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

Or Not,  It

Is Certain That In Them Wordsworth Sacrificed To Bacchus.

 

For Milton's Own Sake And Ours His Departure From The University Was The

Best Thing That Could Have Happened To Him. It Saved Him From Wasting

His Time In Instructing Others When He Ought To Be Instructing Himself.

From The Point Of View Of Advantage To The University,  It Is Perhaps The

Most Signal Instance Of The Mischief Of Strictly Clerical Fellowships,

Now Happily Things Of The Past. Only One Fellowship At Christ's Was

Tenable By A Layman: To Continue In Academical Society,  Therefore,  He

Must Have Taken Orders. Such Had Been His Intention When He First

Repaired To Cambridge,  But The Young Man Of Twenty-Three Saw Many

Things Differently From The Boy Of Sixteen. The Service Of God Was Still

As Much As Ever The Aim Of His Existence,  But He Now Thought That Not

All Service Was Church Service. How Far He Had Become Consciously

Alienated From The Church's Creed It Is Difficult To Say. He Was Able,

At All Events,  To Subscribe The Articles On Taking His Degree,  And No

Trace Of Arianism Appears In His Writings For Many Years. As Late As

1641 He Speaks Of "The Tri-Personal Deity." Curiously Enough,  Indeed,

The Ecclesiastical Freethought Of The Day Was Then Almost Entirely

Confined To Moderate Royalists,  Hales,  Chillingworth,  Falkland. But He

Must Have Disapproved Of The Church's Discipline,  For He Disapproved Of

All Discipline. He Would Not Put Himself In The Position Of Those Irish

Clergymen Whom Strafford Frightened Out Of Their Conscientious

Convictions By Reminding Them Of Their Canonical Obedience. This Was

Undoubtedly What He Meant When He Afterwards Wrote: "Perceiving That He

Who Would Take Orders Must Subscribe Slave." Speaking Of Himself A

Little Further On As "Church-Outed By The Prelates," He Implies That He

Would Not Have Refused Orders If He Could Have Had Them On His Own

Terms. As Regarded Milton Personally This Attitude Was Reasonable,  He

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Had A Right To Feel Himself Above The Restraints Of Mere Formularies;

But He Spoke Unadvisedly If He Meant To Contend That A Priest Should Be

Invested With The Freedom Of A Prophet. His Words,  However,  Must Be

Taken In Connection With The Peculiar Circumstances Of The Time. It Was

An Era Of High Church Reaction,  Which Was Fast Becoming A Shameful

Persecution. The Two Moderate Prelates,  Abbot And Williams,  Had For

Years Been In Disgrace,  And The Church Was Ruled By The Well-Meaning,

But Sour,  Despotic,  Meddlesome Bigot Whom Wise King James Long Refused

To Make A Bishop Because "He Could Not See When Matters Were Well." But

If Laud Was Infatuated As A Statesman,  He Was Astute As A Manager; He

Had The Church Completely Under His Control,  He Was Fast Filling It With

His Partisans And Creatures,  He Was Working It For Every End Which

Milton Most Abhorred,  And Was,  In Particular,  Allying It With A King Who

In 1632 Had Governed Three Years Without A Parliament. The Mere Thought

That He Must Call This Hierarch His Father In God,  The Mere Foresight

That He Might Probably Come Into Collision With Him,  And That If He Did

His Must Be The Fate Of The Earthen Vessel,  Would Alone Have Sufficed To

Deter Milton From Entering The Church.

 

Even So Resolute A Spirit As Milton's Could Hardly Contemplate The

Relinquishment Of Every Definite Calling In Life Without Misgiving,  And

His Friends Could Hardly Let It Pass Without Remonstrance. There Exists

In His Hand The Draft Of A Letter Of Reply To The Verbal Admonition Of

Some Well-Wisher,  To Whom He Evidently Feels That He Owes Deference. His

Friend Seems To Have Thought That He Was Yielding To The Allurements Of

Aimless Study,  Neglecting To Return As Service What He Had Absorbed As

Knowledge. Milton Pleads That His Motive Must Be Higher Than The Love Of

Lettered Ease,  For That Alone Could Never Overcome The Incentives That

Urge Him To Action. "Why Should Not All The Hopes That Forward Youth And

Vanity Are Afledge With,  Together With Gain,  Pride,  And Ambition,  Call

Me Forward More Powerfully Than A Poor,  Regardless,  And Unprofitable

Sin Of Curiosity Should Be Able To Withhold?" And What Of The "Desire Of

Honour And Repute And Immortal Fame Seated In The Breast Of Every True

Scholar?" That His Correspondent May The Better Understand Him,  He

Encloses A "Petrarchean Sonnet," Recently Composed,  On His Twenty-Third

Birthday,  Not One Of His Best,  But Precious As The First Of His Frequent

Reckonings With Himself:--

 

   "How Soon Hath Time,  The Subtle Thief Of Youth,

      Stolen On His Wing My Three-And-Twentieth Year!

      My Hasting Days Fly On With Full Career;

      But My Late Spring No Bud Or Blossom Shew'th.

    Perhaps My Semblance Might Deceive The Truth,

      That I To Manhood Am Arrived So Near;

      And Inward Ripeness Doth Much Less Appear,

      Than Some More Timely-Happy Spirits Indu'th.

    Yet Be It Less Or More,  Or Soon Or Slow,

      It Shall Be Still In Strictest Measure Even

      To That Same Lot,  However Mean Or High,

    Towards Which Time Leads Me,  And The Will Of Heaven.

      All Is,  If I Have Grace To Use It So,

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      As Ever In My Great Taskmaster's Eye."

 

The Poetical Temperament Is Especially Liable To Misgiving And

Despondency,  And From This Milton Evidently Was Not Exempt. Yet He Is

The Same Milton Who Proclaimed A Quarter Of A Century Afterwards--

 

                            "I Argue Not

    Against Heaven's Hand Or Will,  Nor Bate A Jot

    Of Heart Or Hope; But Still Bear Up And Steer

    Right Onward."

 

There Is Something Very Fine In The Steady Resolution With Which,  After

So Fully Admitting To Himself That His Promise Is Yet Unfulfilled,  And

That Appearances Are Against Him,  He Recurs To His Purpose,  Frankly

Owning The While That The Gift He Craves Is Heaven's,  And His Only The

Application. He Had Received A Lesson Against Over-Confidence In The

Failure Of His Solitary Effort Up To This Time To Achieve A Work On A

Large Scale. To The Eighth And Last Stanza Of His Poem,  "The Passion Of

Christ," Is Appended The Note: "This Subject The Author Finding To Be

Above The Years He Ly At His Comrades.  "Did You

Recognise Him?  Wasn't It Saul,  The Dread Weaver?  They Were Saying In

The Town Yesterday That He Was Coming With A Legion Of Soldiers To

Arrest The Nazarenes."

 

Then They Urged In Terror; "Master,  Let Us Flee."

 

He Was Not Accustomed To Flee Before Zealous Pharisees,  But There Was

Another Reason For Removing His Innocent Disciples From The Atmosphere

Of These Big Cities.  Simon Was Always Suggesting That It Would Be No

Bad Thing To Spend The Coming Passover On The Tiber,  For He Felt Less

Afraid Of The Heathens In Rome Than Of The Jews In Jerusalem.  He Had

No Idea Of What Was Before Them.

 

"Not In Rome," Said Jesus,  "But Rather In Jerusalem Will We Eat The

Paschal Lamb."

 

Soon After They Wandered Forth And Left The Noisy Seaport Behind Them.

As The Roads Became More And More Unsafe,  They Climbed The Rocks And

Took The Way Across The Mountains.

 

The Gods Came Down From High Olympus,  The Law Came Down From Sinai,

Light Came Down From Lebanon.  For It Was At Lebanon That The Great

Revelation Came,  Which My Shrinking Soul Is Now To Witness.

 

 

 

Chapter 2 Pg 15

The Following Incident Took Place During The Journey Among The

Mountains Of Lebanon.  One Day They Were Resting Under An Old

Weather-Beaten Cedar.  The Rain Trickled Through The Bristling Bush Of

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Needles From One Branch To Another On To The Hats Under The Broad Brims

Of Which The Men Cowered,  Their Legs Drawn Up Under Them,  Their Arms

Crossed Over Their Chests.  Tired And Somewhat Out Of Humour,  They

Looked Out Into The Damp Mist Against Which The Near Summits And Masses

Of Rock Stood Out.  The Hair And Beards Of The Older Men Had Turned

Grey,  And Even The Faces Of The Younger Seemed To Have Aged.  For Their

Hardships Had Been Great.  But The Glow In Their Eyes Was Not Quenched.

They Had Laid Aside Their Long Staffs; The Sacks Which Some Carried On

Their Backs Were Wrinkled And Empty.  A Little Way Off Was A

Tree-Trunk,  So Big That Three Men Could Hardly Have Encompassed It; The

Bark Was White And Rough,  So That It Seemed As If Spirits Had Carved

Mysterious Signs Thereon In Pure Silver.  Jesus,  A Little Apart From

His Disciples,  Was Resting Under This Tree.  He Was,  As Usual,  Without

A Hat,  And His Abundant Nut-Brown Hair Fell Over His Shoulders.  His

Indescribably Beautiful Face Was Paler Than Formerly.  He Leaned

Against The Trunk Of The Tree And Closed His Eyes.

 

The Disciples Thought He Slept,  And In Order Not To Wake Him They

Looked At One Another And Spoke In Whispers.  Their Hearts Were Full Of

The Impressions Of Their Late Experiences.  They Thought Of The

Persecution In Their Native Land,  The Attractiveness Of The Big World,

And Their Ignorance Of The Future.  Many Of Them During This Gloomy

Rest-Time Thought Of Their Former Lives.  Who Is Managing My Boat?  Who

Tends My Fruit-Trees?  Who Works In My Workshop?  Who Sits In The

Profitable Toll-House?  Who Is Providing For My Wife,  My Children?

There Had Been A Triumphant Progress Through The Land And Then A

Flight.  Men Had Not Recognised The Master.  If He Would Only Say

Distinctly And Clearly Who He Was!  Meanwhile The Outlook Was

Desperate.  As If They Had Run After A Demagogue,  A Traitor,  An

Anti-Jew!  How Could An Anti-Jew Be King Of The Jews?  If He Would Only

Say Who He Was!

 

Snow Lay On The Mountains.  The Ice-Wastes Stretched