PART I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How elegant is the praiſe he beſtows on the muſical ta⯑lents of his father, and how pleaſing the exulting and affec⯑tionate ſpirit with which he ſpeaks of their ſocial and kindred ſtudies!

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

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

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

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

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

Having received ſome directions for his travels from the celebrated Sir Henry Wotton, he went, with a ſingle ſer⯑vant, to Paris, in 1638; he was there honoured by the no⯑tice of Lord Scudamore, the Engliſh ambaſſador, who, at his earneſt deſire, gave him an introduction to Grotius, then reſiding at Paris as the miniſter of Sweden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Towards the cloſe of this performance he gives a diſ⯑tant myſterious hint of his great and unſettled poetical de⯑ſigns, with a very ſtriking mixture of moral, political, and religious enthuſiaſm.

In his ſubſequent work, on the Reaſon of Church Govern⯑ment, he gratifies us with a more enlarged view of his lite⯑rary projects, not yet moulded into form, but, like the un⯑arranged elements of creation, now floating at large in his capacious mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some traces of the ſufferings I allude to, though myſte⯑riouſly veiled, are yet viſible in his poetry, and will be no⯑ticed hereafter. Not to anticipate the ſevereſt evil of his deſtiny, let me now ſpeak of a foreign friend, in whoſe lively regard he found only honour and delight, On the publication of his defence, Leonard Philaras, a native of Athens, who had diſtinguiſhed himſelf in Italy, and riſen to the rank of envoy from the duke of Parma to the court of France, conceived a flattering deſire to cultivate the friendſhip of Milton. With this view he ſent him his por⯑trait, with very engaging letters, and the higheſt commen⯑dation of the recent defence. The reply of Milton is re⯑markable for its elegance and ſpirit; after thanking his correſpondent for preſents ſo agreeable, he ſays, ‘^*If [114] Alexander in the midſt of his martial toil confeſſed, that he laboured but to gain an eulogy from Athens, I may think myſelf fortunate indeed, and eſteem it as the higheſt honour, to be thus commended by the man in whom alone the genius and virtue of the ancient Athenians ſeem, after ſo long an interval, to revive and flouriſh. As your city has produced many moſt eloquent men, I am per⯑fectly willing to confeſs, that whatever proficiency I have made in literature is chiefly owing to my long and in⯑ceſſant ſtudy of their works. Had I acquired from them ſuch powers of language as might enable me to ſtimulate our fleets and armies to deliver Greece, the native ſeat of eloquence, from the tyranny of the Turks (a ſplendid enterprize, for which you almoſt ſeem to implore our aſſiſtance) I would aſſuredly do what would then be among the firſt objects of my deſire; for what did the braveſt or moſt eloquent men of antiquity conſider as more glorious or more worthy of themſelves, than by per⯑ſuaſive language or bold exploits to render the Greeks free, and their own legiſlators.’ He cloſes his letter by obſerving very juſtly, that ‘it is firſt neceſſary to kindle in the minds of the modern Greeks the ſpirit and virtue of their anceſtors,’ (politely adding) that ‘if this could be accompliſhed by any man, it might be moſt reaſonably [115] expected from the patriotic enthuſiaſm, and the expe⯑rience, civil and military, of his accompliſhed correſpon⯑dent.’ This letter is dated June, 1652. Milton had ſoon afterwards the gratification of a viſit from this liberal Athenian, who took ſo tender an intereſt in the blindneſs of his friend, that, on his return to Paris, he wrote to him on the ſubject. The following anſwer of Milton relates the particulars of his diſorder, and ſhews at the ſame time with what cheerful magnanimity he ſupported it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and in the latter part of it,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"London, Auguſt 15, 1666."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Johnſon has very liberally noticed one peculiarity in Milton, and calls it, with a benevolent happineſs of expreſ⯑ſion, ‘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 pub⯑liſhed, 1672, Artis Logicae plenior Inſtitutio ad Petri Rami Methodum concinnata, that is, a new ſcheme of Logic, according to the method of Ramus.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Milton undoubtedly thought, what an ardent political writer of the preſent age has not ſcrupled to aſſert, that "Charles the Firſt lived and died an hypocrite." Theſe two acute judges of mankind were, I believe, miſtaken in this idea: it ſeems more probable, that this unfortunate [228] prince was flattered into a perſuaſion, that he was really the meritorious martyr his adherents endeavoured to repre⯑ſent him. But whatſoever his genuine character might be, the ſevere ſentiments which Milton entertained of the king, and the deluſive hopes that he cheriſhed of the protector, had equally their ſource in the virtuous ardour of his own ſpirit. The conſciouſneſs of his integrity, when time had fully unveiled to him ſome illuſions, gave that tranquillity and vigour to his declining days, which enabled him to pro⯑duce his aſtoniſhing poems, not more aſtoniſhing for their intrinſic merit, than for the period of their production; ſo that his poetry, in this point of view, may be regarded both as the offspring and the witneſs of his virtue. The world had ne⯑ver been enriched with his two poems on Paradiſe, if their great author, when he was, according to his own true and pathetic deſcription, ‘In darkneſs and with dangers compaſs'd round,’ had not, in ſome little degree, reſembled the hero of his latter poem, and like that hallowed perſonage, whom he delineates ſo divinely, amid the darkneſs and the fiends of the deſert, ‘Sat unappall'd in calm and ſinleſs peace.’

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

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

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

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

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