of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems, which either this age or nation has produced.'

Other notices are collected by Todd, which it is not necessary to repeat.

In 1688 appeared a folio edition of the "Paradise Lost," under the patronage of Lord Somers: in 1695 appeared a third folio edition, with the learned commentary of Patrick Hume.

In 1670 appeared the poet's "History of England," carried down to the Norman Conquest; which was mutilated by the licenser, by striking out passages which have since been recovered and replaced.

In 1671 were published the "Paradise Regained" and "Samson Agonistes." It is said that Milton was mortified at finding that the former was considered inferior to the "Paradise Lost." It is inferior because it has less invention; but, in many of the sublime merits of the last, not at all inferior: there is more of human interest in it. Nor is the "Samson Agonistes" the production of a less vigorous and majestic genius.

The "Paradise Regained" is supposed to have been planned or begun at Chalfont. Ellwood, having called on the poet after his return to London, was shown by him this poem, with the remark, "This is owing to you; for you put it into my head by the question you put to me at Chalfont." He is said to have written it in a state of uninterrupted fervor, according to the spirit which he names as inherent in him, in a letter to his friend Deodate, September 2nd, 1637 :

"It is my way to suffer no impediment, no love of ease, no avocation whatever, to chill the ardour, to break the continuity, or divert the completion of my literary pursuits."

In several passages of the "Samson Agonistes" the poet is supposed to allude to his own feelings and fate, especially in these lines, beginning at v. 75 :—

I, dark in light, exposed

To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong,
Within doors or without, still as a fool,

In power of others, never in my own;

Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half,

O, dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse

Without all hope of day! &c.

Hayley says, "In these lines the poet seems to paint himself. The litigation of his will produced a collection of evidence relating to the testator, which renders the discovery of those long-forgotten papers peculiarly interesting: they show very forcibly, and in new points of view, his domestic infelicity and his amiable disposition. The tender and sublime poet, whose sensibility and sufferings were so great, appears to have been almost as unfortunate in his daughters as the Lear of Shakspeare. 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 that they combined to defraud him in the economy of his house, and sold several of his books in the basest manner. His feelings on such an outrage, both as a parent and a scholar, must have been singularly painful; perhaps they suggested to him these very pathetic lines."

Dunster adds, that, "as it appears, from the latest discoveries relating to the domestic life of Milton, that his wife was particularly attentive to him, and treated his infirmities with much tenderness, this passage seems to restrict the time when this drama was written to a period previous to his last marriage, or at least nearly to that immediate time while the singular ill-treatment of his daughters was fresh in his memory." This also coincides with what Mr. Hayley observed respecting its being written immediately after the execution of Sir Henry Vane, which took place June 14th, 1662. Milton was then in his fifty-fourth year, in which we are told he married his third wife. This would make the "Samson Agonistes” at least three years prior to the "Paradise Regained;" of which we know he had not thought previous to the summer of 1665.

In that magnificent passage beginning at 1. 667,

God of our fathers! what is man,

That thou towards him with hand so various,

*Not till 1665.

Or might I say contrarious,

Temper'st thy providence through his short course,
Not evenly, as thou rulest

The angelic orders, and inferior creatures mute,
Irrational and brute?

Nor do I name of men the common rout,

That wandering loose about,

Grow up and perish, as the summer fly,

Heads without name, no more remember'd ;
But such as thou hast solemnly elected,
With gifts and graces eminently adorn'd,
To some great work, thy glory,

And people's safety, which in part they effect.
Yet towards these thus dignified, thou oft,
Amidst their highth of noon,

Changest thy countenance, and thy hand, with no regard
Of highest favours past

From thee on them, or them to thee of service.

Nor only dost degrade them, or remit

To life obscured, which were a fair dismission;

But throw'st them lower than thou didst exalt them high,
Unseemly falls in human eye,

Too grievous for the trespass or omission;

Oft leavest them to the hostile sword

Of heathen and profane, their carcasses

To dogs and fowls of prey, or else captived;

Or to the unjust tribunals, under change of times,

And condemnation of the ingrateful multitude.

If these they 'scape, perhaps in poverty

With sickness and disease thou bow'st them down,
Painful diseases and deform'd,

In crude old age;

Though not disordinate, yet causeless suffering
The punishment of dissolute days: in fine,
Just or unjust alike seem miserable,

For oft alike both come to evil end;

Bishop Newton says, that, in speaking of the unjust tribunals, Milton reflected on the trials and sufferings of his party after the Restoration; and that when he talks of poverty, this was his own case; he escaped with life, but lived in poverty; and though he was always very sober and temperate, yet he was much afflicted with the gout, and other "painful diseases in crude old age,"—when he was not yet a very old man.

66 'But," Newton adds, "Milton was the most heated enthusiast of his time: speaking of Charles the First's murder, in his Defence of the People of England,' he says, Quanquam ego hæc divino potius instinctu gesta esse crediderim, quoties memoriâ repeto," &c.

The poet goes on:

Behold him in this state calamitous, and turn

His labours, for thou canst, to peaceful end.

"These concluding verses," says Hayley, "of this beautiful chorus appear to me particularly affecting, from the persuasion that Milton, in composing them, addressed the last two 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, however various the opinions of men may be concerning the merits or demerits of Milton's political character, the integrity of his heart appears to have secured to him the favour of Providence; since it pleased the Giver of all good not only to turn his labour to a peaceful end, but to irradiate his declining life with the most abundant portion of those pure and sublime mental powers, for which he had constantly and fervently prayed, as the choicest bounty of Heaven."

Again, Hayley thinks that at 1. 759 Milton alludes to his own connubial infelicity, and regret for his forgiveness at the repentance of his first wife, suspicious of its sincerity.

But it is not only to the unhappiness of his marriage that Milton alludes in this stern poem: he also renews his political prejudices at 1. 1418.

Lords are lordliest in their wine,

And the well-feasted priest then soonest fired
With zeal, if aught religion seem concerned ;
No less the people on their holy days
Impetuous, insolent, &c.

Warton observes that he here expresses his contempt of a nobility and an opulent clergy, that is, lords both spiritual and temporal, who by no means coincided with his levelling and narrow principles of republicanism and Calvinism, and whom he tacitly compares with the lords and priests of the idol Dagon.

There can be no doubt that the whole of this poem arose out of the state of Milton's personal feelings at the Restoration. It is the blaze of a mind as gigantic as Samson's form and strength. His imagination is everywhere on fire both with intellectual and material visions. A vulgar taste in poetry would call the nakedness of his language prosaic: but in the enthusiasm of forceful thought the petty ornaments of language are disregarded. It is in the exaltation of the soul, in belief in visionary presence, that high poetry consists.

We are bound to contemplate the bard in these lofty moods;-to think how his spirit rose above his unprosperous and painful situation;—and with what sublime images, sentiments, and reflections, he soothed himself!-How he glowed when he imagined Samson pulling down destruction on the heads of his foes!-His vigorous and enthusiastic mind roused him to be thus ready to devote himself to the common ruin.

Though now retired, neglected, and subject to many stings of disappointment, I doubt not he was altogether happier than when his mere memory, observation, and judgment were occupied in the coarse conflict of practical affairs. Imagination is more gratifying than memory, and idealism than reality. It is difficult to conceive how so creative a mind could so long bend itself to the servile office of secretaryship: to find correctness of expression in a dead language for diplomatic communications was but a pedantic employment; and a waste of powers which ought only to have been applied to the highest intellectual exertions."

It is clear, however, that by whatever arguments the poet might reconcile himself to his blindness, there were moments when he felt most bitterly the deprivation: the passages I have cited from "Samson Agonistes" prove this. In his poverty he could not employ a skilful and learned amanuensis, who could take down his expressions with facility: the aid and consolation of books, except at the merey of others, were shut to him. He grieved for the loss of that outward view of the face of nature in which he had delighted: he could no longer roam alone at his own will amid the woods and forests and green fields: he sat of a sunny morning in his house-porch, enjoying the fresh air; but this was in a suburb of the great city, in a confined garden: the freedom of limb, the exhilaration of bounding exercise, the breasting of the blowing wind, the change of the fresh breeze, which varies with cach contending step, were not his!

O, dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon!

All was blank, and every footstep was feeble and tottering, and at the mercy of another. We perceive that after a life of such high virtue as he was conscious that he had led, there were bitter hours when he thought this fate hard. As his endowments were sublime, so were his expectations lofty: his temper was naturally scornful; and as he could himself do mighty things, so perhaps he demanded more of others than they could well perform. He had not descended to a minute obervance of all the flexibilities, ductilities, and windings of the human character: he did not forgive or consider its littleness, its petty passions, and mean and ignorant thoughts.

It seems to me to be a biographer's duty thus to analyse the character of a great man, if it be done with a conscientious desire of explaining the truth. Mere facts, uncommented on, are neither interesting nor instructive: better omit the comment than do it frivolously or affectedly; still less, maliciously. I myself have no doubt that the poet was wrong in his political opinions; but I have still less doubt that he was strictly conscientious in them. To call in question the sincerity of his protestations and aspirations,-his magnificent effusions of holy hope and enthusiasm,would be not only stupid, but wicked.

CHAPTER XVI.

MILTON'S DEATH.

THERE are certain minor points which it is very useful to ascertain, but which, when once established, do not require to be repeated; such are many of the particulars verified with the most exemplary labour by Todd. If any thing were wanting, Mitford has gone over the ground again with acute and discriminate taste and judgment: a poet himself, of deep feeling, and eloquent originality.

I will however just mention, that the poet did not entirely abandon literary production after having published the two magnificent poems last noticed. In 1672 he put forth his "Artis Logicæ Plenior Institutio ;" and in 1673 his "Treatise of True Religion, Heresy," &c.

In the year of his death he published his "Familiar Letters in Latin," with some "Academical Exercises."

In the preceding year he reprinted his "Juvenile Poems," with additions, among which is the "Tractate on Education," published in 1644.

His health now gave way fast, and his fits of the gout became violent; but such was the firmness of his mind, that Aubrey says, even in the paroxysms of this fell disease, "he would be very cheerful, and sing." He died quietly at his house in Bunhill-fields, on Sunday, November 8th, 1674; wanting only a month of completing his sixty-sixth year. Thus departed the greatest epic poet of England,and, in my opinion, of any country or age. He was buried near his father, in the chancel of St. Giles, Cripplegate.

His person was beautiful in youth, but his face too delicate: he was of middle height, active, and a good swordsman; temperate in his food, and all his habits of life, except in study, in which he indulged to excess even from his childhood. His evenings were usually passed in music and conversation: his chief time of composition appears to have been the night; and by the aid of a most retentive memory, he dictated in the morning to an amanuensis what he had thus composed.

His biographers say that he was of an equal and placid temper: but this is not the character given by Mrs. Powell, the mother of his first wife; who, however, was an angry and prejudiced witness. Todd has printed a full account of his nuncupative will, which was first discovered by T. Warton, and which, being contested, furnishes several curious particulars of his domestic habits. He had an humble establishment, consisting of two maid-servants and a man-servant: he dined usually in his kitchen.* He never was a man of worldly ostentation, and always despised money he seems to have been stern to his daughters, and exacted too much from them; they accordingly did not steadily love him. It must have been an irksome task to them to read to him in languages which they did not understand. As to the poet's religious tenets, a treatise has been lately recovered from the State-Paper Office, which has made a great noise_among the theologists; the title is, "De Doctrina Christiana, ex Sacris duntaxat Libris petita, Disquisitionum Libri duo posthumi." King George IV. put it into the hands of Dr. Sumner (afterwards Bishop of Winchester), to be edited and translated. It is said that the poet, being dissatisfied with the Bodies of Divinity then published, was thus induced to compile one for himself. This treatise is considered to prove that Milton was finally an Arian. It is calmly and moderately written; not with the animosity of a controversialist, but it wants the author's former or usual recondite learning and argumentative force.

Bishop Burgess, considering that this work disproves the poet's orthodoxy, has disputed its genuineness;+ but it is generally admitted that its authenticity cannot be doubted. This extraordinary treatise contains many singular opinions, which none but theologists will take the trouble to discuss.§

Milton left three daughters:-Anne, who was deformed, and died in childbed; Mary, who died single; and Deborah, who married Abraham Clarke, a weaver in

This was long afterwards, in Geneva, the custom of the highest and most opulent Genevan families. See Picot," Histoire de Genève." † 8vo. 1826.

See discussions on Milton's tenets here let out, in "Edinburgh Review," No. cvII., September, 1831; and see Mitford's note, "Life," p. cx.

§ See the American (Dr. Channing's) "Remarks on the Character and Writings of Milton."

!

Spitalfields, and died, aged seventy-six, in August, 1727. Her daughter married Thomas Foster, also a weaver in Spitalfields, and died at Islington, May 9th, 1754, in her sixty-sixth year.*

Sir Christopher Milton, the poet's only brother, was knighted and made a judge by James II., but soon retired from the bench. He retired to Ipswich, and afterwards to the village of Rushmere, about two miles distant, where he died; and was buried in the church of St. Nicholas, Ipswich, March 22nd, 1692. He left children.† Milton had also two nephews by his sister Philips,-John Philips and Edward Philips, both authors.‡

CHAPTER XVII.

GENERAL AND MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS.

I Now come to general observations on the poet's character and genius: of these I have already intermixed some in the course of the narrative: if I recur to any of the same opinions and reflections, although in other words, I must crave the reader's indulgence.

Of this "greatest of great men," the private traits and whole life were congenial to his poetry. Men of narrow feelings will say that his political writings contradict this congeniality. His politics were, no doubt, violent and fierce; but it cannot be doubted that they were conscientious. He lived at a crisis of extraordinary public agitation, when all the principles of government were moved to their very foundations, and when there was a general desire to commence institutions de novo.

In his early poems there are occasional passages which show his taste for monarchical and aristocratic manners; for the pomp of the state and the church; for the glories of chivalry and the feudal system; for the halls of "knights and barons bold;" for the music and the solemn gloom of magnificent cathedrals:

the high-embowed roof,
With antic pillars massy-proof;
And storied windows, richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow

To the full-voiced quire below,

In service high and anthems clear, &c.-Il Penseroso.

Milton's imagination was not at all suited to the cold and dry hypocrisy of a Puritan; but his gigantic mind gave him a temper that spurned at all authority. This was his characteristic through life: it showed itself in every thought and every action, both public and private, from his earliest youth; except that he did not appear to rebel against parental authority: for nothing is more beautiful than his mild and tender expostulation to his father, in that exquisite Latin address which has been quoted.

His great poems require such a stretch of mind in the reader, as to be almost painful. The most amazing copiousness of learning is sublimated into all his conceptions and descriptions. His learning never oppressed his imagination; and his imagination never obliterated or dimmed his learning: but even these would not have done, without the addition of a great heart and a pure and lofty mind.

That mind was given up to study and meditation from his boyhood till his death; he had no taste for the vulgar pleasures of life; he was all spiritual. But he loved fame enthusiastically, and was ready to engage in the great affairs of public business: and when he did engage, performed his part with industry, skill, and courage. Courage, indeed, mingled, in a prominent degree, among his many other mighty and splendid qualities.

Who is equal to analyse a mind so rich, so powerful, so exquisite?

I do not think that tenderness was his characteristic; and he was, above all other men, unyielding. His softer sensibilities were rather reflective than instan

* Sir James Mackintosh found the last descendant of Milton, parish clerk at Madras.

+ See pedigrees of Knights made by Charles II. and James II., collected by De Neve, inter Mss. Brit. Mus.

See their "Lives" by Godwin. See also "Theatrum Poetarum," Canterbury, 1800; and again Geneva, 1824.