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C. ALLEN & CO. 14 »,.,■!' m — ^^ 3.56 i T. C. m^M Sl CO., ax, H. S. #-**■ 'M MILTON AN ESSAY BY THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY EDITED FOR USB IN SCHOOLS, WITH TEXT, NOTE3, QUESTIONS AND INTRODUCTION BY DAVID SOLO AN, B.A., Pkincipal ok the High School, New Glasgow, N.S. HALIFAX, N.S. T. C. ALLEN & CO. 358/ Ml/ c./ Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 1898, by T. C. Allkn Sc Co,, in the Department of Agriculture (Copyright Branch). THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. Early in the eighteenth century tliere was an Aulay Macauhiy, a needy minister of the estahlishinent, in Tiree and Coll. lie had a Fon, John, wlio heciune a minister, too, reno\V7ied for his fluency, and of liiL,di reputalion as a pnacher, from whose mans?e came Zuchary JMacaulay, the father of the suhject of our sketch. Tlie name is not Scottish in derivation, but Norse ; for, as Ave have seen, the ^lacaulays came from the Western Isles of Scotl.md, showing in their countenances, as Carlyle said, "the liomely Norse features that you fiiitl every- where in those piirts." Zachary ^lacaulay was a man of singular force of character and of soMud principle. Sent to Jamaica, as a hoy, to look after the interests of a Scotliuh business house, he there formed an acquaintance with negro slavery tliat soon determined the course his later life was to j)ursue. He became a zealous aholitionist. Having gone over to the low church party of the English establishment, he b(!came editor of the Ciiri.^iaii Ohservei'^ finding in this journal a medium of expression iov his own views and those of his friend and great co-worker, Wilberforce. His efforts were untiring. Health, fortune, ease and favour were sacrificed in the cause, for his immutable conviction was " tiiat God had called liim to wage war with this gigantic evil." His talents, too, were by no means ordinary. Not only was ho esteemed by British statesmen and savants such as Brougham and Sir James ^fackintosh, but he IV MACAU LAV. enjoyed the regard of celebrities like Chateaubriand, Sismondi, de Stael and the Due do liroglie, with whom he was in fre- (juent correspondence. Ilis house in London became a resort and a centre of consultation for members of Parliament, meii of Ziichary ^Facaulay's own integrity and worth — patriotic, disinterested men who discussed matters of state from the point of view of the public good, without any thought of ambition, jealousy, or self seeking. Such was Zachary Micaulay. Certainly, much was to be looked for in a son l)rought up by a parent of this sort and among influences like these ; and young Thomas Babington from early infancy showed signs of extraordinary talent coupled with the sterling qualities of character inherited from liis father. He was a very precocious lad. The literary faculty developed in him early, and alli<'d with it were powers of memory that have seldom been e<|ualled — gifts that at once distinguished him at school ind, later, at the university. Reading was his hobby ami liis delight. But reading, with Macaulay, meant mastering a writer, words as well as substance ; and re;ading seems to have made hiiii not only " a full man, according to the promi.se of the philosopher, but " a ready man," as welh He digested and assimilated everything that came his way. Poetry, history, fiction, good, bad, or indifferent, — it mattered not what, or when he hatl read it, — his amazing memory never delayed, when called on, to bring forth from its recesses the tlmught and the very language of his author. The profession he chose on leaving the University was law.^ In 1826, in his twenty-seventh year, he was called to the Bar.. In spiiC of his choice, however, he diil not look seriously to the Bar as a profession ; for the study ami practice of law proved uncongenial to him Politics was more to his liking, and for it he was eminently qualifietl. Indeed, it was inevitable that he should some day drift into Parliament ; for his well stored mind, his gift of ready and telling oratory, his pugnacious,. INTUODUCTIOX. vehement t«'mperain(Mit, and his "Whig tendencies, pointed liim out as a niodt dusirahle actiui.sition to the cause of Kcforni, whicii was now riding on the full tide of popuhir favour. Ah-eaily, in 1824, he had ventured to address a great puhlic meeting in a speech before the Anti-Slavery Society, and sat down amid a whirlwind of cheers. This, we are told, was his first public address ; but even then the young Ilcfornnir liad matured a style of oratory that won applause from tlie practised siteakers of the day. Politics, so Lady Trevelyan wrote, now became intensely interesting for Macaulay. Canning's life and work, the repeal of the Test Act, Catholic Emancipatit)n, in turn, tilled his whole heart and soul. In due course of time, at the age of thirty, he entered rarliament, under the patronage of Lord Lansdowne, as member for Calne, and for some years the great political issues of the period almost engrossed his attention. In the meantime his pen had been engaged. As a child, he liad dabbled in both prose and verse, filling reams of paper with effusions worthless enough in themselves but prophetic of the literary power of maturer years, and by the time he began to contribute for the press, he had developed a prose style, which for healthy tone, for lucidity, ease and energy, was unsurpassed by the veteran reviewers of his day. The essay on jMilton, which appeared in 1825 in the Edudmryh Review^ was one of the earliest of Macaulay's published articles, and it was ti.is piece that instantly made his reputation as an essayist. **The mort) I think," sii.! of it Jeffrey, the famous editor of the Whig monthly, " the less I can conceive where you picked up that style." Contributions from so brilliant a writer were, of course, eagerly sought, and Macaulay 's con- nection with the Edinlnu'fjh Ri'view, the great organ of Reform opinion, became a permanent one. Essay after essay appeared, each in a masterly style that was nothing less than a revelation vi MACAL'LAY. 01 wide and accurate scholarship, of vivid historical imagination and pictorial powor, of wliolesoine Krif^Iish sentiment, of co-^'ent argument and dazzling rhetoric. In Parliament, as an crator, Macaulay early won a fame as great, though hardly so enduring, as his literary reputation. His speeches on the Reform liill gave liim at once a fnjnt rank among Parliamentary orators, and opened up to him opportunity for a great political career. Fortune smiled upon his ambition. His party was in the ascendant, himself in high repute ; and, when the Whig ministry came into power, in 1832, the rising young politician was appointed a Commissioner of the IJoard of Control for India. For four years Macaulay remained in the House, ardently battling for Whig principles and playing a conspicuous part in the stirring events of the time, when, suddenly, in 1834, he withdrew from })ublic view in England to fill the important position of member of ti.e Supreme Council of India. The reason for this abrupt translation out of the sphere of politics Macaulay openly acknowledgetl to be poverty. His writings and his office, wliicli were almost his only sources of income, gave an inadetiuate support ; for his father's debts, which he had honourably assumed, pressed hard upon him» Four years in India at a salary of ten thousand pounds would enable him to come back to England a rich man, in a position to maintain his views in parliament independent of office and party and without being compelled to divide his energies so largely with literary labour. *' I am not fond of money," he writes at this time, "or anxious about it. Put, though every day makes me less and less eagrr for wealth, every d.-y shows me more and moie strongly how necest-aiy a competence is to a man who desires to be either great or usfful. At present, the plain fact is that I can continue to be a public man oidy while I can continue in office. If I left my place in the government, I must leave niy seat in parliament, too. For I must live: I can live only by my pen; and it is absolutely impossible for ■ INTRODUCTION. VII any man to writi eiiou<»h to procure him a dncont Rubsiatence^ and at thr same time to take an active part in politics." Macaulay'rt pecuniary aspirations were realized. In 1838 he was hack in London, and next year he ri-entored Purliament and accepted office in the Wlii*,' ministry of Lord John Russell, as Secretary for War. l>ut, thoii<^h he served with distinction, he liardly fultilled the promise of his earlier career. The fact was, his interests had V)ec()me diverted in some measure from politics. Literature was now his mistress. Henceforth his genius was to be mainly devoted to his pen. For years lie had cherished the idea of writing a history of England, and ulti- mately, on the defeat of his party in 1841, although he retained his seat in the House, he was left free to follow the promptings of his heart. The fruits of his sojourn in Lulia were given to the public in the superb historical essays on Clive and Warren Hastings; and, in 1848, api)earetl the first two volumes of his History of England, followed, t-even years later, by two more volumes. The phonomenal succcvss of this work is well known. Its popularity has never been exceeded by any treatise of similar character. One finds Macaulay's History everywhere. Everyone that reads, reads it. Its celebrity is by no means confined to English-speaking people, either. Immediately on. the ap[iearance of the tirst volumes, six rival translators sat down to turn the v/ork intodennan ; and it was soon afterwards reproduced in all the great languages of Europe. The German historian, von Ranke, spoke of tlio author as the " incomparable man whose works have a European, or rather a world-wide cir- culation, to a degree unequalled by any of h's contemp()rarie.s." Macaulay was still in the prime of middle life, with the expectation of many years of intellectual and physical vigour, when the second instalment of his history was published. The incentive to continuing and completing his great work was of the best. Love of country and of his country's annals was with him a passion. He was now rich and famous. Vlll MACAULAY. Learnvid societies lionoured hirn ; foreign potentates Ijestowed their d«""orations upon him ; and his nation elevated liiin to a peerage. But, tlioi^^h nnsuspected by himself, his robust con- stitution was profoundly weakened by the mental strain of years of unremitting labour. Then came the horrors of the Sepoy mutiny, a catastrophe which weighed upon liis mind; iov his excitable temperament was easily appealed to by the realisation of hie country's dangers and by the tragedies enacted on the very scenes of some of his happiest years. Still, there was no marked break -down in health, and his troubles, though really physical, were believed to be mental. Life w?7ho desired to maintain the old system of civil and religious exclusion, and who grudged politi- cal power to those of their fellow-countrymen whom he was himself prepared to enfranchise. Independent, frank, and proud almost to a fault, he detested the whole race of jobbers and time-servers, parasites and scandal-mongers, ied-captains, led- authors, and led-orators." "What is far better," said Sydney Smith, " and more important than all is this, that t believe Macaulay to be incorruptible. . . He has an honest, genuine love of his country, and the world would not bribe him to neglect her interests." What has been quoted above describes pretty fully the man that wrote the Essay on Milton, while it indicates, too, the xu MACAULAY. limitations of Macaulay as a literary critic, and particularly as a critic of Milton and his times. In spite of the admiration we feel for his energetic and captivating method of presenting an argument, we cannot help regarding him as an advocate deter- mined to force an acceptance of his theories and conclusions, rather than as a willing witness laying before us the whole of the truth at his disposal. Only one side of the case interests him. He does not try to enter into sympathy with each of two opposing parties ; for he seldom searches deep enougii into the hidden springs of human conduct to enable himself to do this. "What lies open and conspicuous satisfies him : to examine deeper would be superfluous ; since he generally manages to make his case to his own satisfaction without having to do so. The result is that Macaulay is unsuggestive. We accompany him admiringly through his symmetrical structure of fact and reasoning ; we behold with delight its perfect architectural pro- portions and admirable disposition of details ; but the edifice conveys to us no impression of vastness-, no sense of mystery, no appeal to the infinite in our nature. Everything about it is finite, comprehensible. There is nothing to make as feel deeply, nothing to set us thinking for ourselves. Dissatisfied, however, though we may be with Macaulay the critic, we are nevertheless compelled to admit the success of Macaulay the advocate. It is not as criticism that the essay on Milton is chiefly valuable. In penetrative power it is want- ing ; it lacks poetical insight ; it conveys somewhat dispropor- tionate estimates of the various poems. As a piece of special pleading, however, it has scarcely been surpassed, and upon its merits as such, alone, must this piece be judged. The young writer was particularly happy in his choice of subject. The grand old poet of Puritan Englaiwi had long been misunderstood ; for Englishmen knew him best through a very biased and incomplete " Life " by Johnson. It needed only the pictorial touch of Macaulay to bring back. INTRODUCTION. >:ill to view the stirring scenes amid which the poet lived, to reproduce the circumstances which called forth Puritan- ism and its poet, in order to have the author of our one great epic speak again in trumpet-tones to the nation and hear his people thunder forth their loud acclaims. ^lacaulay's defence reads like an oration of classic times. True, the case for the defence was an easy one, full of opportunities for rhetorical argument and lofty panegyric. The very suggestion of Milton was inspiring, and the veiy thought of re-establish- ing the poet on the throne of English poesy and in the hearts of Englisli patriots was in itself splendid ; but even the nobility of the client and the splendour of the cause hardly surpass the magnificence of the pleading. A close study of the piece will reveal minor defects in argu- ment which in a hasty reading may pass undetected; the canons of taste will condemn the occasionally over-exuberant rhetoric of the appeal; the judicial mind is a trifle disturbed by the assump- tion of half-truths as verities and by the frequent demonstrations of personal prejudice and party feeling ; the keen ear may detect an artificial balance and a brazen ring in the sentences ; but even the most fault-finding critic will not attempt to belittle the vigour, ease and charm with which the author wields his native English ; the confident, manly fashion in which he demands the reader's attention, and the care which he takes never to endanger this afterward by any looseness or obscurity of statement ; the forceful antitheses and apt illus- trations ; the rapidity and telling nature of the argument ; the bold frankness with which he speaks his mind ; and, above all, the stimulating effect of his utterance upon the reader. MILTON. (1825.) Towards the close of the year 1823, Mr. Lemon, deputy keeper of the state papers, in the course of his researches among the presses of his office met with a lar^e Latin manuscript. Witli it were found corrected copies of the foreign dispatches written by Milton while he filled the office of secretary,^ and several pa))ers K^laiing to tlie Popish Trials and the llye House riot.-^ The whole was wrapped up in an envelope, superscribed, "To Mi". Skinner, Merchant.""^ On examination the larg(; manuscript proved to be the long-lost essay on the DocLiines of Chrislianity, which, according to Wood and Toland,"* Milton finished after the Eestoration, and deposited with Cvriac Skinner.^ Skinner, it is well known, held the same iH-litical opinions with his illustrious friend. It is therefore probable, as Mr. Lemon con jectures, that he may have fallen under the suspicions of the government during that })ersecution of the Whigs which followed the dissolution of the Oxford 1. That is, Secretary of Foreigti Tongues, under tlie Conunonwealth. See your History of Erujlavd., under date lfi49. 2. See /lisfortf of Eiifflaiid, reign of Charles II., for this and other allusions in the next twelve lines. 3. This was Daniel Skinner, who, after Milton's death, lri<'d to have the MSS. referred to printed in Holland, From Hollaiul th<; MSS. came back to England and passed into the hands of the authori- ties, who pigeon-holed them. 4. Scholars of the eighteenth century, each of whom wrote a life of Milton. 5. This is the Cvriac Skinner to whom Milton addressed Sonvefs XXT. and XXII. He was uncle to Mr. .sUinnt-r, mercliant, nientiontil above. MACAULAY. Parlianieiil ;^ and tliat, in consecpience of a jiijeneral seizure of his papers, tliis work may have been hrouglit to the office in whicli it lias l)een found. But whatever the adventures of the manuscript may have l)een, no doubt can exist that it is a genuine rehc of the great ])()et. Mr. SumiH')/' wh(3 was commanded by His Majesty to edit and translate the treatise, lias aecpiitted himself of his task in a manner hoiioural)le to his talents and to his character. His version is not, indeed, very easy or elegant ; but it is entitled to tlie praise of clearness and fidelity. His notes abound with intert^sting (|Uotaiions, and have the rare merit of reallv elucidating the text. Th(i preface is evidently the work of a sensible and candid man, firm in his own religious o])inions, and tolerant towards those of others. The book itself^ will not add much to the fame of M'\\- ton. It is, like all his Latin works, well wiitteii, though not exactly in the style of the pi'ize essays of Oxford and Cambridge. Tliere is no cla.'horate imitaLion of classical antiquity, no scrupulous purity, none of the ceremonial cleanness v. hich characterizes the diction of our academic.il Pharisees.^ The author does not attempt to polish and brighten his composition into the Ciceronian gloss and brilliancy. He does not, in short, sacrifice sense and spirit to pedantic I'etinements. The nature of his subject compelled him to use many words *' That would have made Qiiintilian^ stare and gasp." 1. The Parliament of 16SI met at Oxford. *' If the Parliament "Were lieM in its usual place of assemVjling . . . the trainbands might lis •. t'» i))le alone ; and his (h,(;('sfc of scriptural texts is certaiidy among the hest that have appeared. Ihit he is not always so happy in his inferences as in his citati(ms. Some of the heterodox doctrines which he avows seem to have excited considerahle amazement, particularly his Arianism,'^ and his theory on the suhject of polygamy."* Yet we can scarcidy conceive that any person could have read the " Paradise Lost" witlunit suspecting him of the former; nor do we think that any reader, acquainted with the history of his life, ought to he much startled at the latter. The opiiuons which lie has expressed respecting the nature of the Deity, the eternity of matter, and the observation of the Sabbath, might, we think, have caused more just sur])rise. But we will not go into the discussion of these points. The book, were it far more orthodox or far more 1. Denham and Cowley were poets contemporary with Milton. 2. What meaiiiui,' do you take from this sentence ? The reference is to Denham s lines On Mr. Abraluiin Cowley : *' Horace s wit and Viigils state He did not steal, luit emulate! And when he would like them appear, Their gaib, hut not their clothes, did wear." 3. Arius (A D. 317) taught that the Son of God was only the first and noblest of created beings, inferior to the Father not merely in dignity, but in essence. Read Pnradke Lout at the following lines : Book VI. (J99 ; Book VI I. 1(;S ; Book X. (JS. 4. Milt)n held that the Bible does not expressly forbid polygamy. MACATLAV heretical than it is, would not much etlify or corrupt the present generation. The men of our time are not to be converted or ])(;rverled by (piartos. A few more days and this essay will follow the " Defensio lV)puli "^ to the dust and silence of the upper shelf. The name of its author, jind the remai'kahle circumstances jittendiuj^ its publication, will secure to it a certain dro(hu.'ed in a civilized age. We cannot und(U-siand why those who believe in that most orthodo.K nriicle of lilerai-y faith, that the earliest ])oets are generally the best, should wonder at the rule as if it were the (*xeeption, Surely, the uniformity of the phenomenon indicates a corresi)Ouding uniformity in the cause. The fact is, that common observers reason from the progi'ess of the e\|)erimental sciences to that of the imitative arts.' The improvement of the former is gradual and slow. Ages are spent in collecting materials, ages more in se|)arating and combining them. Even when a svstem has been foinied, there is still somethiuf]: to add, to alter, or to reject. Ev^ery g(meration enjoys the use of a vast hoard be(|uea,thed to it by antiquity, and transmits tliat lioard, augmented by fresh acquisitions, to iUture ages. In these pursuits, therefore, the first leculators lie under great disadvantages, and, even when Lii 'y fail, are entitled to praise. Their pupils, with far inferior intellectual ])owers, speedily surpass them in actual attainiiicnts. Every girl who has read Mrs. Mar- cet's little diubitnies on political economy could teach Montague^ or Wal])ole'^ many lessons in finance. Any intelliirent man may now, by resolutely applying himself fur a few years to mathematics, learn more than the great 1. What does the writer mean by " the imitative arts ? " 2. The famous Chancellor of the Exchequer under William III. 3. See your Uiatory of EnylaniL MILTON. 9 Newton knew after half a centuiy of stiidy and modi- tation. But it is not thus with music, willi painting, or with sculpturo. Still less is it thus with poetry. The pro- gress of rclinfunent randy su])'>'i<'s these arts with better oi)jeets of imitation. It may inle reai)ers have already put their sicdvles. Yet the liarvest is so abundant that the negligent search of a straggling gleaner may be rewarded with a sheaf. The most striking characteristic of the poetry of Milton is the extreme remoteness of the associations by means of which it acts on the readei. Its effect is produced, not f,o much by what it expresses, as by what it buggests ; not so much by the ideas which it directly conveys, as by other ideas which are coiniected with them. He electrifies the mind through conductors.^ The most uninuiginative man must understand the Iliad. Homer gives him no choice, and requii'es from him no exertion, but takes the whole upon himself, and sets tlie inictges in so clear a light that it is impossible to be blind to them. The works of Milton cannot be comprehended or enjoyed unless the itiind of the reader cooperate with that of the writer. He does not paint a finished picture, or play for a mere passive listener. He sketches, and leaves others to fill up the outline. He strikes the keynote, and expects his hearer to make out the melody. We often liear of the nuigicjd influence of poetry. The expression in general means nothing; but, applied to the writings of Milton, it is most appropriate. His poetry acts like an incantation. Its merit lies less in its obvious meaning than in its occult power. There would seem, at first sight, to be no more in his words than in other words. But they are words of enchantment. No sooner are they pronounced tiian the past is present and the distant 1. Can you work out the parallel ? 16 MACAULAY. near. New forms of beauty start at once into existence, and all the burial-places of the memory give up their dead. Change the structure of the sentence, substitute one synonym for another, and the whole efl'ect is destroyed.^ The spell loses its power; and he who should tlum hope to conjuie witli it would find himself as much mistaken as Cassim in the Aial)ian tale, wlien he stood crying, " Open Wheat," " Open l>arley," to the door which obeyed no sound but " 0|)en Sesame."^ The miserable failure of Dryden^ in his attempt to translate into his own diction some parts of the " Paradise Lost " is a remarkable instance of this. In support of these observations we may remark, that scarcely any ])assages in the poems of Milton are more generally known, or more frequently repeated, than those which are little more than muster-rolls of names.** They are nob always more appropriate or more melodious than other names. But they aie chaimed names. Everyone of them is the first link in a long cliain of associated ideas. Like the dvvelling-place of our infancy revisited in man- hood, like the song of our country heard in a strange laiul, they produce upon us an eti'ect wholly independent of their intrinsic value. One transports us back to a remote period of history. Another places ns among the novel scenes and manners of a distant region. A third evokes all the dear classical recollections of childhood, — the schoolroom, the dog-eared Virgil, the holiday, and the prize. A fourth brings before us the splendid phantoms of chivalrous romance, the trophied lists, the embroidered housings, the quaint devices, the haunted forests, the 1. Recall what the author says on page 9 with regard to the lanjjfuage best fitted for the poet's purpose. Seventeenth century Eng- lish seems, from Macaulay's own statement, to have been well fitted for Milton's purpose. ' 2. You sliould be familiar with the tale. Observe the felicitous comparisons in this paragraph. 3. In his opera, The State of Innocence and the Fall of Man, 4. Perhaps you can find such a passage in Paradise Lost, Book I. MILTON. 17 enchanted gtardens, the achievements of enamored knights, and the smiles of rescued princesses. In none of the works of Milton is his peculiar manner more happily displayed than in the '' Allegro " and the " I'enseroso." It is impossil)le to conceive that the mechanism of language can be brought to a more exijuisite degree of perfection. These pocuiis differ from otheis as altar of roses differs from ordinary rosewatei-, the close- packed essence from the thin, diluted mixture. They aru, indeed, not so much poems as collections of hints, from each 01 v^hich the reader is to make out a poem for him- self. Every epithet is a text for a stanza. The " Comus " and the " Samson Agonistes " ^ are works which, though of very different merit, offer some marked points of resemblance. Both are lyric poems in the form of plays. There are, perhaps, no two kinds of coniposition so essentially dissimilar as the dnima and the ode. The business of the dramatist is to keey) himself out of sight, and to let nothing appear but his characters. As soon as he attracts notice to his personal feelings, the illusion is broken. The effect is as unpleasant as that which is produced on the stage by the voice of a prompter or the entrance of a scene-shifter. Hence it was that the tragedies of Byron were his least successful performances. They resemble those pasteboard pictures invented by the friend of children, Mr. Newbery, in which a single movable head goes round twenty different bodies, so that tlie same face looks out upon us, successively, from the uniform of a hussar, the furs of a judge, and the rags of a beggar.^ In all the characters, — patriots and tyrants, haters and lovers, — the frown and sneer of Harold ^ were discernible in an instant. But this species of egotism, though fatal to the drama, is the inspiration of the ode. 1. Compare the dates of the poems mentioned. 2. Siniiles equally striking and grotesque are to be found elsewhere in the essay. Watch for them. 3. The chief character of Byron's Childe. Harold. 18 MACAULAY. It is the part of the lyric poet to abandon himself without reserve to his own emotions.^ Between these hostile elements many great men have endeavoured to efl'ect an amalgamation, but never with complete success. The Gieek drama, on the model of which the " Samson " was written, si)rang from the ode. The dialogue was ingrafted on the chorus, and naturally ])artook of i(s character. The genius of the greatest of the Athenian dramatists co-ojxnnlcd with the circumstances under which tragedy niadi; its first appearance, ^^schylus was, head and heart, a lyric jioet. In his time tlie Greeks had far more intercourse with the East than in the days of Homer; and they had not yet acquired that immense superioiity in war, in science, and in tlie arts, which, in the foUovviug generation, led them to treat the Asiatics with contempt. From the narrative of Herodotus it should seem that they still looked up, with the venera- tion of disciples, to Ecrypt and Assyria. At this period, accord iniilv, it was naturjd that the literature of Greece should be tinctured with the Oriental style. And that style, we think, is discernible in the works of Pindar and yEschylus. The Litter often reminds us of the Hebrew writers. The Book of Job, indeed, in conduct and diction, bears a considerable resemblance to those of his dramas. Considered as plays, his works are absurd; considered as choruses, they are above all praise. If, for instance, we examine tlie address of Clytemnestra to Agamemnon on his return, or the description of the seven Argive chiefs,^ by the principles of dramatic writing, we shall instantly condemn them as monstrous. But if we forg;eb the chai-acters, and think only of the poetry, we shall admit lliat it has never been surpassed in energy and magnif- 1. What is the main topic of this paragraph ? Through how many pages is the subject discussed ? Note that ode here means li/iic poetry, poetical composition expressive of the writers oxen feelings and impulses. 2. The allusions, as the context shows, are to passages from the plays of iEschylus. Use your books of reference in studying this page. MILTON. 19 icence. Sophocles mu^hi the Greek drairia as dramatic as was consistent willi its (»ri<,nnal form. His ])ortraits of men have a sort of siiuilarity; hut it is the similarity/ not of a painting, hut of a has-relief. It sult^^l'sLs a resem- blance, hut it does not produce an illusion. Kuri[)ides attempted to carry the reform further. Ihit it was a task far heyond his powers, peihaj)S heyond any powers. Instead of correctinj' what was had, he destroyed what was excellent. He substituted crutches for stilts, had sermons for good odes. Milton, it is well known, admired Euripides highly, — much more highly than, in our opinion, Euri])ides de- served.^ Indeed, the caresses which this pariirdity leads Oiir countryman to bestow on "sad Electra's^ poet" some- times remind us of the beautiful Queen of Fairyland kiss- ing the long ears of Bottom.'^ At all events, there can be no doubt that this veneration for the Athenian, whether just or not, was injurious to the "Samson Agonistes." Had Milton taken /Plschyhis for his model, he would have given himself up to the lyric inspiration, and p(Mired out profusely all the treasures of his mind, wiihout bestowing a thought on those dramatic proprieties which the nature of the work rendered it impossible to preserve. In the attempt to reconcile tilings in their own nature inconsistent, lie has failed, as e\ery one else must have failed. We cannot identify ourselves with the characters, as in a good play. We cannot identify ourselves with the poet, as in a good ode. The contlicting ingredients, like an acid and an alkali mixed, neutralize each ()th('r. VVe are by no means insensible to the merits of this 1. Make sure what this word means here. 2. Ten years hiter MMcaulay wrote : " T couhl not hear Euripides at college. I now read my lecantation. He has faults, undouhtedly. But V hat a poet ! " And again : *' 1 own that I like him now hetter than Sophocles."' 3. See Milton's Sonnet viii. 4. See Midsummer NighKs Dream, IV.: 1. Do you find on this page any of the similes, or illustrations, alluded to in note 2, page 17 ? 20 MACAULAY. celel)rated piece, to the severe difrnity of the style, the graceful and pathetic solemnity of the openini^ sju'cch, or the wild and h;irl)iu*ic melody which ^'woa so Mriking an effect to the clioral ])a.ssa,i,n'..s. I)iit we tliink it, we con- fess, the least successful ellort of the ^Miius of I\lillon. The "(.'omus" is framed on the model of the Italian masfjue,^ as the " Sjimson " is fraiiK^l on the model of tlie Greek tragedy. It is certainly the n(^blest perft)rmance of the kind which exists in any lanj^uage. It is as far superior to the *' Faithful She])her(less" as the "Faithful Shepherdess" is to the " Aminta," or the "Aminta" to the "Pastor Fido."- It was well for IMilton that he had here no Euri]»ides to mislead him. He understood and loved the literature of modern Italy. But he did not feel for it the same veneration whii;h he entertained for the remains of Atheniiin and IJonian poetry, consecrated l)y so many lofty and eulearing recollections. The faults, moreover, of Ins Italian predecessors were of a kind to which his mind had a deadly anti])athy. He could stoop to a ])lain style, sometimes even to a bald style ; hut false brilliancy was his utter aversion. His Muse had no objec- tion to a russet^ attire; but she turned with disgust from the finery of (ruarini,as tawdry and as paltry as the rags of a chimney-sweeper on ]May-day."^ Whatever ornaments she wears are of massive gold, not only dazzling to tlie sight, but capable of standing the severest test of the crucible. Milton attended in the "Comus" to the distinction which he afterwards neglected in the " Samson." He 1. Try to gather, from the context, what a masqtie is ; then look up the word in a dictionary, or in some work ou English literature. 2. The first is a pastoral drama by Fletcher, a contemporary of Shakespeare. The others are by Italian writers of the 17th century, Tasso and Guariui, respectively. See your history. 3. Look up this word. " Himself a palmer poor, In homely russet clad." — Drayton. 4. On Mayday the London sweeps used to march in procession fantastically dressed. MILTON. 21 made his nitasqne what it ought to he, essentially lyrical, and dramatic only in seinljlaiice. He has not attempted a fruitless struggle against a (U^fect inherent in the nature of that specievS of composition ; and he has tlierefore suc(!(H;ded, wherever success was not impossihle. The speeclics must he rend as majt'stio snliloipiies ; and he who reads them will he enraptured with their elorpicnce, tlieir sublimity, and their music. The interruptions of tiie dialogue, however, ini])ose a constraint ujjou the writer, and ))reak the illusion of the reader. The finest passages are those which are lyric in form as well as in spirit. " I should much commend," said the excellent Sir Hunry Wotton in a letter to Milton, " the tragical j)art, if the lyrical did not ravish me with a certain Doricpie,^ delicacy in your songs and odes, whcreunto, I must plainly confess to ynu, I have seen yet noihing parallel in our langUMge." The criticism was iust. It is when Milton escapes from the shacklevS of the dialogue, when he is dis- charged from the labor of uniting two incongruous styles, when he is at liberty to indulge his choral raptures with- out reserve, that he rises even above himself. Tlien, like his own Good (lenius bursting from the earthly form and weeds^ of Tliyrsis,^ he stands forth in celestial freedom and beauty ; he seems to cry exultingly, — ** Now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run,'*'* to skim the earth, to soar above the clouds, to bathe in the elysian dew of the rainbow, and to inhale the balmy smells of nard and cassia, which the musky wings of the zephyr scatter through the cedared alleys of the Hesperides. 1. The word here means "pastoral," as Theocritus, the father nf pastoral poetry, wrote in the Doric dialect of (ireek. In Lycidas Milton uses the word in the same sense. See line 189. 2. Look up this interesting word. 3. The Good Genius in Comii^ takes the form of the shepherd Thyrsis. 4. These lines are from Comus ; the remainder of the sentence, too, is a paraphrase of the epilogiie of Comua. 22 MACAU LAY. il There are several of the minor poems ^ of Milton on which we would willinpfly niai:iv. 12 15. MILTON. 25 :age. 3 1 climbed the mountain of expiation. His own brov; lias been marked ])y tlie ])urifyintr angel. ^ Tlie leader would throw aside such a tale in increihdoiis disgust unless it were told with the strongest air of v«?r;ic'itv ; with a sobriety even in its horrors; with tlie greatest precision and niuliiplicity in its detJiils. The narrative of Milton in this respect dilfers from that of Dante, as the adven- tures of Aiiiadis^ difler from those of Gulliver. The author of " Aniadis " would have made his book ridiculous if he had introduced those minute particulars which give such a charm to the work of Swift, — • the nautical observations, the affected delicacy about names, the official documents transcri1t('. thirty legions, were humbled in the dust. The men who demolished the ima^^es in cathedrals have not always been able to demolish those which were enshrined in their minds. It would not be diiticult to show that in politics the same rule holds good. Doctrines, we are afraid, must generally be embodied before they can excite a strong public feeling. The multitude is more easily interested for the most unmeaning badge, or the most insignificant name, than for the most important principle. From these considerations we infer that no poet, who should affect that metaphysical accuracy for the want of which Milton has been blamed, would escape a dis<^race- ful failure. Still, however, there was another extreme 1. Do you infer from this sentence that one of the secondary causes assigned by Gibbon for the rapid spr ead of Christianity was the " desire of having some visible and tangible object of adoration " ? Gibbon enumerates the secondary causes as follows : " Kxclusi'e zeal, the immediate expectation of another world, the claim of miracles, the practice of high virtue, and the constitution of *he primitive church." Criticise Macaulay's sentence in the light of this quotation. 2. Schools of Greek philosophy. 3 Roman magistrates acting in official capacity were attended by lictors, executive officers bearing bundles of rods (fasces), with axes inside. 28 MACAU LAY. which, though far less dangerous, was also to be avoided. The imaginations of men are in a great measure under the control of their opinions. The most exquisite art of poetical colouring can produce no illusion when it is employed to represent that which is at once perceived to be incongruous and ahsurd. Milton wrote in an age of philosophers and theologians. It was necessary, therefore, for him to abstain from giving such a shock to their understandings as might break the cliarm whicli it was his object to throw over their imaginriions. This is the real explanation of the indistinctness and inconsistency with which he has often been reproached. i)r. Johnson acknowledges that it was absolutely necessary that the spirits should be clothed with material forms. "But," says he, " the poet sliould have secured the consistency of his system by keei)ing immateriality out of sight, and seducing the reader to drop it from his thoughts." This is easily said ; but what if IMilton could not seduce his readers to drop immateriaiily from their thoughts?^ What if the contrary opinion had taken so full a j^osses- sion of the minds of men as to lejvve no room even for the half belief which poetry recpiirch ? Such we susi)ect to have been the case. It was impossible for the i)oet to adopt altogether the material or the immaterial system. He therefore took his stand on the dobatahle ground. He left the whole in ambiguity. He has doubtless, by so doing, laid himself open to the charge of inconsistency. But, though philosophically in the wrong, we cannot but believe that he was poetically in the right. This task, which almost any other writer would havj found imprac- ticable, ^"^as easy to him. The peculiar art wliich he pos- sessed of communicating his meaning circuitously through 1. Our own opinion is that, f;u- from wishing to do this, or from teniporizing in the inatter,*Miltoii, throughout the potMu, emleavciurs to give a lucid interpretation ot" .spiriiuil tilings in the light of the Puritan reasoning of his time. It must be reinetnbered that Milton was l)oth a philosopher and a theologian. You will hardly be expected to discuss this question until you have read nnich of Milton an«l of his centemporaries. V 'a MILTON. 29 a long succession of associated ideas, and of intimating more than he expressed, enabled him to disguise those incongruities which he could not avoid. Poetry which relates to the beings of another world ought to be at once mysterious and picturescpie. That of Milton is so. That of Dante is picturesque, indeed, beyond any that ever was written. Its effect a.{)proaches to that produced by the pencil or the chisel. !> it it is picturesque to the exclusion of all mystery. This is a fault on the right side, a fault inseparaV)le from the plan of Dai^te's poem, which, as we have already observed, rendered tlie utmost accuracy of description necessary. Still it is a fault. The supernatural agents excite an interest, but it is not the interest which is proper, to supernatural agents. We feel that we could talk to the ghosts and (l-Miions, without any emotion of uneartldy awe. We could, like Don Juan,^ ask them to supper, and eat heartily in their company. Di>nte's angels are good men with wings. His devils are spiteful, ugly executioners. His dead men are merely living men in .strange situations. The scene which passes l)etvveen the poet and Farinata is justly separated. Still, Farinata in the burning tomb is exactly what Farinata would liave been at an anto dafi. Nothing can be more touching than the first interview of Dante and Beatrice.*'^ Yet what is it but a lovely woman chiding, with sweet, austere composure, the lover for whose affec- tion she is grateful, but whose vices she reprobates ? The feelings which give the passage its charm would suit t!ie streets of Florence as well as the summit of the Mount of Puroratorv. The spirits of Milton are unlike those of almost all other writers. His fieiuls, in piirticidar, are wonderful creations. They are not metaphysical abstractions. They are not wicked men. They are not ugly l)easts. They 1. In Mozart's celebrated opera of this name, Don Juan invites to supper the ghost of liis murdered victim. 2 Dante's lost love, wlio meets him in Purgatory antl is his guide through Paradise. 30 MACAULAY. i have no horns, no tails, none of the fee-faw-fum ^ of Tasso and Klopstock.'^ They have just enoiigli iu common with human nature to he intelligible to human l)eings. Their characters are, like their forms, marked by a certain dim resemblance to those of men, but exaggerated to gigantic dimensions, and veiled in mysterious glo^m. Perhaps tlie gods and dicmons^ of ^schylus may best bear a comparison with the angels and devils of Milton. The style of the Athenian had, as we have remarked. somethimr of the Oriental character ; and the same peciiliarity may be traced in his mythology. It has noth- ing of the amenity and elegance which we generally find in the superstitions of Greece. All is rugged, barbaric, and colossal. The legends of TEschylus seem to harmonize less with the fragrant groves and graceful porticos, in which his countrymen paid their vows to the God of Light and Goddess of Desire, than with those huge and grotesque labyrinths of eternal granite in which Egypt enshrined her mystic Osiris, or in which Hindostan still bows down to her seven headed idols. His favorite gods are those of the elder generation, the sons of heaven and earth, com- pared with whom Jupiter himself was a stripling and an upstart, — the gigantic Titans and the inexorable Furies. Foren)ost among his creations of this class stands Pro- metiieus, half fiend, half .^edeemer, the friend of man, the sullen and irn])lacable enemy of Heaven. Prometheus bears undoubted] v a considerable resemblance to the Satan of Milton. In both we find the same impatience of control, the same ferocity, the same unconquerable pride. In l)otli characters, also, are mingled, though in very different proportions, some kind and generous feelings. Prometheus, however, is hardly superhuman enough. He 1 . " Nonsensical contrivances or actions to produce terror among the ignorant or weak-minded "' — Encycl. Diet, 2. A German poet of last century. See list of names in history. 3 The Greek " -'^^imovi" is the connecting link between the gods and man, such a spirit as Prometheus, mentioned below : not neces* sarily an evil spirit. MILTON. 31 talks too much of his chains and his uneasy posture; he is rather too much depressed and agitated. His resohition seems to depend on the knowledge which he possesses that he holds the fate of his torturer in his hands, and that the hour of his release will surely come. But Satan is a creature of another sphere. The might of his intel- lectual nature is victorious over the extremity of pain. Amidst agonies which cannot be conceived without horror, he deliberates, resolves, and even exults. Against the sword of Michael, against the thunder of Jehovah, against the liaming lake a.^d the marl burning with solid fire, against the prospec'u of an eternity of unintermitted misery, his spirit bears up unbroken, resting on its own innate energies, requiring no support from anything ex- ternal, nor even from hope itself. To return for a moment to the parallel which we have been attempting to draw between Milton and Dante, we would add that the poetry of these great men has in a considerable degree taken its character from their moral qualities. They are not egotists. They rarely obtrude their idiosyncrasies on their readers. They have nothing in common with those modern beggars for fame^ who extort a pittance from the compassion of the inexperienced by exposing the luikedness and sores of their minds. Yet it would be difficult to name two writers wliose works have been more completely, though undesignedly, coloured by their personal feelings. The character of Milton was peculiarly distinguished by loftiness of spirit, that of Dante by intensity of feeling. In every line of the " Divine Comedy " we discern tlie asperity which is produced by pride struggling with misery. There is perhaps no work in the world so dee])ly and uniformly sorrowful. The melancholy of Dante was no fantastic caprice. It was not, as far as at this distance 1 . Note the abusive nature of the epithets. Probably he has Byron in mind here, but, if so, his criticism is neither penetrating nor just. It is a rudeness of speech, however, not of real feeling. The tempta* tion to sacrifice truth to effect is sometimes too sirong. MACAULAY. of time can be ju(1f]fetl, the effect of external circum- stances. It was i'loin within. Neither love nor j^lory, neither tl e contiicts of earth nor the hope of heaven, could dispel it. It turned every consolation and every pleasure into its own nature. It resembled that noxious Sardinian soil of which the intense bitterness is said to have been perceptil)le even in its honey. His mind was, in tlie noble lanj^^uage of the Hebrew poet, "a land of daikness, as darkness itself, and where tiie liglit was ns darkness." The <;loom of liis chai-acter discolours all the passions of men and all the face of nature, and tinges with its own livid hue the flowers of Paradise and the glories of the eternal throne. All the portraits of him are singularly characteristic. No person can look on the featui'es, nol)le even to ruggedness, the dark furrows of the cheek, the haggtird and wjeful stare of the eye, the sul- len and contemptuous cuive of ihe lip, and doubt that they belong to a man too proud and too sensitive to be happy. Milton was, like Dante, u stitesman and a lover; and, like iJante, he had Ixhmi unfortunate in ambition and in love. He had survivc^d his health and liis sight, the com- forts of his home, and the prosperity of his party. Of the great men by whom he liad been distinguished at his entrance into life, some had been taken away from the evil to come ; some had carried into foreign climates their unconquerable hatred of oppression ; some were pining in dungeons ; and some had poured forth their blood on scaflblds. Venal and licentious scribblers, with just suffi- cient talent to clothe the thoughts of a pandar in the style of a bellman, were now the favorite writers of the sovereign and of the public.'^ It was a loathsome herd, which could be compared to nothing so fitly as to the rabble of "Comus," — grotesque monsters, half bestial, half human, dropping with wine, bloated with gluttony, and reeling in obscene dances. Amidst these that fair Muse was 1. Job, X. 22. 2. Look up names of writers of this period, and ju the word 'hovel." it is to be remarked thf^t Milton's income, after tlie RMKtf»ration, was equivalent to about £700 of to-day. See Massou's Life of Milton. 3. Seep. 21, note 1. 4 See list of groat names of the loth century. ^ ■ 34 MACAULAY. the coolness of shady fountains. His conception of love unites all the voluptuousness of the Oriental harem, and all the gnllantry of the chivalric tournament, with all the pure and (juiet afl'ection of an English fireside.* His ])(telry reminds us of the miracles of Alpine scenery. Nooks and dells fcenutiful as fairyhind are embosomed in its most rugged and gigantic elevations. The roses and nivrtK\s bloom unchillcd on the verge of the avalanche. Tnices, indeed, of the peculiar character of Milton may be found in all liis works, but it is most strongly displayed in tiie Sonnets. Those remarkable poems have been undervalued by critics who have not understood their nature. Tliey have no epigrammatic point. There is none of the ingenuity of Filicaja in the thought, none of tlie hard and l)ril]iant enamel of I'etrarch''^ in the style. They are sim])le but ma jesiic records of the feelings of the ])oet, as little tricked out for the public eye as his diary would have been. A victory, an expected attack upon the city, a momentary fit of depression or exultation, a jest tlirown out against oiu^ (f his books, a dream which for a short time restored to him that beautiful face over which tlie grn\'e had closed forever,^ led him to musings which, wiihout effort, sha])ed themselves into verse. The unity of sentiment and severity of style which characterize these little ])ie('es remind us of the Greek Anthology, or perhaps still more of the Collects of tlie English Liturgy. The noble poem on the Massacres of Piedmont is strictly a collect in verse.'* The Sonnets are more or less striking, according as the occasions which gave birth to them are more or less inter- 1. "There appears in his (Milton's) books something like a Turkish contempt for females, as subordinate and inferior beings."- Johnson's Lives. You may be al)le to form your own opinion after reading ' Paradise Lost, Books iv. and v. 2. See previous references. 3. The allusions are to various sonnets of Milton's, — viii.^ xi., xii., XV., xix., XX., elc. 4. It will repay you to read this piece. You will then appreciate the aptness of the term applied here. MILTON. 35 esting. But they aro, iilniost without exc . 'nn, (h^niified by a sohriety and ^'reatness of mind towhi'. I». v » k?io\v not where to look for a juimllel. It would, indecMi, ))e .scarcely safe to (haw any decided infei'ences a.s to tlie cliarwcler of a writer from i)a8s;i<_jes directly egotistical. Jin.t the (lualities wliich we have ascrihed to Alilton, thongh ])er- 1 liips most slrongly maiked m those parts or his works which treat of his personal feelings, are distinguishahhi in every paire, {i,nd im])urt to all his writings, ])idse and ])()etry, English, Latin, and Italian, a strong family like- ness. His public conduct was such as was to he ex])ecte(l from a man of a spirit so high and of an int(dlect so ])o\veiful. He lived at one of the most memoral)le eras in the history of mankind, — at the V(;iy crisis of the great contlict between Oromasde.s and Arimanes,^ lil)erty and despotism, reason and ))r('jiidice. That great ]>attle was fonght for no single genrnation, for no single land. The destinies of the human race were staked on the snnie cast with the freedom of the English ])eople. Then were first pro- claimed those mighty ])r-irrc]plcs which, have since worked their way into the depths of the American forests, which have rous(^d GrecM^e from the slavery and degradation of two thoirsarrd years, and wliich, from one end of Ei}ro})e to the other, have kindled an unquenchable fire in the hearts of the o})pressed, and loosed the kirees of the oppressors with air nuwonted fear. Of these principles, then str'uggling for their infant existence. Mil ion was the most devoted and eloquent literary champion. We need not say Irow nruch we admire his ])ulilie conduct. But we cannot disguise from ourselves that a large ])ortion of his countryrricrr still thirrk it unjustifiable. The Civil War, irrdeed, has been more discussed, and is less understood, than any event 1. See account of the religion of the ancient Persians, in your history. 01)serve the clear division of the subject-matter of the essay. After you have finished reading the piece, go over it and divide it into sections, with title or heading for each. T 86 MACAULAY. EiM ! M' :i1 in En<,'lish Iiistory. Tli« friciids of lilxirty Liboiirod under tlje disadvaiilJiL;e of vvliicli llie lion in llm fiil)le coni- pliiined ho hilUu'ly.' Tliuiin;!! they weie the coiMiuciors, their encniitj.s \ve«e the paiiilers. As a liody, the K<»iind- heads had done tlnjir iitiiiosb to decry and ruin lit<;r!it ure; and literature wa.s even with them, as, in tlie loni^' run, it always is with its encuiic^s. The best book on tlicir side of the([Uesiion is the cliarniinuf narrative of ^Irs. lluteliinson. j\Iay's "Jlistory of tlie J*;i; lianjciit" is f^ood, but it breaks oir at the most intei'(!stiug crisis of the strugrjle. The l)erforinjince of Ludlow is foolish and violent; and most of the later writers who ha\e espoused the same cause — Oldniixon, for instance, and Cailiciine JVIacaulay — have, to say the least, l)cen more distiuguished by zeal tlian either by candour or by skill. On the other side are the most aulhoriiative aud the most ])opular historical works in our lanL,niaj4C, — that of Clarendon and that of Hume Tlie foi'uier is not oidy ably written and full of valuab' information, but has also an air of dignity and sincerity which niakes even the prejudices and errors with which it abounds respectable. Hume, from whose fascinatinrr narrative the i^rcat mass of the rcadinc; public are still contented to take their opinions, hated religion so much that he hated liberty for havinfj been allied with relicrion, and has ])leaded the cause of tyranny with the dexterity of an advocate, while aflectincc the impartiality of a judge.''^ The public conduct of Milton must be approved or condennied, according as the resistance of the people to Charles I. shall appear to be justifiable or criminal. We shall therefore make no apology for dedicating a few pages to the discussion of that interesting and most important question. We shall not argue it on general grounds. We shall not recur to those primary principles from which the 1. In one of ^Esop's fables a lion complains that his race does not know how to paint, otlierwiseone would see pictures of men concjuered by lions, where one sees now only pictures of lions conquered by men. 2. If yon wish to study the civil war period, select later authorities, such as Green, Ranke, Carlyle, Lingard. MILTON. 37 claim of any pjovornincnt to the ol)0(li(Miro of its su])joot3 is to bo (liiduccd. W«? aic ontilled to that vantai^^j-groiind, but we will ndinqnish it. \V»i are, on tliis ])oiiit, vso con- fident of su|t(M'iorily that wt> are not unwilling to imitate the ostentatious gcnciosity of those ancient kni^^dns who vowed to ioust with(jut hchnct or siiicid against all enemies, and to ^'ive th(!ir anLa;^^)ni,sts tlie advantiu^'e of sun and wind. We will take tiie ii:iked const iuilional question. We C()nlid(;nlly allirm that, cNcry reason which can be nrwd in favor of the Itcvolution of 1()(S8 mav l»e urged with at least e(]ual force in favor of what is called the Great llchellion. The })rincii)lcs of the Tlevolution have often been grossly misrepresented, and never more than in the cojirse of the present year. Theie is a certain class of men who, while they ])rol'ess to hold in reverence the great names and great actions of former ,imes, never look at them for any other purpose than in order to liiid in them .souie excuse for existing abuses.^ In every venerable ]>rcced(mt they pass by what is essential and take oidy what is acc^idental; they keep out of sight what is beneticial, and h<'lnd has been attained in spite of them, they feel, with their prototype, that their *' Labour must ho to pervert that end, And out of good still to find means of evil." 2 To the blessings which England has derived from the Revolution these })eople are utterly insensible. The expulsion of a tyrant, the solemn recognition of popular rights, — liberty, security, toleration, — all go for nothing with them. One sect thei'e was which, from unfortunate temporary causes, it was thought necessary to keep under 1. The Tories that opposed the Catholic Emancipation Act. You will have already strongly suspected Macaulay of Whigism. 2. Paradise Lost, i. 164 5. 38 MACAULAY. close restraint.^ One part of the empire there was so unhappily circumstanced that at that time its misery was necessary to our happiness, and its slavery to our free- dom.^ These uve the parts of the Eevolution which the politicians of whom we speak love to co?itemplate, and which seem to them, not indeed to vindicate, but in some degree to palliate, the good which it has produced. Talk to them of Kaples,''^ of Spain, or of South America :^ they stand forth zealots for the doctrine of Divine Right,* which has now come back to us, like a thief from transpor- tation, under the alias of Legitimacy. But mention the miseries of Ireland. Then William^ is a hero. Then Somers and Shrewsbury^ are great men. Then the Revo- lution is a glorious era ! The very same persons who, in this country, never omit an opportunity of reviving ev^ery wretched Jacobite slander respecting the Whigs of that period, have no sooner crossed St. G jorge's Channel than they begin to fill their bumpers to the glo^-ious and immortal memory.^ They may truly boast that they look not at men, but at measures. So that evil be done, they care not who does it ; the arbitrary Charles or the liberal William, Ferdinand the Catholic or Frederick the Pro- testant.*^ On such occasions their deadliest opponents 1. Decidedly an ingenious way of putting it. You will understand the allusions, and will note the narrow English idea conveyed by the word "our." 2. Liberal risings had recently taken place in this kingdom. 3. The South American republics that had recently cast off the yoke of Spain. 4. See your Hidory of England, reign of James I. 5. Alaciiulays argument is, that tlie extreme Tories of his day approve only of tljo^se episodes of the Revoh ion which he considers unfoi'tunate. They consider it well that William should have treated Ireland as he diil, and it is tliis same treatment which they desire to perpel uate. 6. Liiaders in the Revolution. 7. Of William III. Tliis was the regular Whig toast. 8. Fenliuajul of Spain and Frederick William III. of Prussia had lately checked nuivementa for a more lilieral form of government. la bol h countries the leaders of the forward party sjiffered death. MILTON. 39 may reckon upon tlieir caiidid construction. The bold assertions of these people have of kite impressed a larj^^e portion of the pubhc with an opinion that James IT. was expelled sini[>ly because he was: a Catholic, and that the Eevolution was essentially a Trotestant revolution. But this ceitjiinly was not tiie case, nor caii any person who has accpiired more knov^ledj^'e of the history of those times than is to be found in Goldsmith's " Abridgment '* believe that, if James had held his own reli<^ious opinions without wishing to m.ake proselytes, or if, wis'iing even to make proselytes, he had contented himself with exerting only his constitutional inthuMice for that purpose, the Prince of Orange would e\er ha\e been invited over. Our ancestors, we suppose, knew their own meaning ; ai d, if we may believe them, their hostility was jaimaiily, not to Catholicism, but to tyranny. They did not drive out a tyrant bectiuse he was a Catholic, but they excluded Cathi)lics from the Crown beeiuse they tliought them likely to be tyrants. The ground on which tliey, in their famous resolution, declared the throne vacant, was this: "that James had broken the fundamental laws of the kingdom."^ Every man, therefore, wiio a)){)ro\es of the Eevolution of iC88 ma^t hold tliat the breach of funda- mental laws on the par'j of the so\(!reign justifies resist- ance. The question, then, is this : Had Charles I. broken the fundamental laws of England ? No person can answer in the negative unless he refuses credit, not merely to all the accusations brought against Charles by his opponents, but to the narratives of the warmest lioyalists, and to the confessions of the king 1. This is a partial statement of tlie facts. The resolution set-- forth tliat Jaine.s, " liaving endeavoured to sulivert the constitution of this kingdom l»y tlie })ieaking of the oi\ginal contract between king and people, and by the advice of Jesuits and oilier -wicked p ople having violated the fundamental laws, and ha\ ing withdrawn himself out of the kingtlom, has al>dicated the governmejit, and that the throne is thereby vacant." Macaulay ignores all grounds but the first one. Tru(>, the resolution was inconsi.stcnt : but numy I'ories accepted the new king on the strength of the latter reasons, and not for the reason expressed in ihe clause which Macaulay quotes. 40 MACAULAY. 1'^ ',UH, himself. If there be any truth in any historian of any party who has related the events of that reign, tlie con- duct of Charles, from hi accession to the meeting of the Long Parliament, had been a continued course 'of oppression and treachery. Let tliose who applaud the Revolution and condemn the lltibellion mention one act of James IL to which a paralhd is not to Ije found in the history of his father. Let them lay tlieir fingers on a single article in the Declaration of Kiglit,^ presented by the two houses to William and Mary, which Clmrles is not ackn(nvlt3d^ed to have violated. He had, accordinsr to the testimony of his own friends, usurped the functions <[)f the legislature, raised taxes without the consent of ParliauKuit, and (piartered troops on the people in the most illegal and vexatious manner. Not a single session of ParlianuMit had passed without some unconsiitutional attack on the freedom of debate. The right of petition was grossly violated. Arbitrary jiidgnuuits, exorbitant fines, and nn >varranted imprisonments were grievances of daily occurrence. If these things do not justify re>;ist- ance, the Eevolution was treason; if they do, the great Iicbellion was laudable.^ But, it is said, why not adopt milder measures ? Why, after the king had consented to so many reforms and renounced so numy oppressive prerogatives, did the Par- liament continue to rise in their demands at the risk of provoking a civil war? The ship money had been given up, the Star Chamber had been abolished, provision had been made for the frecpient convocation and secure deliberation of Parliaments. Why not pursue an end confesseiUy good by peaceable and regular means ? We recur again to the analogy of the Pevolution. Why was James driven from the throne ? Why was he not retained upon conditions ? He, too, had offered to call a free Par- 1. See reign of William III. and Mary. 2. Of wliat statenietifc on p. 37 are the last six oentences an elaboration? Wliat lia.s all this to do with Milton ? Note, V)y way of finding an answer, wheie you next meet the name of the poet, and wliere it was last mentioned. MILTON. 41 I liament, and to submit to its decision all the matters in dispute. Yet we are in tlie habit of praising our fore- fathers, who preferred a revolution, a disputed succession, a dynasty of strangers, twenty years oi foreign and intes- tine war, a standing army, and a national debt, to the rule, however restricted, of a tried and [)roved tyi-ant. The Long Parliament acted on the same priiu'iple, and is entitled lo the same ])raise. They could not trust the king. He had, no doubt, passed salutary laws ; but what assurance was there that he would not l)reak tliem ? He had renounced oppressive prerogatives, but where was the security that he would not resume them ? The nation had to deal with a man wlioni no tie could bind ; a man who made and Ijroke promises with e(pial facility ; a man whose honour had been a hundred times pawned and never redeemed. Here, indetMl, the Long Parliament stands on still stronger ground than tlie convention of 1688. No action of James can be comi)ared to the conduct of Charles with res[)ect to the Petition of Piglit. The Lords and Commons present him wdth a bill in which the constitutional lindts of his power are marked out. He hesitates ; he evades ; at last he bargains to give his assent for five subsidies. The bill receives his solemn assent ; the subsidies are voted; but no sooner is the tyrant relieved than he returns at once to all th(i arl)itra,rv measures which he had bound himself to alniiulon, and violates all the clauses of the very act whii.di ho had l)een paid to ])ass. For more than ten years the peo])le liad seen the rights which were theirs bv a double claim — bv immemorial inheritance and by recent ])urchase — infringed by the perfidious king who had recognized them. At length circumstances compelled Charles to summon another Par- liament. Another chance was given to our fathers; were they to thi'ow it away as they had thrown away the former ? Were they again to be cozened by le lioi le veut P 1. The Norman French form of assent to an Act of Parliament— "The King wills it." 42 MACAULAY. In * I.I C'J , Were they again to advance their money on pledges which had been forfeited over and over again ? Were they to lay a second Petition of Itiro- portioned to the oppression under which they have been accustomed to live. Thus it was in our Civil War. The heads of the Church and State rea])ed onlv that which they had sown. The government had prohibited free discussion ; it had done its best to keep the people un- acquainted with their duties and their rights. The retribution was just and natural. If our rulers suffered from poi)ular ignorance, it was l)ecause they had them- selves taken away the kev of knovvledsjje. If thev were assaded with blind fury, it was because they had exacted an eipuilly blind subuussion.^ It is the character of such revolutions that we always see the worst of them a,t first. Till men have been some time free, they know iKjt how to use their freedom. The natives of wine comitri \s are Ereuerally sol>er. In climates where wine is a rarity intemperance abounds. A. newlv liberated people m:i,y be compared to a northern ui-my encamped on the Rhine or the Xeres.' It is sairove. Still we must say, in justice to the many eminent persons who concurred in it, and in justice more particularly tc» the eminent person who defended it, that nothing can be more absurd than the imi)Utations which, for the last hundred and sixty years, it has been the fashion to cast upon the Eegicides.^ We have, througliout, abstained from appeal- 1. Apply your own method of puiietnation to tins parai;raph. Whose method do you consider more effective, Macaulay's or y«Mu- own ? 2. What is the derivation of this word ? i 48 i^IACAULAV. ■ , I. ' 1 ■■■! iuif to first piiiu'iplcs. We will not appeal to them now. We recur a^ain to liie jmrallel case of the Ilevolutioii. What essential (lisiin(!tinn can ho chawn ht^tween the execution of the faihcr i\u*\ the (le[)()sit.i<)n of the son ? What eonslitulional maxim is there which {i[)plies to tlie f(jrmer and not to the latter? The kiii;^ can do no wrong.^ If S(^, JaiiM's was as innocent as Charl(\s could have heen. 'I'he minister, oidy, ouu:iit to he »esponsihle for the acts of tlu^ sover(M\i,nj. If so, why not impeacii Jeffreys and retain dames? Tiie jjcrson of a kin^ is sacred. Was the peison of James consideied sacred {it the l)oyne? To dischai'ge camion against an army in which a king is known to he posted is to approacli ])rett.y near to regicide. C'harles, too, it shoiilil always he remem- heriid, was put to death hy men who ha,d heen exasperated by tlie liostilities of several years, and who had never been bound to iiini l)y any other tie than that wiiich was common to them with all their fellow-citiz(ms. Those wdio dr'ovo James from his tin-one, who seduced his ai my, who alienated his fiiends, who first imprisoned liim in his palace and then turned him out of it, who bioke in upon his very sluml)ers by imperious messages, who pur.-^ued liim with fire and sword from one ])art of the empire to another, who hammed, drew, and rpiartered his adher- ents, and attainted his innocent heir,^ wei e his lu'phew and his two daui:!:hters.'' When we reflect on all tliese thiuus, we are at a loss to conceive how tlie same jiersons who, on the 5th of November,"* thiink God for wondinfidly con- ducting his servant William, and for making all opposition fall before him until he became our king and governor, 1. A tnaxim of English law : it is the .sovereign's ministers or advisers that are lield responsil)le for all acts of state. 2. To attaivt is to proceed against a person by means of a Bill intro- duced inlo Parliament. The proceeding is now obsolete. James Edward JStuart, son of James II., was declared attaint and incapable of ruling, the pretended reason being that lie was an illegitinuite son. ,S. V\\\o are meant ? Consult your history for references on this and last pages. 4. See p. 49, note 1. MILTON. 49 can, oil ihe i>Otli of January/ contrive to be afraid that the blood of the Jloyal Alartyr may be visited on iheui- selves and their chihhen. We disap[)rove, we rei)eat, of the execution of (Jharles ; not because the constitution exk of Conunoii Prayer of the Church of England contained a Form of Thanksgiving foi- Nf)venil)er 5lli, the anniversary of Willianra landing and of tiie (Junpowder l^lot. It con- tained, also, a service in nicnioi y of tiie Royal Maityr, Charles I., to be used on January 30th., '• heing the day of the martyrdom of the blessed King Charles. " 2. In 1649 Salmasius, professor in L<^yden Utnversity, arraigned the people of England in his Defence of Charles I, Milton replied in his Defence of the English Pto/>le (see p. 6), in which he inflicted a pitiless lashing on his opponent, The work cost him his eyesight. (See the sonnet 1;o his old pupil, Cyriac Skinner.) 50 MACAU LAY. I' -I stition. For the sake of public lil)erty, we wish that the tliiii;^' had not been done wbile the |KH)j)le disapproved of it. Ihit, for the sake of pid)lie lil)erty, we should also h;ive wishcMl the ])(;ople to ap})rove of it when it was done. If anythin*^ move were wanting to the Justification of Milton, the book of Salniasius would furnish it. That iniseral)]e performance is now with Justice considered oidy as a bcMcon to word -catchers who wisli to become states- nK'n. The celebrity of the man who refuted it, the "/Kneie niao-ni dextra,,"^ gives it all its fame with the ])resent generation. In tliat age the state of tilings was different. It was not then fully understood how vast an interval sepai'ates the mere classical scholnr^ from the ])olitical ]>hilosopiier. Nor can it be doubted that a treatise which, bearing the name of so eminent a critic, attacked the fundamental principles of all free governments, must, if suffered to remain unanswered, have produced a most pernicious effect on the public mind. We wish to add a few words relative to another subject, on which the enemies of Milton delight to dwell, — his conduct during the administration of the l*rotector. That an enthusiastic votary of hberty should accept office under a military usur])er seems, no loubt, at first sigiit, extraordinary. But all the circumstances in which the country was then placed were extraordinary. The am- bition of Oliver was of no vulLcar kind. He never seems to have coveted desjwtic power. He at first fought sincerely and manfully for the Parliament, and never deserted it till it had deserted its duty. If he dissolved it by force, it was not till he found that the few members who remained after so many deaths, secessions, and ex- pulsions were desirous to appropriate to themselves a power which tliey held only in trust, and to inHict upon England the curse of a Venetian oligarchy. But, even 1. From the ^neid, x. -(Eneas thou fallest." 830. "By the right hand of the great 2. Sahnasins was a classical scholar merely, though of minute and varied erudition. MILTON. 51 wlicii thus pljicod l>y violence at tlie hoad of aHairs, ho (lid not assume unlimited jjowc:-. Ife <,^•lve the country a constitution far inoie ])eifect than any which liad at that time heen known in the \voild I hi reformed the repre- sentative system in a manner which has extorted j)raise even from Lord ('!arenislative authority, not even reseivinir to himself a veto on its enactments; and he did not reijuire that the chief mat his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement, he prayed with convulsions, and groans and tcais. He was half maddened by glorious or terrible ilhisions. He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a u:leam of the Jicaiitic Vision.^ or woke screaming from dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane,"^ he thought himself intrusted with the sceptre of the millennial vear. Like Fleetwood,-* he cried in the bitterness of his soul that (iod had hid His face from him. But when he took his s(»at in the council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no ]>erccptible trace behind thern. People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and 1. The sight of God himself. 2. See your history (the Commonwealth). Vane was a Fifth Monarchy man (see page 44). 3. Cromwell's son-in-law and one of his major-generala. 58 MACAULAY. I heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those liad little reason to laugh who encountered tliem in tlie hall of debate or in the held of battle. Tliese fanatics l>rought to civil and military ai'iairs a coolness of judgment and an immutabihty of purpose wliich some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal, l)ut which wei'e in fact the necessary eflects of it. The intensity of their feelings on one subject made them tranquil on every otlier. One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred, ambition and fear. Deatii had lost its terrors and pleasure its charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. Entliusiasm had made them Stoics, had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion and prejudice, and raised them above tlie influence of danger and of corruption. It sometimes might lead them to pursue unwise ends, but never to choose unwise means. They went through the world, like Sir ArtegaFs iron man Talus^ with his Mail, crusliing and trampling down oppressors, mingling with human beings, but having neither part nor lot in human infirmities; insensible to fatigue, to pleasure, and to pain; not to be pierced l)y any weapon, not to be withstood by any bariier. Such we l)elieve to have been the character of the Puritans. "VVe peiceive the absurdity of their manners. We dislike tlie sullen gloom of their domestic luibits. We acknowh.'dge that the tone of their minis' was often injured by straining after things too high for mortal reach. Yet, when all circumstances are taken into con- sideration, we do not hesitate to pronounce them a brave, a wise, an honest, and a useful body. The Puritans espoused the cause of civil liberty mainly because it was the cause of religion. There was another party, by no means numerous, but distinguished by learn- 1. The allusion is to Spenser's allegoiy of Justice. (Faerie Queene, V. 1). MILTOX. 59 ing and ability, wliicli acted ^vit]l them on very different principles. AVe speak of those whom Cromwell was accustomed to call the Hentliciis, men who were, in the phraseology of that linie, douhiing Thomases or careless (rallios^ witli rct;ai(l to reli'^ious subjects, but passionate worshippers of freedom, llcaied by ti-e study of ancient literatuie, they set u\) their country as their idol, and pro]K)sed to themsehes the heroes of I'lutarch as their exann)les. Tiiev seem to have Ijoi-ne some resemblance to the ]]rissolines"' of the French JJevohition. Ihit it is not ver}^ easy to draw tlie hue of disiinclion between them and their devout associates, wliose tone anvl manner they sometimes found it convenient to ali'ect, and some- times, it is probable, ini])erceptibly ad<^pt(Ml. We now come to the J loyalists. We shall attempt to speak of tliem, as we have sjHjl'Cen of their antagonists, with perfect candour. AVe shall not charge ui)on a whole party the pi-olligacy and baseness of the horse boys, gamblers and bravoes, whom tlie hope of license and plunder attracted from all the dens of White friars"^ to the standard of Charles, and who disgraced their associates bv excesses which, under the stricter discipline of tlie parlia- mentary armies, were ncN-er toleiated. AVe will select a more favourable specimen. Thinking as we do that the cause of the kin<4 was the cause of biootiv and tyranny, we yet cannot refrain from looking with com})laceiicy on the character of the honest old Cavaliei"s. AVe feel a national pride in coniparing them with the instruments whicli the despots of other countries are compelled to employ, — wath the mutes who throng their ante-chambers, and tlie Janissaries'* who mount guard at their gates. Our Boyalist countrymen were not heartless, dangling cour- 1. See Acts, xrili, 17. 2. The Girondists. See History. 3. A district in London. 4. The famous body guard of the Sultan of Turkey, composed mainly of prisoners stolen in youih from Christian parents and trained to arms. They were abolished in 1826. 60 iMACAULAV. tiers, bowing at every stej), and simpeiing at every word. They were not mere macliines for destruction, dressed up in uniforms, caned into skill, intoxicated into valour, defending' wiiliout love, destT'oying without hatred. There was a freedom in their suhscrviencv, a nohlen(>ss in their very dej^Tadalioii. The sentiment of individual independence was strduij- wiiliin tlicm. Tlun^ were indeed misled, but by no b.isc or sillish motive. C(im[)assion and romantic honour, the ])T-cjudic(\s of cliiklhood and the venerable names of history, tlnx'W over them a spell potent as that of Duessa ; and, like the ]i*ed Cross Ivnii;-ht,^ thev thought t!iat tlicv were doin<' battle for an injured beauty while they defended a false and loathsome sor- ceress. In truth, they s(Mi'celv entered at all into the merits of the i)olitica,l question. It was not for a treacherous kiii<>:or an intolerant church that they fouc^ht, but for the oil bi^nier which had waved in so many battles over tlie heids of thi^r fathers, and for the altars at which they had received the hands of their brides. Though nolhini,' could be nioie erroneous than their poli- tical opinions, they ]>()ssessed, in a far p;reater degree than their adversaries, those qu.dities which are the grace of private life, AViih many of the vices of the liound Table,^ thav had also many of its viitues, — courtesy, generosity, vera"ity, t ':i<',';ness, and respect for women. They had far nuae bo' h of ]»rofi>un.i and of polite learning than the Puritan^. Tlicir manners were more engaging, their tem])ers more ami d)le, their tastes more elegant, and their households naue cheerful. ^lilton did not snictlv l)eIonff to any of the classes which we haxe destMibed. He was not a Puritan. He was not a ficethiuker. He was not a Itovalist. lu his character tlie noblest (|ualities of every party were com- bined in harinodous union. From the Parliament and from the court, from the conventicle and from the Gothic 1. The IwMo of Spenser's Faerie Qmene, Book I. Duessa was the allegorical Deceit. 2. See Tennyson's Last Toiuiiament. MILTON. 61 cloister/ from tlie ^•looniy {iiid sepulclirjil circles of the Kouudheads, uiid from tlio ( 'lirisimas revel of the hos])it- able Cavalier, his iiatui-e siilecLed and di-ev^ to itself what- ever was great and good, while it rejecied all the hase and pernicious ingredients by whicli tliose liner elements were deliled. Like the Puritans, he lived " As ever in his great Taskn'aster's eye." Like them, he ke|)t his mind continually fixed on an Almighty Judge and an eternal rewin.i. And hence he acquired their contem])t of external circumstances, their fortitude, their tranquillity, their inllexihle resolution. But not the coolest skeptic or the most ])rofane scol'lur was more i)erfectly free from tlie contagion of their frantic delusions, their savage maiinei's, their ludicrous jarnou,'"^ their scorn of science, and tiieir aversion to ])k'asure. Hating tyrainiy with a })er[ect ha tied, he had uevertiieless all the estiinal)le and oi'nam''ntal qualities which were almost entirely mono])oli/(Hl hy the ]>arty of the tyrant. There was none who had a str(Hiuer sense of the value of literature, a liner relish for e\ (U'v elcL^ant amusement, or a more chivalrous delicacy of honour and love. Thontdi his opinions wei'e demo3ratic, liis tastes and his asso ciations were siicli as harmonize hest with monarchy and aristocracy. He was under the intlnence of all the feel- ings by which the gallant Cavaliers were misled. r)Ut of those feelings he was the master and not the slave. Like the hero*^ of Homei", ho enjoyed all the ]»leasures of fasci- nation ; l)iit he was not fa.scinated. He listened to the song of the Sirens, yet lie glided by \vithout being setluced to their fatal shore. He tiisted tlie cup of Circe,^ but he bore about him a sure antidote against the eii'ects of its 1. That is, from the religions of Dissenters ami of Episcopalians. What figure is this ? 2. Of scriptural language. Look up the word. 3. Ulysses. 4. The enchantress, of the Odyssey, whose cup transformed men into beasts. VI 62 iMACAl'LAV. bewitching sweetness. Tlie illusions which ('Motivated his iniagiiuitiou never inijuiiied his reasoning ]M)wers. Tiie sUitesMKin was ])roof against the si)lcn(lour, the solemnity,, and the romance which enchanted the ]M)i*t. Any ]>evson who will conti'ast the sentiments e.xjnessiMl in his tn^atiscs. on Prelacy with the excjuisite lines on ecclesiastical arclii tecture and music in tlie " Tenseroso, " ^ which was ])uhlished about the same time, will miderstaml (»ur meaning. This is an inconsistency which, more than anything else, raises his cliaracter in our estimation, because it shows how many private tastes and feelings he sacrificed in order to do what he considei'ed his dnlv to maidvs her. That from wliich the public charac> r of Milton derives its great and peculiar s])lendoiir still icmaiiis to he men- tioned. H' he exerted himself to oveHlnnw a, foi-sworii king and a ])ersecuting hierarchy, he excited himsidf in conjunction with others, liut the glory of the battle which he fought for the species of freedom which is the most valuable, and which was then the least under- stood, the freedom of the human mind, is all his own. Thousands and tens of thousands among his contem- poraries raised tlieir voices against slnp money and the Star ('hand)er. Jhit tliere weie few indcHMl who discerned the more fearful evils of moral and intellectual slaverv, and the benefits wliich would result fioni the liberty of the press and the unfettered exexise of pri\i»te jvulg- ment.""^ These weie the olnecls which JNlilton iustlv con- ceived to be the ni»st ini])ortant. He was desirous that the people should think for themselves as well as 1. These lines might t)e memorizeil — // Petiseroso, 11. 155-166. 2. Of Shakespeare's play. .3. r)n you find many antitheses in the Essay, many similes, or parallels ? MILTON. g; t 111 five? (I should 1) ax iM(Miis(aves, ana should he eniancipattMl from tlie (lominioii of ]>iejiuiice as well m«^ fvom that of Charles. He knew that those who, with the h(ist iutciitions, over- looked those schemes of reform, and c«>iiteiued themselves with i)iillin^ down the kiu;:^ and impiiscininj^ the inali*;- Hants, acted like the heedless hrotli'is in his own poem who, in their eagerness to dispersf^ the train of the sorcerer, neglected the moans of liheratin^i; the captixe. They thonoht only of conquering when they should have thought of disenchanting. *' Oh, ye niJatook, ye should have snatch 'd hin wand. And hciiiid liini fast; witlioiit his rod levei.s'd, Anell the charm backward, to break the ties which hound a stu])efied })eo])le to the seat of enchantment, was the noMe aim of ^lilton. To this all his ]iul'lic, conduct was diiecied. For this he joined the i'leshytt 1 iaiis ; for this he forsi ok thcni. He fonolit their jhm ilor.s l)iittle, hut he tunidl away with disdain from their insolent triuni])!!. He saw that they, like those whom they had van(|uish(d, wei(^ hostile to the liberty of thouLflit. He therefore joined the Indeitende? Is, and called ii])on Cromwell to break the secular chain, and to save fiee C(K nis own staiK of his c )untrymen e tlie great holy reprobated as criminal, or derided as ]):iradoxieal.^ He stood up for divorce and regicide. He attacl^etl the pre- vailing systems of einin poot, Ovid. Phrebus, the sun-god, addresses these words to Phaethon, who aspires to drive the cliariot of the sun : •' I strive against opposition ; l)ut the lortre which compels all else d')es not coufiuer me, and 1 hold my course iu the face of the swiftly moving heavens." » MILTON. G5 lari'ruac^o. They abound with ])a.ssiirre.s compared with which the finest deehinialions of I'.mke sink into iiisiirnih- Tfi •j'eet tiehl of ( lolh of uoM Th cance. iriey are a parleet Held ot cloUi ot <^'oi(i.* iiui stylo is stiff with <,^)rt,'eon.s einhioidery. Xot even in thi; earlier Ix^oks of the " I\iradise Lost" lias the tjrcat poet ever risen hi<^dier than in those ])aits of his conH'oversial works in which his feeIin,Lrs, e\cit\v woiiliiess soever mav be the olferino; which \V(i biin<^ to it. While this l)nok lies on our table, we seem to ixi conten)poiaiies of the writer. We are transpoi-ted a hundred and fifty years back. Wo can almost fancy that we are visitim^ him in his small lodi^im^; that we see him sittiui^ at the old organ beneath the faded green hanon it; tiie earnestness with Avhicli we. should ende;i\nnr to console him, if indeed such a spirit could need consolation, for the neglect of an ago unworthy of his talents ji'mI his virtues;^ the eagerness witli \\hieh we should contest with his daughters, or with his f)uaker fiiend Ellwo()d,the privilege of reading Homer to him, or of taking down the immortal accents which liowed from his lips. These are ])erhaps foolish feelings.'"^ Yet we cannot be f^shamed of tlxni ; nor shall we be sorry if what we have written shall in anv dcj^^ree excite them in other minoswellism.^ J^)Ut there are a few cliaracters which ha\e stood the closest scrutiny and the severest tests, \\hich have been tried in the fui'iiace and ha\e provv^d pure, which have been weigln d in the balance and have not been found wanting, Vvl.ich have been declared sterling by the general consent of mankind, and which are visibly stamped with the image and su])er- scription of the Most High.'' These great men we trust we know how lo prize, and of these was Milton. The sight of his books, the sound of his name, are i)lcjisant to us. His thoughts resemble those celestial fruits and flowers which tlie Vircrin Martyr of Massin<:er^ sent down from the gardens of I'aradise to the earth, and which were 1. Is tliere a tendency to i]ia*K-'j(»svvell, the disciple and biographer of .lolinson, idolized his master. 4. Do not let the figure of language pass without criticism. 5. I'hiiip Massinger (1583-1040), one of M hose finejst plays is The Vhufin Mariijr MiLTOX. () )/ distiiigui.shed iVoiii the ])ro(lnctions of oilier soils, not only by superior liloom and sweetness, but by miraculous ellicacy to invii^orate and to heal. They are powei'ful, not only to. delii^dit, but to elevate and purity. Xor do we envy the man who can study either the life or the wi'itini;s of tli<^ o-reat, ])oet and ])atriot without as})ii'ing to emulate, not indeed the sublime works with which his genius hns enriched our literature, but the Z(^al with which lie hibouriMl for the public good, the fortitude with which he endured every ])rivate calamity, the loftv (bsdain with which he looked down on temptations and dangers, the deadly hatred which he bore to bigots and tyrants, and the f.iilli which In ) sternly kept with his country and with his fame.^ 1. Was rriiicisni the end Macaulay had in view in M'ritiiig tlie Essay on Afi/foa '^ I'urn to wliere the author states definitely his purpose. j>oe3 the piece convey to your niinJ a sense of completeness— a sense of .satisfaction, that the author has acconi})lished the end which he set hefore him ? Have you fouiul the piece easy reading? Is the writer's meaning generally easy to grasp ? C an you ])oint to .my ohscuic sentences V Is the style often argumentative? Alention some pasi;iiges to illustrate. Is it powerful or convincing? What figures have you noticed ? Which are the most abundant? Quote some figuics that please you particida' ly. Write a paiagraph on Milton in the style of Macaulay. Memorize some paragr"iph th; fc pleases you and then imitate its style. Does the author a{)pear toha\e })ecn a wide reader? From what languages and fr<^)m wliat classes of writings has he <|note-,«annz^^