The Project Gutenberg EBook of Milton, by John Bailey

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Title: Milton

Author: John Bailey

Release Date: August 9, 2007 [EBook #22286]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MILTON ***

Produced by Al Haines

MILTON

BY

JOHN BAILEY

AUTHOR OF "THE CLAIMS OF FRENCH POETRY," "DR. JOHNSON AND HIS CIRCLE," ETC.

LONDON

WILLIAMS AND NORGATE

[Transcriber's note: Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers enclosed in curly braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page breaks occurred in the original book, in accordance with Project Gutenberg's FAQ-V-99. For its Index, a page number has been placed only at the start of that section.]

First printed Spring 1915

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I INTRODUCTORY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 II MILTON'S LIFE AND CHARACTER . . . . . . . . . . . 28 III THE EARLIER POEMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 IV PARADISE LOST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 V PARADISE REGAINED AND SAMSON AGONISTES . . . 190 BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250 INDEX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254

  Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
  England hath need of thee; she is a fen
  Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen,
  Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
  Have forfeited their ancient English dower
  Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
  Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
  And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
  Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
  Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
  Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
  So didst thou travel on life's common way,
  In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
  The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
          WORDSWORTH.

  O Mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies,
  O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity,
    God-gifted organ-voice of England,
      Milton, a name to resound for ages;
  Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,
  Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries,
    Tower, as the deep-doomed empyrean
      Rings to the roar of an angel onset—
  Me rather all that bowery loneliness,
  The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring,
    And bloom profuse and cedar arches
      Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,
  Where some refulgent sunset of India
  Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,
    And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods
      Whisper in odorous heights of even.
          TENNYSON.

{7}

MILTON

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTORY

When a man spends a day walking in hilly country he is often astonished at the new shape taken on by a mountain when it is looked at from a new point of view. Sometimes the change is so great as to make it almost unrecognizable. He who has seen Snowdon from Capel-Curig is reluctant to admit that what he sees from Llanberis is the same mountain: he who has seen the Langdale Pikes from Glaramara is amazed at their beauty as he gazes at them from the garden at Low Wood. These are extreme cases. But to a less degree every traveller among the mountains is experiencing the same thing all day. He finds the eternal hills the most plastic of forms. At each change in his own position there is a change in the shape of a mountain under which he is passing. He may keep his eye fixed upon it but insensibly, as he watches, the long {8} chain will become a vertical peak, the jagged precipice a round green slope.

Much the same process goes on as the generations of men pass on their way, with their eyes fixed, as they cannot help being, on the great human heights of their own and earlier days. Many of these look great only when you are close to them. At a little distance they are seen to be small and soon they disappear altogether. The true mountains remain but they do not keep the same shape. Each succeeding generation sees the peaks of humanity from a new point of view which cannot be exactly the same as that of its predecessor. Each age reshapes for itself its conception of art, of poetry, of religion, and of human life which includes them all. Of some of the masters in each of these worlds it feels that they belong not to their own generation only but to all time and so to itself. It cannot be satisfied, therefore, with what its predecessors have said about them. It needs to see them again freshly for itself, and put into words so far as it can its own attitude towards them.

That is the excuse for the new books which will always be written every few years about Hebrew Religion, or Greek Art, or the French Revolution, or about such men as Plato, {9} St. Paul, Shakspeare, Napoleon. It is the excuse even for a much humbler thing, for the addition of a volume on Milton to the Home University Library. The object of this Library is not, indeed, to say anything startlingly new about the great men with whom it deals. Rather the contrary, in fact: for to say anything startlingly new about Shakspeare or Plato would probably be merely to say what is absurd or false. The main outlines of these great figures have long been settled, and the man who writes a book to prove that Shakspeare was not a great dramatist, or was an exact and lucid writer, is wasting his own time and that of his readers. The mountain may change its aspect from hour to hour, but when once we have ascertained that it is composed of granite, that matter is settled, and there is no use in arguing that it is sandstone or basalt. The object of such volumes as those of this Library is no vain assault on the secure judgment-seat of the world, no hopeless appeal against the recorded and accepted decrees of time. It is rather to re-state those decrees in modern language and from the point of view of our own day: to show, for instance, how Plato, though no longer for us what he was for the Neo-Platonists, is {10} still for us the most moving mind of the race that more than all others has moved the mind of the world; how Milton, though no longer for us a convincing justifier of the ways of God to men, is still a figure of transcendent interest, the most lion-hearted, the loftiest-souled, of Englishmen, the one consummate artist our race has produced, the only English man of letters who in all that is known about him, his life, his character, his poetry, shows something for which the only fit word is sublime.

There was much else beside, of course. The sublime is very near the terrible, and the terrible is often not very far removed from the hateful. Dante giving his "daily dreadful line" to the private and public enemies with whom he grimly populates his hell is not exactly an amiable or attractive figure. Still