sent me three letters before, which I now know to have been
lost, then, in the first place, that sincere gladness of mine
at the receipt of this one began to be infected and troubled
with a sad regret, and presently a something heavier creeps in
upon me, to which I am accustomed in very frequent grievings
over my own lot: the sense, namely, that those whom the mere
necessity of neighbourhood, or something else of a useless
kind, has closely conjoined with me, whether by accident or by
the tie of law (sive casu, sive lege, conglutinavit), they are
the persons, though in no other respect commendable, who sit
daily in my company, weary me, nay, by heaven, all but plague
me to death whenever they are jointly in the humour for it,
whereas those whom habits, disposition, studies, had so
handsomely made my friends, are now almost all denied me
either by death or by most unjust separation of place, and are
so for the most part snatched from my sight that I have to
live well nigh in a perpetual solitude. As to what you say
that from the time of my departure from Florence you have been
anxious about my health and always mindful of me, I truly
congratulate myself that a feeling has been equal and mutual
in both of us, the existence of which on my side only I was
perhaps claiming to my credit. Very sad to me also, I will not
conceal from you, was that departure, and it planted stings in
my heart which now rankle there deeper, as often as I think
with myself of my reluctant parting, my separation as by a
wrench, from so many companions at once, such good friends as
they were, and living so pleasantly with each other in one
city, far off indeed, but to me most dear. I call to witness
that tomb of Damon, ever to be sacred and solemn to me, whose
adornment with every tribute of grief was my weary task, till
I betook myself at length to what comforts I could, and
desired again to breathe a little—I call that sacred grave to
witness that I have had no greater delight all this while than
in recalling to my mind the most pleasant memory of all of
you, and of yourself especially. This you must have read for
yourself long ere now, if that poem reached you, as now first
I hear from you it did. I had carefully caused it to be sent,
in order that, however small a proof of talent, it might, even
in those few lines introduced into it emblem-wise, be no
obscure proof of my love towards you. My idea was that by this
means I should lure either yourself or some of the others to
write to me; for, if I wrote first, either I had to write to
all, or I feared that, if I gave the preference to any one, I
should incur the reproach of such others as came to know it,
hoping as I do that very many are yet there alive who might
certainly have a claim to this attention from me. Now,
however, you first of all, both by this most friendly call of
your letter, and by your thrice repeated attention of writing
before, have freed the reply for which I have been somewhile
since in your debt from any expostulation from the others.
There was, I confess, an additional cause for my silence in
that most turbulent state of our Britain, subsequent to my
return home, which obliged me to divert my mind shortly
afterwards from the prosecution of my studies to the defence
anyhow of life and fortune. What safe retirement for literary
leisure could you suppose given one among so many battles of a
civil war, slaughters, flights, seizures of goods? Yet, even
in the midst of these evils, since you desire to be informed
about my studies, know that we have published not a few things
in our native tongue; which, were they not written in English,
I would willingly send to you, my friends in Florence, to
whose opinions, I attach very much value. The part of the
Poems which is in Latin I will send shortly, since you wish
it; and I would have done so spontaneously long ago, but that,
on account of the rather harsh sayings against the Pope of
Rome in some of the pages, I had a suspicion they would not be
quite agreeable to your ears. Now I beg of you that the
indulgence you were wont to give, I say not to your own Dante
and Petrarch in the same case, but with singular politeness to
my own former freedom of speech, as you know, among you, the
same you, Dati, will obtain (for of yourself, I am sure) from
my other friends whenever I may be speaking of your religion
in our peculiar way.
LONDON, April 21, 1647.
_On his Blindness_
When 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 5
My true account, lest He, returning, chide;
'Doth God exact day labour, 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 10
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 the most distinguished Leonard Philaras, of Athens, Ambassador from
the Duke of Parma to the King of France._ (_Familiar Letters_, No. XII.)
Your good will toward me, most honoured Leonard Philaras, as
well as your high opinion of our _Defence for the English
People_, I learnt from your letters, written partly on that
subject, to Mr. Augier, a man illustrious among us for his
remarkable fidelity in diplomatic business for this republic:
after which I received, through the same, your kind greeting,
with your portrait, and the accompanying eulogium, certainly
most worthy of your virtues,—and then, finally, a most polite
letter from yourself. Be assured that I, who am not in the
habit of despising the genius of the Germans, or even of the
Danes or Swedes, cannot but value very much such an opinion of
me from _you_, a native of Attic Athens, who have besides,
after happily finishing a course of literary studies among the
Italians, reached such ample honours by great handling of
affairs. For, as the great Alexander himself, when carrying on
war in the remotest parts of the earth, declared that he had
undergone such great labours _for the sake of the good opinion
of the Athenians_, why should not I congratulate myself, and
think myself honoured to the highest, in having received
praises from one in whom singly at this day the Arts of the
old Athenians and all their celebrated excellencies appear,
after so long an interval, to revive and rebloom? Remembering
how many men of supreme eloquence were produced by that city,
I have pleasure in confessing that whatever literary advance I
have made I owe chiefly to steady intimacy with their writings
from my youth upwards. But, were there in me, by direct gift
from them, or a kind of transfusion, such a power of pleading
that I could rouse our armies and fleets for the deliverance
of Greece, the land of eloquence, from her Ottoman
oppressor,—to which mighty act you seem almost to implore our
aid—truly there is nothing which it would be more or sooner
in my desire to do. For what did even the bravest men of old,
or the most eloquent, consider more glorious or more worthy of
them than, whether by pleading or by bravely acting, to make
the Greeks free and self-governing? There is, however,
something else besides to be tried, and in my judgment far the
most important: namely, that some one should, if possible,
arouse and rekindle in the minds of the Greeks, by the
relation of that old story, the old Greek valour itself, the
old industry, the old patience of labour. Could some one do
_that_—and from no one more than yourself ought we to expect
it, looking to the strength of your feeling for your native
land, and the combination of the same with the highest
prudence, skill in military affairs, and a powerful passion
for the recovery of the ancient political liberty—then, I am
confident, neither would the Greeks be wanting to themselves,
nor any other nation wanting to the Greeks. Farewell.
LONDON, June, 1652.
_To Henry Oldenburg, agent for the city of Bremen in Lower Saxony with
the Commonwealth._ (_Familiar Letters_, No. XIV.)
Your former letter, Honoured Sir, was given to me when your
messenger, I was told, was on the point of return; whence it
happened that there was no opportunity of reply at that time.
While I was afterwards purposing an early reply, some
unexpected business took me off; but for which I should
certainly not have sent you my book, Defence though it is
called, in such a naked condition, without accompanying
excuse. And now I have your second letter, in which your
thanks are quite disproportioned to the slenderness of the
gift. It was in my mind, too, more than once, to send you back
English for your Latin, in order that, as you have learnt to
speak our language more accurately and happily than any other
foreigner of my acquaintance, you should not lose any
opportunity of writing the same; which I believe you could do
with equal accuracy. But in this, just as henceforward the
impulse may be, let your own choice regulate. As to the
substance of your communication, you plainly think with me
that a 'Cry' of that kind 'to Heaven' transcends all bounds of
human sense; the more impudent, then, must be he who declares
so boldly he has heard it. You throw in a scruple after all as
to who he is: but, formerly, whenever we talked on this
subject, just after you had come hither from Holland, you
seemed to have no doubt whatever but Morus was the author,
inasmuch as that was the common report in those parts and no
one else was named. If, then, you have now at last any more
certain information on the point, be so good as to inform me.
As to the treatment of the argument, I should wish (why should
I dissemble?) not to differ from you, if only because I would
fain know what there is to which one would more readily yield
than the sincere judgment of friendly men, like yourself, and
praise free from all flattery. To prepare myself, as you
suggest, for other labours,—whether nobler or more useful I
know not, for what can be nobler or more useful in human
affairs than the vindication of Liberty?—truly, if my health
shall permit, and this blindness of mine, a sorer affliction
than old age, and lastly the 'cries' of such brawlers as there
have been about me, I shall be induced to that easily enough.
An idle ease has never had charms for me, and this unexpected
contest with the Adversaries of Liberty took me off against my
will when I was intent on far different and altogether
pleasanter studies: not that in any way I repent of what I
have done, since it was necessary; for I am far from thinking
that I have spent any toil, as you seem to hint, on matters of
inferior consequence. But of this at other time: meanwhile,
learned Sir, not to detain you too long, farewell, and reckon
me among your friends.
WESTMINSTER, July 6, 1654.
_To Leonard Philaras, Athenian._ (_Familiar Letters_, No. XV.)
Though from boyhood I have ever been devoted to all things
Greek, and especially to your native city, Athens, yet, in
addition to this, I have ever cherished the conviction that
sometime that city would make a fair return to me for my
devotion; and in very truth that ancient genius of your most
glorious land has fulfilled my prophecy; for it has given me
_you_, a genuine son of Attica, and a true friend of mine;
who, though I was known to you only by my writings, yet
addressed me most kindly by letter when separated by long
distance, and later, coming unexpectedly to London, visited me
in my blindness, and, in that misfortune which has made me to
no one more distinguished, to many less so, you honour me
still with the same kindness.
Inasmuch as you urge me not to abandon all hope of recovering
my sight, and write that you have at Paris a friend and
relative who is a physician, Thevenot by name, a man of
special eminence in treating eyes, whom you propose to consult
with regard to mine, if you only learn from me enough to
enable him to understand the causes and symptoms of the
disease;—in view of this I will do what you suggest, in order
that I may not seem to reject the possibility of any help that
may come from God's hand.
It is now, I should say, ten years, more or less, since I
found my sight growing dim and weak; at the same time my
spleen was affected and my internal organs were troubled with
flatulency; in the morning whenever I began to read anything
in accordance with my usual custom, my eyes at once began to
pain me and to shrink from the task, though they would
experience relief after a brief period of bodily exercise;
whenever I looked at a lamp, a halo would seem to encircle it.
Not long after this, at the left extremity of the left eye
(for that eye lost its sight some years before the other),
there gradually came on a dimness, which took from my view all
objects situated on that side; objects directly in front of
it, too, were seen less clearly whenever I happened to close
the right eye. During the last three years the other eye has
gradually lost its sight; but some months before my blindness
became complete, everything that I saw, even though I was
perfectly still, seemed to swim about, moving now to the
right, now to the left. My forehead and temples suffer from
constant burning sensations. This often affects my eyes with a
certain drowsiness, from breakfast till evening; so that I
often think of the words of Phineus the seer of Salmydessus,
in the _Argonautica_:
κάρος δέ μιν ἀμφεκάλυψεν
Πορφύρεος· γαῖαν δε πέριξ ἐδόκησε φέρεσθαι
νειόθεν, ἀβληχρῷ δ' ἐπὶ κώματι κέκλιτ' ἄναυδος.
But I must not omit to say that, while there still remained
some little sense of sight, whenever I lay down in bed, and
reclined on either side, bright lights in abundance would
flash from my eyes even when closed; subsequently, as my power
of sight grew daily less, dull colours would dart forth in the
same way, accompanied with throbbings and noises within my
head. But now the brightness seems to be dispelled, and, at
times, absolute blackness, or blackness veined with an ashy
grayness, as it were, is often wont to spread over my eyes.
Yet the dimness which is there, both night and day, seems
always more like something white than like anything black,
which, as the eye turns, allows the merest particle of light
to enter, as through a tiny crack. But even though from this
circumstance the physician might gather some little hope, yet
I am resigned as to an absolutely incurable affliction; and I
often reflect that, though to each one of us are allotted many
days of darkness, as the Wise Man reminds us, my darkness as
yet, by God's special grace, passed, as it is, amid leisure
and studies, and the voices of friends and their greetings, is
far pleasanter than the darkness of death. But if, as it is
written, 'man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word
that proceedeth out of the mouth of God,' what reason is there
why any one should not find comfort also in the reflection
that one sees not by the eyes only, but by the light of God's
guidance and providence. So long, at least, as He himself
looks out for me, and provides for me, as He does, and so long
as He leads and guides me with His hand through all the ways
of life, I shall gladly bid my eyes keep their long holiday,
since it has so seemed best to Him. But you, my dear Philaras,
whatever be the issue, I greet with as stout and firm a heart
as if I were Lynceus himself.
WESTMINSTER, September 28, 1654.
_To Cyriac Skinner_
Cyriack, 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
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 5
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 10
In Liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe talks from side to side,
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
_On his deceased wife_
Methought I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from Death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint 5
Purification in the Old Law did save,
And such as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind.
Her face was veiled; yet to my fancied sight 10
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined
So clear as in no face with more delight.
But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined,
I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.
_To the most accomplished Emeric Bigot._ (_Familiar Letters_, No. XXI.)
. . . Many have made a figure by their published writings
whose living voice and daily conversation have presented next
to nothing that was not low and common: if then, I can attain
the distinction of seeming myself equal in mind and manners to
any writings of mine that have been tolerably to the purpose,
there will be the double effect that I shall so have added
weight personally to my writings, and shall receive back by
way of reflection from them credit, how small soever it may
be, yet greater in proportion. For, in that case, whatever is
right and laudable in them, that same I shall seem not more to
have derived from authors of high excellence than to have
fetched forth pure and sincere from the inmost feelings of my
own mind and soul. I am glad, therefore, to know that you are
assured of my tranquillity of spirit in this great affliction
of loss of sight, and also of the pleasure I have in being
civil and attentive in the reception of visitors from abroad.
Why, in truth, should I not bear gently the deprivation of
sight, when I may hope that it is not so much lost as revoked
and retracted inwards, for the sharpening rather than the
blunting of my mental edge? Whence it is that I neither think
of books with anger, nor quite intermit the study of them,
grievously though they have mulcted me,—were it only that I
am instructed against such moroseness by the example of King
Telephus of the Mysians, who refused not to be cured in the
end by the weapon that had wounded him. . . .
WESTMINSTER, March 24, 1658.
_To Henry Oldenburg._ (_Familiar Letters_, No. XXIX.)
. . . Of any such work as compiling the history of our
political troubles, which you seem to advise, I have no
thought whatever [longe absum]: they are worthier of silence
than of commemoration. What is needed is not one to compile a
good history of our troubles, but one who can happily end the
troubles themselves; for, with you, I fear lest, amid these
our civil discords, or rather sheer madnesses, we shall seem
to the lately confederated enemies of Liberty and Religion a
too fit object of attack, though in truth, they have not yet
inflicted a severer wound on Religion than we ourselves have
been long doing by our crimes. But God, as I hope, on His own
account, and for His own glory, now in question, will not
allow the counsels and onsets of the enemy to succeed as they
themselves wish, whatever convulsions Kings and Cardinals
meditate and design. . . .
WESTMINSTER, December 20, 1659.
The following extract from the Prefatory address to the Parliament (the
restored Rump) shows no misgivings, on the part of Milton, in regard to
the stability of the Commonwealth. But he must have been secretly
hopeless. Cromwell had died the previous year, on September 3, and his
son Richard, his successor, had abdicated on the 25th of the following
May. A state of things little short of anarchy had set in before the
publication of Milton's pamphlet. But as late as near the end of
February, 1660, he published 'The Ready and Easy Way to Establish a Free
Commonwealth,' still, as it appears, unable to believe, desperate as was
the state of things, that the Commonwealth was in its death throes. On
the 29th of the following May, Charles II. entered London amid the
wildest acclamations of the people; and the commonwealth, for which
Milton had fought to the bitter end, was no more, and he himself was in
concealment. But he must have been assured that the principles for which
he had fought would sooner or later assert themselves in spite of all
opposition that could be brought against them, though he could hardly
have thought that these principles would assert themselves so soon as
they did. Fourteen years after his death, James II. was driven from the
throne, and the constitutional basis of the monarchy underwent a quite
radical change—a change largely, if not wholly, due to the work of
Puritanism, which, it was generally supposed, at the Restoration of
Charles II., had been completely undone. 'It was,' says John Richard
Green, 'from the moment of its (Puritanism's) seeming fall that its real
victory began.'
_From 'Considerations touching the Likeliest Means to remove Hirelings
out of the Church.'_ (_August, 1659_)