Lives of the English Poets : Waller, Milton, Cowley

Milton, when he undertook this answer, was weak of body and dim of sight; but his will was forward, and what was wanting of health was supplied by zeal.  He was rewarded with a thousand pounds, and his book was much read; for paradox, recommended by spirit and elegance, easily gains attention; and he, who told every man that he was equal to his king, could hardly want an audience.

That the performance of Salmasius was not dispersed with equal rapidity, or read with equal eagerness, is very credible.  He taught only the stale doctrine of authority, and the unpleasing duty of submission; and he had been so long not only the monarch, but the tyrant of literature, that almost all mankind were delighted to find him defied and insulted by a new name, not yet considered as any one’s rival.  If Christina, as is said, commended the defence of the people, her purpose must be to torment Salmasius, who was then at court; for neither her civil station, nor her natural character, could dispose her to favour the doctrine, who was by birth a queen, and by temper despotic.

That Salmasius was, from the appearance of Milton’s book, treated with neglect, there is not much proof; but to a man, so long accustomed to admiration, a little praise of his antagonist would be sufficiently offensive, and might incline him to leave Sweden, from which however he was dismissed, not with any mark of contempt, but with a train of attendants scarce less than regal.

He prepared a reply, which, left as it was imperfect, was published by his son in the year of the Restoration.  In the beginning, being probably most in pain for his Latinity, he endeavours to defend his use of the word persona; but, if I remember right, he misses a better authority than any that he has found, that of Juvenal in his fourth satire:

—Quid agis cum dira et fœdior omniCrimine persona est?

As Salmasius reproached Milton with losing his eyes in the quarrel, Milton delighted himself with the belief that he had shortened Salmasius’s life, and both perhaps with more malignity than reason.  Salmasius died at the Spa, Sept. 3, 1653; and, as controvertists are commonly said to be killed by their last dispute, Milton was flattered with the credit of destroying him.

Cromwell had now dismissed the parliament by the authority of which he had destroyed monarchy, and commenced monarch himself, under the title of Protector, but with kingly and more than kingly power.  That his authority was lawful, never was pretended; he himself founded his right only in necessity; but Milton, having now tasted the honey of public employment, would not return to hunger and philosophy, but, continuing to exercise his office under a manifest usurpation, betrayed to his power that liberty which he had defended.  Nothing can be more just than that rebellion should end in slavery; that he, who had justified the murder of his king, for some acts which seemed to him unlawful, should now sell his services, and his flatteries, to a tyrant, of whom it was evident that he could do nothing lawful.

He had now been blind for some years; but his vigour of intellect was such, that he was not disabled to discharge his office of Latin secretary, or continue his controversies.  His mind was too eager to be diverted, and too strong to be subdued.

About this time his first wife died in childbed, having left him three daughters.  As he probably did not much love her, he did not long continue the appearance of lamenting her; but after a short time married Catharine, the daughter of one Captain Woodcock, of Hackney, a woman doubtless educated in opinions like his own.  She died, within a year, of childbirth, or some distemper that followed it; and her husband honoured her memory with a poor sonnet.

The first reply to Milton’s “Defensio Populi” was published in 1651, called “Apologia pro Rege et Populo Anglicano, contra Johannis Polypragmatici (alias Miltoni) defensionem destructivam Regis et Populi.”  Of this the author was not known; but Milton and his nephew Philips, under whose name he published an answer so much corrected by him, that it might be called his own, imputed it to Bramhal; and, knowing him no friend to regicides, thought themselves at liberty to treat him as if they had known what they only suspected.

Next year appeared “Regii Sanguinis clamor ad Cœlum.”  Of this the author was Peter du Moulin, who was afterwards prebendary of Canterbury; but Morus, or More, a French minister, having the care of its publication, was treated as the writer by Milton, in his “Defensio Secunda,” and overwhelmed by such violence of invective, that he began to shrink under the tempest, and gave his persecutors the means of knowing the true author.  Du Moulin was now in great danger; but Milton’s pride operated against his malignity; and both he and his friends were more willing that Du Moulin should escape than that he should be convicted of mistake.

In this second Defence he shows that his eloquence is not merely satirical; the rudeness of his invective is equalled by the grossness of his flattery, Deserimur, Cromuelle tu solus superes, ad te summa nostrarum rerum, rediit, in te solo consistit, insuperabili tuæ virtuti cedimus cuncti, nemine vel obloquente, nisi qui æquales inæqualis ipse honores sibi quærit, aut digniori concessos invidet, aut non intelligit nihil esse in societate hominum magis vel Deo gratum, vel rationi consentaneum, esse in civitate nihil æquius, nihil utilius, quam potiri rerum dignissimum.   Eum te agnoscunt omnes, Cromuelle, ea tu civis maximus, et gloriosissimus, dux publici consilii, exercituum fortissimorum imperator, pater patriæ gessisti.  Sic tu spontanea bonorum omnium et animitus missa voce salutaris.

Cæsar, when he assumed the perpetual dictatorship, had not more servile or more elegant flattery.  A translation may show its servility; but its elegance is less attainable.  Having exposed the unskilfulness or selfishness of the former government, “We were left,” says Milton, “to ourselves: the whole national interest fell into our hands, and subsists only in your abilities.  To your virtue, overpowering and resistless, every man gives way, except some who, without equal qualifications, aspire to equal honours, who envy the distinctions of merit greater than their own, or who have yet to learn, that in the coalition of human society nothing is more pleasing to God, or more agreeable to reason, than that the highest mind should have the sovereign power.  Such, sir, are you by general confession; such are the things achieved by you, the greatest and most glorious of our countrymen, the director of our public councils, the leader of unconquered armies, the father of your country; for by that title doss every good man hail you with sincere and voluntary praise.”

Next year, having defended all that wanted defence, he found leisure to defend himself.  He undertook his own vindication against More, whom he declares in his title to be justly called the author of the “Regii Sanguinis Clamor.”  In this there is no want of vehemence nor eloquence, nor does he forget his wonted wit.  Morus es? an Momus? an uterque idem est?  He then remembers that Morus is Latin for a mulberry-tree, and hints at the known transformation:

—Poma alba ferebatQuæ post nigra tulit Morus.

With this piece ended his controversies; and he from this time gave himself up to his private studies and his civil employment.

As secretary to the Protector he is supposed to have written the Declaration of the reasons for a war with Spain.  His agency was considered as of great importance; for, when a treaty with Sweden was artfully suspended, the delay was publicly imputed to Mr. Milton’s indisposition; and the Swedish agent was provoked to express his wonder that only one man in England could write Latin, and that man blind.

Being now forty-seven years old, and seeing himself disencumbered from external interruptions, he seems to have recollected his former purposes, and to have resumed three great works which he had planned for his future employment—an epic poem, the history of his country, and a dictionary of the Latin tongue.

To collect a dictionary seems a work of all others least practicable in a state of blindness, because it depends upon perpetual and minute inspection and collation.  Nor would Milton probably have begun it, after he had lost his eyes; but, having had it always before him, he continued it, says Philips, “almost to his dying day; but the papers were so discomposed and deficient, that they could not be fitted for the press.”  The compilers of the Latin dictionary, printed at Cambridge, had the use of those collections in three folios; but what was their fate afterwards is not known.

To compile a history from various authors, when they can only be consulted by other eyes, is not easy, nor possible, but with more skilful and attentive help than can be commonly obtained; and it was probably the difficulty of consulting and comparing that stopped Milton’s narrative at the Conquest—a period at which affairs were not very intricate, nor authors very numerous.

For the subject of his epic poem, after much deliberation, long choosing, and beginning late, he fixed upon “Paradise Lost,” a design so comprehensive, that it could be justified only by success.  He had once designed to celebrate King Arthur, as he hints in his verses to Mansus; but “Arthur was reserved,” says Fenton, “to another destiny.”

It appears, by some sketches of poetical projects left in manuscript, and to be seen in a library at Cambridge, that he had digested his thoughts on this subject into one of those wild dramas which were anciently called Mysteries; and Philips had seen what he terms part of a tragedy, beginning with the first ten lines of Satan’s address to the Sun.  These mysteries consist of allegorical persons, such as Justice, Mercy, Faith.  Of the tragedy or mystery of “Paradise Lost” there are two plans

Paradise Lost

The Persons

Moses, προλογίζει, recounting how he assumed his true body; that it corrupts not, because it is with God in the mount; declares the like of Enoch and Elijah; besides the purity of the place, that certain pure winds, dews, and clouds, preserve it from corruption; whence exhorts to the sight of God; tells they cannot see Adam in the state of innocence, by reason of their sin.

Justice, Mercy, Wisdom } debating what should become of man, if he fall.

Chorus of Angels singing a hymn of the Creation.

ACT II

Heavenly Love.

Evening Star.

Chorus sing the marriage-song, and describe Paradise.

ACT III

Lucifer contriving Adam’s ruin.

Chorus fears for Adam, and relates Lucifer’s rebellion and fall.

ACT IV

Adam, Eve } fallen.

Conscience cites them to God’s examination.

Chorus bewails, and tells the good Adam has lost.

ACT V

Adam and Eve driven out of Paradise.

– – presented by an angel with Labour, Grief, Hatred, Envy, War, Famine, Pestilence, Sickness, Discontent, Ignorance, Fear, Death } Mutes.

To whom he gives their names.  Likewise Winter, Heat, Tempest, etc.

Faith, Hope, Charity, comfort him and instruct him.

Chorus briefly concludes.

Such was his first design, which could have produced only an allegory or mystery.  The following sketch seems to have attained more maturity.

Adam Unparadised

The angel Gabriel, either descending or entering; showing, since this globe was created, his frequency as much on earth as in heaven; describes Paradise.  Next the Chorus, showing the reason of his coming to keep his watch in Paradise, after Lucifer’s rebellion, by command from God; and withal expressing his desire to see and know more concerning this excellent new creature, man.  The angel Gabriel, as by his name signifying a prince of power, tracing Paradise with a more free office, passes by the station of the Chorus, and, desired by them, relates what he knew of man; as the creation of Eve, with their love and marriage.  After this, Lucifer appears; after his overthrow, bemoans himself, seeks revenge on man.  The Chorus prepare resistance on his first approach.  At last, after discourse of enmity on either side, he departs: whereat the Chorus sings of the battle and victory in Heaven, against him and his accomplices: as before, after the first act, was sung a hymn of the creation.  Here again may appear Lucifer, relating and exulting in what he had done to the destruction of man.  Man next, and Eve, having by this time been seduced by the serpent, appears confusedly covered with leaves.  Conscience in a shape accuses him; Justice cites him to the place whither Jehovah called for him.  In the meanwhile, the Chorus entertains the stage, and is informed by some angel the manner of the fall.  Here the Chorus bewails Adam’s fall; Adam then and Eve return; accuse one another; but especially Adam lays the blame to his wife; is stubborn in his offence.  Justice appears, reasons with him, convinces him.  The Chorus admonishes Adam, and bids him beware of Lucifer’s example of impenitence.  The angel is sent to banish them out of Paradise; but before causes to pass before his eyes, in shapes, a mask of all the evils of this life and world.  He is humbled, relents, despairs; at last appears Mercy, comforts him, promises the Messiah; then calls in Faith, Hope, and Charity;—instructs him; he repents, gives God the glory, submits to his penalty.  The Chorus briefly concludes.  Compare this with the former draft.

These are very imperfect rudiments of “Paradise Lost;” but it is pleasant to see great works in their seminal state, pregnant with latent possibilities of excellence; nor could there be any more delightful entertainment than to trace their gradual growth and expansion, and to observe how they are sometimes suddenly advanced by accidental hints, and sometimes slowly improved by steady meditation.

Invention is almost the only literary labour which blindness cannot obstruct, and therefore he naturally solaced his solitude by the indulgence of his fancy, and the melody of his numbers.  He had done what he knew to be necessarily previous to poetical excellence; he had made himself acquainted with “seemly arts and affairs;” his comprehension was extended by various knowledge, and his memory stored with intellectual treasures.  He was skilful in many languages, and had, by reading and composition, attained the full mastery of his own.  He would have wanted little help from books, had he retained the power of perusing them.

But while his greater designs were advancing, having now, like many other authors, caught the love of publication, he amused himself, as he could, with little productions.  He sent to the press (1658) a manuscript of Raleigh, called “The Cabinet Council;” and next year gratified his malevolence to the clergy, by a “Treatise of Civil Power in Ecclesiastical Cases, and the Means of removing Hirelings out of the Church.”

Oliver was now dead; Richard constrained to resign; the system of extemporary government, which had been held together only by force, naturally fell into fragments when that force was taken away; and Milton saw himself and his cause in equal danger.  But he had still hope of doing something.  He wrote letters, which Toland has published, to such men as he thought friends to the new commonwealth; and even in the year of the Restoration he “bated no jot of heart or hope,” but was fantastical enough to think that the nation, agitated as it was, might be settled by a pamphlet, called “A Ready and Easy Way to Establish a Free Commonwealth;” which was, however, enough considered to be both seriously and ludicrously answered.

The obstinate enthusiasm of the commonwealth-men was very remarkable.  When the king was apparently returning, Harrington, with a few associates as fantastical as himself, used to meet, with all the gravity of political importance, to settle an equal government by rotation; and Milton, kicking when he could strike no longer, was foolish enough to publish, a few weeks before the Restoration, Notes upon a Sermon preached by one Griffiths, entitled, “The Fear of God and the King.”  To these notes an answer was written by L’Estrange, in a pamphlet petulantly called “No Blind Guides.”

But whatever Milton could write, or men of greater activity could do, the king was now about to be restored with the irresistible approbation of the people, he was therefore no longer secretary, and was consequently obliged to quit the house which he held by his office; the importance of his writings, thought it convenient to seek some shelter, and hid himself for a time in Bartholomew Close, by West Smithfield.

I cannot but remark a kind of respect, perhaps unconsciously paid to this great man by his biographers: every house in which he resided is historically mentioned, as if it were an injury to neglect naming any place that he honoured by his presence.

The king, with lenity of which the world has had perhaps no other example, declined to be the judge or avenger of his own or his father’s wrongs; and promised to admit into the Act of Oblivion all except those whom the Parliament should except; and the Parliament doomed none to capital punishment but the wretches who had immediately co-operated in the murder of the king.  Milton was certainly not one of them; he had only justified what they had done.

This justification was indeed sufficiently offensive; and (June 16) an order was issued to seize Milton’s “Defence,” and Goodwin’s “Obstructors of Justice,” another book of the same tendency, and burn them by the common hangman.  The attorney-general was ordered to prosecute the authors; but Milton was not seized, nor perhaps very diligently pursued.

Not long after (August 19) the flutter of innumerable bosoms was stilled by an Act, which the king, that his mercy might want no recommendation of elegance, rather called an Act of Oblivion than of Grace.  Goodwin was named, with nineteen more, as incapacitated for any public trust; but of Milton there was no exception.

Of this tenderness shown to Milton the curiosity of mankind has not forborne to inquire the reason.  Burnet thinks he was forgotten; but this is another instance which may confirm Dalrymple’s observation, who says, “that whenever Burnet’s narrations are examined, he appears to be mistaken.”

Forgotten he was not; for his prosecution was ordered; it must be therefore by design that he was included in the general oblivion.  He is said to have had friends in the House, such as Marvel, Morrice, and Sir Thomas Clarges: and undoubtedly a man like him must have had influence.  A very particular story of his escape is told by Richardson in his Memoirs, which he received from Pope, as delivered by Betterton, who might have heard it from Davenant.  In the war between the King and Parliament, Davenant was made prisoner and condemned to die; but was spared at the request of Milton.  When the turn of success brought Milton into the like danger, Davenant repaid the benefit by appearing in his favour.  Here is a reciprocation of generosity and gratitude so pleasing, that the tale makes its own way to credit.  But if help were wanted, I know not where to find it.  The danger of Davenant is certain from his own relation; but of his escape there is no account.  Betterton’s narration can be traced no higher; it is not known that he hid it from Davenant.  We are told that the benefit exchanged was life for life; but it seems not certain that Milton’s life ever was in danger.  Goodwin, who had committed the same kind of crime, escaped with incapacitation; and, as exclusion from public trust is a punishment which the power of Government can commonly inflict without the help of a particular law, it required no great interest to exempt Milton from a censure little more than verbal.  Something may be reasonably ascribed to veneration and compassion; to veneration of his abilities, and compassion for his distresses, which made it fit to forgive his malice for his learning.  He was now poor and blind; and who would pursue with violence an illustrious enemy, depressed by fortune and disarmed by nature?

The publication of the “Act of Oblivion” put him in the same condition with his fellow-subjects.  He was, however, upon some pretence now not known, in the custody of the serjeant in December; and when he was released, upon his refusal of the fees demanded, he and the serjeant were called before the House.  He was now safe within the shade of oblivion, and knew himself to be as much out of the power of a griping officer as any other man.  How the question was determined is not known.  Milton would hardly have contended but that he knew himself to have right on his side.

He then removed to Jewin Street, near Aldersgate Street, and, being blind and by no means wealthy, wanted a domestic companion and attendant; and therefore, by the recommendation of Dr. Paget, married Elizabeth Minshul, of a gentleman’s family in Cheshire, probably without a fortune.  All his wives were virgins; for he has declared that he thought it gross and indelicate to be a second husband: upon what other principles his choice was made cannot now be known; but marriage afforded not much of his happiness.  The first wife left him in disgust, and was brought back only by terror; the second, indeed, seems to have been more a favourite, but her life was short.  The third, as Philips relates, oppressed his children in his lifetime, and cheated them at his death.

Soon after his marriage, according to an obscure story, he was offered the continuance of his employment, and, being pressed by his wife to accept it, answered, “You, like other women, want to ride in your coach; my wish is to live and die an honest man.”  If he considered the Latin secretary as exercising any of the powers of government, he that had shared authority, either with the Parliament or Cromwell, might have forborne to talk very loudly of his honesty; and if he thought the office purely ministerial, he certainly might have honestly retained it under the King.  But this tale has too little evidence to deserve a disquisition; large offers and sturdy rejections are among the most common topics of falsehood.

He had so much either of prudence or gratitude, that he forbore to disturb the new settlement with any of his political or ecclesiastical opinions, and from this time devoted himself to poetry and literature.  Of his zeal for learning in all its parts, he gave a proof by publishing, the next year (1661), “Accidence commenced Grammar;” a little book which has nothing remarkable, but that its author, who had been lately defending the supreme powers of his country, and was then writing “Paradise Lost,” could descend from his elevation to rescue children from the perplexity of grammatical confusion, and the trouble of lessons unnecessarily repeated.

About this time, Elwood the Quaker, being recommended to him as one who would read Latin to him for the advantage of his conversation, attended him every afternoon except on Sundays.  Milton, who, in his letter to Hartlib, had declared, that “to read Latin with an English mouth is as ill a hearing as Law French,” required that Elwood should learn and practise the Italian pronunciation, which, he said, was necessary, if he would talk with foreigners.  This seems to have been a task troublesome without use.  There is little reason for preferring the Italian pronunciation to our own, except that it is more general; and to teach it to an Englishman is only to make him a foreigner at home.  He who travels, if he speaks Latin, may so soon learn the sounds which every native gives it, that he need make no provision before his journey; and if strangers visit us, it is their business to practise such conformity to our modes as they expect from us in their own countries.  Elwood complied with the directions, and improved himself by his attendance; for he relates, that Milton, having a curious ear, knew by his voice when he read what he did not understand, and would stop him, and “open the most difficult passages.”

In a short time he took a house in the Artillery Walk, leading to Bunhill Fields; the mention of which concludes the register of Milton’s removals and habitations.  He lived longer in this place than any other.