they are not well wrought. His “Elegy on Sir +Henry Wotton” is vigorous and happy; the series of thoughts is easy and +natural; and the conclusion, though a little weakened by the intrusion of +Alexander, is elegant and forcible. + +It may be remarked, that in this elegy, and in most of his encomiastic +poems, he has forgotten or neglected to name his heroes. + +In his poem on the death of Hervey, there is much praise, but little +passion; a very just and ample delineation of such virtues as a studious +privacy admits, and such intellectual excellence as a mind not yet called +forth to action can display. He knew how to distinguish, and how to +commend, the qualities of his companion; but, when he wishes to make us +weep, he forgets to weep himself, and diverts his sorrow by imagining how +his crown of bays, if he had it, would crackle in the fire. It is the +odd fate of this thought to be the worse for being true. The bay-leaf +crackles remarkably as it burns; as therefore this property was not +assigned it by chance, the mind must be thought sufficiently at ease that +could attend to such minuteness of physiology. But the power of Cowley +is not so much to move the affections, as to exercise the understanding. + +The “Chronicle” is a composition unrivalled and alone: such gaiety of +fancy, such facility of expression, such varied similitude, such a +succession of images, and such a dance of words, it is in vain to expect +except from Cowley. His strength always appears in his agility; his +volatility is not the flutter of a light, but the bound of an elastic +mind. His levity never leaves his learning behind it; the moralist, the +politician, and the critic, mingle their influence even in this airy +frolic of genius. To such a performance Suckling could have brought the +gaiety, but not the knowledge; Dryden could have supplied the knowledge, +but not the gaiety. + +The verses to Davenant, which are vigorously begun, and happily +concluded, contain some hints of criticism very justly conceived and +happily expressed. Cowley’s critical abilities have not been +sufficiently observed: the few decisions and remarks, which his prefaces +and his notes on the “Davideis” supply, were at that time accessions to +English literature, and show such skill as raises our wish for more +examples. + +The lines from Jersey are a very curious and pleasing specimen of the +familiar descending to the burlesque. + +His two metrical disquisitions _for_ and _against_ Reason are no mean +specimens of metaphysical poetry. The stanzas against knowledge produce +little conviction. In those which are intended to exalt the human +faculties, Reason has its proper task assigned it; that of judging, not +of things revealed, but of the reality of revelation. In the verses +_for_ Reason is a passage which Bentley, in the only English verses which +he is known to have written, seems to have copied, though with the +inferiority of an imitator. + + The Holy Book like the eighth sphere doth shine + With thousand lights of truth divine, + So numberless the stars, that to our eye + It makes all but one galaxy. + Yet Reason must assist too; for, in seas + So vast and dangerous as these, + Our course by stars above we cannot know + Without the compass too below. + +After this says Bentley: + + Who travels in religious jars, + Truth mix’d with error, shade with rays + Like Whiston wanting pyx or stars, + In ocean wide or sinks or strays. + +Cowley seems to have had what Milton is believed to have wanted, the +skill to rate his own performances by their just value, and has therefore +closed his Miscellanies with the verses upon Crashaw, which apparently +excel all that have gone before them, and in which there are beauties +which common authors may justly think not only above their attainment, +but above their ambition. + +To the Miscellanies succeed the Anacreontics, or paraphrastical +translations of some little poems, which pass, however justly, under the +name of Anacreon. Of those songs dedicated to festivity and gaiety, in +which even the morality is voluptuous, and which teach nothing but the +enjoyment of the present day, he has given rather a pleasing than a +faithful representation, having retained their sprightliness, but lost +their simplicity. The Anacreon of Cowley, like the Homer of Pope, has +admitted the decoration of some modern graces, by which he is undoubtedly +made more amiable to common readers, and perhaps, if they would honestly +declare their own perceptions, to far the greater part of those whom +courtesy and ignorance are content to style the learned. + +These little pieces will be found more finished in their kind than any +other of Cowley’s works. The diction shows nothing of the mould of time, +and the sentiments are at no great distance from our present habitudes of +thought. Real mirth must always be natural, and nature is uniform. Men +have been wise in very different modes; but they have always laughed the +same way. + +Levity of thought naturally produces familiarity of language, and the +familiar part of language continues long the same; the dialogue of comedy +when it is transcribed from popular manners and real life, is read from +age to age with equal pleasure. The artifices of inversion by which the +established order of words is changed, or of innovation, by which new +words, or new meanings of words, are introduced, is practised, not by +those who talk to be understood, but by those who write to be admired. + +The Anacreontics, therefore, of Cowley, give now all the pleasure which +they ever gave. If he was formed by nature for one kind of writing more +than for another, his power seems to have been greatest in the familiar +and the festive. + +The next class of his poems is called “The Mistress,” of which it is not +necessary to select any particular pieces for praise or censure. They +have all the same beauties and faults, and nearly in the same proportion. +They are written with exuberance of wit, and with copiousness of +learning; and it is truly asserted by Sprat, that the plenitude of the +writer’s knowledge flows in upon his page, so that the reader is commonly +surprised into some improvement. But, considered as the verses of a +lover, no man that has ever loved will much commend them. They are +neither courtly nor pathetic, have neither gallantry nor fondness. His +praises are too far sought, and too hyperbolical, either to express love, +or to excite it; every stanza is crowded with darts and flames, with +wounds and death, with mingled souls and with broken hearts. + +The principal artifice by which “The Mistress” is filled with conceits is +very copiously displayed by Addison. Love is by Cowley, as by other +poets, expressed metaphorically by flame and fire; and that which is true +of real fire is said of love, or figurative fire, the same word in the +same sentence retaining both significations. Thus “observing the cold +regard of his mistress’s eyes, and at the same time their power of +producing love in him, he considers them as burning-glasses made of ice. +Finding himself able to live in the greatest extremities of love, he +concludes the torrid zone to be habitable. Upon the dying of a tree, on +which he had cut his loves, he observes that his flames had burnt up and +withered the tree.” + +These conceits Addison calls mixed wit; that is, wit which consists of +thoughts true in one sense of the expression, and false in the other. +Addison’s representation is sufficiently indulgent: that confusion of +images may entertain for a moment; but being unnatural it soon grows +wearisome. Cowley delighted in it, as much as if he had invented it; +but, not to mention the ancients, he might have found it full-blown in +modern Italy. Thus Sannazaro: + + Aspice quam variis distringar Lesbia curis! + Uror, et heu! nostro manat ab igne liquor: + Sum Nilus, sumque Ætna simul; restringite flammas + O lacrimæ, aut lacrimas ebibe flamma meas. + +One of the severe theologians of that time censured him as having +published a book of profane and lascivious verses. From the charge of +profaneness, the constant tenor of his life, which seems to have been +eminently virtuous, and the general tendency of his opinions, which +discover no irreverence of religion, must defend him; but that the +accusation of lasciviousness is unjust, the perusal of his works will +sufficiently evince. + +Cowley’s “Mistress” has no power of seduction: she “plays round the head, +but comes not at the heart.” Her beauty and absence, her kindness and +cruelty, her disdain and inconstancy, produce no correspondence of +emotion. His poetical accounts of the virtues of plants, and colours of +flowers, is not perused with more sluggish frigidity. The compositions +are such as might have been written for penance by a hermit, or for hire +by a philosophical rhymer who had only heard of another sex; for they +turn the mind only on the writer, whom, without thinking on a woman but +as the subject for his task, we sometimes esteem as learned, and +sometimes despise as trifling, always admire as ingenious, and always +condemn as unnatural. + +The Pindaric Odes are now to be considered; a species of composition, +which Cowley thinks Pancirolus might have counted in his list of the lost +inventions of antiquity, and which he has made a bold and vigorous +attempt to recover. + +The purpose with which he has paraphrased an Olympic and Nemæan Ode is by +himself sufficiently explained. His endeavour was, not to show precisely +what Pindar spoke, but his manner of speaking. He was therefore not at +all restrained to his expressions, nor much to his sentiments; nothing +was required of him, but not to write as Pindar would not have written. + +Of the Olympic Ode the beginning is, I think, above the original in +elegance, and the conclusion below it in strength. The connection is +supplied with great perspicuity; and the thoughts, which to a reader of +less skill seem thrown together by chance, are concatenated without any +abruption. Though the English ode cannot be called a translation, it may +be very properly consulted as a commentary. + +The spirit of Pindar is indeed not everywhere equally preserved. The +following pretty lines are not such as his “deep mouth” was used to pour: + + Great Rhea’s son, + If in Olympus’ top, where thou + Sitt’st to behold thy sacred show, + If in Alpheus’ silver flight, + If in my verse thou take delight, + My verse, great Rhea’s son, which is + Lofty as that and smooth as this. + +In the Nemæan Ode, the reader must, in mere justice to Pindar, observe, +whatever is said of the original new moon, her tender forehead and her +horns, is superadded by his paraphrast, who has many other plays of words +and fancy unsuitable to the original, as, + + The table, free for ev’ry guest, + No doubt will thee admit, + And feast more upon thee, than thou on it + +He sometimes extends his author’s thoughts without improving them. In +the Olympionic an oath is mentioned in a single word, and Cowley spends +three lines in swearing by the Castalian Stream. We are told of Theron’s +bounty, with a hint that he had enemies, which Cowley thus enlarges in +rhyming prose: + + But in this thankless world the giver + Is envied even by the receiver; + ’Tis now the cheap and frugal fashion + Rather to hide than own the obligation: + Nay, ’tis much worse than so; + It now an artifice does grow + Wrongs and injuries to do, + Lest men should think we owe. + +It is hard to conceive that a man of the first rank in learning and wit, +when he was dealing out such minute morality in such feeble diction, +could imagine, either waking or dreaming, that he imitated Pindar. + +In the following odes, where Cowley chooses his own subjects, he +sometimes rises to dignity truly Pindaric; and, if some deficiencies of +language be forgiven, his strains are such as those of the Theban bard +were to his contemporaries: + + Begin the song, and strike the living lyre: + Lo how the years to come, a numerous and well-fitted quire, + All hand in hand do decently advance, + And to my song with smooth and equal measure dance; + While the dance lasts, how long soe’er it be, + My music’s voice shall bear it company; + Till all gentle notes be drown’d + In the last trumpet’s dreadful sound. + +After such enthusiasm, who will not lament to find the poet conclude with +lines like these: + + But stop, my Muse— + Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus closely in, + Which does to rage begin— + —’Tis an unruly and hard-mouth’d horse— + ’Twill no unskilful touch endure, + But flings writer and reader too that sits not sure. + +The fault of Cowley, and perhaps of all the writers of the metaphysical +race, is that of pursuing his thoughts to their last ramifications, by +which he loses the grandeur of generality; for of the greatest things the +parts are little; what is little can be but pretty, and by claiming +dignity becomes ridiculous. Thus all the power of description is +destroyed by a scrupulous enumeration, and the force of metaphors is +lost, when the mind by the mention of particulars is turned more upon the +original than the secondary sense, more upon that from which the +illustration is drawn than that to which it is applied. + +Of this we have a very eminent example in the ode entitled the “Muse,” +who goes to “take the air” in an intellectual chariot, to which he +harnesses Fancy and Judgment, Wit and Eloquence, Memory and Invention; +how he distinguished Wit from Fancy, or how Memory could properly +contribute to Motion, he has not explained: we are however content to +suppose that he could have justified his own fiction, and wish to see the +Muse begin her career; but there is yet more to be done. + + Let the _postillion_ Nature mount, and let + The _coachman_ Art be set; + And let the airy _footmen_, running all beside, + Make a long row of goodly pride; + Figures, conceits, raptures, and sentences, + In a well-worded dress, + And innocent loves, and pleasant truths, and useful lies, + In all their gaudy _liveries_. + +Every mind is now disgusted with this cumber of magnificence; yet I +cannot refuse myself the four next lines: + + Mount, glorious queen, thy travelling throne, + And bid it to put on; + For long though cheerful is the way, + And life, alas! allows but one ill winter’s day. + +In the same ode, celebrating the power of the Muse, he gives her +prescience, or, in poetical language, the foresight of events hatching in +futurity; but, once having an egg in his mind, he cannot forbear to show +us that he knows what an egg contains: + + Thou into the close nests of Time dost peep, + And there with piercing eye + Through the firm shell and the thick white float spy + Years to come a-forming lie, + Close in their sacred fecundine asleep. + +The same thought is more generally, and therefore more poetically +expressed by Casimir, a writer who has many of the beauties and faults of +Cowley: + + Omnibus mundi Dominator horis + Aptat urgendas per inane pennas, + Pars adhuc nido latet, et futuros + Crescit in annos. + +Cowley, whatever was his subject, seems to have been carried, by a kind +of destiny, to the light and the familiar, or to conceits which require +still more ignoble epithets. A slaughter in the Red Sea “new dyes the +water’s name;” and England, during the Civil War, was “Albion no more, +nor to be named from white.” It is surely by some fascination not easily +surmounted, that a writer, professing to revive “the noblest and highest +writing in verse,” makes this address to the new year: + + Nay, if thou lov’st me, gentle year, + Let not so much as love be there, + Vain, fruitless love I mean; for, gentle year, + Although I fear + There’s of this caution little need, + Yet, gentle year, take heed + How thou dost make + Such a mistake; + Such love I mean alone + As by thy cruel predecessors has been shown: + For, though I have too much cause to doubt it, + I fain would try, for once, if life can live without it. + +The reader of this will be inclined to cry out with Prior— + + Ye critics, say, + How poor to this was Pindar’s style! + +Even those who cannot perhaps find in the Isthmian or Nemæan songs what +Antiquity what disposed them to expect, will at least see that they are +ill represented by such puny poetry; and all will determine that, if this +be the old Theban strain, it is not worthy of revival. + +To the disproportion and incongruity of Cowley’s sentiments must be added +the uncertainty and looseness of his measures. He takes the liberty of +using in any place a verse of any length, from two syllables to twelve. +The verses of Pindar have, as he observes, very little harmony to a +modern ear; yet by examining the syllables we perceive them to be +regular, and have reason enough for supposing that the ancient audiences +were delighted with the sound. The imitator ought therefore to have +adopted what he found, and to have added what was wanting; to have +preserved a constant return of the same numbers, and to have supplied +smoothness of transition and continuity of thought. + +It is urged by Dr. Sprat, that the “irregularity of numbers is the very +thing” which makes “that kind of poesy fit for all manner of subjects.” +But he should have remembered, that what is fit for everything can fit +nothing well. The great pleasure of verse arises from the known measure +of the lines, and uniform structure of the stanzas, by which the voice is +regulated, and the memory relieved. + +If the Pindaric style be, what Cowley thinks it, “the highest and noblest +kind of writing in verse,” it can be adapted only to high and noble +subjects; and it will not be easy to reconcile the poet with the critic, +or to conceive how that can be the highest kind of writing in verse +which, according to Sprat, “is chiefly to be preferred for its near +affinity to prose.” + +This lax and lawless versification so much concealed the deficiencies of +the barren, and flattered the laziness of the idle, that it immediately +overspread our books of poetry; all the boys and girls caught the +pleasing fashion, and they that could do nothing else could write like +Pindar. The rights of antiquity were invaded, and disorder tried to +break into the Latin: a poem on the Sheldonian Theatre, in which all +kinds of verse are shaken together, is unhappily inserted in the “Musæ +Anglicanæ.” Pindarism prevailed about half a century; but at last died +gradually away, and other imitations supply its place. + +The Pindaric Odes have so long enjoyed the highest degree of poetical +reputation, that I am not willing to dismiss them with unabated censure; +and surely though the mode of their composition be erroneous, yet many +parts deserve at least that admiration which is due to great +comprehension of knowledge, and great fertility of fancy. The thoughts +are often new, and often striking; but the greatness of one part is +disgraced by the littleness of another; and total negligence of language +gives the noblest conceptions the appearance of a fabric august in the +plan, but mean in the materials. Yet surely those verses are not without +a just claim to praise; of which it may be said with truth, that no man +but Cowley could have written them. + +The “Davideis” now remains to be considered; a poem which the author +designed to have extended to twelve books, merely, as he makes no scruple +of declaring, because the “Æneid” had that number; but he had leisure or +perseverance only to write the third part. Epic poems have been left +unfinished by Virgil, Statius, Spenser, and Cowley. That we have not the +whole “Davideis” is, however, not much to be regretted; for in this +undertaking Cowley is, tacitly at least, confessed to have miscarried. +There are not many examples of so great a work produced by an author +generally read, and generally praised, that has crept through a century +with so little regard. Whatever is said of Cowley, is meant of his other +works. Of the “Davideis” no mention is made; it never appears in books, +nor emerges in conversation. By the “Spectator” it has been once quoted; +by Rymer it has once been praised; and by Dryden, in “Mac Flecknoe,” it +has once been imitated; nor do I recollect much other notice from its +publication till now in the whole succession of English literature. + +Of this silence and neglect, if the reason be inquired, it will be found +partly in the choice of the subject, and partly in the performance of the +work. + +Sacred history has been always read with submissive reverence, and an +imagination overawed and controlled. We have been accustomed to +acquiesce in the nakedness and simplicity of the authentic narrative, and +to repose on its veracity with such humble confidence as suppresses +curiosity. We go with the historian as he goes, and stop with him when +he stops. All amplification is frivolous and vain; all addition to that +which is already sufficient for the purposes of religion seems not only +useless, but in some degree profane. + +Such events as were produced by the visible interposition of Divine Power +are above the power of human genius to dignify. The miracle of creation, +however it may teem with images, is best described with little diffusion +of language: “He spake the word, and they were made.” + +We are told that Saul “was troubled with an evil spirit;” from this +Cowley takes an opportunity of describing hell, and telling the history +of Lucifer, who was, he says, + + Once general of a gilded host of sprites, + Like Hesper leading forth the spangled nights; + But down like lightning, which him struck, he came + And roar’d at his first plunge into the flame. + +Lucifer makes a speech to the inferior agents of mischief, in which there +is something of heathenism, and therefore of impropriety; and, to give +efficacy to his words, concludes by lashing his breast with his long +tail: Envy, after a pause, steps out, and among other declarations of her +zeal utters these lines: + + Do thou but threat, loud storms shall make reply, + And thunder echo to the trembling sky; + Whilst raging seas swell to so bold an height, + As shall the fire’s proud element affright, + Th’ old drudging sun, from his long-beaten way, + Shall at thy voice start, and misguide the day. + The jocund orbs shall break their measured pace, + And stubborn poles change their allotted place. + Heaven’s gilded troops shall flutter here and there, + Leaving their boasting songs tuned to a sphere. + +Every reader feels himself weary with this useless talk of an allegorical +being. + +It is not only when the events are confessedly miraculous, that fancy and +fiction lose their effect; the whole system of life, while the theocracy +was yet visible, has an appearance so different from all other scenes of +human action, that the reader of the sacred volume habitually considers +it as the peculiar mode of existence of a distinct species of mankind, +that lived and acted with manners uncommunicable; so that it is difficult +even for imagination to place us in the state of them whose story is +related, and by consequence their joys and griefs are not easily adopted, +nor can the attention be often interested in anything that befalls them. + +To the subject thus originally indisposed to the reception of poetical +embellishments, the writer brought little that could reconcile +impatience, or attract curiosity. Nothing can be more disgusting than a +narrative spangled with conceits; and conceits are all that the +“Davideis” supplies. + +One of the great sources of poetical delight is description, or the power +of presenting pictures to the mind. Cowley gives inferences instead of +images, and shows not what may be supposed to have been seen, but what +thoughts the sight might have suggested. When Virgil describes the stone +which Turnus lifted against Æneas, he fixes the attention on its bulk and +weight: + + Saxum circumspicit ingens, + Saxum antiquum, ingens, campo quod forte jacebat + Limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis. + +Cowley says of the stone with which Cain slew his brother, + + I saw him fling the stone, as if he meant + At once his murther and his monument. + +Of the sword taken from Goliath, he says, + + A sword so great, that it was only fit + To cut off his great head that came with it. + +Other poets describe Death by some of its common appearances. Cowley +says, with a learned allusion to sepulchral lamps real or fabulous, + + ’Twixt his right ribs deep pierced the furious blade, + And open’d wide those secret vessels where + Life’s light goes out, when first they let in air. + +But he has allusions vulgar as well as learned in a visionary succession +of kings: + + Joas at first does bright and glorious show, + In life’s fresh morn his fame does early crow. + +Describing an undisciplined army, after having said with elegance, + + His forces seem’d no army, but a crowd + Heartless, unarm’d, disorderly, and loud, + +he gives them a fit of the ague. + +The allusions, however, are not always to vulgar things; he offends by +exaggeration as much as by diminution: + + The king was placed alone, and o’er his head + A well-wrought heaven of silk and gold was spread. + +Whatever he writes is always polluted with some conceit: + + Where the sun’s fruitful beams give metals birth, + Where he the growth of fatal gold does see, + Gold, which alone more influence has than he. + +In one passage he starts a sudden question to the confusion of +philosophy: + + Ye learned heads, whom ivy garlands grace, + Why does that twining plant the oak embrace; + The oak for courtship most of all unfit, + And rough as are the winds that fight with it? + +His expressions have sometimes a degree of meanness that surpasses +expectation: + + Nay, gentle guests, he cries, since now you’re in, + The story of your gallant friend begin. + +In a simile descriptive of the morning: + + As glimmering stars just at th’ approach of day, + Cashier’d by troops, at last all drop away. + +The dress of Gabriel deserves attention: + + He took for skin a cloud most soft and bright, + That e’er the mid-day sun pierced through with light; + Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread, + Wash’d from the morning beauties’ deepest red: + An harmless flatt’ring meteor shone for hair, + And fell adown his shoulders with loose care; + He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies, + Where the most sprightly azure pleased the eyes; + This he with starry vapours sprinkles all, + Took in their prime ere they grow ripe and fall; + Of a new rainbow ere it fret or fade, + The choicest piece cut out, a scarf is made. + +This is a just specimen of Cowley’s imagery; what might in general +expressions be great and forcible, he weakens and makes ridiculous by +branching it into small parts. That Gabriel was invested with the +softest or brightest colours of the sky, we might have been told, and +been dismissed to improve the idea in our different proportions of +conception; but Cowley could not let us go till he had related where +Gabriel got first his skin, and then his mantle, then his lace, and then +his scarf, and related it in the terms of the mercer and tailor. + +Sometimes he indulges himself in a digression, always conceived with his +natural exuberance, and commonly, even where it is not long, continued +till it is tedious: + + I’ th’ library a few choice authors stood, + Yet ’twas well stored, for that small store was good; + Writing, man’s spiritual physic, was not then + Itself, as now, grown a disease of men. + Learning (young virgin) but few suitors knew; + The common prostitute she lately grew, + And with the spurious brood loads now the press; + Laborious effects of idleness. + +As the “Davideis” affords only four books, though intended to consist of +twelve, there is no opportunity for such criticism as Epic poems commonly +supply. The plan of the whole work is very imperfectly shown by the +third part. The duration of an unfinished action cannot be known. Of +characters either not yet introduced, or shown but upon few occasions, +the full extent and the nice discriminations cannot be ascertained. The +fable is plainly implex, formed rather from the “Odyssey” than the +“Iliad;” and many artifices of diversification are employed, with the +skill of a man acquainted with the beet models. The past is recalled by +narration, and the future anticipated by vision: but he has been so +lavish of his poetical art, that it is difficult to imagine how he could +fill eight books more without practising again the same modes of +disposing his matter; and perhaps the perception of this growing +incumbrance inclined him to stop. By this abruption, posterity lost more +instruction than delight. If the continuation of the “Davideis” can be +missed, it is for the learning that had been diffused over it, and the +notes in which it had been explained. + +Had not his characters been depraved like every other part by improper +decorations, they would have deserved uncommon praise. He gives Saul +both the body and mind of a hero: + + His way once chose, he forward threat outright. + Nor turned aside for danger or delight. + +And the different beauties of the lofty Merah and the gentle Michal are +very justly conceived and strongly painted. + +Rymer has declared the “Davideis” superior to the “Jerusalem” of Tasso, +“which,” says he, “the poet, with all his care, has not totally purged +from pedantry.” If by pedantry is meant that minute knowledge which is +derived from particular sciences and studies, in opposition to the +general notions supplied by a wide survey of life and nature, Cowley +certainly errs, by introducing pedantry, far more frequently than Tasso. +I know not, indeed, why they should be compared; for the resemblance of +Cowley’s work to Tasso’s is only that they both exhibit the agency of +celestial and infernal spirits, in which, however, they differ widely; +for Cowley supposes them commonly to operate upon the mind by suggestion; +Tasso represents them as promoting or obstructing events by external +agency. + +Of particular passages that can be properly compared, I remember only the +description of Heaven, in which the different manner of the two writers +is sufficiently discernible. Cowley’s is scarcely description, unless it +be possible to describe by negatives; for he tells us only what there is +not in heaven. Tasso endeavours to represent the splendours and +pleasures of the regions of happiness. Tasso affords images, and Cowley +sentiments. It happens, however, that Tasso’s description affords some +reason for Rymer’s censure. He says of the Supreme Being: + + Hà sotto i piedi e fato e la natura + Ministri humili, e’l moto, e ch’il misura. + +The second line has in it more of pedantry than perhaps can be found in +any other stanza of the poem. + +In the perusal of the “Davideis,” as of all Cowley’s works, we find wit +and learning unprofitably squandered. Attention has no relief; the +affections are never moved; we are sometimes surprised, but never +delighted; and find much to admire, but little to approve. Still, +however, it is the work of Cowley, of a mind capacious by nature, and +replenished by study. + +In the general review of Cowley’s poetry it will be found that he wrote +with abundant fertility, but negligent or unskilful selection; with much +thought, but with little imagery; that he is never pathetic, and rarely +sublime; but always either ingenious or learned, either acute or +profound. + +It is said by Denham in his elegy, + + To him no author was unknown, + Yet what he writ was all his own. + +This wide position requires less limitation, when it is affirmed of +Cowley, than perhaps of any other poet.—He read much, and yet borrowed +little. + +His character of writing was indeed not his own; he unhappily adopted +that which was predominant. He saw a certain way to present praise; and, +not sufficiently inquiring by what means the ancients have continued to +delight through all the changes of human manners, he contented himself +with a deciduous laurel, of which the verdure in its spring was bright +and gay, but which time has been continually stealing from his brows. + +He was in his own time considered as of unrivalled excellence. Clarendon +represents him as having taken a flight beyond all that went before him; +and Milton is said to have declared that the three greatest English poets +were Spenser, Shakespeare, and Cowley. + +His manner he had in common with others; but his sentiments were his own. +Upon every subject he thought for himself; and such was his copiousness +of knowledge, that something at once remote and applicable rushed into +his mind; yet it is not likely that he always rejected a commodious idea +merely because another had used it: his known wealth was so great that be +might have borrowed without loss of credit, in his elegy on Sir Henry +Wotton, the last lines have such resemblance to the noble epigram of +Grotius on the death of Scaliger, that I cannot but think them copied +from it, though they are copied by no servile hand. + +One passage in his “Mistress” is so apparently borrowed from Donne, that +he probably would not have written it had it not mingled with his own +thoughts, so as that he did not perceive himself taking it from another: + + Although I think thou never found wilt be, + Yet I’m resolved to search for thee; + The search itself rewards the pains. + So, though the chymic his great secret miss + (For neither it in Art or Nature is), + Yet things well worth his toil he gains: + And does his charge and labour pay + With good unsought experiments by the way.—COWLEY. + + Some that have deeper digg’d Love’s mine than I, + Say, where his centric happiness doth lie: + I have loved, and got, and told; + But should I love, get, tell, till I were old, + I should not find that hidden mystery; + Oh, ’tis imposture all! + And as no chymic yet th’ elixir got, + But glorifies his pregnant pot, + If by the way to him befal + Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal, + So lovers dream a rich and long delight, + But get a winter-seeming summer’s night. + +Jonson and Donne, as Dr. Hurd remarks, were then in the highest esteem. + +It is related by Clarendon, that Cowley always acknowledged his +obligation to the learning and industry of Jonson: but I have found no +traces of Jonson in his works: to emulate Donne appears to have been his +purpose.; and from Donne ~he may have learnt that familiarity with +religious images, and that light allusion to sacred things, by which +readers far short of sanctity are frequently offended; and which would +not be borne in the present age, when devotion, perhaps not more fervent, +is more delicate. + +Having produced one passage taken by Cowley from Donne, I will recompense +him by another which Milton seems to have borrowed from him. He says of +Goliath: + + His spear, the trunk was of a lofty tree, + Which Nature meant some tall ship’s mast should be. + +Milton of Satan: + + His spear, to equal which the tallest pine + Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast + Of some great ammiral, were but a wand, + He walked with. + +His diction was in his own time censured as negligent. He seems not to +have known, or not to have considered, that words being arbitrary must +owe their power to association, and have the influence, and that only, +which custom has given them. Language is the dress of thought; and as +the noblest mien, or most graceful action, would be degraded and obscured +by a garb appropriated to the gross employments of rustics or mechanics; +so the most heroic sentiments will lose their efficacy, and the most +splendid ideas drop their magnificence, if they are conveyed by words +used commonly upon low and trivial occasions, debased by vulgar mouths, +and contaminated by inelegant applications. + +Truth indeed is always truth, and reason is always reason; they have an +intrinsic and unalterable value, and constitute that intellectual gold +which defies destruction; but gold may be so concealed in baser matter, +that only a chemist can recover it; sense may be so hidden in unrefined +and plebeian words, that none but philosophers can distinguish it; and +both may be so buried in impurities, as not to pay the cost of their +extraction. + +The diction, being the vehicle of the thoughts, first presents itself to +the intellectual eye; and if the first appearance offends, a further +knowledge is not often sought. Whatever professes to benefit by +pleasing, must please at once. The pleasures of the mind imply something +sudden and unexpected; that which elevates must always surprise. What is +perceived by slow degrees may gratify us with the consciousness of +improvement, but will never strike with the sense of pleasure. + +Of all this, Cowley appears to have been without knowledge, or without +care. He makes no selection of words, nor seeks any neatness of phrase: +he has no elegance either lucky or elaborate; as his endeavours were +rather to impress sentences upon the understanding, than images on the +fancy: he has few epithets, and those scattered without peculiar +propriety of nice adaptation. + +It seems to follow from the necessity of the subject, rather than the +care of the writer, that the diction of his heroic poem is less familiar +than that of his slightest writings. He has given not the same numbers, +but the same diction, to the gentle Anacreon and the tempestuous Pindar. + +His versification seems to have had very little of his care; and if what +he thinks be true, that his numbers are unmusical only when they are +ill-read, the art of reading them is at present lost; for they are +commonly harsh to modern ears. He has indeed many noble lines, such as +the feeble care of Waller never could produce. The bulk of his thoughts +sometimes swelled his verse to unexpected and inevitable grandeur; but +his excellence of this kind is merely fortuitous: he sinks willingly down +to his general carelessness, and avoids with very little care either +meanness or asperity. + +His contractions are often rugged and harsh: + + One flings a mountain, and its rivers too + Torn up with ’t. + +His rhymes are very often made by pronouns, or particles, or the like +unimportant words, which disappoint the ear, and destroy the energy of +the line. + +His combination of different measures is sometimes dissonant and +unpleasing; he joins verses together, of which the former does not slide +easily into the latter. + +The words “do” and “did,” which so much degrade in present estimation the +line that admits them, were in the time of Cowley little censured or +avoided; how often he used them, and with how bad an effect, at least to +our ears, will appear by a passage, in which every reader will lament to +see just and noble thoughts defrauded of their praise by inelegance of +language: + + Where honour or where conscience _does_ not bind + No other law shall shackle me; + Slave to myself I ne’er will be; + Nor shall my future actions be confined + By my own present mind. + Who by resolves and vows engaged _does_ stand + For days, that yet belong to fate, + _Does_ like an unthrift mortgage his estate, + Before it falls into his hand; + The bondman of the cloister so, + All that he _does_ receive _does_ always owe. + And still as Time comes in, it goes away, + Not to enjoy, but debts to pay! + Unhappy slave, and pupil to a bell! + Which his hour’s work as well as hours _does_ tell: + Unhappy till the last, the kind releasing knell. + +His heroic lines are often formed of monosyllables; but yet they are +sometimes sweet and sonorous. + +He says of the Messiah, + + Round the whole earth his dreaded name shall sound, + _And reach to worlds that must not yet be found_. + +In another place, of David, + + Yet bid him go securely, when he sends; + ’_Tis Saul that is his foe_, _and we his friends_. + _The man who has his God_, _no aid can lack_; + _And we who bid him go_, _will bring him back_. + +Yet amidst his negligence he sometimes attempted an improved and +scientific versification; of which it will be best to give his own +account subjoined to this line: + + Nor can the glory contain itself in th’ endless space. + + “I am sorry that it is necessary to admonish the most part of + readers, that it is not by negligence that this verse is so loose, + long, and, as it were, vast; it is to paint in the number the nature + of the thing which it describes, which I would have observed in + divers other places of this poem, that else will pass as very + careless verses: as before, + + _And over-runs the neighb’ring fields with violent course_. + + “In the second book: + + _Down a precipice deep_, _dowse he casts them all_— + + “And, + + _And fell a-down his shoulders with loose care_. + + “In the third, + + _Brass was his helmet_, _his boots brass_, _and o’er_ + _His breast a thick plate strong brass he wore_. + + “In the fourth, + + _Like some fair pine o’er-looking all the ignobler wood_. + + “And, + + _Some from the rocks cast themselves down headlong_. + + “And many more: but it is enough to instance in a few. The thing is, + that the disposition of words and numbers should be such, as that, + out of the order and sound of them, the things themselves may be + represented. This the Greeks were not so accurate as to bind + themselves to; neither have our English poets observed it, for aught + I can find. The Latins (_qui musas colunt severiores_) sometimes did + it; and their prince, Virgil, always: in whom the examples are + innumerable, and taken notice of by all judicious men, so that it is + superfluous to collect them.” + +I know not whether he has, in many of these instances, attained the +representation or resemblance that he purposes. Verse can imitate only +sound and motion. A “boundless” verse, a “headlong” verse, and a verse +of “brass” or of “strong brass,” seem to comprise very incongruous and +unsociable ideas. What there is peculiar in the sound of the line +expressing “loose care,” I cannot discover; nor why the “pine” is +“taller” in an Alexandrine than in ten syllables. + +But, not to defraud him of his due praise, he has given one example of +representative versification, which perhaps no other English line can +equal: + + Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise: + He, who defers this work from day to day, + Does on a river’s bank expecting stay + Till the whole stream that stopp’d him shall be gone, + _Which runs_, _and_, _as it runs_, _for ever shall run on_. + +Cowley was, I believe, the first poet that mingled Alexandrines at +pleasure with the common heroic of ten syllables, and from him Dryden +borrowed the practice, whether ornamental or licentious. He considered +the verse of twelve syllables as elevated and majestic, and has therefore +deviated into that measure when he supposes the voice heard of the +Supreme Being. + +The author of the “Davideis” is commended by Dryden for having written it +in couplets, because he discovered that any staff was too lyrical for an +heroic poem; but this seems to have been known before by May and Sandys, +the translators of the “Pharsalia” and the “Metamorphoses.” + +In the “Davideis” are some hemistichs, or verses left imperfect by the +author, in imitation of Virgil, whom he supposes not to have intended to +complete them; that this opinion is erroneous, may be probably concluded, +because this truncation is imitated by no subsequent Roman poet; because +Virgil himself filled up one broken line in the heat of recitation; +because in one the sense is now unfinished; and because all that can be +done by a broken verse, a line intersected by a _cœsura_, and a full +stop, will equally effect. + +Of triplets in his “Davideis” he makes no use, and perhaps did not at +first think them allowable; but he appears afterwards to have changed his +mind, for in the verses on the government of Cromwell he inserts them +liberally with great happiness. + +After so much criticism on his poems, the essays which accompany them +must not be forgotten. What is said by Sprat of his conversation, that +no man could draw from it any suspicion of his excellence in poetry, may +be applied to these compositions. No author ever kept his verse and his +prose at a greater distance from each other. His thoughts are natural, +and his style has a smooth and placid equability, which has never yet +obtained its due commendation. Nothing is far-sought, or hard-laboured; +but all is easy without feebleness, and familiar without grossness. + +It has been observed by Felton, in his Essay on the Classics, that Cowley +was beloved by every Muse that he courted; and that he has rivalled the +ancients in every kind of poetry but tragedy. + +It may be affirmed, without any encomiastic fervour, that he brought to +his poetic labours a mind replete with learning, and that his pages are +embellished with all the ornaments which books could supply; that he was +the first who imparted to English numbers the enthusiasm of the greater +ode, and the gaiety of the less; that he was equally qualified for +sprightly sallies, and for lofty flights; that he was among those who +freed translation from servility, and, instead of following his author at +a distance, walked by his side; and that, if he left versification yet +improvable, he left likewise from time to time such specimens of +excellence as enabled succeeding poets to improve it. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIVES OF THE ENGLISH POETS: WALLER, +MILTON, COWLEY*** + + +******* This file should be named 5098-0.txt or 5098-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/0/9/5098 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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