No More Learning

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. He could see a state
of mind, seize it, and hold it in his strong imagination as in a vise.
It is for this reason that his phrases cut to the bone as they do.
The point of the blade is infinitely fine and sharp, but there is in
the implement immense weight and force. Another characteristic
of Milton's prose is that the thought is frequently more novel than
that of his verse, which tends rather to the expression with unequal
perfection of truths that are universal and important, and for that
reason have been often uttered.


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E.


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MILTON'S HOME
CHALFONT ST.
GILES


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10046
JOHN MILTON
From the time of the publication of Paradise Lost' till his death
in 1674, Milton seemed to enjoy, so far as his afflictions and the
public prejudice against him would permit, a kind of Indian summer,
such as sometimes comes at the close of the lives of celebrated men.
The astonishment produced by the work was very great; although
one would think that anything might have been expected from the
author of the earlier poems, of which an edition had been published
in 1645. The accounts we have of the personal appearance, manners,
habits, etc. , of Milton date mostly from this time. We know from
the touching vanity of the allusion to the subject in his (Second
Defense) that his eyes were “externally uninjured”; his answer to
the indecent taunts of his antagonists being :— «They shine with an
unclouded light, like the eyes of one whose vision is perfect. ” That
insults could pass between men of education upon such a subject,
seems to indicate that men's hearts and manners have got gentler
with the spread and advance of that democratic civilization of which
Milton was one of the chief friends and leaders. The accounts of
the time, given by Mr. Masson, describe him as led about the street
near his Bunhill house, a slender man, slightly under middle height,
dressed in a gray cloak and wearing sometimes a small silver-hilted
sword; looking in feeble health, but with his fair complexion and
lightish hair, younger than he was. He was to be seen sitting in his
garden near the door in warm weather, wearing a gray overcoat.
Within doors his dress was neat black. He rose very early, giving
his mornings to study and writing. Music was his chief afternoon
and evening relaxation. « His manner with friends and visitors. ”
says Mr. Masson, was extremely courteous and affable, with just a
shade of stateliness. ” Nevertheless there was a marked tendency in
his talk to be sarcastic and satirical. He had a habit of pronouncing
hard the letter r, the litera canina of the Romans, a characteristic
which Dryden thought "a sure sign of a satirical disposition. ” In
these days his house was frequented by persons of learning and
rank, it is said, “much more than he did desire. ” Up to the time of
his death he was a diligent student and writer. It is scarcely neces-
sary to enumerate the prose writings with which Milton occupied
himself in the years just previous to his death. An incident of the
last year of his life, 1674, was the rearrangement of Paradise Lost'
into twelve books, in the place of the original ten in which it was
first published. He died on November 8th of that year, which was a
Sunday, and was buried in the church of St. Giles, Cripplegate, by
the side of his father.
E. s. nodal
1


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MILTON'S HOME
CHALFONT ST GILES


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MILTON'S HOME
CHALFONY ST.
GILES


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JOHN MILTON
10047
ON SHAKESPEARE
W"
THAT needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones
The labor of an age in pilèd stones ?
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid ?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavoring art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
ON HIS BLINDNESS
WHEN
HEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ? ”
I fondly ask.
But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, «God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait. ”
TO CYRIACK SKINNER
С
YRIACK, this three-years' day these eyes, - though
clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot, -
Bereft of light their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear


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10048
JOHN MILTON
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet 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. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In Liberty's defense,- my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT
A
VENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones,
Forget not; in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
THE HYMN ON THE NATIVITY
I"
T WAS the winter wild,
While the heaven-born child
All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies:
Nature, in awe to him,
Had doffed her gaudy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathize;
It was no season then for her
To wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour.
Only with speeches fair
She wooes the gentle air
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow,


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JOHN MILTON
10049
And on her naked shame,
Pollute with sinful blame,
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw:
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
But he, her fears to cease,
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace:
She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphere,
His ready harbinger,
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
And waving wide her myrtle wand,
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
No war or battle's sound
Was heard the world around;
The idle spear and shield were high uphung;
The hooked chariot stood,
Unstained with hostile blood;
The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;
And kings sat still with awful eye,
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began.
The winds, with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kissed,
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
The stars, with deep amaze,
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,
Bending one way their precious influence,
And will not take their fight,
For all the morning light,
Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
And though the shady gloom
Had given day her room,
The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
XVII-629


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10050
JOHN MILTON
And hid his head for shame,
As his inferior flame
The new-enlightened world no more should need:
He saw a greater Sun appear
Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.
The shepherds on the lawn,
Or ere the point of dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;
Full little thought they than
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them below:
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet
As never was by mortal finger strook,-
Divinely warbled voice
Answering the stringèd noise,
As all their souls in blissful rapture took;
The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
Nature, that heard such sound
Beneath the hollow round
Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling,
Now was almost won
To think her part was done,
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling:
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.
At last surrounds their sight
A globe of circular light,
That with long beams the shamefaced Night arrayed:
The helmèd cherubim
And sworded seraphim
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,
Harping in loud and solemn quire,
With unexpressive notes, to heaven's new-born Heir.
Such music (as 'tis said)
Before was never made,
But when of old the sons of morning sung,


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JOHN MILTON
10051
While the Creator great
His constellations set,
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung,
And cast the dark foundations deep,
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
Once bless our human ears,
If ye have power to touch our senses so;
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time;
And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow,
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
For if such holy song
Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold;
And speckled Vanity
Will sicken soon and die,
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mold;
And hell itself will pass away,
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
LYCIDAS
( (In this monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drowned
in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and by occasion, foretells
the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height. — Note in original. ]
YET
ET once more, 0 ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.


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10052
JOHN MILTON
Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favor my destined urn,
And as she passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!
For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill;
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,
We drove afield, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our focks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute:
Tempered to the oaten flute
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long;
And old Damætas loved to hear our song.
But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone!
Now thou art gone and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes, mourn.
The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear
When first the white-thorn blows:
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ?
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.
Ay me! I fondly dream


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JOHN MILTON
13053
«Had ye been there,” — for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
Whom universal nature did lament,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ?
Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. “But not the praise,”
Phæbus replied, and touched my trembling ears:
“Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
Return, Alpheus, - the dread voice is past
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the Swart-Star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, the pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,


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10054
JOHN MILTON
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears;
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
For so, to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled;
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold, -
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth;
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more;
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.
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;
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray;


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JOHN MILTON
10055
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
:
FROM (COMUS)
SONG OF THE SPIRITS
S"
ABRINA fair,
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
Listen for dear honor's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!
Listen, and appear to us,
In name of great Oceanus,
By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys's grave majestic pace;
By hoary Nereus's wrinkled look,
And the Carpathian wizard's hook;
By scaly Triton's winding shell,
And old soothsaying Glaucus's spell;
By Leucothea's lovely hands,
And her son that rules the strands;
By Thetis's tinsel-slippered feet,
And the songs of Sirens sweet;
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb,
And fair Ligea's golden comb,
Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks
Sleeking her soft alluring locks;
By all the nymphs that nightly dance
Upon thy streams with wily glance;
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head
From thy coral-paven bed,
And bridle in thy headlong wave,
Till thou our summons answered have.
Listen and save!


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10056
JOHN MILTON
Sabrina rises, attended by Water-Nymphs, and sings:
By the rushy-fringed bank,
Where grow the willow and the osier dank,
My sliding chariot stays,
Thick set with agate, and the azurn sheen
Of turkis blue, and emerald green,
That in the channel strays:
Whilst from off the waters fleet
Thus I set my printless feet
O'er the cowslip's velvet head,
That bends not as I tread.
Gentle swain, at thy request
I am here!
Spirits
Goddess dear,
We implore thy powerful hand
To undo the charmed band
Of true virgin here distressed
Through the force and through the wile
Of unblessed enchanter vile.
Sabrina — Shepherd, 'tis my office best
To help ensnarèd chastity.
Brightest Lady, look on me.
Thus I sprinkle on thy breast
Drops that from my fountain pure
I have kept of precious cure;
Thrice upon thy finger's tip,
Thrice upon thy rubied lip:
Next this marble-venomed seat,
Smeared with gums of glutinous heat,
I touch with chaste palms moist and cold.
Now the spell hath lost his hold;
And I must haste ere morning hour
To wait in Amphitrite's bower.
Spirits — Come, Lady, while heaven lends us grace
Let us fly this cursèd place,
Lest the sorcerer us entice
With some other new device.
Not a waste or needless sound,
Till we come to holier ground;
I shall be your faithful guide
Through this gloomy covert wide,
And not many furlongs thence
Is your Father's residence.


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JOHN MILTON
10057
L'ALLEGRO
H*
ENCE, loathéd Melancholy,
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-raven sings;
There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
And by men heart-easing Mirth;
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two sister Graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:
Or whether (as some sager sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-Maying,
There, on beds of violets blue,
And fresh blown roses washed in dew,
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles,
Nods and Becks and wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honor due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,


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10058
JOHN MILTON
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet-brier or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before;
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Sometime walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate
Where the great sun begins his state,
Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
While the plowman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrowed land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst the landskip round it measures:
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The laboring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim, with daisies pied;
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighboring eyes.
Hard by a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,
Are at their savory dinner set
Of herbs and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;


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JOHN MILTON
10059
And then in haste her bower she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tanned haycock in the mead.
Sometimes, with secure delight,
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound
To many a youth and many a maid
Dancing in the chequered shade,
And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday,
Till the livelong daylight fail;
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat:
How Faery Mab the junkets eat,-
She was pinched and pulled, she said:
And he, by Friar's lantern led,
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day-laborers could not end;
Then lies him down, the lubber fiend,
And stretched out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And crop-full out of doors he flings,
Ere the first cock his matin rings. —
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.
Towered cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit or arms, while both contend
To win her grace whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear.
In saffron robe, with taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask and antique pageantry;
Such sights as youthful poets dream
On summer eves by haunted stream.


## p. 10060 (#488) ##########################################

10000
JOHN MILTON
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.
And ever, against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce,
In notes with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out
With wanton heed and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony;
That Orpheus's self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto to have quite set free
His half-regained Eurydice.
These delights if thou canst give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
IL PENSEROSO
H
ENCE, vain deluding Joys,
The brood of Folly without father bred!
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!
Dwell in some idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sun-beams;
Or likest hovering dreams,
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus's train.
But hail, thou goddess sage and holy!
Hail, divinest Melancholy !
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight,
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,


## p. 10061 (#489) ##########################################

JOHN MILTON
10061
Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove
To set her beauty's praise above
The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended.
Yet thou art higher far descended:
Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she; in Saturn's reign
Such mixture was not held a stain.
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cypress lawn
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come; but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There, held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet;
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing;
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
But first and chiefest, with thee bring
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,
The Cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
Gently o'er the accustomed oak.
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!


## p. 10062 (#490) ##########################################

10062
JOHN MILTON
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among
I woo, to hear thy even-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head she bowed,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound
Over some wide-watered shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm
To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook;
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, food, or underground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops's line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskined stage.
But, () sad Virgin! that thy power
Might raise Musæus from his bower;
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as, warbled to the string,


## p. 10063 (#491) ##########################################

JOHN MILTON
10063
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made hell grant what love did seek;
Or call up him that left half-told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife
That owned the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass
On which the Tartar king did ride:
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys, and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not tricked and flounced, as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerchieft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ushered with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute-drops from off the eaves.
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
There, in close covert, by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honeyed thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep.
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings, in airy stream
Of lively portraiture displayed,
Softly on my eyelids laid;


## p. 10064 (#492) ##########################################

10064
JOHN MILTON
And as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy-proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew,
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give:
And I with thee will choose to live.
THE APPEAL OF SATAN
From Paradise Lost)
(
'T
-
S this the region, this the soil, the clime,”
Said then the lost Archangel, “this the seat
That we must change for heaven ? - this mournful
gloom
For that celestial light ? Be it so, since he
Who now is sovran can dispose and bid
What shall be right: farthest from him is best,
Whom reason hath equaled, force hath made supreme
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,
Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail,
Infernal world! and thou, profoundest hell,
Receive thy new possessor one who brings


## p. 10065 (#493) ##########################################

JOHN MILTON
10065
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater ? Here at least
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure: and in my choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in hell;
Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
The associates and copartners of our loss,
Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy mansion, or once more
With rallied arms to try what may be yet
Regained in heaven, or what more lost in hell ? »
So Satan spake; and him Beëlzebub
Thus answered: « Leader of those armies bright
Which, but the Omnipotent, none could have foiled!
If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledge
Of hope in fears and dangers, — heard so oft
In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge
Of battle, when it raged, in all assaults
Their surest signal, — they will soon resume
New courage and revive, though now they lie
Groveling and prostrate on yon lake of fire,
As we erewhile, astounded and amazed :
No wonder, fallen such a pernicious height! ”
He scarce had ceased when the superior Fiend
Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous shield,
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round,
Behind him cast. The broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views
At evening, from the top of Fesole,
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.
His spear — to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast
Of some great ammiral, were but a wand –
He walked with, to support uneasy steps
Over the burning marle, not like those steps
XT11-630


## p. 10066 (#494) ##########################################

10066
JOHN MILTON
On heaven's azure; and the torrid clime
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire.
Nathless he so endured, till on the beach
Of that inflamèd sea he stood, and called
His legions - angel forms, who lay entranced,
Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades
High overarched embower; or scattered sedge
Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armed
Hath vexed the Red Sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew
Busiris and his Memphian chivalry,
While with perfidious hatred they pursued
The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld
From the safe shore their floating carcasses
And broken chariot-wheels. So thick bestrown,
Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood,
Under amazement of their hideous change.
He called so loud that all the hollow deep
Of hell resounded:- “Princes, potentates,
Warriors, the flower of heaven once yours; now lost,
If such astonishment as this can seize
Eternal spirits! Or have ye chosen this place
After the toil of battle to repose
Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find
To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven?
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn
To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds
Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood
With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon
His swift pursuers from heaven-gates discern
The advantage, and, descending, tread us down
Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf ? --
Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen! »
MILTON ON HIS BLINDNESS
From Paradise Lost)
H
AIL, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born,
Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam!
May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from eternity – dwelt then in thee,


## p. 10067 (#495) ##########################################

JOHN MILTON
10067
Bright effluence of bright essence increate!
Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream,
Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun,
Before the heavens, thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless Infinite!
Thee I revisit now with bolder wing,
Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight,
Through utter and through middle darkness borne,
With other notes than to the Orphean lyre
I sung of chaos and eternal Night,
Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to reascend,
Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou
Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs,
Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath,
That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget
Those other two equaled with me in fate,
So were I equaled with them in renown,
Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides,
And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old:
Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird
Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid,
Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair,
Presented with a universal blank
Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased,


## p. 10068 (#496) ##########################################

10068
JOHN MILTON
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
So much the rather thou, Celestial Light,
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight.
ADAM AND EVE
From Paradise Lost)
T"
wo of far nobler shape, erect and tall,
God-like erect, with native honor clad
In naked majesty, seemed lords of all,
And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine
The image of their glorious Maker shone,
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude, severe and pure
Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,
Whence true authority in men: though both
Not equal, as their sex not equal seemed;
For contemplation he and valor formed,
For softness she and sweet attractive grace;
He for God only, she for God in him.
His fair large front and eye sublime declared
Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks
Round from his parted forelock manly hung
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad:
She, as a veil down to the slender waist,
Her unadorned golden tresses wore
Disheveled, but in wanton ringlets waved
As the vine curls her tendrils, — which implied
Subjection, but required with gentle sway,
And by her yielded, by him best received
Yielded, with coy submission, modest pride,
And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay. .
So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight
Of God or Angels; for they thought no ill:
So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair
That ever since in love's embraces met –
Adam the goodliest man of men since born
His sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve.


## p. 10069 (#497) ##########################################

JOHN MILTON
10069
EVE RELATES HER FIRST MEETING WITH ADAM
From Paradise Lost)
"T"
THAT day I oft remember, when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed
Under a shade, on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
Not distant far from thence, a murmuring sound
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
Into a liquid plain; then stood unmoved,
Pure as the expanse of heaven. I thither went
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
On the green bank, to look into the clear
Smooth lake, that to me seemed another sky.
As I bent down to look, just opposite
A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
Bending to look on me. I started back,
It started back; but pleased I soon returned,
Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
Of sympathy and love. There I had fixed
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
Had not a voice thus warned me: 'What thou seest,
What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself;
With thee it came and goes: but follow me,
And I will bring thee where no shadow stays
Thy coming, and thy soft embraces — he
Whose image thou art: him thou shalt enjoy
Inseparably thine; to him shalt bear
Multitudes like thyself, and thence be called
Mother of human race. ' What could I do,
But follow straight, invisibly thus led ?
Till I espied thee, fair indeed, and tall,
Under a platane: yet methought less fair,
Less winning soft, less amiably mild,
Than that smooth watery image. Back I turned;
Thou, following, cried'st aloud, Return, fair Eve:
Whom fliest thou ? Whom thou Aiest, of him thou art,
His flesh, his bone; to give thee being I lent
Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart,
Substantial life, to have thee by my side
Henceforth an individual solace dear:
Part of my soul I seek thee, and thee claim
My other half. With that thy gentle hand


## p. 10070 (#498) ##########################################

10070
JOHN MILTON
Seized mine; I yielded, and from that time see
How beauty is excelled by manly grace
And wisdom, which alone is truly fair. ”
So spake our general mother, and with eyes
Of conjugal attraction unreproved,
And meek surrender, half-embracing leaned
On our first father; half her swelling breast
Naked met his, under the flowing gold
Of her loose tresses hid. He, in delight
Both of her beauty and submissive charms,
Smiled with superior love, as Jupiter
On Juno smiles when he impregns the clouds
That shed May flowers, and pressed her matron lip
With kisses pure.
Aside the Devil turned
For envy; yet with jealous leer malign
Eyed them askance.
SONG OF THE PAIR IN PARADISE
From (Paradise Lost)
Lº
OWLY they bowed, adoring, and began
Their orisons, each morning duly paid
In various style; for neither various style
Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise
Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced, or sung
Unmeditated; such prompt eloquence
Flowed from their lips, in prose or numerous verse,
More tunable than needed lute or harp
To add more sweetness: and they thus began. -
« These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty! thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair: thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye Sons of Light,
Angels — for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing — ye in heaven;
On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of Night,


## p. 10071 (#499) ##########################################

JOHN MILTON
10071
If better thou belong not to the Dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling inorn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon has gained, and when thou fall’st.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest,
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wandering fires, that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix
And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds,
That, singing, up to heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep, —
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! Be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. ”
So prayed they innocent, and to their thoughts
Firm peace recovered soon, and wonted calm.


## p. 10072 (#500) ##########################################

10072
JOHN MILTON
INVOCATION TO THE MUSE
From Paradise Lost)
D"
ESCEND from Heaven, Urania, by that name
It rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
Following, above the Olympian hill I soar,
Above the fight of Pegasean wing!
The meaning, not the name, I call: for thou
Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top
Of old Olympus dwell'st; but, heavenly born,
Before the hills appeared or fountain flowed,
Thou with Eternal Wisdom didst converse,
Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play
In presence of the Almighty Father, pleased
With thy celestial song. Up led by thee,
Into the heaven of heavens I have presumed,
An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air,
Thy tempering. With like safety guided down,
Return me to my native element;
Lest, from this flying steed unreined (as once
Bellerophon, though from a lower clime)
Dismounted, on the Aleian field I fall,
Erroneous there to wander and forlorn.
Half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound
Within the visible diurnal sphere.
Standing on earth, not rapt above the pole,
More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged
To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days,
On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues,
In darkness, and with dangers compassed round,
And solitude; yet not alone, while thou
Visit'st my slumbers nightly, or when morn
Purples the east. Still govern thou my song,
Urania, and fit audience find, though few.
But drive far off the barbarous dissonance
Of Bacchus and his revelers, the race
Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard
In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears
To rapture, till the savage clamor drowned
Both harp and voice; nor could the Muse defend
Her son.
So fail not thou who thee implores;
For thou art heavenly, she an empty dream.


## p. 10073 (#501) ##########################################

JOHN MILTON
10073
FOR THE LIBERTY OF PRINTING
From the (Areopagitica)
F
latter ages.
OR, as in a body, when the blood is fresh, the spirits pure and
vigorous not only to vital but to rationall faculties, and those
in the acutest and the pertest operations of wit and suttlety,
it argues in what good plight and constitution the body is, so
when the cherfulnesse of the people is so sprightly up, as that
it has not only wherewith to guard well its own freedom and
safety, but to spare, and to bestow upon the solidest and sublim-
est points of controversie and new invention, it betok'ns us not
degenerated, nor drooping to a fatall decay, but casting off the
old and wrinci'd skin of corruption to outlive these pangs and
wax young again, entring the glorious waies of Truth and pros-
perous, vertue destin'd to become great and honourable in these
Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant
Nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking
her invincible locks. Methinks I see her as an Eagle muing her
mighty youth, and kindling her undazi'd eyes at the full mid-day
beam, purging and unscaling her long abused sight at the fount-
ain itself of heav'nly radiance, while the whole noise of timorous
and flocking birds, with those also that love the twilight, flutter
about, amaz'd at what she means, and in their envious gabble
would prognosticat a year of sects and schisms.
What should ye doe then, should ye suppresse all this flowry
crop of knowledge and new light, sprung up and yet springing
daily in this City, should ye set an Oligarchy of twenty ingross-
over it, to bring a famin upon our minds again, when we
shall know nothing but what is measur'd to us by their bushel ?
Beleeve it, Lords and Commons, they who counsell ye to such a
suppressing doe as good as bid ye suppresse yourselves; and
I will soon shew how. If it be desir'd to know the immediat
cause of all this free writing and free speaking, there cannot be
assign'd a truer then your own mild and free and human govern-
ment; it is the liberty, Lords and Commons, which your own val-
orous and happy counsels have purchast us, liberty which is the
nurse of all great wits: this is that which hath rarify'd and enlight-
n'd our spirits like the influence of heav'n; this is that which
hath enfranchisid, enlarg'd and lifted up our apprehensions degrees
above themselves. Ye cannot make us now lesse capable, lesse
ers


## p. 10074 (#502) ##########################################

10074
JOHN MILTON
knowing, lesse eagarly pursuing of the truth, unlesse ye first
make your selves, that made us so, lesse the lovers, lesse the
founders of our true liberty. We can grow ignorant again, brut-
ish, formall and slavish, as ye found us; but you then must first
become that which ye cannot be, oppressive, arbitrary, and tyr-
annous, as they were from whom ye have free'd us.
That our
hearts are now more capacious, our thoughts more erected to the
search and expectation of greatest and exactest things, is the
issue of your owne vertu propagated in us; ye cannot suppresse
that unlesse ye reinforce an abrogated and mercilesse law, that
fathers may dispatch at will their own children. And who shall
then sticke closest to ye, and excite others ? Not he who takes
up armes for cote and conduct and his four nobles of Danegelt.
Although I dispraise not the defence of just immunities, yet love
my peace better, if that were all. Give me the liberty to know,
to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all
liberties.
ON ERRORS IN TEACHING
From the (Treatise on Education
He end then of learning is to repair the ruins of our first
T"to
knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him, as
we may the nearest by possessing our souls of true virtue, which
being united to the heavenly grace of faith, makes up the highest
perfection. But because our understanding cannot in this body
found itself but on sensible things, nor arrive soe clearly to the
knowledge of God and things invisible, as by orderly conning
over the visible and inferior creature, the same method is neces-
sarily to be followed in all discreet teaching. And seeing every
nation affords not experience and tradition enough for all kinds
of learning, therefore we are chiefly taught the languages of
those people who have at any time been most industrious after
wisdom; soe that language is but the instrument conveying to us
things useful to be known. And though a linguist should pride
himself to have all the tongues that Babel cleft the world into,
yet if he have not studied the solid things in them, as well
as the words and lexicons, he were nothing soe much to be es-
teemed a learned man, as any yeoman or tradesman competently
wise in his mother dialect only.


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JOHN MILTON
10075
Hence appear the many mistakes which have made learning
generally soe unpleasing and soe unsuccessful: first, we doe amiss
to spend seven or eight years merely in scraping together soe
much miserable Latin and Greek, as might be learned otherwise
easily and delightfully in one year. And that which casts our
proficiency therein so much behind, is our time lost partly in too
oft idle vacancies given both toe schools and universities; partly
in a preposterous exaction, forcing the empty wits of children to
compose themes, verses, and orations, which are the acts of ripest
judgment, and the final work of a head filled by long reading
and observing, with elegant maxims and copious invention. These
are not matters toe be wrung from poor striplings, like blood
out of the nose, or the plucking of untimely fruit. Besides the
ill habit which they get of wretched barbarizing against the Latin
and Greek idiom, with their untutored Anglicisms, odious toe
be read, yet not to be avoided without a well-continued and judi-
cious conversing among pure authors digested, which they scarce
taste. Whereas, if after some preparatory grounds of speech by
.
their certain forms got into memory, they were led toe the
praxis thereof in some chosen short book lessoned thoroughly toe
them, they might then forth with proceed to learn the substance
of good things, and arts in due order, which would bring the
whole language quickly into their power. This I take toe be
the most rationall and most profitable way of learning languages,
and whereby we may best hope toe give account toe God of
our youth spent herein.
And for the usual method of teaching arts, I deem it toe
be an old error of universities, not yet well recovered from the
scholastic grossness of barbarous ages, that instead of beginning
with arts most easy (and those be such as are most obvious to
the sense), they present their young unmatriculated novices, at
first coming, with the most intellective abstractions of logic and
metaphysics; soe that they, having but newly left those gram-
matic flats and shallows where they stuck unreasonably, toe learn
a few words with lamentable construction, and now on the sud-
den transported under another climate, toe be tosst and turmoil'd
with their unballast'd wits in fathomless and unquiet deeps of
controversy, doe for the most part grow into hatred and contempt
of learning, mocked and delud'd all this while with ragged no-
tions and battlements, while they expected worthy and delightful
knowledge: till poverty or youthful years call them importunately


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10076
JOHN MILTON
their several waies, and hasten them, with the sway of friends,
either toe an ambitious and mercenary, or ignorantly zealous
divinity; some allur'd toe the trade of law, grounding their pur-
poses not on the prudent and heavenly contemplation of justice
and equity, which was never taught them, but on the promising
and pleasing thoughts of litigious terms, fat contentions, and flow-
ing fees; others betake them to State affairs, with souls so un-
principled in virtue and true generous breeding that flattery and
court-shifts and tyrannous aphorisms appear toe them the highest
points of wisdom, instilling their barren hearts with a conscien-
tious slavery — if, as I rather think, it be not feigned. Others,
lastly, of a more delicious and airy spirit, retire themselves
(knowing no better) to the enjoyments of ease and luxury, living
out their days in feast and jollity; which indeed is the wisest and
safest course of all these, unless they were with more integrity
undertaken. And these are the errors, and these are the fruits
of misspending our prime youth at the schools and universities as
we doe, either in learning mere words, or such things chiefly as
were better unlearn'd.
I shall detain you now no longer in the demonstration of
what we should not doe, but straight conduct you to a hillside,
where I will point you out the right path of a virtuous and noble
education; laborious indeed at the first ascent, but else so smooth,
so green, so full of goodly prospect, and melodious sounds on
every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming. I
doubt not but ye shall have more ado to drive our dullest and
laziest youth, our stocks and stubs, from the infinite desire of
such a happy nurture, than we have now to hale and drag our
choicest and hopefullest wits to that asinine feast of sow-thistles
and brambles, which is commonly sett before them as all the
food and entertainment of their tenderest and most docible age.
I call therefore a complete and generous education, that which
fits a man to perform justly, skilfully, and magnanimously all the
offices, both private and public, of peace and war. And how all
this may be done between twelve and one-and-twenty, less time
than is now bestowed in pure trifling at grammar and sophistry,
is to be thus ordered.


## p. 10077 (#505) ##########################################

10077
MIRABEAU
(1749–1791)
BY FRANCIS N. THORPE
1. 3
RHAT unparalleled social upheaval and reorganization called the
French Revolution was as productive of literature as of vio-
lence and change. To us it seems only literature, and its
actors only characters in comedy or tragedy. They believed that
they were thinking and doing for mankind, and their eloquence of
speech and action moved the world. Revolutionists who take charge
of such an upheaval inspire literature.
Rarely do they themselves produce it.
There are exceptions. Such was Gabriel-
Honoré de Riquetti, Count of Mirabeau,
born on the 9th of March, 1749, at Bignon.
The record of his life is stranger and more
fascinating than fiction. Its episodes have.
been the quarry of novelists and play-
wrights; its various fortunes, its immoral
depths, its political heights, have furnished
figures of speech for modern literature.
Judged by the standards of any other time
than his own, Mirabeau is
monster.
Judged by the standard of the half-century
MIRABEAU
he filled, he was the savior of the French,
the father of a people. From his birth to his death his career was
an open letter. He had no privacy. All is preserved, — sorrow, am-
bition, sin, power, eloquence, action, letters, pamphlets, octavos, and
the climax, — revolution. The world would scarcely produce such a
being now. His was the course of nature. It was possible in 1749,
in France.
Never was there child more ugly in face and feature; nor more
passionate and uncontrollable. Nature seemed to have played a
prank on the world in producing him. He defied law, morals, author-
ity; and because of defiance, was sent by his father to the dun-
geons ºf Castles If, and Joux, and Vincennes, in hopes of his death
by sickness, or starvation, or despair, or suicide. Yet from each he
managed to get release, and ever through grosser immoralities, as

a


## p. 10078 (#506) ##########################################

10078
MIRABEAU
would now be said; through intrigue, and friendships, and the collus-
ion of officials, as was said then. «Escape; flight into Switzerland,
to Holland, to England, and desperate poverty ever at his elbow.
He must write or starve. Whence there issued pamphlets, as on the
Order of Cincinnatus; on the Bank of Spain, called of St. Charles;
on the Bank of Discount; on the Water Company of Paris, and many
more. ” The pamphlets on French finance attacked the rotten system
of the ministry and compelled a reform — and the author's further
flight from arrest.
At thirty-one he was done with prison life; at thirty-seven he
went to Berlin with hope of making a living there by his writings.
He invaded the acquaintance of the Great Frederick, who broke his
rule against foreigners and met him, and recognized the man of
power at once. But the dying King had other questions on hand
than those Mirabeau might raise. To his successor, Frederick William
II. , Mirabeau sent a pamphlet of some eighty-four octavo pages, being
advice how to govern.
Meanwhile French finances were becoming more hopeless. Mira-
beau attacked the system which had been followed by Necker and by
his successor Calonne, in a fierce pamphlet called A Denunciation
of Stock-Jobbing to the King and the Assembly of Notables. A
decree in council suppressed the pamphlet, and Mirabeau fled from
Paris. He knew that he had caused the banishment of two of the
most disreputable speculators in the credit of the government.
During his imprisonment at If and Joux he had restlessly written
an essay on Despotism, and a pamphlet on Lettres-de-Cachet. '
whose publication had been quickly suppressed. But the time was
ready for them, and they were widely circulated and read. Mirabeau
was thinking aloud, as the French people were thinking in silence
and fiercely.
It was now 1787, and the meeting of the States-General probable.
De Brienne, the prime minister, was resolved not to summon them.
He was an embodiment of the ancien régime which was fast coming
to a close. Mirabeau returned to Paris, restless, discerning keenly
and accurately the condition of affairs; ambitious to direct them.
From this time his letters are the record of revolutionary directions.
His insight made his opinions prophetic. But though the fruit was
ripe, it still hung on the tree of monarchy. A zephyr would bring
it to the ground. Mirabeau at this time published his most import-
ant work, on the Prussian monarchy under Frederick the Great, with
an inquiry into the condition of the principal countries of Germany,
It was in eight octavo volumes, and reads like an extemporaneous
speech — but, a speech by Mirabeau. The world has accepted his por-
trait of Frederick.
1
1


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MIRABEAU
10079
ror.
The States-General, so ran the ministerial decree, shall meet on
the 1st of May, 1789. This was opportunity. Mirabeau sought a
constituency and an election. He found them in Aix.