Life Of John Milton by Richard Garnett (best free novels TXT) 📖

A Perpetual Succession Of Isolated Images Of Awful Majesty; In His

Paradise And Creation The Universal Landscape Is Bathed In A General

Atmosphere Of Lustrous Splendour. This Portion Of His Work Is

Accordingly Less Great In Detached Passages,  But Is Little Inferior In

General Greatness. No Less An Authority Than Tennyson,  Indeed,  Expresses

A Preference For The "Bowery Loneliness" Of Eden Over The "Titan Angels"

Of The "Deep-Domed Empyrean." If This Only Means That Milton's Eden Is

Finer Than His War In Heaven,  We Must Concur; But If A Wider Application

Be Intended,  It Does Seem To Us That His Pandemonium Exalts Him To A

Greater Height Above Every Other Poet Than His Paradise Exalts Him Above

His Predecessor,  And In Some Measure,  His Exemplar,  Spenser.

 

To Remain At Such An Elevation Was Impossible. Milton Compares

Unfavourably With Homer In This; His Epic Begins At Its Zenith,  And

After A While Visibly And Continually Declines. His Genius Is

Unimpaired,  But His Skill Transcends His Stuff. The Fall Of Man And Its

Consequences Could Not By Any Device Be Made As Interesting As The Fall

Of Satan,  Of Which It Is Itself But A Consequence. It Was,  Moreover,

Absolutely Inevitable That Adam's Fall,  The Proper Catastrophe Of The

Poem,  Should Occur Some Time Before The Conclusion,  Otherwise There

Would Have Been No Space For The Unfolding Of The Scheme Of Redemption,

Equally Essential From The Point Of View Of Orthodoxy And Of Art. The

Effect Is The Same As In The Case Of Shakespeare's "Julius Cæsar,"

Which,  Having Proceeded With Matchless Vigour Up To The Flight Of The

Conspirators After Antony's Speech,  Becomes Comparatively Tame And

Languid,  And Cannot Be Revived Even By Such A Masterpiece As The

Contention Between Brutus And Cassius. It Is To Be Regretted That

Milton's Extreme Devotion To The Letter Of Scripture Has Not Permitted

Him To Enrich His Latter Books With Any Corresponding Episode. It Is Not

Until The Very End That He Is Again Truly Himself--

 

   "They,  Looking Back,  All The Eastern Side Beheld

    Of Paradise,  So Late Their Happy Seat,

    Waved Over By That Flaming Brand; The Gate

    With Dreadful Faces Thronged And Fiery Arms.

    Some Natural Tears They Dropped,  But Wiped Them Soon.

    The World Was All Before Them,  Where To Choose

    Their Place Of Rest,  And Providence Their Guide.

    They,  Hand In Hand,  With Wandering Steps And Slow,

    Through Eden Took Their Solitary Way."

 

Some Minor Objections May Be Briefly Noticed. The Materiality Of

Milton's Celestial Warfare Has Been Censured By Every One From The Days

Of Sir Samuel Morland,[6] A Splenetic Critic,  Who Had Incurred Milton's

Contempt By His Treachery To Cromwell And Thurloe. Warfare,  However,

There Must Be: War Cannot Be Made Without Weapons; And Milton's Only

Fault Is That He Has Rather Exaggerated Than Minimized The Difficulties

Of His Subject. A Sense Of Humour Would Have Spiked His Celestial

Artillery,  But A Lively Perception Of The Ridiculous Is Scarcely To Be

Demanded From A Milton. After All,  He Was Borrowing From Good Poets,[7]

Whose Thought In Itself Is Correct,  And Even Profound; It Is Only When

Artillery Antedates Humanity That The Ascription Of Its Invention To The

Tempter Seems Out Of Place. The Metamorphosis Of The Demons Into

Serpents Has Been Censured As Grotesque; But It Was Imperatively

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Necessary To Manifest By Some Unmistakable Outward Sign That Victory Did

Not After All Remain With Satan,  And The Critics May Be Challenged To

Find One More Appropriate. The Bridge Built By Sin And Death Is Equally

Essential. Satan's Progeny Must Not Be Dismissed Without Some Exploit

Worthy Of Their Parentage. The One Passage Where Milton's Taste Seems To

Us Entirely At Fault Is The Description Of The Paradise Of Fools (Iii.,

481-497),  Where His Scorn Of--

 

                        "Reliques,  Beads,

    Indulgences,  Dispenses,  Pardons,  Bulls,"

 

Has Tempted Him To Chequer The Sublime With The Ludicrous.

 

No Subject But A Biblical One Would Have Insured Milton Universal

Popularity Among His Countrymen,  For His Style Is That Of An Ancient

Classic Transplanted,  Like Aladdin's Palace Set Down With All Its

Magnificence In The Heart Of Africa; And His Diction,  The Delight Of The

Educated,  Is The Despair Of The Ignorant Man. Not That This Diction Is

In Any Respect Affected Or Pedantic. Milton Was The Darling Poet Of Our

Greatest Modern Master Of Unadorned Saxon Speech,  John Bright. But It

Is Freighted With Classic Allusion--Not Alone From The Ancient

Classics--And Comes To Us Rich With Gathered Sweets,  Like A Wind Laden

With The Scent Of Many Flowers. "It Is," Says Pattison,  "The Elaborated

Outcome Of All The Best Words Of All Antecedent Poetry--The Language Of

One Who Lives In The Companionship Of The Great And The Wise Of Past

Time." "Words," The Same Writer Reminds Us,  "Over And Above Their

Dictionary Signification,  Connote All The Feeling Which Has Gathered

Round Them By Reason Of Their Employment Through A Hundred Generations

Of Song." So It Is,  Every Word Seems Instinct With Its Own Peculiar

Beauty,  And Fraught With Its Own Peculiar Association,  And Yet Each

Detail Is Strictly Subordinate To The General Effect. No Poet Of

Milton's Rank,  Probably,  Has Been Equally Indebted To His Predecessors,

Not Only For His Vocabulary,  But For His Thoughts. Reminiscences Throng

Upon Him,  And He Takes All That Comes,  Knowing That He Can Make It

Lawfully His Own. The Comparison Of Satan's Shield To The Moon,  For

Instance,  Is Borrowed From The Similar Comparison Of The Shield Of

Achilles In The Iliad,  But What Goes In Homer Comes Out Milton. Homer

Merely Says That Use It Is,  Doesn't Want It," Replied The Workman.  It

Then Flashed Into Joseph's Mind That It Was A Gallows.

 

Mary Grasped His Arm: "Joseph,  Let Us Go On To Bethlehem."  For She

Began To Be Frightened.

 

They Staggered Along The Road.  A Draught Of The Spring Of The Valley

Of Jehoshaphat Refreshed Them.  Farther On In The Fertile Plain Of

Judaea Lambs And Kids Were Feeding,  And Joseph Began To Speak Of His

Childhood.  His Whole Being Was Fresh And Joyful.  Home!  And By

Evening Time Bethlehem,  Lighted By The Setting Sun,  Lay Before Them On

The Hill-Top.

 

They Stood Still For A Space And Looked At It.  Then Joseph Went Into

The Town To Inquire About The Place And The Time Of The Enrolment,  And

To Seek Lodging For The Night.  The Young Woman Sat Down Before The

Gate Under The Fan-Shaped Leaves Of A Palm-Tree And Looked About Her

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The Western Land Seemed Very Strange To Her And Yet Sweet,  For It Was

Her Joseph's Childish Home.  How Noisy It Was In Jerusalem,  And How

Peaceful It Was Here--Almost As Still And Solemn As A Sabbath Evening

At Nazareth!  Beloved Nazareth!  How Far Away,  How Far Away!  Sometimes

The Sound Of A Shepherd's Pipe Was Heard From The Green Hills.  A Youth

Leaned Up Against An Olive Tree And Made A Wreath Of Twigs And Sang:

"Behold,  Thou Art Fair,  My Love.  Thine Eyes Are As Doves In Thy

Fragrant Locks,  Thy Lips Are Rosebuds,  And Thy Two Breasts Are Like

Roes Which Feed Among The Lilies.  Thou Hast Ravished My Heart,  My

Sister,  My Spouse."  Then He Was Silent,  And The Leaves Rustled Softly

In The Evening Breeze.

 

Mary Looked Out For Joseph,  But He Came Not.  And The Singer Continued:

"Who Art Thou That Shinest Like The Day-Dawn,  Fair As The Moon,  And

Clear As The Sun,  Divine Daughter Of Eve?"  And Mary Still Waited Under

The Palm-Tree And Listened,  And She Began To Feel Strange Pangs.  She

Drew Her Cloak More Closely Round Her,  And Saw That The Stars Already

Stood In The Sky.  But Still Joseph Came Not.  And From The Hill The

Singer: "And From The Root Of Jesse A Twig Shall Spring."  And A Second

Voice: "And All Nations Shall Rise Up And Sing Her Praises."  So Did

The Shepherds Sing The Songs Of Their Old Kings And Prophets.

 

At Last Joseph Came Slowly From The Town.  The Enrolment Was To Take

Place To-Morrow At Nine O'clock; That Was All Right.  But There Was

Difficulty Over The Lodging For The Night.  He Had Spoken With Rich

Relations; They Would Have Been Very Glad,  But Unfortunately A Wedding

Feast Was Going Forward,  And Wanderers In Homely Garments Might Easily

Feel Uncomfortable.  He Quite Understood That.  Then He Went To His

Poorer Relations,  Who Would Have Been Even More Glad,  But It Was

Deplorable That Their House Was So Small And Their Hearth So Cramped.

All The Inns Were Overcrowded With Strangers.  They Did Not Seem To

Think Much Here Of People From Galilee Because All Kinds Of Heathenish

Folk Lived There--As If Any One Who Was Born In Bethlehem Could Be A

Heathen!  And So He Did Not Know What To Do.

 

Mary Leaned Her Head On Her Hand And Said Nothing.

 

"Your Hands And Feet Are Trembling,  Mary," Said Joseph.

 

She Shook Her Head; It Was Nothing.

 

"Come,  My Wife,  We Will Go In Together," Said Joseph.  "We Are Not

Vagabonds To Whom They Can Refuse Assistance."

 

And Then They Both Went Into The Town.  Mine Host Of The Inn Was Stern.

 

"I Told You Already,  Old Man,  That There's No Place For The Like Of You

In My House.  Take Your Little Daughter Somewhere Else."

 

"She's Not My Daughter,  Sir,  But My True Wife,  Trusted To Me By God

That I May Protect Her," Returned Joseph,  And He Lifted Up His

Carpenter's Hand.

 

The Door Was Slammed In Their Faces.

Chapter 9 Pg 91

 

A Fruit-Seller,  Who Had Witnessed The Scene,  Stretched Forth His Brown

Neck And Asked For Their Passport.

 

"If You Show Me Your Papers And Three Pieces Of Silver,  I'll Take You

In For The Love Of God.  For We Are All Wanderers On The Earth."

 

"We've No Passport.  We've Come From Nazareth In Galilee For The

Enrolment,  Because I Am Of The House Of David," Replied Joseph.

 

"Of TTriking Counterpart Is Calderon,  To Whom He Owed As

Little As Calderon Can Have Owed To Him. "El Magico Prodigioso," Already

Cited As Affording A Remarkable Parallel To "Comus," Though Performed In

1637,  Was Not Printed Until 1663,  When "Paradise Lost" Was Already

Completed.[8] The Two Great Religious Poets Have Naturally Conceived The

Evil One Much In The Same Manner,  And Calderon's Lucifer,

 

    "Like The Red Outline Of Beginning Adam,"

 

Might Well Have Passed As The Original Draft Of Milton's Satan:--

 

                               "In Myself I Am

    A