Chapter 2

It would be most interesting to know something of the daily routine of Milton's school, to ascertain what his pupils knew and could do when he had done with them. But we must remember that during all the years of his teaching the great Revolution was in progress, that all men of thought were profoundly stirred on public questions, and that Milton himself was a politician and an eager partisan of the cause of Parliament. He did not consider himself a teacher finally and for good. His school did not develop into anything great or conspicuous, and never became an object of curiosity. While yet engaged in such teaching as he found to do, he had written the pamphlets on education and on divorce, and also the famous one entitled Areopagitica, a Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing to the Parliament of England. This is the best worth reading of all his prose writings. The subject of it is perfectly intelligible still, and its English shows to perfection the qualities of the great Miltonic style.

After the execution of Charles I., Jan. 30, 1649, it became more than ever necessary for all thoughtful men to express their convictions. For a people to put to death its king by judicial process was an unheard of event. Those who considered that the Parliament had acted within the law and could not have done otherwise with due regard to the welfare of the nation had to convince doubting and timid citizens at home, and also, so far as was possible, to placate critics in other nations who still believed that the king could do no wrong; for all Europe interested itself in this tremendous act of the English Parliament.

Within a fortnight after the death of the king, Milton published his pamphlet on The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates. This work so impressed the parliamentary leaders as a thorough and unanswerable argument in defence of their cause that they sought out its author, and in March appointed him to the important post of Secretary for Foreign Tongues. Milton's perfect command of Latin now stood him in good stead. Here was an uncompromising puritan, fully the equal of the foreign ecclesiastics in theology, and capable of holding his own in Latin composition with the most famous humanists of the time. Latin was then the language of international intercourse. Milton's duty was to translate into and from Latin the despatches that passed between his own and foreign governments. He also composed original treatises, some in English and some in Latin, the most important of which continued his justification of the national act of regicide. The importance of these writings was very great. Milton's services to the puritan cause can to-day hardly be appreciated. It was the constant aim of royalists at home and abroad to represent England as having fallen under the control of ignorant fanatics, of ambitious, barbarous, blood-thirsty men. By his very personality, his knowledge of affairs, his familiarity with ancient and mediæval history, and, above all, by his fluency in Latin invective, Milton thwarted attempts to disparage his countrymen as lawless barbarians. He helped to maintain the good name of his country as a land of intellectual light and of respect for ancient usage. Foreigners who attempted personal vilification found him ready to meet them with their own weapons. The poet of Comus now shows himself a controversialist of unbounded energy.

In 1652, shortly before the death of his wife, Milton became totally blind. Henceforward the duties of his secretaryship had to be performed with the aid of an amanuensis. He continued, however, to fill the office till just before the end of the Protectorate in 1659. In November, 1656, he married Katharine Woodcocke, who lived but till March, 1658. She left an infant which died a month after the mother.

Milton's duties as Secretary for Foreign Tongues must have brought him, one would think, into some sort of personal relation with Cromwell and the other great parliamentary leaders. The poet leaves us in no doubt as to the high esteem in which he held these men. But no gossip of the time admits us to a glimpse of their intercourse with each other. It falls to Milton to eulogize Cromwell; it never came in Cromwell's way to put on record his estimate of Milton.

With the restoration of royalty in the person of Charles II., in 1660, Milton's public activity of course ceased, and the second period of his life comes to an end. We saw his first period devoted to preparation and to early essays in poetry, with the distinct conception that poetry was yet to be the great work of his life. In his second period he expresses himself in verse but rarely and briefly, but produces controversial prose, now in English, now in Latin. In this second period he works, as teacher or as public secretary, for payment, supporting himself and family. When the third period begins, he loses all employment, goes into closest retirement, a widower with three daughters growing up from childhood, and devotes himself to the poetry that he has always contemplated as the object of his ambition. He has now been blind eight years.

In view of the conspicuous part that Milton had taken in defending the right of Parliament to bring a king to the scaffold, it is surprising that of the Restoration he was not included in the number of those marked out for the punishment of death. He was for some time undoubtedly in danger. Fortunately he was overlooked, or, perhaps, was purposely neglected as being henceforce harmless.

In February, 1663, he married his third wife Elizabeth Minshull, who faithfully cared for him till his death in 1674.

During this last period of his life Milton composed and published his _major_ poems,--Paradise Lost, 1667, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes, 1671. For Paradise Lost he received from his publisher five pounds in cash, with promise of five pounds when thirteen hundred copies should have been sold, and of two more payments, each of the same sum, when two more editions of the same size should have been disposed of.

The last years of his life Milton appears to have spent in comparative comfort. His three daughters had gone out to learn trades. It seems he had given them no education. It may be they showed no desire or aptitude for instruction. Far more probably, however, he took no interest in their education. His ideal of womanhood, as may be gathered from numerous passages in his poems, is as far as possible removed from the modern conception of sexual equality as to opportunity for education and for training to self-determination. He shared in this respect the views that prevailed during his day in all classes of society, and he maintained these views as a parent no less than as the poet of Paradise.

Besides the poems named above as produced during this last period of his life, Milton published also in these years several prose works, which have now little value except as showing the bent and occupation of his mind. Among these may be named a small Latin Grammar, written in English, which he had composed long before, and a History of Britain to the Norman Conquest.

Though the immediate sale of Paradise Lost was not large, according to our ideas, it was yet sufficient to indicate a very respectable interest in the reading public of the day. We must remember that it appeared in the corrupt time of the Restoration, when the prevailing literary fashion was wholly adverse to seriousness and ideality. The age was spiritually degenerate. Milton himself considered that he lived "an age too late." The great poem had no royal or noble sponsors to give it vogue; yet it made its way. By no means had all minds become frivolous. The minor poems had been published by themselves in 1645. These had always had their readers. The prose pamphlets of the secretary for foreign tongues were, at least by a small class of observant persons, known to be the work of the author of Comus and Lycidas. There were not wanting men to take a sympathetic interest in the fate of the poet in his retirement, and to note the appearance of Paradise Lost as a literary event.

Thus it was that Milton lived to have some slight foretaste of the honor which two centuries have bestowed on his memory. Visitors came to see him in his modest dwelling in an unfashionable quarter of London. Foreigners occasionally came to satisfy their curiosity. Dryden, the chief poet who wrote in the spirit of the Restoration, called to talk with the author of Paradise Lost, and to suggest improvements in the form of the poem, which he thought should be in rhyme. The recognition which the poet thus got in his lifetime is small only in comparison with the immense fame he has won since his death.

Milton has now become an object of the profoundest curiosity. His life has been investigated by Professor Masson, with a minute scrutiny into detail such as has been devoted to no other writer but Shakespeare. His works are perpetually reprinted in all imaginable forms, whether of cheapness or of sumptuous elegance. They are read as text-books in schools by hosts of youth. Our beliefs regarding the great themes of the sacred scriptures are so colored by the Miltonic epics that we hardly know to-day just what part of our conceptions we owe to the Bible and what to the poet. Next to the Shakespearean dramas, the poems of Milton are the largest single influence that knits the English-speaking race into one vast brotherhood.

All students of Milton have to acknowledge their indebtedness to Professor David Masson of Edinburgh, who has devoted years of labor to research in every department of Miltonic lore. Masson's great Life of Milton in Connexion with the History of his Time is far too bulky for use except for reference on special points. The index volume makes the enormous Work accessible as occasion requires.

To his edition of the poetical works, Masson prefixes a life, which will suffice for all the needs likely to arise in school. Yet again, Masson is the writer of the article on Milton in the Encyclopædia Britannica, a most complete presentment of everything a student ordinarily needs to know.

In the series of Classical Writers is a little book, or primer, on Milton, written by Stopford A. Brooke.

In the English Men of Letters series, the Milton is the work of Mark Pattison.

The latest good account of Milton is the book entitled simply John Milton, by Walter Raleigh, professor at University College, Liverpool. This is a remarkably vigorous and illuminating piece of criticism.

Perhaps the most interesting writing on a Milton subject is the book by Mrs. Anne Manning, The Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell (afterward Mrs. Milton), and the sequel thereto, Deborah's Diary. This the student must read with the full understanding that it is a work of fiction.

It is right to warn young readers against the natural tendency to give their time to critical and expository books and articles before they make acquaintance with originals. Almost every essayist of note has written on Milton. There is danger lest we accept opinions at second hand. The only opinions on Milton to which we have any right are those we form from our own reading of his works.

MILTON'S MINOR POEMS.

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

[Composed 1629.]

I.

This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, 5 That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

II.

That glorious form, that light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table 10 To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside, and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

III.

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 15 Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, 20 And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

IV.

See how from far upon the eastern road The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet! Oh! run; prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; 25 Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire, From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.

The Hymn.

I.

It was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child 30 All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe to him, Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her 35 To wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour.

II.

Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, And on her naked shame, 40 Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

III.

But he, her fears to cease, 45 Sent down the meek-eyed Peace: She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; 50 And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

IV.

No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around; The idle spear and shield were high uphung; 55 The hooked chariot stood, Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 60

V.

But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began. The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed, 65 Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

VI.

The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, 70 Bending one way their precious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 75 Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

VII.

And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, 80 As his inferior flame The new-enlightened world no more should need: He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.

VIII.

The shepherds on the lawn, 85 Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they than That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below: 90 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

IX.

When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet As never was by mortal finger strook, 95 Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 99 With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

X.

Nature, that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, 105 And that her reign had here its last fulfilling: She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.

XI.

At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, 110 That with long beams the shamefaced Night arrayed; The helmed cherubim And sworded seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn quire, 115 With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.

XII.

Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, While the Creator great 120 His constellations set, And the well-balanced World on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

XIII.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres! 125 Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; 130 And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.

XIV.

For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold; 135 And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 140

XV.

Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Throned in celestial sheen, 145 With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

XVI.

But wisest Fate says No, This must not yet be so; 150 The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, 155 The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.

XVII.

With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: The aged Earth, aghast 160 With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

XVIII.

And then at last our bliss 165 Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day The Old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway, 170 And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

XIX.

The Oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 175 Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 180

XX.

The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edged with poplar pale, 185 The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

XXI.

In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, 190 The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, 195 While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.

XXII.

Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth, 200 Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine: The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

XXIII.

And sullen Moloch, fled, 205 Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 210 The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

XXIV.

Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, 214 Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud; 215 Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark, The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. 220

XXV.

He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, 225 Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

XXVI.

So, when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, 230 Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave, And the yellow-skirted fays 235 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

XXVII.

But see! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemed star 240 Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.

ON SHAKESPEARE. 1630.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones The labor of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 5 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavoring art Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 10 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make _us_ marble with too much conceiving, And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie 15 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

L'ALLEGRO.