heard. But it sounded in an empty cathedral; | as the production of "something which his counfor the worshippers who would have borne the burden were silenced or driven away; and the sacred minstrel was obliged to console himself with the thought that the strain, like its subject, was imperishable, and that the time was coming when its undying echoes would be cherished by generations willing to listen, as well as able to appreciate. As we have already seen, it was as a controversialist that Milton was first distinguished. Poetry, indeed, he had written, and that also from an early period; while the eminent acquirements which he made as a student, and the observations with which he enriched his mind during a course of travel, seem to have been especially directed towards his chosen vocation as a poet. Already, also, he had discovered where his surpassing strength lay, as well as given evidence of its existence by his "Comus," "L'Allegro," "Penseroso," and other early productions. On his return to England, however, at the commencement of the Civil JOHN MILTON.-From the print by Faithorne. war, other duties awaited him, from which he did not shrink for a moment; and while every man was arming himself for battle, he chose a more difficult and self-denying course of action. "I avoided," he says, "the toil and danger of a military life, only to render my country assist ance more useful, and not less to my own peril." And we know how well this duty was discharged in his controversial and political writings over a course of twenty years, in which he was the champion of English liberty against the whole literary world, which he opposed single-handed. It was only when this was done that he turned himself to his long-contemplated task, which he had ever regarded as the great work and object of his life, and which he had obscurely intimated trymen would not willingly let die." And this great task, which was nothing less than Paradise Lost, he commenced when the middle term of an active laborious life had passed away, and when he had done enough for public duty as well as for fame-when he was reduced to poverty and obscurity-when he was exposed not only to insults from the dominant party who hated him as a regicide, but from his own hard-hearted, ungrateful children--and when, above all, he was blind, and reduced to helpless dependence upon the kindness and fidelity of those to whom his matchless thoughts were intrusted for transcription, and who perhaps repined at it as a weary unprofitable task. But with such a character as that of Milton, perhaps most of these circumstances only the better qualified him for its accomplishment. Men might revile him, but this only threw him back upon the mens conscia recti, where all was peace and self-approval; and the world might forsake him, but this little mattered when he was about to create such a world of his own. In the alienation or the absence of all these, he would be better able to clothe his paradise with its loveliness, and his hell with its terrors, and hold communion with the beings that peopled them. His universal reading had made him independent of books, so that he needed nothing more than to recall them to memory, and adapt their information to his own immediate requirements; and for this, the utter obscuration of all external objects is especially favourable. And what though he could no longer behold the changes of day and night, and the bright or shadowy forms which they disclose in such impressive variety as to constitute a twofold world? Had he not seen them all? Could he not remember them vividly? Nay, could he not now invest them with every addition of grandeur or loveliness, untrammelled as he was by the sight of every-day reality, or the feeling that with every day, as old age advanced, the aspect of nature was waxing more common-place and tame? All that the wisest of sages had written, that the best of poets had sung, and the loveliest of nature unfolded to his view, were but the plastic elements which he now might mould at will, and out of them evolve the scenes of Eden, or the dialogues of the blest. Taking these circumstances, hitherto reckoned so disqualifying, into account, we not only assert that Paradise Lost was all the better by reason of Milton's age, injurious treatment, neglect, poverty, and blindness, but that such a poem would scarcely have been attempted, or at least successfully accomplished, without them. In his case they refined, spiritualized, and made all but angelic a mind for which humanity had already done its uttermost. Let none then de plore his calamities and bereavements, unless for | Samson Agonistes, which are only not the greatest a Milton they would have been contented with an English Tasso or Ariosto. No one who has heard of the Paradise Lost can be unaware of its transcendent merits; and therefore, as in the case of Shakspeare's writings, any critical disquisition is unnecessary. It is needless also to mention the neglect with which its first appearance was treated, as nothing else could have been expected from political prejudice, as well as the depraved taste of the age of Charles II. It was not till after the Revolution, when the principles for which Milton had contended so ably were re-acting upon society at MILTON'S HOUSE AND TREE, IN PETTY FRANCE, WESTMINSTER. Drawn by J W. Archer, fron his sketch on the spot. large, that justice began to be rendered to the greatest and best of epics. This, however, he had anticipated, and the conviction was sufficient to cheer him onward to the close. Besides this master-work, he wrote Paradise Regained, and This was one of the garden-houses for which Milton appears to have had a preference; but the ground is now walled off, and appropriated to the house formerly inhabited by Jeremy Bentham. The cotton-willow tree, planted by the great poet, still flourishes, although the trunk shows signs of decay. The depth of the premises is 46 feet. The present frontage of the house, which has been rebuilt, answers to No. 19, York Street, but it is evident that the original front was that facing the park. On this side Jeremy Bentham placed a small tablet, inscribed as follows-"Sacred to Milton, prince of poets." In the old wall which bounds the garden on the St. James's Park side, opposite the house, are the indications of a door, now built up, which was probably used by Milton in passing between his house and Whitehall during his intercourse with Cromwell, of English poems, because he had produced a greater. The last years of his life were chiefly spent in the study of theology, of which the chief result has been published in our own day in the form of a posthumous body of divinity. After having thus lived, laboured, and suffered during a period of which he was so far in advance, he died in 1674, and three years after was commemorated by a tomb in Westminster Abbey. But how little of the fame of the author of Paradise Lost will have been diminished when the last stone of the building will have passed away! The next poet in order worthy of mention is Abraham Cowley, who, during his day, enjoyed more celebrity than Milton himself. Cowley was born in London in 1618. Being a posthumous child, and of humble birth, for his father had been nothing more than a grocer, the circumstances of his family were so scanty, that his widowed mother had great difficulty in procuring for him a classical education. The promise of excellence which he gave, however, was well worthy of her exertions; for when he was only fifteen years old he published a volume of poems, of which one, entitled "Pyramus and Thisbe," was written when he was only ten years old, and another, entitled "Constantia and Pheletus," was composed when he was not more than two years older. His own account of his first poetical inspiration is highly interesting. In the window of his mother's apartment lay a copy of Spenser's Faerie Queen, and over this he pored with such enthusiasm that he became irrecoverably a poet. Not content with one style of poetry, he also attempted the drama, and while still a school-boy, wrote a comedy, entitled "Love's Riddle," afterwards published when he removed to Cambridge to complete his education. On becoming a student of Trinity College, Cambridge, his early predilections still continued to predominate; and here, besides his "Naufragium Joculare," which he published at the age of twenty, he wrote the sacred poem entitled, "Davideis," intended to be a complete epic, but of which only four books were finished. The notes with which he illustrated this work sufficiently prove, that with all his devotedness to the muses, he was by no means neglectful in the capacity of Latin secretary. In the house itself the arrangement of the windows has been entirely changed. It is probable they extended along the whole front, with sliding frames or lattice divided by panelled spaces. The original panelling remains in the large room (21 feet by 13 feet) on the first floor. The upper rooms are small, and the staircase, which has not been altered, is steep and narrow. The ground floor appears to have been comprised in one large room, as the original fireplace was evidently situated about the centre of the wall, on the west side. This was probably the family room, or compromise between kitchen and parlour; common to the economy of houses of respectable pretensions in the olden time. This distinguished house was afterwards the residence of William Hazlitt. of the more literary and laborious departments of a university education. They are, indeed, a mass of profound and varied erudition. His college life was rudely interrupted by the commencement of the Civil war: he was ejected from Cambridge by the parliamentary visitors, and obliged to take refuge in Oxford; and when that peaceful seat of learning was compelled to surrender, Cowley fled to the court of the exiled queen, Henrietta, in France, and was employed by her as confidential secretary, in the management of her political correspondence with England. From the nature of his employment, his return to England was attended with considerable danger: he was apprehended, but released COWLEY'S MONUMENT IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. after a short confinement, when he betook himself to the peaceful study of medicine, to escape suspicion as well as procure a livelihood. At the Restoration he experienced the usual neglect which awaited those who had toiled or sacrificed in the service of royalty; but at length, tardy justice was done to his services, by a lease of some of the queen's lands, upon which he was enabled to spend the rest of his days in studious retirement. He died in 1667, at the age of fifty-nine, and was interred with a splendid funeral in Westminster Abbey, between Chaucer and Spenser, while Charles II. might be said to pronounce his funeral eulogium in the brief comprehensive declaration, that "Mr. Cowley had not left behind him a better man in England." Besides the works we have already mentioned, Cowley published a collection of poetry under the title of Miscellanies; the Mistress, a collection of love poems; translations of Pindar's odes; odes in the style of Pindar; Anacreontics; and a Latin work on plants in six books, partly in heroic and partly in elegiac verse. As a poet, none of his day equalled him in popularity: his works went through numerous editions, and were eagerly read by all classes; while Milton himself rated him so highly, that he declared the three greatest English poets were Spenser, Shakspeare, and Cowley. From this high estimation, however, the succeeding age dissented; and the estimation of Cowley at length diminished into somewhat less than that of a second-rate poet. Like many of the period, he was an imitator of Donne; but while he succeeded in the quaintness of phraseology and play upon words by which the writings of Donne are distinguished, he missed that which was of far higher importance-the warmth and depth of feeling by which the poetry of the dean of St. Paul's was chiefly characterized. Unimpassioned coldness is unfortunately the chief quality of Cowley's writings, with the exception of a few of his Pindarics and Anacreontics. Even his most importunate love-suits are either hard metaphysical demonstrations, or far-fetched conceits, in which the speaker is evidently thinking more of himself than his mistress; while his figures of speech, instead of being the natural living off-shoots of the subject, are flowers made of coloured cambric, or feather, stuck on with gum and wire. Such, indeed, was the prevailing taste of the age; but no poetry, however excellent, if constructed on such principles, can hope to descend to posterity. Of a far more original and natural character as a poet, was Samuel Butler, the immortal author of Hudibras, the type of his age in political character and sentiment, as Cowley was of its intellectual habits and poetical taste. Of Butler's early history we know nothing, except that he was born at Strensham, in Worcestershire, in 1612, and was the son of a farmer. Whether he studied at any of our universities is uncertain; but at all events no doubt can be entertained of the extent and variety of his scholarship, which would have insured him distinction in any department of literary occupation, and which obtained him the friendship of Selden. He first lived in the family of the Countess of Kent, and afterwards in that of "A valiant Mameluke In foreign lands y'clep'd Sir Samuel Luke." This was one of Oliver Cromwell's officers; and it does not speak much either for the honour or the honesty of the poet, that he requited the hospitality of the good knight, and violated the sanctity of his bread and salt, by consigning him In the different portions of this singular poem, to universal and undying ridicule under the cha- those circumstances we have mentioned of the racter of Sir Hudibras. As the greater part of unmerited neglect with which Butler was rethis poem was written during the protectorship, quited, may be distinctly traced, the second part it is probable that it was chiefly sketched under being inferior to the first, while the third is a the protecting roof of Sir Samuel, and while the grievous falling off from both. But as a whole, unconscious hero of the tale was daily before his Hudibras is without a rival, unless it be the Don eye. At the Restoration, Butler became secre- Quixote of Cervantes. Like Cowley, Butler was tary to the Earl of Carbery; but having been so of the school of Donne; but the stilted artificial unfortunate as to lose his wife's fortune, he became language which was so cold when applied to subauthor from necessity, and published the first jects of high or deep feeling, finds its proper part of Hudibras in 1663. The genuine wit and place and use in the burlesque of Hudibras. droll mirthful language and rhyme with which There, it is a comic actor taking off the pomthis singular poem abounded, was rewarded with pous strut and solemn gravity of a Hidalgo, and peals of popular laughter, while the derision which shaking pit, boxes, and gallery by the imitation. it heaped upon the Puritans made it the choice But amidst all this drollery, there is not only an text-book of the Cavaliers, and favourite of the amount of learning, but also a power of arguking and courtiers, who found in it an inexhaus-mentation, and an occasional flash of tender feeltible source of humorous quotation, and piquant ing throughout the work, which impart to it provocative to witty conversation. It might the authority of a Mentor even amidst its wildest have been thought, that Butler was entitled to merriment, and show how capable the author was of the highest flights of genius. Such was the popularity of Hudibras, that it produced many imitators; while its sterling excellence, so well adapted for every age, has scarcely diminished its estimation even in the present day, when the once-stirring names of Cavalier and Roundhead are nothing but empty words. But the greatest poet of the age next to Milton, and the most influential in forming the spirit and developing the maturity of English literature, was John Dryden, the Chaucer of the seventeenth century. He was born at Aldwinkle, Northamptonshire, in 1632, and educated first at Westminster School under the celebrated Dr. Busby, and afterwards at Trinity College, Cambridge. His first poetical attempt, which he gave to the world in 1649, was an elegy on the death of Lord Hastings, a young nobleman of high character and promise; but a subject so well fitted to call forth affectionate enthusiasm at least, SAMUEL BUTLER.-From a print by Vertue, after G Soest. if not poetical inspiration, from a young poet of as much court favour at least as merry Tom seventeen, was such a tissue of cold conceits and Killigrew; but those who were thus delighted overstrained artificial figures, as to give no prowith his wit, forgot the poet who furnished it, mise whatsoever of the excellence he was afterand allowed him to languish in obscurity. No wards to attain. The young lord had died of incident, perhaps, in the whole reign of Charles the small-pox, and Dryden, directing his admiraII. so completely illustrates the heartless selfish- tion to the pustules, converts them into ornaments ness which was now the prevailing attribute of on the soil of Venus-into jewels-into rosebuds both king and courtier. This is the more appa--and finally into pimples, each having a tear in rent, when we consider that the poem, indepen- it to bewail the pain it was occasioning! This dently of its own intrinsic merits, was the deadliest attack which their antagonists the Puritans had ever yet encountered. After a year of interval, the second part of Hudibras appeared, while the third was not published till 1678, when the author, wearied out with poverty and disappointment, threw down his pen, left the work unfinished, and died two years after. was enough; and he remained in silence for nine years afterwards-not idly, however, as was manifested not only by his general scholarship, but the superior taste of his next production, in which he had the resolution to abandon his models of Donne and Cowley, and become a genuine follower of nature. This poem, entitled "Heroic Stanzas on the Death of Oliver Cromwell," was a proper theme for Dryden, who had been educated among Puri- | form and beauty, and preparing, like a newly tans, and patronized at the court of the protector. With the Restoration, however, he was ready with a paliuode under the title of "Astræa Redux," welcoming the return of Charles II., and predicting from the event a millenium of political happiness; and in 1666 appeared his "Annus Mirabilis," the subjects of which were the Dutch war and the fire of London. It was only now, indeed, that his mind broke forth in full vigour after so thorough a maturing, and established him in the highest rank of poetry. Long before this, however, his republican and Puritan sympathies had expired; the new king and court were more to his taste; and as his small patrimonial estate yielded only about £60 a-year, while his wants equalled a tenfold amount, his chief dependence was royal favour, which he was ready to purchase at any price. And seldom, indeed, has such an JOHN DRYDEN.-From a print by Vertue, after Kneller. amount of genius been so mercilessly exacted, or so poorly repaid. It was Samson in the prisonhouse grinding for his daily subsistence; and his task is well characterized by one of the greatest of modern poets: "A ribald king and court Bade him toil on to make them sport, Licentious satire, song, and play- Profaned the God-given strength, and marr'd the lofty line." This "high design," which Dryden had long contemplated, was a great national epic, of which King Arthur was to be the hero-but where was the devotedness and self-denial, the solemn meditation and more solemn prayer, under which Paradise Lost was at that same period arising into VOL. II. created world, to take its place among the host of heaven? As a court poet, Dryden was not only deprived of the leisure, but gradually losing both the power and the inclination to realize such a noble conception. In the meantime, he resigned himself to the wants of the day and the humours of the court, and was not only of every phase of poetry but every change of creed, murmuring all the while at his hard fate, and declaring that he had no reason to thank his stars that he was born an Englishman. To better his condition, he married, in 1665, Lady Elizabeth Howard, daughter of the Earl of Berkshire; but this marriage scarcely increased his fortune, while it embittered his life with an evil-tempered partner. To add to his calamities, the Revolution of 1688 threw him out of office as poet-laureate, so that for the rest of his days he was obliged to depend upon the penurious remunerations of Tonson, and the other publishers of the day. His death occurred in 1700, and his remains were interred in Westminster Abbey between the graves of Chaucer and Cowley. During a literary life, continued to such a period, and urged to such constant exertion by the claims of necessity, the productions of Dryden were both numerous and diversified. Besides many smaller poems, which of themselves would fill several volumes, he wrote eight of considerable length, of which the Hind and the Panther, and Absalom and Achitophel, are the most distinguished. As a dramatic writer he wrote twentyeight plays. Besides a poetical version of Virgil, he gave translations from Ovid, Theocritus, Lucretius, Horace, Juvenal, and Persius. He also wrote adaptations, under the name of Fables, from Chaucer and Boccacio, which, though produced in his old age, constitute the most popular and pleasing of his writings. Indeed, it is perceptible throughout the course of his writings, that although his mind was slow in maturing, it continued in active operation to the close, and that, too, with growing improvement, so that his latest productions were also his best. It is to be remarked, too, that while the poetry of Dryden was so varied, and so excellent in every department-while he sketched a character, conducted an argument, or narrated a tale in such a manner as transcended all his predecessors, and developed those treasures of poetic art which hitherto had been unknown, or but imperfectly explored he was not only the father of our modern English poetry, but also of its criticism; and while his numerous prefaces and dissertations enlightened the public judgment, they were written with such power and felicity of language, that his prose fully rivals his poetry. Evil was the age that converted such a genius into a 206 |