No More Learning

By this useful accommodation of language, the character of inde.
feasibility attributed to justice is kept up, and we are saved from
the necessity of maintaining that there can be laudable injustice.
The considerations which have now been adduced resolve, I
conceive, the only real difficulty in the utilitarian theory of
morals. It has always been evident that all cases of justice are
also cases of expediency; the difference is in the peculiar senti.
ment which attaches to the former, as contradistinguished from
the latter. If this characteristic sentiment has been sufficiently
accounted for; if there is no necessity to assume for it any pecul-
iarity of origin;
that idea no longer presents itself as a
stumbling-block to the utilitarian ethics.


## p. 10027 (#443) ##########################################

10027
JOAQUIN MILLER
(1841-)
INCINNATUS HEINE Miller, known to literature under the
name of Joaquin Miller," was born November 10th, 1841,
in the Wabash district of Indiana. In 1854 his parents
moved to Oregon, where the poet was brought up amid all the pict-
uresque deprivations of pioneer life. With the next turn of destiny's
wheel he became a miner in California, living with his associates a
life of adventure, of which he afterwards made good use in his long
narrative poems. In 1860 he returned to Oregon and studied law
until the next year, when he went as ex-
press messenger to the gold-mining districts
of Idaho. Returning again to Oregon in
1863, he edited the Democratic Register,-
a weekly newspaper which was suppressed
for disloyalty,- after which he began the
practice of law in Cañon City.
From 1866 to 1870 Mr. Miller held the
office of judge of the Grant County court,
Oregon; and at the same time made his first
serious attempts as a poet. By a strange
intuition he felt that his work would meet
with more favor abroad than at home; and
hence his visit in 1870 to England, where
JOAQUIN MILLER
the year following he brought out his
(Songs of the Sierras) simultaneously with their publication in Bos-
ton, under the imprint of Roberts Brothers. The name “Joaquin,"
prefixed to his own on the title-page, the author borrowed from the
name of a Mexican brigand, Joaquin Murietta, for whom he had once
made a legal defense. The appearance of the (Songs of the Sierras)
made a great stir in England; and Mr. Miller was fêted, and lauded
with superlative adjectives and epithets, culminating in the illustrious
title of the "American Byron. ” On his return from England, Mr.
Miller did journalistic work in Washington, D. C. , till the autumn of
1887, when he removed to Oakland, California, which has since been
his permanent place of residence.
Besides the volume of poems already mentioned, Mr. Miller pub-
lished in 1873 (Songs of the Sunlands, in 1875 (Songs of the Desert,'
in 1878 (Songs of Italy,' in 1882 his Collected Poems, and in 1887



## p. 10028 (#444) ##########################################

10028
JOAQUIN MILLER
(
(Songs of Mexican Seas. ) He is also the author of the following
prose works: “The Baroness of New York (1877), "The Danites in
the Sierras) (1881), «Shadows of Shasta' (1881), «Memorie and Rime'
(1884), and '49, or the Gold Seekers of the Sierras (1884). His last
work, (Songs of the Soul,' was published in the summer of 1896.
Mr. Miller's chief claim to literary fame rests upon his original-
ity, freshness of style, and vigor of thought and expression. In the
sweeping rush of his rhythm there is a suggestion of the roaring
streams and swaying forests whose music he heard in his youth.
The power to report nature by symbols and pagan metaphors, so that
she seems in his poetry to be using her own vernacular, is one of
his peculiar gifts. His qualities of style are seen at their best in
(The Isles of the Amazon. In his shorter lyrical poems there is a
gentler cadence, with an undertone of deep melancholy that haunts
the reader. This effect is well illustrated in The Last Hymn' and
(Down into the Dust. '
In spite of his claim to a high rank among American poets, - a
claim which England freely granted him,- Mr. Miller has worked out
more bitterly than most authors the Scriptural sentence concerning
a prophet in his own country, and the allied one of Solomon which
declares that the race is not to the swift,
nor yet favor to
men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all. ”
FROM THE SHIP IN THE DESERT)
A.
CHIEF from out the desert's rim
Rode swift as twilight swallows swim,
Or eagle blown from eyrie nest.
His trim-limbed steed was black as night;
His long black hair had blossomed white
With feathers from the koko's crest;
His iron face was flushed and red,
His eyes flashed fire as he fled, -
For he had seen unsightly things,
Had felt the flapping of their wings.
A wild and wiry man was he,
This tawny chief of Shoshonee;
And oh, his supple steed was fleet!
About his breast flapped panther-skins;
About his eager flying feet
Flapped beaded, braided moccasins;
He rode as rides the hurricane;
He seemed to swallow up the plain:


## p. 10029 (#445) ##########################################

JOAQUIN MILLER
10029
He rode as never man did ride,-
He rode, for ghosts rode at his side;
And on his right a grizzled, grim -
No, no, this tale is not of him.
-
An Indian warrior lost his way
While prowling on this desert's edge
In fragrant sage and prickly hedge,
When suddenly he saw a sight,
And turned his steed in eager Aight.
He rode right through the edge of day,
He rode into the rolling night.
He leaned, he reached an eager face,
His black wolf-skin flapped out and in,
And tiger claws on tiger-skin
Held seat and saddle to its place;
But that gray ghost that clutched thereat
Arrête! the tale is not of that.
A chieftain touched the desert's rim
One autumn eve; he rode alone,
And still as moon-made shadows swim.
He stopped, he stood as still as stone;
He leaned, he looked, there glistened bright
From out the yellow yielding sand
A golden cup with jeweled rim.
He leaned him low, he reached a hand,
He caught it up, he galloped on.
He turned his head, he saw a sight . . .
His panther-skins flew to the wind,
The dark, the desert lay behind;
The tawny Ishmaelite was gone;
But something sombre as death is
Tut, tut! the tale is not of this.
A mountaineer, storm-stained and brown,
From farthest desert touched the town;
And striding through the crowd, held up
Above his head a jeweled cup.
He put two fingers to his lip,
He whispered wild, he stood a-tip,
And leaned the while with lifted hand,
And said, "A ship lies yonder, dead; »
And said, “Doubloons lie sown in sand
In yon far desert dead and brown,


## p. 10030 (#446) ##########################################

10030
JOAQUIN MILLER
Beyond where wave-washed walls look down,
As thick as stars set overhead.
That three ship-masts uplift like trees
Away! the tale is not of these.
An Indian hunter held a plate
Of gold above his lifted head,
Around which kings had sat in state.
« 'Tis from that desert ship,” they said,
« That sails with neither sail nor breeze,
Or galleon, that sank below
Of old, in olden dried-up seas,
Ere yet the red men drew the bow. ”
But wrinkled women wagged the head,
And walls of warriors sat that night
In black, nor streak of battle red,
Around against the red camp-light;
And told such wondrous tales as these
Of wealth within their dried-up seas.
And one, girt well in tiger's skin,
Who stood, like Saul, above the rest,
With dangling claws about his breast,
A belt without, a blade within,-
A warrior with a painted face,
And lines that shadowed stern and grim,-
Stood pointing east from his high place,
And hurling thought like cannon shot,
Stood high with visage flushed and hot -
But stay! this tale is not of him.
The day glared through the eastern rim
Of rocky peaks, as prison bars;
With light as dim as distant stars
The sultry sunbeams filtered down
Through misty phantoms weird and dim,
Through shifting shapes bat-winged and brown.
Like some vast ruin wrapped in flame,
The sun fell down before them now.
Behind them wheeled white peaks of snow.
As they proceeded.
Gray and grim
And awful objects went and came


## p. 10031 (#447) ##########################################

JOAQUIN MILLER
10031
Before them then. They pierced at last
The desert's middle depths, and lo!
There loomed from out the desert vast
A lonely ship, well-built and trim,
And perfect all in hull and mast.
No storm had stained it any whit,
No seasons set their teeth in it.
Her masts were white as ghosts, and tall;
Her decks were as of yesterday.
The rains, the elements, and all
The moving things that bring decay
By fair green lands or fairer seas,
Had touched not here for centuries.
Lo! date had lost all reckoning;
And Time had long forgotten all
In this lost land, and no new thing
Or old could anywise befall, -
Or morrows or a yesterday,-
For Time went by the other way.
The ages had not any course
Across this untracked waste.
The sky
Wears here one blue, unbending hue,
The heavens one unchanging mood.
The far, still stars, they filter through
The heavens, falling bright and bold
Against the sands as beams of gold.
The wide white moon forgets her force;
The very sun rides round and high,
As if to shun this solitude.
What dreams of gold or conquest drew
The oak-built sea-king to these seas,
Ere Earth, old Earth, unsatisfied,
Rose up and shook man in disgust
From off her wearied breast, and threw
And smote his cities down, and dried
These measured, town-set seas to dust ?
Who trod these decks?
What captain knew
The straits that led to lands like these?
Blew south-sea breeze or north-sea breeze ?
What spiced winds whistled through this sail ?


## p. 10032 (#448) ##########################################

10032
JOAQUIN MILLER
What banners streamed above these seas?
And what strange seamen answered back
To other sea-king's beck and hail,
That blew across his foamy track ?
Sought Jason here the golden fleece ?
Came Trojan ship or ships of Greece ?
Came decks dark-manned from sultry Ind,
Wooed here by spacious wooing wind, -
So like a grand, sweet woman, when
A great love moves her soul to men ?
Came here strong ships of Solomon
In quest of Ophir by Cathay?
Sit down and dream of seas withdrawn,
And every sea-breath drawn away -
Sit down, sit down!
What is the good
That we go on still fashioning
Great iron ships or walls of wood,
High masts of oak, or anything?
Lo! all things moving must go by.
The sea lies dead. Behold, this land
Sits desolate in dust beside
His snow-white, seamless shroud of sand;
The very clouds have wept and died,
And only God is in the sky.
KIT CARSON'S RIDE
From (Songs of the Sierras )
UN? Now you bet you; I rather guess so!
But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, Paché boy, whoa!
No, you wouldn't believe it to look at his eyes,
But he is badger-blind, and it happened this wise: -
R
We lay in the grasses and the sunburnt clover,
That spread on the ground like a great brown cover
Northward and southward, and west and away
To the Brazos, to where our lodges lay,
One broad and unbroken sea of brown,
Awaiting the curtains of night to come down


## p. 10033 (#449) ##########################################

JOAQUIN MILLER
10033
To cover us over and conceal our flight
With my brown bride, won from an Indian town
That lay in the rear the full ride of a night.
We lounged in the grasses — her eyes were in mine,
And her hands on my knee, and her hair was as wine
In its wealth and its flood, pouring on and all over
Her bosom wine-red, and pressed never by one;
And her touch was as warm as the tinge of the clover
Burnt brown as it reached to the kiss of the sun;
And her words were as low as the lute-throated dove,
And as laden with love as the heart when it beats
In its hot eager answer to earliest love,
Or a bee hurried home by its burthen of sweets.
We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels,
Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride;
And the heavens of blue and the harvest of brown
And beautiful clover were welded as one,
To the right and the left, in the light of the sun. *
(Forty full miles if a foot to ride,
Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils
Of red Camanches are hot on the track
When once they strike it. Let the sun go down
Soon, very soon,” muttered bearded old Revels
As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back,
Holding fast to his lasso. Then he jerked at his steed,
And he sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around,
And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground;
Then again to his feet, and to me, to my bride,
While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud,
His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud,
And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed:-
Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed,
And speed you if ever for life you would speed,
And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride!
For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire,
And feet of wild horses hard flying before
I hear like a sea breaking high on the shore;
While the buffalo come like a surge of the sea,
Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three
As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire. ”
We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein,
Threw them on, cinched them on, cinched them over again,
XVII-628


## p. 10034 (#450) ##########################################

10034
JOAQUIN MILLER
And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheers,
Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold,
Cast aside the catenas red-spangled with gold,
And gold-mounted Colts, the companions of years,
Cast the silken serapes to the wind in a breath,
And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse –
As bare as when born, as when new from the hand
Of God — without word, or one word of command.
Turned head to the Brazos in a red race with death,
Turned head to the Brazos with a breath in the hair
Blowing hot from a king leaving death in his course;
Turned head to the Brazos with a sound in the air
Like the rush of an army, and a flash in the eye
Of a red wall of fire reaching up to the sky,
Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black rolling sea
Rushing fast upon us, as the wind sweeping free
And afar from the desert blew hollow and hoarse.
Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall;
Not a kiss from my bride, not a look nor low call
Of love-note or courage: but on o'er the plain
So steady and still, leaning low to the mane,
With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein,
Rode we on, rode we three, rode we nose and gray nose,
Reaching long, breathing loud, as a creviced wind blows;
Yet we broke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer;
There was work to be done, there was death in the air,
And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.
Gray nose to gray nose, and each steady mustang
Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the arid earth rang,
And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck
Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck.
Twenty miles! — thirty miles! - a dim distant speck -
Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight,
And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight.
I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right -
But Revels was gone: I glanced by my shoulder
And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping
Hard down on his breast, and his naked breast stooping
Low down to the mane, as so swifter and bolder
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire.
To right and to left the black buffalo came,
A terrible surf on a red sea of flame
Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher.


## p. 10035 (#451) ##########################################

JOAQUIN MILLER
10035
And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull,
The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full
Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire
Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud
And unearthly, and up through its lowering cloud
Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire,
While his keen crooked horns, through the storm of his mane,
Like black lances lifted and lifted again;
And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through,
And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.
I looked to my left then - and nose, neck, and shoulder
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs;
And up through the black blowing veil of her hair
Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes,
With a longing and love, yet a look of despair
And of pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her,
And flames reaching far for her glorious hair.
Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell
To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swell
Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead.
Then she saw sturdy Paché still lorded his head,
With a look of delight; for nor courage nor bribe,
Nor aught but my bride, could have brought him to me.
For he was her father's, and at South Santafee
Had once won a whole herd, sweeping everything down
In a race where the world came to run for the crown.
And so when I won the true heart of my bride, -
My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child,
And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,-
She brought me this steed to the border the night
She met Revels and me in her perilous flight
From the lodge of the chief to the North Brazos side;
And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled,
As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride
The fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursue
I should surely escape without other ado
Than to ride, without blood, to the North Brazos side,
And await her — and wait till the next hollow moon
Hung her horns in the palms, when surely and soon
And swift she would join me, and all would be well
Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell
From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire,
The last that I saw was a look of delight
That I should escape – a love — a desire -


## p. 10036 (#452) ##########################################

10036
JOAQUIN MILLER
Yet never a word, not one look of appeal,
Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel
One instant for her in my terrible flight.
Then the rushing of fire around me and under,
And the howling of beasts and a sound as of thunder -
Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over,
As the passionate flame reached around them, and wove her
Red hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died -
Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan,
As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone;
And into the Brazos I rode all alone
All alone, save only a horse long-limbed,
And blinded and bare and burnt to the skin.
Then just as the terrible sea came in
And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide,
Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed
In eddies, we struck on the opposite side.
*
Sell Paché - blind Paché? Now, mister, look here:
You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer
Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier,
For the ways they are rough and Camanches were near;
But you'd better pack up, sir! That tent is too small
For us two after this! Has an old mountaineer,
Do you book-men believe, got no tum-tum at all ?
Sell Paché! - you buy him! - a bag full of gold ! -
You show him ! - tell of him the tale I have told!
Why, he bore me through fire, and is blind, and is old! -
Now pack up your papers, and get up and spin
To them cities you tell of — Blast you and your tin!


## p. 10036 (#453) ##########################################



## p. 10036 (#454) ##########################################


JOHN MILTON.


## p. 10036 (#455) ##########################################

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t'iut he went to live with lus fatiser, who had just


## p. 10036 (#456) ##########################################


1
JOHN MILTUN


## p. 10037 (#457) ##########################################

10037
JOHN MILTON
(1607-1674)
BY E. S.
NADAL
M
((
(C
(c
ILTON was born in London, on December 9th, 1607; the son of
John Milton, who had amassed a competency as a scrivener.
The elder Milton, besides his professional success, attained
to considerable eminence as a musician. This talent, we know, de-
scended to his son; and it may be that this inheritance had some
bearing upon the genius of the poet, who was gifted with perhaps the
finest ear possessed by any English writer, and whom critics have
described as musical rather than a picturesque poet. Milton tells us
that he was instructed early, both at grammar schools and by private
masters, as my age would suffer. ” It was at St. Paul's School, how-
ever, which he had entered by the year 1620, that he began that
career of diligent study which he was to pursue through life. " From
my twelfth year of age,” he says, “I scarcely ever went from my
studies to bed before midnight. ” Milton left school at the end of
1624, when he was sixteen; as Mr. Masson says, as scholarly, as
accomplished, and as handsome a youth as St. Paul's School has sent
forth. ” Early in the following year he entered Christ's College, Cam-
bridge. It has been supposed that his career at college was not a
happy one; and there was a story, now discarded, to which Johnson
lent some kind of countenance, from which it appeared that he was
one of the last students of the university to undergo corporal pun-
ishment. He was of a rebellious disposition, and may have found
much to condemn both in the system of instruction then followed
in the university and in his instructors. There is also evidence that
the «lady of Christ's College,” as he was termed in allusion to his
beauty and the purity of his morals, was not popular with his fellow
collegians. He however took his degree in due course, and remained
at the university some years after graduation. Among the incidents
of his college life was his friendship with Edward King, the young
poet celebrated in Lycidas. ' He added French, Italian, and Hebrew
to the university Greek and Latin; and he became an expert swords-
man.
It was in 1632, at the end of his seven years' life at Cambridge,
that he went to live with his father, who had just removed from


## p. 10038 (#458) ##########################################

10038
JOHN MILTON
(
London to the small village of Horton in Buckinghamshire, not far
from Windsor. The idea with which he entered college, that of being
a priest, had been abandoned, and he had decided upon a life devoted
to learning and the pursuit of literature. He lived at Horton for the
next six years. At Horton he wrote, besides other poetry, L'Allegro,'
(Il Penseroso, Comus,' and 'Lycidas. ' 'Comus,' like much of his
poetry, was the result of an occasion. The musician Lawes, who was
his friend, had been employed to write a masque to be played at
Lord Bridgewater's place in Wales; and for this entertainment Milton
wrote the words. There is perhaps not in all our literature so per-
fect an expression as “Comus of the beauty of a youthful mind filled
with lofty principles; and this quality of the poem is all the more
impressive, because we know that the ideals cherished in those days
of hope and health and lettered enthusiasm are to be re-asserted with
deeper emphasis amid the tragic circumstances of the closing period
of his career. It was the loss of his friend Edward King, by the
foundering of a ship in the Irish Channel, which was the occasion of
Lycidas,' a poem which is throughout a treasury of literary beauty.
His mother died in 1637, and his brother and his wife came to
live with his father; and Milton now felt that he might carry out
his long-contemplated project of a journey to Italy. He started upon
this journey in 1637, and passed fifteen months on the Continent. This
period was one of the brightest of his life, and is one of the most
pleasing chapters of literary biography. After having visited Paris,
Florence, Rome, Naples, and Geneva, at all of which places he was
received with a distinction and kindness due more, no doubt, to his
character and accomplishments and his engaging personal qualities
than to his fame, which could not at that time have been great,- he
retu ned to England. It was the alarming state of affairs at home
which determined him to bring this charming episode of his career
to an end. The words in which he stated the motive for this decision
are significant of the abrupt change which was about to take place
in his life:–«I considered it to be dishonorable to be enjoying myself
at my ease in foreign lands while my countrymen were striking a
blow for freedom. ”
On reaching England he went to live in London, receiving into
his house as pupils his two nephews and some other boys, to whom
he gave instruction. He of course continued his life of study; but
he wrote no poetry. His exertions from now on to the time of the
Restoration were to be mainly those of the pamphleteer and the poli-
tician. In the ranks of the triumphant party, which had successfully
.
opposed the purposes of Charles and Laud, there had arisen several
divisions, mainly over the question of Episcopacy. Milton belonged
to what was termed the “root and branch party,” which wished to


## p. 10039 (#459) ##########################################

JOHN MILTON
10039
$
do away with the bishops altogether. In answer to a manifesto
published by the High Church division of the party, five Puritan min-
isters had issued a pamphlet signed “Smectymnuus,"— a word made
up of the initials of its five authors. Milton wrote during 1641 and
1642 a number of pamphlets in support of the views of this party.
In 1643 he issued a pamphlet the motive of which was chiefly per-
sonal. In May of that year he had taken a journey into the country,
and had brought back with him a wife. She was Mary Powell, a
girl of seventeen, the daughter of a Royalist gentleman of Oxford-
shire. The honeymoon was scarcely over before the young girl, who
had found the abode of the Puritan scholar not so pl asant a place
to live as the free and easy cavalier house in Oxfordshire, went to
her family on a visit; and Milton was presently informed that she
had no intention of returning. It was in the following August that
he wrote his Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce,' in which he
attacked the accepted views of marriage, and expressed the hope that
Parliament would legislate for the relief of persons in his situation.
This, of course, Parliament failed to do; and Milton made few con-
verts to his views upon this subject, although among the numer-
ous sects of the day there was one known as Miltonists or Divorcers.
In 1645 Milton's wife returned to him. The triumph of the Puritan
party had brought ruin to her family. Milton received into his house
the entire family, twelve in all, including the mother-in-law, who had
been the chief cause of the quarrel. Mary Powell was the mother of
his three children. She died nine years later.
In 1644 Milton published, without a license, a second edition of
his pamphlet on Divorce. ) The criticisms made upon this disre-
gard of the license law resulted in his writing, in the same year, his
famous Areopagitica, perhaps the most magnificent and the most
known and admired of all his prose writings. There now seems
to have succeeded a period of inactivity, which lasted till 1649. On
January 30th of that year the King was beheaded, and within a fort-
night Milton published a pamphlet in defense of the act.
have been owing to his having written this pamphlet that he was, in
the following month, made Latin Secretary to the Council of State,
which governed the country. His business in this new office was
to translate from and into Latin the communications received from
abroad by the Council, and those sent in reply. But he had other
duties, of an indefinite character. One was that of official pam-
phleteer for the new government, in which capacity he was to defend
it from its critics at home and abroad. If the Irish Presbyterians
attacked the government, Milton, who belonged to the Independents
and favored toleration, must answer them in behalf of Cromwell and
his Council, who were also Independents. His special duty, however,
proved to be that of replying to assaults made in the interests of the
It may


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JOHN MILTON
monarchy. When the Eikon Basilike' (Royal Image) was published,
a pamphlet believed to be written by the King, the Council directed
Milton to reply. This he did in the Eikonoklastes (Image Breaker).
Charles II. was at that time living at The Hague, and he employed
the learned Salmasius, the great ornament of the University of Ley-
den, to write a defense of his father. Milton, having been ordered
by the Council to answer Salmasius, wrote his Defense of the Eng-
lish People. ' His labors in preparing this pamphlet were the cause
of his blindness. He had been warned by his doctor that such would
be the result, but he considered it to be his duty to make a deliber-
ate sacrifice of his eyesight in the fulfillment of this task. He thus
became blind at the age of forty-three. Another monograph, Regii
Sanguinis Clamor) (Cry of the Royal Blood), having been issued from
The Hague, Milton wrote his ‘Second Defense '— a paper of extraor-
dinary interest and eloquence, spoiled however by fanaticism, and
by a simplicity of combativeness which at times seems to approach
the borders of puerility. We get some idea of the heroic elements
and proportions of the scene which it discloses, when we hear the
blind sage and patriot exclaim of Cromwell that he had either
extinguished, or by habit had learned to subdue, the whole host of
vain hopes, fears, and passions which infest the soul. ” One incident
of Milton's domestic life during this period should be mentioned: in
1656 he had married Katherine Woodcock, the late espoused saint
of the sonnet, and with her had fifteen months of great happiness,
which her death terminated. The aspect of public affairs soon began,
from Milton's point of view, to darken. From the time of Oliver's
death the tide of reaction was setting in, bearing irresistibly in the
direction of a return of the monarchy. This result Milton set him-
self to the work of fighting with desperate energy. It is interesting
to see that his proposal for the cure of the disorders of the time was
the establishment of some such scheme of federal government as
was destined more than a century later to be devised in the Consti-
tution of the United States. How Milton succeeded in escaping the
scaffold, after the Restoration had been accomplished, is not clear.
But his escape was probably due to his literary eminence and to the
secret services of friends and admirers. He was for a time in hiding,
but from 1660 was without fear of molestation. He was then indeed
“fallen on evil days. ” Besides his public causes of unhappiness, he
was miserable at home. He found himself neglected by daughters
whom he had failed to educate. He was not a worldly-wise man,
nor a man of common worldly prudence: witness many facts of his
life,- such, for instance, as his thinking that an article was worth
the sacrifice of his eyes, and his scheme of education founded on the
belief that any boy could do what he did at school. In 1663 Milton
married his third wife, a woman thirty years younger than himself, -


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JOHN MILTON
10041
were
a marriage which proved fortunate. In his loneliness he was still
visited by a few friends who were faithful to him, such as Andrew
Marvell and Cyriac Skinner.
It was this period of his life which he occupied with the composi-
tion of Paradise Lost. ' During the long interval which had elapsed
since (Lycidas,' Milton's only poems had been the sonnets; which,
among the noblest poems of our language as they are, relate chiefly
to the incidents of the political life in which he was throughout
that time immersed. In 1658, the last year of Cromwell's Protector-
ate, Milton had taken up Paradise Lost. But the beginnings of the
work far antedate that time. As early as 1638 he had determined
to make the composition of a great poem the chief work of his life.
His intention at that time was to take the subject of the poem from
the legend of King Arthur. In 1640-42 he was debating the subject
and manner of the poem. More than ninety possible themes — the
greater part of them Biblical, although some were historical-
considered by him. After his selection of the theme of Paradise
Lost' as the subject, his first intention was that the form of the
poem should be dramatic. About 1642 he worked upon parts of it.
Satan's Address to the Sun as written at that time, and repeated
by Milton to his nephew, Edward Philips. When in 1658 the poem
was resumed, it was under the epic form. It was finished in 1665
and published in 1666.
It is not possible within the limits of this article to attempt a
description or criticism of Paradise Lost. " It is of course one of
the world's great epics. The drama and story are of the grandest,
especially in the first two books, and the entire subject and scenery
of the work have entered into and profoundly influenced the mind
of the English-speaking world. Nevertheless a story which concerns
spirits is at a disadvantage by the side of stories which concern men,
as the other great epics do. To most readers the work is perhaps
lyrical rather than epic; a wonderful strain of music, rising now and
again into still grander harmonies, rather than a relation of inci-
dents. It is the splendid bursts of poetry scattered through the
work, and expressing the mind of the poet, that interest us
more than the story. The poet himself is as much before us as in
his more strictly lyrical productions. He is never absent from our
thoughts. Thus, when the newly erected Pandemonium is likened to
the pipes of an organ, we have before us the blind musician of the
little house in Jewin Street. When we find the gods of Olympus
among the hosts of hell, it is with a feeling of regret to see the
friends of the young scholar of Horton in such company. What else
than the most beautiful lyric poetry is the pathetic opening of the
third book?
even


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JOHN MILTON
A word should be said of the scheme of the physical universe
which the story of Paradise Lost' supposes. How is it that Satan
in going from hell to earth at one time flies downward ? How is it
that in this journey he passes the gate of heaven ? Milton supposes
all space to be divided into two halves, an upper and a lower, the
upper heaven and the lower chaos. From the floor of heaven is hung
our starry universe, a hollow sphere with a hard crust, with the earth
in the centre and the sun and stars revolving round it. It was so
our starry universe (solar system, as we should now call it) was
regarded by the Ptolemaic astronomy, which Milton selected as the
cosmogony of Paradise Lost. ' When Satan and his angels are cast
out of heaven they fall to the bottom of chaos and are there inclosed
in hell, which is roofed over. Between heaven and hell is the rest
of chaos. Our starry universe, as has been said, hangs from the floor
of heaven near the gate of heaven. At this point there is a hole in
the crust of our universe, which is the place of entrance to it. Satan
gets out of hell, finds his way through chaos, passes near the gate of
heaven, enters the aperture in the crust of our universe, and thence
drops to the earth.
It was Ellwood, the young Quaker to whom Milton had shown
(Paradise Lost,' who suggested Paradise Regained. He said to Mil-
ton on returning the MS. , « Thou hast said much here of Paradise
Lost, but what hast thou to say of Paradise Found? ) Ellwood, in
relating the interview, says, “He made no answer, but sat some
time in a muse. " It is probable that at this time Milton conceived
the idea of writing Paradise Regained. ' This was published in
1671. It is a poem upon which its author set great store; and which,
whatever may be its deficiencies, has great beauties. It is especially
a correct poem, very devoid of ornament. (Samson Agonistes,' the
concluding poem of his life, has a sad autobiographical interest as
the poem of his old age. To that old age many elements of sad-
ness contributed. Blind and ill, neglected by his daughters at home,
he was witnessing the triumph without of the enemies of all he held
sacred. The poem is an exact picture of such an old age.
In speaking of Milton's literary characteristics, it is natural to
mention first the subject of style, in which he is perhaps the great-
est of English writers. He has that power, which only the greatest
poets have, of commanding a beautiful style, no matter what may be
the nature of the subject. It should, of course, be within the power
of a true poet to write well upon a theme which is of a character
to awaken his feeling and imagination; for the excited feeling then
prompts him to a style worthy of the subject. But to write in a
fine style upon themes which are not in their nature dignified is far
more difficult. It is done only by the great poets. It is no doubt


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JOHN MILTON
10043
true that Milton does not have occasion to exhibit this power as often
as Homer and Virgil. But when the occasion comes, he is equal to
it. It does not seem to be in his power to speak meanly or weakly.
Even in passages where the subject is not only not poetical but
seems to border upon the ridiculous,- as for instance, that in which
he describes the inhabitants of hell as having the capacity to reduce
their bulk at will to the smallest dimensions, - even in such passages
the style does not falter. When we come to his manner of expres-
sion in treating great subjects, we find a dignity, a splendor, and a
grace which are unequaled in English literature. In particular, there
is a loveliness of elegance in which no English poet approaches him.
Here he is unique; and like
« That self-begotten bird
In Arabian woods embost,"
the pages.
>
of (Samson Agonistes, “no second knows nor third. ” A hundred
examples crowd upon the memory or disclose themselves as we turn
It is perhaps better, by the way, not to know such pass-
ages by heart; since a verbal familiarity with them may deprive you
of that surprise with which the mind at each fresh perusal recog-
nizes their incomparable, their almost miraculous felicity.
Matthew Arnold, the English writer of our day who has had the
best things to say upon literature, has selected Milton as the one Eng-
lish poet whose style resembles what he calls the “grand style," as
seen in the great epic poets of antiquity and in Dante, and through
whom the great mass of English readers must know that style
if they are to know it at all. This resemblance may be due in part
to the fact that Milton's mind had been deeply influenced by the
study of these great models. It is certainly true that no other Eng-
lish poetry so suggests the spirit of antiquity as his does. The result
of his studies had been to infuse a classic essence into his words
and sentences. A similar education has produced a similar quality
in other English poets; in Gray, for instance,- the English poet
who in this respect most resembles him. Milton was deeply versed
in ancient literature, because in his time that was the chief liter-
ature; and he had great devotion to literature and profound faith in
it. Literature was for him education rather than acquisition. For
mere extent of reading he had no great respect, nor did he consider
books interesting and valuable because written in an antique tongue.
He wisely selected from among the writings of all time the worthiest
and best, and diligently studied them; bringing to the appreciation
of them the powers of his profound nature. He had indeed a special
practical aim in these studies. They were pursued with a conscious
purpose of fitting him for the work of poetry. To literature he went
rather than to the world and nature for this preparation, although of


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10044
JOHN MILTON
course he was a student of both. He indeed considers them to be in
a sense one and the same; for he says, “Whichever thing we see
or hear sitting, walking, traveling, or conversing, may be fitly called
our book. ” The result of his absorption in literature is that he sees
everything by the light of literature, even nature. He does not seem
to look at nature directly and immediately, but rather as remembered
in the library. Thus, Milton's sun is not the sun as Shakespeare
saw it, as in "Jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops. ”
Take for instance this passage, of such richness and splendor,— which,
by the way, came near being lost to us because the censor of the
Restoration hesitated at the suggestion of monarchs being perplexed:
“As when the sun, new risen,
Looks through the horizontal misty air,
Shorn of his beams; or from behind the moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs. »
Here we have the sun indeed, but the sun as seen through the
medium of literature and history. A very accomplished man to whom
I had mentioned this characteristic of Milton (it has no doubt been
observed by many writers on Milton, — by Pattison, among the rest)
thought it was to be noticed in his later writings, and was due to
blindness; but not in the earlier writings. As to blindness, surely
even when blind, Milton might yet see with the eye of memory and
imagination. «Yet not the more cease I to wander where the Muses
haunt clear spring,” etc. But I find the same characteristic in the
earlier poems.
This description of the sun from Lycidas' - one of
the finest passages of the poem (what lovely vagueness in the phrase
“ repairs his drooping head”! ) — is not so much the real sun
sun reflected from the mirror of literature and art:-
as the
“So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky. ”
>>
Even those “high lawns” which appeared under the opening eyelids
of the morn are not so much beheld with the direct vision as seen
through some ethereal medium of the poet's fancy, under the influ-
ence of a literary and classic enchantment. It should not, however,
be thought that Milton contradicts nature. This indeed has been
charged. His description of the pine as rooted deep as high,” when
that tree does not send its roots deep into the ground, and his use
of the beautiful epithet “star-proof as applied to the elm, which
has not a thick foliage, have been said to indicate an eye inattentive


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JOHN MILTON
10045
to nature. But a poet is not of necessity a naturalist. Poets differ
greatly in their manner of looking at nature. Milton Saw nature
closely enough for his purposes and for our enjoyment. We think
there can be no question that in going to literature for his prepara-
tion, he chose the best education for himself. Had he not done so,
we might have lost the most perfect of English literary artists with-
out gaining a great poet of nature and the world. His chief strength
did not lie in the portraiture of the visible world, whether of nature
or humanity. We have seen his manner of regarding nature; at man
he looked rather with the disposition of the priest than of the dra-
matic or epic poet. He had not the variety and humor, the play of
mind, the pliant and many-sided sympathies, of that English poet in
whose pages nature and the world were already mirrored.
Milton's prose has the greatness of his verse,- the same greatness
both of style and mind. The style often has a splendid way of ad-
vancing; the reader having the same sense of buoyant and powerful
movement which he feels when he commits himself to the full tide
and river of the verse. It is true that the prose has not the exqui-
site care of the verse. The language is frequently difficult. The
sentence sometimes runs down a good part of the page; and if you
would understand it, you must first go through the labor of find-
ing subject and predicate, and correctly distinguishing principal and
subordinate clauses. It does not often happen, however, that this
is necessary; and even when it is necessary, the result is of course
well worth the labor. That cloth of gold,” as Macaulay termed it,
“
is thick with imagery, passion, thought, and splendid phrases. As one
reads, one gets very near to the greatness of the man's intellect and
nature, — to his heroic ardor, — and very near to some qualities which
whether great or not, are surely not to be applauded. We see also
much of him in one character in which he less often appears in
verse, - that of the satirist. There was in Milton the making of a
satirist like Juvenal or Swift; for he had that insight into mind which
is a chief condition of satire. The writer of this paper was once
taken to task for having expressed the opinion that Byron had not
the insight or weight of mind for satire,- that his greatness lay
elsewhere than in the intellect. Now Milton, to my thinking, had
the constitution of mind fitted to write satire.