We cannot look upon the sportive exercises for which the genius of
Milton ungirds itself without catching a glimpse of the gorgeous and
terrible panoply which it is accustomed to wear. The strength of his
imagination triumphed over every obstacle. So intense and ardent was
the fire of his mind, that it not only was not suffocated beneath the
weight of fuel, but penetrated the whole superincumbent mass with its
own heart and radiance.
It is not our intention to attempt anything like a complete examination
of the poetry of Milton. The public has long been agreed as to the
merit of the most remarkable passages, the incomparable harmony of the
numbers, and the excellence of that style, which no rival has been able
to equal, and no parodist to degrade, which displays in their highest
perfection the idiomistic powers of the English tongue, and to which
every ancient and every modern language has contributed something of
grace, of energy, or of music. In the vast field of criticism on which
we are entering innumerable reapers have already put their sickles. Yet
the harvest is so abundant that the negligent search of a straggling
gleaner may be rewarded with a sheaf.
The most striking characteristic of the poetry of Milton is the extreme
remoteness of the associations by means of which it acts on the reader.
Its effect is produced, not so much by what it expresses, as by what
it suggests; not so much by the ideas which it directly conveys, as
by other ideas which are connected with them. He electrifies the mind
through conductors. The most unimaginative man must understand the
Iliad. Homer gives him no choice, and requires from him no exertion,
but takes the whole upon himself, and sets the images in so clear a
light, that it is impossible to be blind to them. The works of Milton
cannot be comprehended or enjoyed, unless the mind of the reader
coöperate with that of the writer. He does not paint a finished
picture, or play for a mere passive listener. He sketches, and leaves
others to fill up the outline. He strikes the key-note, and expects his
hearer to make out the melody.
We often hear of the magical influence of poetry. The expression in
general means nothing: but, applied to the writings of Milton, it is
most appropriate. His poetry acts like an incantation. Its merit lies
less in its obvious meaning than in its occult power. There would seem,
at first sight, to be no more in his words than in other words. But
they are words of enchantment. No sooner are they pronounced, than
the past is present and the distant near. New forms of beauty start
at once into existence, and all the burial-places of the memory give
up their dead. Change the structure of the sentence; substitute one
synonyme for another, and the whole effect is destroyed. The spell
loses its power; and he who should then hope to conjure with it would
find himself as much mistaken as Cassim in the Arabian tale, when he
stood crying, "Open Wheat," "Open Barley," to the door which obeyed no
sound but "Open Sesame." The miserable failure of Dryden in his attempt
to translate into his own diction some part of the Paradise Lost, is a
remarkable instance of this.
In support of these observations, we may remark that scarcely any
passages in the poems of Milton are more generally known or more
frequently repeated than those which are little more than muster-rolls
of names. They are not always more appropriate or more melodious than
other names. But they are charmed names. Every one of them is the first
link in a long chain of associated ideas. Like the dwelling-place of
our infancy revisited in manhood, like the song of our country heard
in a strange land, they produce upon us an effect wholly independent
of their intrinsic value. One transports us back to a remote period
of history. Another places us among the novel scenes and manners of a
distant region. A third evokes all the dear classical recollections of
childhood, the schoolroom, the dogeared Virgil, the holiday, and the
prize. A fourth brings before us the splendid phantoms of chivalrous
romance, the trophied lists, the embroidered housings, the quaint
devices, the haunted forests, the enchanted gardens, the achievements
of enamoured knights, and the smiles of rescued princesses.
In none of the works of Milton is his peculiar manner more happily
displayed than in Allegro and the Penseroso. It is impossible to
conceive that the mechanism of language can be brought to a more
exquisite degree of perfection. These poems differ from others, as
attar of roses differs from ordinary rose water, the close packed
essence from the thin diluted mixture. They are, indeed, not so much
poems, as collections of hints, from each of which the reader is to
make out a poem for himself. Every epithet is a text for a stanza.
The Comus and the Samson Agonistes are works which, though of very
different merit, offer some marked points of resemblance. Both are
lyric poems in the form of plays. There are, perhaps, no two kinds of
composition so essentially dissimilar as the drama and the ode. The
business of the dramatist is to keep himself out of sight, and to let
nothing appear but his characters. As soon as he attracts notice to his
personal feelings, the illusion is broken. The effect is as unpleasant
as that which is produced on the stage by the voice of a prompter or
the entrance of a scene-shifter. Hence it was, that the tragedies of
Byron were his least successful performances. They resemble those
pasteboard pictures invented by the friend of children, Mr. Newbury,
in which a single movable head goes round twenty different bodies, so
that the same face looks out upon us successively, from the uniform of
a hussar, the furs of a judge, and the rags of a beggar. In all the
characters, patriots and tyrants, haters and lovers, the frown and
sneer of Harold were discernible in an instant. But this species of
egotism, though fatal to the drama, is the inspiration of the ode. It
is the part of the lyric poet to abandon himself, without reserve, to
his own emotion.
Between these hostile elements many great men have endeavoured to
effect an amalgamation, but never with complete success. The Greek
drama, on the model of which the Samson was written, sprang from the
Ode. The dialogue was ingrafted on the chorus, and naturally partook of
its character. The genius of the greatest of the Athenian dramatists
coöperated with the circumstances under which tragedy made its first
appearance. Æschylus was, head and heart, a lyric poet. In his time,
the Greeks had far more intercourse with the East than in the days
of Homer; and they had not yet acquired that immense superiority in
war, in science, and in the arts, which, in the following generation,
led them to treat the Asiatics with contempt. From the narrative of
Herodotus it should seem that they still looked up, with the disciples,
to Egypt and Assyria. At this period, accordingly, it was natural
that the literature of Greece should be tinctured with the Oriental
style. And that style, we think, is discernible in the works of Pindar
and Æschylus. The latter often reminds us of the Hebrew writers. The
book of Job, indeed, in conduct and diction, bears a considerable
resemblance to some of his dramas. Considered as plays, his works
are absurd; considered as choruses, they are above all praise. If,
for instance, we examine the address of Clytemnestra to Agamemnon on
his return, or the description of the seven Argive chiefs, by the
principles of dramatic writing, we shall instantly condemn them as
monstrous. But if we forget the characters, and think only of the
poetry, we shall admit that it has never been surpassed in energy
and magnificence. Sophocles made the Greek drama as dramatic as was
consistent with its original form. His portraits of men have a sort
of similarity; but it is the similarity not of a painting, but of a
bas-relief. It suggests a resemblance; but it does not produce an
illusion. Euripides attempted to carry the reform further. But it
was a task far beyond his powers, perhaps beyond any powers. Instead
of correcting what was bad, he destroyed what was excellent. He
substituted crutches for stilts, bad sermons for good odes.
Milton, it is well known, admired Euripides highly, much more highly
than, in our opinion, Euripides deserved. Indeed the caresses which
this partiality leads our countryman to bestow on "sad Electra's
poet" sometimes remind us of the beautiful Queen of Fairy-land kissing
the long ears of Bottom. At all events, there can be no doubt that
this veneration for the Athenian, whether just or not, was injurious
to the Samson Agonistes. Had Milton taken Æschylus for his model, he
would have given himself up to the lyric inspiration, and poured out
profusely all the treasures of his mind, without bestowing a thought
on those dramatic proprieties which the nature of the work rendered it
impossible to preserve. In the attempt to reconcile things in their
own nature inconsistent, he has failed, as every one else must have
failed. We cannot identify ourselves with the characters, as in a
good play. We cannot identify ourselves with the poet, as in a good
ode. The conflicting ingredients, like an acid and an alkali mixed,
neutralise each other. We are by no means insensible to the merits of
this celebrated piece, to the severe dignity of the style, the graceful
and pathetic solemnity of the opening speech, or the wild and barbaric
melody which gives so striking an effect to the choral passages. But
we think it, we confess, the least successful effort of the genius of
Milton.
The Comus is framed on the model of the Italian Masque, as the Samson
is framed on the model of the Greek Tragedy. It is certainly the
noblest performance of the kind which exists in any language. It is as
far superior to the Faithful Shepherdess, as the Faithful Shepherdess
is to the Aminta, or the Aminta to the Pastor Fido. It was well for
Milton that he had here no Euripides to mislead him. He understood and
loved the literature of modern Italy. But he did not feel for it the
same veneration which he entertained for the remains of Athenian and
Roman poetry, consecrated by so many lofty and endearing recollections.
The faults, moreover, of his Italian predecessors were of a kind to
which his mind had a deadly antipathy. He could stoop to a plain style,
sometimes even to a bald style; but false brilliancy was his utter
aversion. His muse had no objection to a russet attire; but she turned
with disgust from the finery of Guarini, as tawdry and as paltry as the
rags of a chimney-sweeper on May-day. Whatever ornaments she wears
are of massive gold, not only dazzling to the sight, but capable of
standing the severest test of the crucible.
Milton attended in the Comus to the distinction which he afterwards
neglected in the Samson. He made his Masque what it ought to be,
essentially lyrical, and dramatic only in semblance. He has not
attempted a fruitless struggle against a defect inherent in the nature
of that species of composition; and he has therefore succeeded,
wherever success was not impossible. The speeches must be read as
majestic soliloquies; and he who so reads them will be enraptured with
their eloquence, their sublimity, and their music. The interruptions of
the dialogue, however, impose a constraint upon the writer, and break
the illusion of the reader. The finest passages are those which are
lyric in form as well as in spirit. "I should much commend," says the
excellent Sir Henry Wotten in a letter to Milton, "the tragical part
if the lyrical did not ravish me with a certain Dorique delicacy in
your songs and odes, whereunto, I must plainly confess to you, I have
seen yet nothing parallel in our language." The criticism was just. It
is when Milton escapes from the shackles of the dialogue, when he is
discharged from the labour of uniting two incongruous styles, when he
is at liberty to indulge his choral raptures without reserve, that he
rises even above himself. Then, like his own good Genius bursting from
the earthly form and weeds of Thyrsis, he stands forth in celestial
freedom and beauty; he seems to cry exultingly,
"Now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly or I can run,"
to skim the earth, to soar above the clouds, to bathe in the Elysian
dew of the rainbow, and to inhale the balmy smells of nard and cassia,
which the musky winds of the zephyr scatter through the cedared alleys
of the Hesperides.