No celebrations in our time have been more serious, more scholarly, or
more impressive, than the various gatherings, held during the year lately
come to end, in commemoration of the three hundredth anniversary of the
birth of Milton. The earliest was held, with peculiar appropriateness, at
Christ College, Cambridge, in the month of June. In the hall of the
college was given a dinner, presided over by the Master, who had gathered
round him men holding high positions alike at Cambridge and Oxford, and
poets, scholars, artists, historians, and essayists of true distinction.
On this occasion an admirable eulogium of Milton was pronounced by Mr.
Mackail. The dinner was succeeded by a representation of _Comus_ in the
theatre of the town, by the students of the University, with all the charm
that usually accompanies the efforts of competent amateurs. With the
advent of the exact date of the tercentenary the celebrations were many in
number and interesting in variety, in which the members of the British
Academy took a prominent part. On December 9 a musical celebration was
held in the afternoon in the church of St. Mary-le-Bow, at which the
Bishop of Ripon delivered an eloquent sermon; and at the same hour the
writer of this paper gave a private lecture before the Dante Society, from
the notes of which this article is expanded. In the evening he had the
honour of attending and responding to the toast of Poetry, proposed by the
Italian ambassador, at the banquet given by the Lord Mayor of London at
the Mansion House, to the largest and most impressive gathering of men of
eminence in letters, the arts, the drama, the law, and the Legislature,
that has ever met in that spacious hall of traditionally magnificent
hospitality. A week later a performance of _Samson Agonistes_ was given in
the Burlington Theatre before a large and representative audience. The
more serious section of the daily press, moreover, allotted much space to
reports of the celebrations in honour of Milton, the _Times_ maintaining
in this respect its best traditions.
No one, therefore, can say that the birth, the poetry and prose, the
character and the career and the influence of Milton have not been
solemnly celebrated by his countrymen. But it is necessary to add, in the
interests of truth, that the celebrations were essentially and exclusively
scholarly, and were hardly, if at all, shared in by the nation at large.
The intellectual sympathies of the educated were warmly touched, but the
heart of the British people was not reached.
Now let us turn--for the subject of this paper is not Milton alone, but
Milton and Dante--to the sexcentenary of the birth of Dante in the city of
Florence, the month and year of his birth having been May 1265. I had been
spending the winter in the City of Flowers, and I could not leave it, in
order to journey northward, till after the Dante Commemoration had been
held. I shall never forget it. From dawn to dusk the entire Florentine
people held joyous festival; and, with the coming of night, not only the
entire city, its palaces, its bridges, its Duomo, its Palazzo Vecchio,
that noblest symbol of civic liberty, but indeed all its thoroughfares and
the banks of its river broke into lovely light produced by millions of
little cressets filled with olive oil, and every villa round was similarly
illuminated. The pavement of the famous square of the Uffizi Palace was
boarded over; and overhead was spread a canvas covering dyed with the
three Italian national colours. Thither thronged hundreds of peasant men
and women, who danced and made merry till the early hours of the morning.
At the Pagliano Theatre were given _tableaux vivants_ representing the
most famous episodes in the _Divina Commedia_, Ristori, Salvini, and Rossi
reciting the corresponding passages from that immortal poem.
What a comparison, what a contrast it suggests between the solemn,
serious, but limited honour done by us to Milton, and the exultant,
universal, national honour paid by his countrymen to Dante! I should add
that eight thousand Italian municipalities sent a deputation carrying
their local pennons to the square of Santa Croce, where a statue of Dante
was unveiled, amid thunderous applause, to popular gaze.
Now let us turn to a more personal contrast between the two poets. To many
persons, probably to most in these days, the most interesting feature in
the life of a poet is his relation to the sex that is commonly assumed,
perhaps not quite correctly, to be the more romantic of the two. In
comparing Dante and Milton in that respect one is struck at once by the
fact that, while with Dante are not only associated, but inseparably
interwoven, the name and person of Beatrice, so that the two seem in our
minds but one, knit by a spiritual love stronger even than any bond
sanctioned by domestic law for happiness and social stability, Milton had
no Beatrice. It would be idle to contend that the absence of such love has
not detracted, and will not continue to detract, from the interest felt in
Milton and his poetry, not perhaps by scholars, but by the world at large,
and the average lover of poetry and poets. For just as women can do much,
to use a phrase of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, towards "making a poet out
of a man," so can they do even more, either by spiritual influence or by
consummate self-sacrifice, to widen the field and deepen the intensity of
his fame. No poet ever enjoyed this advantage so conspicuously as Dante.
It will perhaps be said that this was effected more by himself than by
her. Let us not be too sure of that. In Italy, far more than in northern
climes, first avowals of love are made by the eyes rather than by the
tongue, by tell-tale looks more than by explicit words. What says
Shakespeare, who knew men and women equally well?
A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid. Love's night is noon.
Dante's own account of his first meeting with Beatrice confirms this
surmise. This is what he himself says, after Beatrice, as Boccaccio
relates, "very winning, very graceful, in aspect very beautiful," had
turned her gaze on Dante from time to time at their first meeting. "At
that moment the spirit of life which abides in the most secret chamber of
the heart began to tremble, and tremulously it spake these words, 'Behold
a god stronger than I, who cometh to lord it over me.'" These may perhaps
seem strange words in which to record the first meeting of a boy of nine
with a girl of eight. But, over and above the fact that they are the
record, written several years later, of the feeling aroused by that first
meeting, allowance must be made for the proverbial precocity of genius,
and also for that of southern over northern temperaments. Its genuineness
is confirmed by the whole sequel, as testified by the _Vita Nuova_ and the
_Divina Commedia_; the presiding presence of Beatrice in both having long
before been anticipated by the words, "If it shall please Him, by whom all
things live, to spare my life for some years longer, I hope to say that of
her which never yet hath been said of any lady." How completely that hope
was attained is to be seen in the closing canto of the _Purgatorio_ and in
the whole of the _Paradiso_.
The life and poetry of Milton contain nothing (if exception be made of his
beautiful and lofty sonnet, written in the very spirit of the _Divina
Commedia_, on his second wife, "Methought I saw my late espoused Saint")
to compare with Dante's love, at once real and ideal, masculine yet
mystical, for Beatrice. The language used by Eve in addressing Adam, in
_Paradise Lost_--
My author and disposer, what thou bidst
Unargued I obey, so God ordains.
God is thy law, thou mine--
and the very choice of a subject the dominating incident of which is
described by the well-known words, "The woman did give me, and I did eat,"
would almost seem to indicate that Milton's conception of woman, and his
attitude towards her, were such as can be attributed to no other poet. It
is the attitude of unqualified masculine domination. Again, in _Samson
Agonistes_ the very centre and pith of the poem is the incorrigible
frailty and inferiority of women--a thesis that would be extraordinary,
even if true, for a poet. Samson starts with a reproval of himself for
weakly revealing the secret of his strength to the persistent subtlety of
a woman, "that species monster, my accomplished snare," as he calls
Dalila, since "yoked her bond-slave by foul effeminacy"--a servitude he
stigmatises as "ignominious and infamous," whereby he is "shamed,
dishonoured, quelled." When Dalila, profoundly penitent for what she has
done, thereby incurring his displeasure, prostrates herself before him,
and sues for pardon, he spurns her from him with the words,
Out, out, hyaena! these are thy wonted arts,
and goes on to say they are the arts of every woman, "to deceive, betray,"
and then to "feign remorse." With abject humility she confesses that
curiosity to learn all secrets, and then to publish them, are "common
female faults incident to all our sex." This only causes him to insult and
spurn her yet more fiercely; and he declares that God sent her to "debase
him"--one of those theological peculiarities which apparently made God an
accomplice with "this viper," for which the non-Calvinistic Christian
finds it difficult to account.
Nor can it be said that Milton is here, like Shakespeare, speaking only
dramatically and objectively. The Chorus in _Samson Agonistes_ is of his
opinion, declaring that the man is favoured of heaven who discovers "one
virtuous woman, rarely found"; and that is why
God's universal law
Gave to the man despotic power
Over his female in due awe,
Nor from that right to part, an hour,
Smiles she or lour.
After delivering itself of these opinions, the Chorus suddenly exclaims,
"I see a storm," which, in the circumstances, is perhaps scarcely
wonderful.
What a different note is this from that struck by Dante, when he speaks of
"that blessed Beatrice, who now dwells in heaven with the angels, and on
earth in my heart, and with whom my soul is still in love." Far from
thinking that severe command on the part of the one and unquestioning
submission on the part of the other form the proper relation of lover and
maiden, husband and wife, Dante avers that
Amor e cor gentil son' una cosa,
that love and a gracious gentle heart are one and the same thing; and in
the _Paradiso_, shortly before the close of the poem, he exclaims:
O Beatrice! dolce guida e cara.
It may perhaps be thought that one might be more lenient towards Milton's
foibles, especially at such a time as the present, in contrasting his
attitude towards woman with that of Dante. But in Milton there was so much
that was noble, so pathetic, and even so attractive, that he can well
afford to have the truth told concerning him; and to omit his view of the
most important of all personal relations in life, as depicted for and
bequeathed to us in his poetry, would be to leave an obvious gap of the
utmost import in comparing and contrasting him with Dante.
But now let us ask, in order to redress the balance, what has Dante to
show, in kind, against _Il Penseroso_, _L'Allegro_, _Lycidas_, and
_Comus_? I put the prose works of both poets aside; and there remains on
the side of Dante only the self-same Dante from first to last, the Dante
of the _Vita Nuova_ and the _Divina Commedia_. Milton, as a poet, had, on
the contrary, a brilliant, an attractive, and a poetically productive
youth. If Dante ever was young in the same sense, he has left no trace of
it in his poetry. Save for Beatrice, there is an austerity even in the
most tender passages of his verse. He seems never to relax in his gravity,
I had almost said in his severity. His very love for Florence is
expressed, for the most part, in harsh upbraiding. An unrelenting awe
dominates his poetry. For Virgil he entertains a humble far-off reverence.
There is no poet of whom it can be so truly said that he remained
unchanged from first to last, and presents to us only one aspect
throughout his works. In reading the English poet one finds oneself in the
presence of two Miltons, not unlike each other in the splendid quality of
the verse, but profoundly differing in tone, temperament, and outlook on
life. In the author of _L'Allegro_, _Il Penseroso_, _Lycidas_, and
_Comus_ there is a youthful buoyancy, an all-pervading cheerful
seriousness worthy of one complacently but justly confident of his powers,
in no degree at war with the world, but on amicable terms with it, and
regarding life on the whole, and on its human side, as a thing to
sympathise with and enjoy. Hear the young Milton's invitation to vernal
exultation and joy:
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 sages 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 wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonnair.
What is there in Dante to compare with that? There is much by way of
contrast, but no note anywhere in his verse so generous, so exhilarating,
so thoroughly human. And this is how Milton, in the April of his days,
continues:
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 honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free.
And what, in the yet happy and in no degree morose Milton, are the
"unreproved pleasures"? They are:
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
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-briar, 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.
Where is the stern Puritan Milton in these cheerful, generous verses?
Where the detester and active enemy of the Cavaliers in the lines that
follow, dwelling proudly on the
Towers and battlements ...
Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
the homes of the hereditary gentlemen of England? And think of the lines
"Then to the spicy nut-brown ale," down to "The first cock his matin
rings." They are almost Shakespearean in their sympathy with mirth and
laughter, their enjoyment of harmless practical jokes, their boundless
indulgence to human nature. And what is the conclusion of the poem?
These delights if thou canst give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
There exists in no language a more lyrical outburst inspired by the
hey-day of life, and lavishly radiating rustic joy. They are as jocund as
a gipsy rondeau of Haydn, as gracious as the tapestries of Fragonard, as
tender as the Amorini of Albani, and as serenely cheerful as the matchless
melodies of Mozart. You may read every line, whether in verse or prose,
that Dante ever wrote, and you will come across no such spring-like note
as this. Frequently he is tearful, tender, pathetic, and paternally
compassionate, but nowhere does he express the faintest sympathy with
"Laughter holding both its sides."
Gradually, however, there stole over the younger Milton a great, a grave
change. His domestic experiences with his first wife could not have
ministered to his happiness or content; experiences partly caused by the
somewhat worldly ideals and desires of his spouse, but still more,
perhaps, by his theory that what the husband bids it is the duty of the
wife "unargued to obey."
Meanwhile the promptings of his muse slackening for a long interval--an
experience that has happened in the lives of other poets--he turned to
prose, and to the controversial side of prose. Being of a dogmatic
temperament, he quickly became involved in the acerbities of political,
theological, and ethical polemics. For a time he employed his
uncompromising pen on what seemed to be the winning side. But the aims of
the ruling party in the Commonwealth were not then, any more than they are
now, in harmony with the main character and ideals of the English people;
and Milton found himself not only in the camp of the vanquished, but
indicated by his previous actions as an object for Anglican and Royalist
retaliation. The buoyant elasticity of youth had subsided in him; even the
generous vigour of early manhood had vanished; and he found himself, in
advanced middle life, disappointed and disheartened. The natural austerity
of his character and principles deepened with his new situation and
changed outlook. He had fallen, as he thought, on evil days and evil
tongues; and, scandalised by the sensual levity of the King's Court and
favourites, he pondered with almost exultant and vindictive retrospect on
Adam and Eve's first disobedience and its fruits, and devoted his severe
genius and magnificent diction to justifying the ways of God to man.
The Milton of these later years was bowed down by many family vexations,
some of them due, no doubt, to his own exacting character and ideas. He
was baffled and beaten in the political field where he had been so doughty
a combatant, and for a time a triumphant one, and was finally deprived of
all hope of regaining his pristine position; and last, and saddest of all,
there fell on him total blindness, which, after his magnificent apostrophe
to _Holy Light, Offspring of Heaven first-born_, he touchingly laments in
the well-known but never too often to be recited passage in the third book
of _Paradise Lost_:
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 sovereign 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 quench'd their orbs,
Or dim suffusion veil'd. 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 hallow'd feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit; nor sometimes forget
Those other two equall'd with me in fate,
So were I equall'd with them in renown,
Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides,
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,
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.
Could there be poetry of the personal kind more free from reprehensible
egotism, more dignified, more majestic, and at the same time more pathetic
than that? Let us recur to it, and read it, when we are tempted to judge
Milton harshly for any less admirable, less lovable characteristics, from
which no mortal can be wholly free; and the verdict must be, "Everything
is forgiven him, because he suffered much, and expressed those sufferings
in his verse, the truest exponent of his deepest feelings, with
magnanimous and magnificent serenity." Nor let it ever be lost sight of
that, though in the political and theological domain he was anything but
free from fanaticism and bitter partisanship, he uniformly fought for
liberty of speech and printing--liberty, of all our possessions the most
precious, and for the safety and stability of the State the most
indispensable condition. To what extent, in the part Dante played in the
local politics of Florence, which led to his exile, he too was fighting
for liberty, in the sense in which I have just expressed it, it is not
possible for a dispassionate person to hold a confident opinion. In all
probability liberty, as we understand the word, was struggled for and
understood neither by him nor by those who drove him into exile. But, like
Milton, he bore his ostracism with manly dignity, consoling himself and
enriching posterity with a splendid poem, and only craving for safe
shelter and peace, as he said at the monastery gate: _Son' uno che implora
pace_.
In comparing Milton and Dante one might justly be reproached for an
obvious omission if one did not refer, however briefly, to the intense
love of both for music. Very recently Mr. W. H. Hadow, than whom no one
writes with more knowledge or sympathy of music, lectured before the Royal
Society of Literature on Milton's love and knowledge of it. Music, he
truly said, was Milton's most intimate of delights; and he referred to
what Johnson relates of the poet's constantly playing on the organ. In the
second canto of the _Purgatorio_ Dante recognises the musician Casella,
hails him as "Casella mio," and begs him who on earth had soothed Dante's
soul with music to do the same for him now. Casella obeys, and Dante says
it was done so sweetly that he can hear him still; words that recall
Wordsworth's lovely couplet:
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.
To my great surprise an eminent man of letters, who is also a poet, said
to me recently that the present writer was one of the few writers of verse
he knew who loved music, and who continually asked for music, more music,
adding that poets, as a rule, did not care for it. I was amazed, and cited
Shakespeare and Milton as a matter of course, and many a lesser poet,
against so untenable a thesis, concluding with the opening lines of
_Twelfth Night_:
If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it.
Surely music is not only the food of love, but of poetry as well; and do
not "music and sweet poetry agree"?
Another point of similarity between Milton and Dante is their total lack
of humour, so strange in two great poets, and one of them an Englishman.
Chaucer is continually on the edge of boisterous laughter. Spenser seems
constantly on the verge of a well-bred smile. Shakespeare, to use his own
language, asks to be allowed with mirth and laughter to play the fool,
though the most gravely thoughtful and awfully tragic of all poets. The
author of _Childe Harold_ is likewise the author of _The Vision of
Judgment_ and _Don Juan_. Scott is one of the greatest of British
humorists. But on the face of neither Dante nor Milton do we find the
trace of a smile either coming or gone.
The Rev. Lonsdale Ragg, in his searching and erudite work, _Dante and his
Italy_, maintains the opposite view at p. 190 _sqq._ But I, at least, find
him on this head unconvincing. None of the passages in Dante to which he
refers would satisfy the definition of humour as employed by Sterne,
Steele, Addison, or Charles Lamb, and cited by Thackeray in his delightful
papers on _The English Humorists_. Dante is scornful, satirical,
merciless; humorous he never is. Nor is Milton. They meet on the common
ground of uncompromising seriousness.
Another parallel I will presume to draw between Dante and Milton is one of
supreme importance; but I can do so only briefly. No man, in my humble
opinion, has the full requisites of a poet of the highest order unless at
some period or another of his life he has been associated by practice and
direct experience with other men in matters of public interest. Milton and
Dante alike had that experience. So had Chaucer, so had Spenser, so had
Shakespeare, so had Byron. They were men of the world, and did not, as
Matthew Arnold said of Wordsworth, "avert their gaze from half of human
fate." I am aware that the opposite view is assumed in much criticism
to-day; and the highest rank is claimed for poetic recluses who write only
of individual joys, sorrows, and emotions, their own mostly, and manifest
a complete want of concern in the wide issues of mankind. That was not a
standard of criticism till our own time; nor will it, I believe, be the
standard of future ages. Dante and Milton both satisfy the older standard,
the older and the more abiding one.
No comparison of Dante with Milton would be complete that omitted
consideration of the respective themes of their chief works, their two
great epic poems, the _Divina Commedia_ and _Paradise Lost_. I am disposed
to think, though others may think differently, that Dante has in this
respect a signal advantage over Milton. If any one is curious to see how a
man of great parts, but in some respects of rather insular views, can fail
to understand the theme of the _Divina Commedia_, and Dante's treatment of
it, he has only to turn, as Mr. Courthope did in his address to the
British Academy, to Macaulay's essay on Milton, where Dante is written of
as though he were nothing but a great Realist. Many years ago I suggested
as a definition of poetry, and have more than once urged the suggestion,
that it is "the harmonious transfiguration of the Real into the Ideal by
the aid of elevating imagination," so that, when the poet has performed
that operation, his readers accept the ideal representation as real, that
surest test of the greatness of a poet, provided his theme itself be
great. The _Divina Commedia_ stands that test triumphantly; and the result
is that Dante makes credible, even to non-believers while they read the
poem, the central conception and beliefs of medieval Christianity, which
are still those of Roman Catholic Christianity. Hence they remain real
facts for the transfiguring idealism of poets to deal with.
Can the same be said of _Paradise Lost_? What is "real" does not depend on
the arbitrary choice of any one, but on the _communis sensus_, the general
assent of those to whom the treatment of the assumed "real" is addressed.
Is that any longer so in the case of _Paradise Lost_? Are the personality
of the devil, the insurrection of Lucifer and the rebel angels, and their
condemnation to eternal punishment, with power to tempt mortals to do that
which will lead to their sharing that punishment, now believed in by any
large number of Christian Englishmen or English-speaking Christians, or is
it ever likely again to be so believed in? I must leave the question to be
answered by every one for himself. But on the answer to it, it is obvious,
the realistic basis of _Paradise Lost_ depends. If the reply be negative,
then what remains is the magnificence of the imagery and the sonority of
the diction. To extol the one over the other in these respects would
indeed be invidious. It is enough to place them side by side to manifest
their equality. If Milton writes:
Him the Almighty Power
Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky
With hideous ruin and combustion down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms;
Dante writes:
Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,
Parole di dolore, accenti d'ira,
Voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle,
Facevan un tumulto, il qual s'aggira
Sempre in quell' aria senza tempo tinta,
Come l'arena quando il turbo spira.
Withal, it would show imperfect impartiality if one failed to allow that
there is more variety in the _Divina Commedia_ than in _Paradise Lost_.
Milton never halts in his majestic journey to soothe us with such an
episode as that of Paolo Malatesta and Francesca da Rimini, or closes it
with so celestial a strain as that describing the interview of Dante with
Beatrice in Heaven.
No third poet in any nation or tongue could be named that equals Dante and
Milton in erudition, or in the use they made of it in their poetry. The
present writer is himself too lacking in erudition to presume to expatiate
on that theme. Others have done it admirably, and with due competency. But
on this ground, common to them both, I reluctantly part with them. To each
alike may be assigned the words of Ovid, _Os sublime dedit_, and equally
it may be said of both, that, in the splendid phrase of Lucretius, they
passed beyond the _flammantia moenia mundi_. Finally, each could truly
say of himself, in the words of Dante,
Minerva spira e conducemi Apollo.
"The Goddess of Wisdom inspires me, and the God of Song is my conductor
and my guide."