Books: Lives of the Poets: Waller, Milton, Cowley

S >> Samuel Johnson >> Lives of the Poets: Waller, Milton, Cowley

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While he was obliged to divide his time between his private studies
and affairs of state, his poetical labour must have been often
interrupted; and perhaps he did little more in that busy time than
construct the narrative, adjust the episodes, proportion the parts,
accumulate images and sentiments, and treasure in his memory, or
preserve in writing, such hints as books or meditation would supply.
Nothing particular is known of his intellectual operations while he
was a statesman; for, having every help and accommodation at hand,
he had no need of uncommon expedients.

Being driven from all public stations, he is yet too great not to be
traced by curiosity to his retirement; where he has been found by
Mr. Richardson, the fondest of his admirers, sitting before his door
in a grey coat of coarse cloth, in warm sultry weather, to enjoy the
fresh air; and so, as in his own room, receiving the visits of
people of distinguished parts as well as quality. His visitors of
high quality must now be imagined to be few; but men of parts might
reasonably court the conversation of a man so generally illustrious,
that foreigners are reported, by Wood, to have visited the house in
Bread Street where he was born.

According to another account, he was seen in a small house, neatly
enough dressed in black clothes, sitting in a room hung with rusty
green; pale but not cadaverous, with chalkstones in his hands. He
said that, if it were not for the gout, his blindness would be
tolerable.

In the intervals of his pain, being made unable to use the common
exercises, he used to swing in a chair, and sometimes played upon an
organ.

He was now confessedly and visibly employed upon his poem, of which
the progress might be noted by those with whom he was familiar; for
he was obliged, when he had composed as many lines as his memory
would conveniently retain, to employ some friend in writing them,
having, at least for part of the time, no regular attendant. This
gave opportunity to observations and reports.

Mr. Philips observes, that there was a very remarkable circumstance
in the composure of "Paradise Lost," "which I have a particular
reason," says he, "to remember; for whereas I had the perusal of it
from the very beginning, for some years, as I went from time to time
to visit him, in parcels of ten, twenty, or thirty verses at a time
(which, being written by whatever hand came next, might possibly
want correction as to the orthography and pointing), having, as the
Summer came on, not been showed any for a considerable while, and
desiring the reason thereof, was answered, that his vein never
happily flowed but from the autumnal equinox to the vernal; and that
whatever he attempted at other times was never to his satisfaction,
though he courted his fancy never so much; so that, in all the years
he was about this poem, he may be said to have spent half his time
therein."

Upon this relation Toland remarks, that in his opinion Philips has
mistaken the time of the year; for Milton, in his Elegies, declares,
that with the advance of the spring he feels the increase of his
poetical force, redeunt in carmina vires. To this it is answered,
that Philips could hardly mistake time so well marked; and it may be
added, that Milton might find different times of the year favourable
to different parts of life. Mr. Richardson conceives it impossible
that "such a work should be suspended for six months, or for one.
It may go on faster or slower, but it must go on." By what
necessity it must continually go on, or why it might not be laid
aside and resumed, it is not easy to discover.

This dependence of the soul upon the seasons, those temporary and
periodical ebbs and flows of intellect, may, I suppose, justly be
derided as the fumes of vain imagination. Sapiens dominabitur
astris. The author that thinks himself weather-bound will find,
with a little help from hellebore, that he is only idle or
exhausted. But while this notion has possession of the head, it
produces the inability which it supposes. Our powers owe much of
their energy to our hopes; possunt quia posse videntur. When
success seems attainable, diligence is enforced; but when it is
admitted that the faculties are suppressed by a cross wind, or a
cloudy sky, the day is given up without resistance; for who can
contend with the course of nature?

From such prepossessions Milton seems not to have been free. There
prevailed in his time an opinion, that the world was in its decay,
and that we have had the misfortune to be produced in the
decrepitude of nature. It was suspected that the whole creation
languished, that neither trees nor animals had the height or bulk of
their predecessors, and that everything was daily sinking by gradual
diminution. Milton appears to suspect that souls partake of the
general degeneracy, and is not without some fear that his book is to
be written in "an age too late" for heroic poesy.

Another opinion wanders about the world, and sometimes finds
reception among wise men; an opinion that restrains the operations
of the mind to particular regions, and supposes that a luckless
mortal may be born in a degree of latitude too high or too low for
wisdom or for wit. From this fancy, wild as it is, he had not
wholly cleared his head, when he feared lest the CLIMATE of his
country might be TOO COLD for flights of imagination.

Into a mind already occupied by such fancies, another, not more
reasonable, might easily find its way. He that could fear lest his
genius had fallen upon too old a world, or too chill a climate,
might consistently magnify to himself the influence of the seasons,
and believe his faculties to be vigorous only half the year.

His submission to the seasons was at least more reasonable than his
dread of decaying nature, or a frigid zone; for general causes must
operate uniformly in a general abatement of mental power; if less
could be performed by the writer, less likewise would content the
judges of his work. Among this lagging race of frosty grovellers he
might still have risen into eminence by producing something which
"they should not willingly let die." However inferior to the heroes
who were born in better ages, he might still be great among his
contemporaries, with the hope of growing every day greater in the
dwindle of posterity. He might still be the giant of the pigmies,
the one-eyed monarch of the blind.

Of his artifices of study, or particular hours of composition, we
have little account, and there was perhaps little to be told.
Richardson, who seems to have been very diligent in his inquiries,
but discovers always a wish to find Milton discriminated from other
men, relates that "he would sometimes lie awake whole nights, but
not a verse could he make; and on a sudden his poetical faculty
would rush upon him with an impetus or aestrum, and his daughter was
immediately called to secure what came. At other times he would
dictate perhaps forty lines in a breath, and then reduce them to
half the number."

These bursts of light, and involutions of darkness, these transient
and involuntary excursions and retrocessions of invention, having
some appearance of deviation from the common train of nature, are
eagerly caught by the lovers of a wonder. Yet something of this
inequality happens to every man in every mode of exertion, manual or
mental. The mechanic cannot handle his hammer and his file at all
times with equal dexterity; there are hours, he knows not why, when
HIS HAND IS OUT. By Mr. Richardson's relation, casually conveyed,
much regard cannot be claimed. That, in his intellectual hour,
Milton called for his daughter "to secure what came," may be
questioned; for unluckily it happens to be known that his daughters
were never taught to write; nor would he have been obliged, as it is
universally confessed, to have employed any casual visitor in
disburdening his memory, if his daughter could have performed the
office.

The story of reducing his exuberance has been told of other authors;
and, though doubtless true of every fertile and copious mind, seems
to have been gratuitously transferred to Milton.

What he has told us, and we cannot now know more, is, that he
composed much of this poem in the night and morning, I suppose
before his mind was disturbed with common business; and that he
poured out with great fluency his "unpremeditated verse."
Versification, free, like this, from the distresses of rhyme, must,
by a work so long, be made prompt and habitual; and, when his
thoughts were once adjusted, the words would come at his command.

At what particular times of his life the parts of his work were
written, cannot often be known. The beginning of the third book
shows that he had lost his sight, and the introduction to the
seventh, that the return of the king had clouded him with
discountenance; and that he was offended by the licentious festivity
of the Restoration. There are no other internal notes of time.
Milton, being now cleared from all effects of his disloyalty, had
nothing required from him but the common duty of living in quiet, to
be rewarded with the common right of protection; but this, which,
when he skulked from the approach of his king, was perhaps more than
he hoped, seems not to have satisfied him; for no sooner is he safe,
than he finds himself in danger, "fallen on evil days and evil
tongues, and with darkness and with danger compassed round." This
darkness, had his eyes been better employed, had undoubtedly
deserved compassion; but to add the mention of danger was ungrateful
and unjust. He was fallen indeed on "evil days;" the time was come
in which regicides could no longer boast their wickedness. But of
"evil tongues" for Milton to complain, required impudence at least
equal to his other powers; Milton, whose warmest advocates must
allow that he never spared any asperity of reproach or brutality of
insolence.

But the charge itself seems to be false; for it would be hard to
recollect any reproach cast upon him, either serious or ludicrous,
through the whole remaining part of his life. He pursued his
studies or his amusements, without persecution, molestation, or
insult. Such is the reverence paid to great abilities, however
misused; they, who contemplated in Milton the scholar and the wit,
were contented to forget the reviler of his king.

When the plague (1665) raged in London, Milton took refuge at
Chalfont, in Bucks; where Elwood, who had taken the house for him,
first saw a complete copy of "Paradise Lost," and, having perused
it, said to him, "Thou hast said a great deal upon Paradise Lost;
what hast thou to say upon Paradise Found?"

Next year, when the danger of infection had ceased, he returned to
Bunhill Fields, and designed the publication of his poem. A licence
was necessary, and he could expect no great kindness from a chaplain
of the Archbishop of Canterbury. He seems, however, to have been
treated with tenderness; for, though objections were made to
particular passages, and among them to the simile of the sun
eclipsed in the first book, yet the licence was granted; and he sold
his copy, April 27, 1667, to Samuel Simmons, for an immediate
payment of five pounds, with a stipulation to receive five pounds
more when thirteen hundred should be sold of the first edition; and
again, five pounds after the sale of the same number of the second
edition; and another five pounds after the same sale of the third.
None of the three editions were to be extended beyond fifteen
hundred copies.

The first edition was ten books, in a small quarto. The titles were
varied from year to year; and an advertisement and the arguments of
the books were omitted in some copies, and inserted in others.

The sale gave him in two years a right to his second payment, for
which the receipt was signed April 26, 1669. The second edition was
not given till 1674; it was printed in small octave; and the number
of books was increased to twelve, by a division of the seventh and
twelfth; and some other small improvements were made. The third
edition was published in 1678; and the widow, to whom the copy was
then to devolve, sold all her claims to Simmons for eight pounds,
according to her receipt given December 21, 1680. Simmons had
already agreed to transfer the whole right to Brabazon Aylmer for 25
pounds; and Aylmer sold to Jacob Tonson half, August 17, 1683, and
half, March 24, 1690, at a price considerably enlarged. In the
history of "Paradise Lost" a deduction thus minute will rather
gratify than fatigue.

The slow sale and tardy reputation of this poem have been always
mentioned as evidences of neglected merit, and of the uncertainty of
literary fame; and inquiries have been made, and conjectures
offered, about the causes of its long obscurity and late reception.
But has the case been truly stated? Have not lamentation and wonder
been lavished on an evil that was never felt?

That in the reigns of Charles and James the "Paradise Lost "
received no public acclamations is readily confessed. Wit and
literature were on the side of the court: and who that solicited
favour or fashion would venture to praise the defender of the
regicides? All that he himself could think his due, from "evil
tongues" in "evil days," was that reverential silence which was
generously preserved. But it cannot be inferred that his poem was
not read, or not, however unwillingly, admired.

The sale, if it be considered, will justify the public. Those who
have no power to judge of past times but by their own, should always
doubt their conclusions. The call for books was not, in Milton's
age, what it is at present. To read was not then a general
amusement; neither traders, nor often gentlemen, thought themselves
disgraced by ignorance. The women had not then aspired to
literature, nor was every house supplied with a closet of knowledge.
Those, indeed, who professed learning, were not less learned than at
any other time; but of that middle race of students who read for
pleasure or accomplishment, and who buy the numerous products of
modern typography, the number was then comparatively small. To
prove the paucity of readers, it may be sufficient to remark, that
the nation had been satisfied from 1623 to 1664--that is, forty-one
years--with only two editions of the works of Shakespeare, which
probably did not together make one thousand copies.

The sale of thirteen hundred copies in two years, in opposition to
so much recent enmity, and to a style of versification new to all
and disgusting to many, was an uncommon example of the prevalence of
genius. The demand did not immediately increase; for many more
readers than were supplied at first the nation did not afford. Only
three thousand were sold in eleven years; for it forced its way
without assistance; its admirers did not dare to publish their
opinion; and the opportunities now given of attracting notice by
advertisements were then very few; the means of proclaiming the
publication of new books have been produced by that general
literature which now pervades the nation through all its ranks. But
the reputation and price of the copy still advanced, till the
Revolution put an end to the secrecy of love, and "Paradise Lost"
broke into open view with sufficient security of kind reception.

Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what temper Milton
surveyed the silent progress of his work, and marked its reputation
stealing its way in a kind of subterraneous current through fear and
silence. I cannot but conceive him calm and confident, little
disappointed, not at all dejected, relying on his own merit with
steady consciousness, and waiting without impatience the
vicissitudes of opinion, and the impartiality of a future
generation.

In the meantime he continued his studies, and supplied the want of
sight by a very odd expedient, of which Phillips gives the following
account:-

Mr. Philips tells us, "that though our author had daily about him
one or other to read, some persons of man's estate, who, of their
own accord, greedily catched at the opportunity of being his
readers, that they might as well reap the benefit of what they read
to him, as oblige him by the benefit of their reading; and others of
younger years were sent by their parents to the same end; yet
excusing only the eldest daughter by reason of her bodily infirmity
and difficult utterance of speech (which, to say truth, I doubt was
the principal cause of excusing her), the other two were condemned
to the performance of reading and exactly pronouncing of all the
languages of whatever book he should, at one time or other, think
fit to peruse, viz., the Hebrew (and I think the Syriac), the Greek,
the Latin, the Italian, Spanish, and French. All which sorts of
books to be confined to read, without understanding one word, must
needs be a trial of patience almost beyond endurance. Yet it was
endured by both for a long time, though the irksomeness of this
employment could not be always concealed, but broke out more and
more into expressions of uneasiness; so that at length they were
all, even the eldest also, sent out to learn some curious and
ingenious sorts of manufacture, that are proper for women to learn,
particularly embroideries in gold or silver."

In the scene of misery which this mode of intellectual labour sets
before our eyes, it is hard to determine whether the daughters or
the father are most to be lamented. A language not understood can
never be so read as to give pleasure, and very seldom so as to
convey meaning. If few men would have had resolution, to write
books with such embarrassments, few likewise would have wanted
ability to find some better expedient.

Three years after his "Paradise Lost" (1667) he published his
"History of England," comprising the whole fable of Geoffrey of
Monmouth, and continued to the Norman Invasion. Why he should have
given the first part, which he seems not to believe, and which is
universally rejected, it is difficult to conjecture. The style is
harsh; but it has something of rough vigour, which perhaps may often
strike, though it cannot please.

On this history the licenser again fixed his claws, and before he
could transmit it to the press tore out several parts. Some
censures of the Saxon monks were taken away, lest they should be
applied to the modern clergy; and a character of the Long
Parliament, and Assembly of Divines, was excluded; of which the
author gave a copy to the Earl of Anglesea, and which, being
afterwards published, has been since inserted in its proper place.

The same year were printed "Paradise Regained;" and "Samson
Agonistes," a tragedy written in imitation of the ancients, and
never designed by the author for the stage. As these poems were
published by another bookseller, it has been asked whether Simmons
was discouraged from receiving them by the slow sale of the former.
Why a writer changed his bookseller a hundred years ago, I am far
from hoping to discover. Certainly, he who in two years sells
thirteen hundred copies of a volume in quarto, bought for two
payments of five pounds each, has no reason to repent his purchase.

When Milton showed "Paradise Regained" to Elwood, "This," said he,
"is owing to you; for you put it in my head by the question you put
to me at Chalfont, which otherwise I had not thought of."

His last poetical offspring was his favourite. He could not, as
Elwood relates, endure to hear "Paradise Lost" preferred to
"Paradise Regained." Many causes may vitiate a writer's judgment of
his own works. On that which has cost him much labour he sets a
high value, because he is unwilling to think that he has been
diligent in vain; what has been produced without toilsome efforts is
considered with delight, as a proof of vigorous faculties and
fertile invention; and the last work, whatever it be, has
necessarily most of the grace of novelty. Milton, however it
happened, had this prejudice, and had it to himself.

To that multiplicity of attainments, and extent of comprehension,
that entitled this great author to our veneration, may be added a
kind of humble dignity, which did not disdain the meanest services
to literature. The epic poet, the controvertist, the politician,
having already descended to accommodate children with a book of
rudiments, now, in the last years of his life, composed a book of
logic for the initiation of students in philosophy; and published
(1672) "Artis Logicae plenior Institutio ad Petri Rami Methodum
concinnata;" that is, "A new Scheme of Logic, according to the
method of Ramus." I know not whether, even in this book, he did not
intend an act of hostility against the universities; for Ramus was
one of the first oppugners of the old philosophy, who disturbed with
innovations the quiet of the schools.

His polemical disposition again revived. He had now been safe so
long that he forgot his fears, and published a "Treatise of True
Religion, Heresy, Schism, Toleration, and the Best Means to Prevent
the Growth of Popery."

But this little tract is modestly written, with respectful mention
of the Church of England and an appeal to the Thirty-nine Articles.
His principle of toleration is, agreement in the sufficiency of the
Scriptures; and he extends it to all who, whatever their opinions
are, profess to derive them from the sacred books. The Papists
appeal to other testimonies, and are therefore, in his opinion, not
to be permitted the liberty of either public or private worship; for
though they plead conscience, "we have no warrant," he says, "to
regard conscience which is not grounded in Scripture."

Those who are not convinced by his reasons, may perhaps be delighted
with his wit. The term "Roman Catholic is," he says, "one of the
Pope's Bulls; it is particular universal, or Catholic schismatic."

He has, however, something better. As the best preservative against
Popery, he recommends the diligent perusal of the Scriptures, a duty
from which he warns the busy part of mankind not to think themselves
excused.

He now reprinted his juvenile poems, with some additions.

In the last year of his life he sent to the press, seeming to take
delight in publication, a collection of "Familiar Epistles in
Latin;" to which, being too few to make a volume, he added some
academical exercises, which perhaps he perused with pleasure, as
they recalled to his memory the days of youth; but for which nothing
but veneration for his name could now procure a reader.

When he had attained his sixty-sixth year, the gout, with which he
had been long tormented, prevailed over the enfeebled powers of
nature. He died by a quiet and silent expiration, about the 10th of
November, 1674, at his house in Bunhill Fields; and was buried next
his father in the chancel of St. Giles at Cripplegate. His funeral
was very splendidly and numerously attended.

Upon his grave there is supposed to have been no memorial; but in
our time a monument has been erected in Westminster Abbey "To the
Author of 'Paradise Lost,'" by Mr. Benson, who has in the
inscription bestowed more words upon himself than upon Milton.

When the inscription for the monument of Philips, in which he was
said to be soli Miltono secundus, was exhibited to Dr. Sprat, then
Dean of Westminster, he refused to admit it; the name of Milton was,
in his opinion, too detestable to be read on the wall of a building
dedicated to devotion. Atterbury, who succeeded him, being author
of the inscription, permitted its reception. "And such has been the
change of public opinion," said Dr. Gregory, from whom I heard this
account, "that I have seen erected in the church a statue of that
man, whose name I once knew considered as a pollution of its walls."

Milton has the reputation of having been in his youth eminently
beautiful, so as to have been called the lady of his college. His
hair, which was of a light brown, parted at the fore-top, and hung
down upon his shoulders, according to the picture which he has given
of Adam. He was, however, not of the heroic stature, but rather
below the middle size, according to Mr. Richardson, who mentions him
as having narrowly escaped from being "short and thick." He was
vigorous and active, and delighted in the exercise of the sword, in
which he is related to have been eminently skilful. His weapon was,
I believe, not the rapier, but the back-sword, of which he
recommends the use in his book on education.

His eyes are said never to have been bright; but, if he was a
dexterous fencer, they must have been once quick.

His domestic habits, so far as they are known, were those of a
severe student. He drank little strong drink of any kind, and fed
without excess in quantity, and in his earlier years without
delicacy of choice. In his youth he studied late at night; but
afterwards changed his hours, and rested in bed from nine to four in
the summer and five in the winter. The course of his day was best
known after he was blind. When he first rose, he heard a chapter in
the Hebrew Bible, and then studied till twelve; then took some
exercise for an hour; then dined, then played on the organ, and
sang, or heard another sing, then studied till six; then entertained
his visitors till eight; then supped, and, after a pipe of tobacco
and a glass of water, went to bed.

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