Life Of John Milton - Richard Garnett (i wanna iguana read aloud txt) 📗
- Author: Richard Garnett
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A Perpetual Succession Of Isolated Images Of Awful Majesty; In His
Paradise And Creation The Universal Landscape Is Bathed In A General
Atmosphere Of Lustrous Splendour. This Portion Of His Work Is
Accordingly Less Great In Detached Passages, But Is Little Inferior In
General Greatness. No Less An Authority Than Tennyson, Indeed, Expresses
A Preference For The "Bowery Loneliness" Of Eden Over The "Titan Angels"
Of The "Deep-Domed Empyrean." If This Only Means That Milton's Eden Is
Finer Than His War In Heaven, We Must Concur; But If A Wider Application
Be Intended, It Does Seem To Us That His Pandemonium Exalts Him To A
Greater Height Above Every Other Poet Than His Paradise Exalts Him Above
His Predecessor, And In Some Measure, His Exemplar, Spenser.
To Remain At Such An Elevation Was Impossible. Milton Compares
Unfavourably With Homer In This; His Epic Begins At Its Zenith, And
After A While Visibly And Continually Declines. His Genius Is
Unimpaired, But His Skill Transcends His Stuff. The Fall Of Man And Its
Consequences Could Not By Any Device Be Made As Interesting As The Fall
Of Satan, Of Which It Is Itself But A Consequence. It Was, Moreover,
Absolutely Inevitable That Adam's Fall, The Proper Catastrophe Of The
Poem, Should Occur Some Time Before The Conclusion, Otherwise There
Would Have Been No Space For The Unfolding Of The Scheme Of Redemption,
Equally Essential From The Point Of View Of Orthodoxy And Of Art. The
Effect Is The Same As In The Case Of Shakespeare's "Julius Cæsar,"
Which, Having Proceeded With Matchless Vigour Up To The Flight Of The
Conspirators After Antony's Speech, Becomes Comparatively Tame And
Languid, And Cannot Be Revived Even By Such A Masterpiece As The
Contention Between Brutus And Cassius. It Is To Be Regretted That
Milton's Extreme Devotion To The Letter Of Scripture Has Not Permitted
Him To Enrich His Latter Books With Any Corresponding Episode. It Is Not
Until The Very End That He Is Again Truly Himself--
"They, Looking Back, All The Eastern Side Beheld
Of Paradise, So Late Their Happy Seat,
Waved Over By That Flaming Brand; The Gate
With Dreadful Faces Thronged And Fiery Arms.
Some Natural Tears They Dropped, But Wiped Them Soon.
The World Was All Before Them, Where To Choose
Their Place Of Rest, And Providence Their Guide.
They, Hand In Hand, With Wandering Steps And Slow,
Through Eden Took Their Solitary Way."
Some Minor Objections May Be Briefly Noticed. The Materiality Of
Milton's Celestial Warfare Has Been Censured By Every One From The Days
Of Sir Samuel Morland,[6] A Splenetic Critic, Who Had Incurred Milton's
Contempt By His Treachery To Cromwell And Thurloe. Warfare, However,
There Must Be: War Cannot Be Made Without Weapons; And Milton's Only
Fault Is That He Has Rather Exaggerated Than Minimized The Difficulties
Of His Subject. A Sense Of Humour Would Have Spiked His Celestial
Artillery, But A Lively Perception Of The Ridiculous Is Scarcely To Be
Demanded From A Milton. After All, He Was Borrowing From Good Poets,[7]
Whose Thought In Itself Is Correct, And Even Profound; It Is Only When
Artillery Antedates Humanity That The Ascription Of Its Invention To The
Tempter Seems Out Of Place. The Metamorphosis Of The Demons Into
Serpents Has Been Censured As Grotesque; But It Was Imperatively
Chapter 9 Pg 89Necessary To Manifest By Some Unmistakable Outward Sign That Victory Did
Not After All Remain With Satan, And The Critics May Be Challenged To
Find One More Appropriate. The Bridge Built By Sin And Death Is Equally
Essential. Satan's Progeny Must Not Be Dismissed Without Some Exploit
Worthy Of Their Parentage. The One Passage Where Milton's Taste Seems To
Us Entirely At Fault Is The Description Of The Paradise Of Fools (Iii.,
481-497), Where His Scorn Of--
"Reliques, Beads,
Indulgences, Dispenses, Pardons, Bulls,"
Has Tempted Him To Chequer The Sublime With The Ludicrous.
No Subject But A Biblical One Would Have Insured Milton Universal
Popularity Among His Countrymen, For His Style Is That Of An Ancient
Classic Transplanted, Like Aladdin's Palace Set Down With All Its
Magnificence In The Heart Of Africa; And His Diction, The Delight Of The
Educated, Is The Despair Of The Ignorant Man. Not That This Diction Is
In Any Respect Affected Or Pedantic. Milton Was The Darling Poet Of Our
Greatest Modern Master Of Unadorned Saxon Speech, John Bright. But It
Is Freighted With Classic Allusion--Not Alone From The Ancient
Classics--And Comes To Us Rich With Gathered Sweets, Like A Wind Laden
With The Scent Of Many Flowers. "It Is," Says Pattison, "The Elaborated
Outcome Of All The Best Words Of All Antecedent Poetry--The Language Of
One Who Lives In The Companionship Of The Great And The Wise Of Past
Time." "Words," The Same Writer Reminds Us, "Over And Above Their
Dictionary Signification, Connote All The Feeling Which Has Gathered
Round Them By Reason Of Their Employment Through A Hundred Generations
Of Song." So It Is, Every Word Seems Instinct With Its Own Peculiar
Beauty, And Fraught With Its Own Peculiar Association, And Yet Each
Detail Is Strictly Subordinate To The General Effect. No Poet Of
Milton's Rank, Probably, Has Been Equally Indebted To His Predecessors,
Not Only For His Vocabulary, But For His Thoughts. Reminiscences Throng
Upon Him, And He Takes All That Comes, Knowing That He Can Make It
Lawfully His Own. The Comparison Of Satan's Shield To The Moon, For
Instance, Is Borrowed From The Similar Comparison Of The Shield Of
Achilles In The Iliad, But What Goes In Homer Comes Out Milton. Homer
Merely Says That Use It Is, Doesn't Want It," Replied The Workman. It
Then Flashed Into Joseph's Mind That It Was A Gallows.
Mary Grasped His Arm: "Joseph, Let Us Go On To Bethlehem." For She
Began To Be Frightened.
They Staggered Along The Road. A Draught Of The Spring Of The Valley
Of Jehoshaphat Refreshed Them. Farther On In The Fertile Plain Of
Judaea Lambs And Kids Were Feeding, And Joseph Began To Speak Of His
Childhood. His Whole Being Was Fresh And Joyful. Home! And By
Evening Time Bethlehem, Lighted By The Setting Sun, Lay Before Them On
The Hill-Top.
They Stood Still For A Space And Looked At It. Then Joseph Went Into
The Town To Inquire About The Place And The Time Of The Enrolment, And
To Seek Lodging For The Night. The Young Woman Sat Down Before The
Gate Under The Fan-Shaped Leaves Of A Palm-Tree And Looked About Her
Chapter 9 Pg 90The Western Land Seemed Very Strange To Her And Yet Sweet, For It Was
Her Joseph's Childish Home. How Noisy It Was In Jerusalem, And How
Peaceful It Was Here--Almost As Still And Solemn As A Sabbath Evening
At Nazareth! Beloved Nazareth! How Far Away, How Far Away! Sometimes
The Sound Of A Shepherd's Pipe Was Heard From The Green Hills. A Youth
Leaned Up Against An Olive Tree And Made A Wreath Of Twigs And Sang:
"Behold, Thou Art Fair, My Love. Thine Eyes Are As Doves In Thy
Fragrant Locks, Thy Lips Are Rosebuds, And Thy Two Breasts Are Like
Roes Which Feed Among The Lilies. Thou Hast Ravished My Heart, My
Sister, My Spouse." Then He Was Silent, And The Leaves Rustled Softly
In The Evening Breeze.
Mary Looked Out For Joseph, But He Came Not. And The Singer Continued:
"Who Art Thou That Shinest Like The Day-Dawn, Fair As The Moon, And
Clear As The Sun, Divine Daughter Of Eve?" And Mary Still Waited Under
The Palm-Tree And Listened, And She Began To Feel Strange Pangs. She
Drew Her Cloak More Closely Round Her, And Saw That The Stars Already
Stood In The Sky. But Still Joseph Came Not. And From The Hill The
Singer: "And From The Root Of Jesse A Twig Shall Spring." And A Second
Voice: "And All Nations Shall Rise Up And Sing Her Praises." So Did
The Shepherds Sing The Songs Of Their Old Kings And Prophets.
At Last Joseph Came Slowly From The Town. The Enrolment Was To Take
Place To-Morrow At Nine O'clock; That Was All Right. But There Was
Difficulty Over The Lodging For The Night. He Had Spoken With Rich
Relations; They Would Have Been Very Glad, But Unfortunately A Wedding
Feast Was Going Forward, And Wanderers In Homely Garments Might Easily
Feel Uncomfortable. He Quite Understood That. Then He Went To His
Poorer Relations, Who Would Have Been Even More Glad, But It Was
Deplorable That Their House Was So Small And Their Hearth So Cramped.
All The Inns Were Overcrowded With Strangers. They Did Not Seem To
Think Much Here Of People From Galilee Because All Kinds Of Heathenish
Folk Lived There--As If Any One Who Was Born In Bethlehem Could Be A
Heathen! And So He Did Not Know What To Do.
Mary Leaned Her Head On Her Hand And Said Nothing.
"Your Hands And Feet Are Trembling, Mary," Said Joseph.
She Shook Her Head; It Was Nothing.
"Come, My Wife, We Will Go In Together," Said Joseph. "We Are Not
Vagabonds To Whom They Can Refuse Assistance."
And Then They Both Went Into The Town. Mine Host Of The Inn Was Stern.
"I Told You Already, Old Man, That There's No Place For The Like Of You
In My House. Take Your Little Daughter Somewhere Else."
"She's Not My Daughter, Sir, But My True Wife, Trusted To Me By God
That I May Protect Her," Returned Joseph, And He Lifted Up His
Carpenter's Hand.
The Door Was Slammed In Their Faces.
Chapter 9 Pg 91
A Fruit-Seller, Who Had Witnessed The Scene, Stretched Forth His Brown
Neck And Asked For Their Passport.
"If You Show Me Your Papers And Three Pieces Of Silver, I'll Take You
In For The Love Of God. For We Are All Wanderers On The Earth."
"We've No Passport. We've Come From Nazareth In Galilee For The
Enrolment, Because I Am Of The House Of David," Replied Joseph.
"Of TTriking Counterpart Is Calderon, To Whom He Owed As
Little As Calderon Can Have Owed To Him. "El Magico Prodigioso," Already
Cited As Affording A Remarkable Parallel To "Comus," Though Performed In
1637, Was Not Printed Until 1663, When "Paradise Lost" Was Already
Completed.[8] The Two Great Religious Poets Have Naturally Conceived The
Evil One Much In The Same Manner, And Calderon's Lucifer,
"Like The Red Outline Of Beginning Adam,"
Might Well Have Passed As The Original Draft Of Milton's Satan:--
"In Myself I Am
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