the wretches with his attendance: Death shak- portion of spirit with which we are best ac
ing his dart over them, but in spite of suppli- quainted? We observe certain phenomena
cations, delaying to strike. What says Dante? We cannot explain them into material causes.
"There was such a moan there as there would We therefore infer that there exists something
be if all the sick, who, between July and Sep-which is not material. But of this something
tember, are in the hospitals of Valdichiana, we have no idea. We can define it only by
and of the Tuscan swamps, and of Sardinia, negatives. We can reason about it only by
were in one pit together; and such a stench symbols. We use the word, but we have no
was issuing forth as is wont to issue from de- image of the thing: and the business of poetry
cayed limbs."
is with images, and not with words. The poet
uses words indeed; but they are merely the
instruments of his art, not its objects. They
are the materials which he is to dispose in
such a manner as to present a picture to the
mental eye. And, if they are not so disposed,
they are no more entitled to be called poetry,
than a bale of canvass and a box of colours

We will not take upon ourselves the invi-
dious office of settling precedency between two
such writers. Each in his own department is
incomparable; and each, we may remark, has,
wisely or fortunately, taken a subject adapted
to exhibit his peculiar talent to the greatest
advantage. The Divine Comedy is a personal
narrative. Dante is the eye-witness and ear-are to be called a painting.

witness of that which he relates. He is the Logicians may reason about abstractions;
very man who has heard the tormented spirits but the great mass of mankind can never feel
crying out for the second death; who has read an interest in them. They must have images.
the dusky characters on the portal, within The strong tendency of the multitude in all
which there is no hope; who has hidden his ages and nations to idolatry can be explained
face from the terrors of the Gorgon; who has on no other principle. The first inhabitants
fled from the hooks and the seething pitch of of Greece, there is every reason to believe,
Barbariccia and Diaghignazzo. His own hands worshipped one invisible Deity. But the ne
have grasped the shaggy sides of Lucifer. His cessity of having something more definite to
own feet have climbed the mountain of expia- adore produced, in a few centuries, the innu-
tion. His own brow has been marked by the merable crowd of gods and goddesses. In like
purifying angel. The reader would throw aside manner the ancient Persians thought it im-
such a tale in incredulous disgust, unless it pious to exhibit the Creator under a human
were told with the strongest air of veracity, form. Yet even these transferred to the sun
with a sobriety even in its horrors, with the the worship which, speculatively, they consi-
greatest precision and multiplicity in its de- dered due only to the Supreme mind. The
tails. The narrative of Milton in this respect history of the Jews is the record of a continual
differs from that of Dante, as the adventures struggle between pure Theism, supported by
of Amidas differ from those of Gulliver. The the most terrible sanctions, and the strangely
author of Amidas would have made his book fascinating desire of having some visible and
ridiculous if he had introduced those minute tangible object of adoration. Perhaps none
particulars which give such a charm to the of the secondary causes which Gibbon has as-
work of Swift, the nautical observations, the signed for the rapidity with which Christianity
affected delicacy about names, the official do- spread over the world, while Judaism scarcely
cuments transcribed at full length, and all the ever acquired a proselyte, operated more power-
unmeaning gossip and scandal of the court, fully than this feeling. God, the uncreated,
springing out of nothing, and tending to no- the incomprehensible, the invisible, attracted
thing. We are not shocked at being told that few worshippers. A philosopher might admire
a man who lived, nobody knows when, saw so noble a conception; but the crowd turned
many very strange sights, and we can easily away in disgust from words which presented
abandon ourselves to the illusion of the ro- no image to their minds. It was before Deity,
mance. But when Lemuel Gulliver, surgeon, embodied in a human form, walking among
now actually resident at Rotherhithe, tells us men, partaking of their infirmities, leaning on
of pigmies and giants, flying islands and phi-their bosoms, weeping over their graves, slum-
losophizing horses, nothing but such circum-bering in the manger, bleeding on the cross,
stantial touches could produce, for a single
moment, a deception on the imagination.

Of all the poets who have introduced into their works the agency of supernatural beings, Milton has succeeded best. Here Dante de cidedly yields to him. And as this is a point on which many rash and ill-considered judgments have been pronounced, we feel inclined to dwell on it a little longer. The most fatal error which a poet can possibly commit in the management of his machinery, is that of attempting to philosophize too much. Milton has been often censured for ascribing to spirits many functions of which spirits must be incapable. But these objections, though sanctioned by eminent names, originate, we venture to say, in profound ignorance of the art of poetry.

What is spirit? What are our own minds, the

that the prejudices of the Synagogue, and the doubts of the Academy, and the pride of the Portico, and the fasces of the lictor, and the swords of thirty legions, were humbled in the dust! Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the principle which had assisted it began to corrupt. It became a new paganism. Patron saints assumed the offices of household gods. St. George took the place of Mars. St. Elmo consoled the mariner for the loss of Castor and Pollux. The Virgin Mother and Cicilia succeeded to Venus and the Muses. The fascination of sex and loveliness was again joined to that of celestial dignity; and the homage of chivalry was blended with that of religion. Reformers have often made a stand against these feelings; but never with more than ap parent and partial success. The men who de

molished the images in cathedrals have not always been able to demolish those which were enshrined in their minds. It would not be difficult to show, that in politics the same rule holds good. Doctrines, we are afraid, must generally be embodied before they can excite strong public feeling. The multitude is more easily interested for the most unmeaning badge, or the most insignificant name, than for the most important principle.

proper to supernatural agents. We feel that we could talk with his ghosts and demons, without any emotions of unearthly awe. We could, like Don Juan, ask them to supper, and eat heartily in their company His angels are good men with wings. His devils are spiteful, ugly executioners. His dead men are merely living men in strange situations. The scene which passes between the poet and Facinata is justly celebrated. Still, Facinata in the burning tomb is exactly what Facinata would have been at an auto da fé. Nothing can be more touching than the first interview of Dante and Beatrice. Yet what is it, but a lovely woman chiding, with sweet austere composure, the lover for whose affections she is grateful, but whose vices she reprobates? The feelings which give the passage its charm would suit the streets of Florence, as well as the summit of the Mount of Purgatory.

have no horns, no tails, none of the fee-fawfum of Tasso and Klopstock. They have just enough in common with human nature to be intelligible to human beings. Their characters are, like their forms, inarked by a certain dim resemblance to those of men, but exaggerated to gigantic dimensions and veiled in mysterious gloom.

From these considerations, we infer, that no poet who should affect that metaphysical accuracy for the want of which Milton has been blamed, would escape a 'disgraceful failure. Still, however, there was another extreme, which, though far less dangerous, was also to be avoided. The imaginations of men are in a great measure under the control of their opinions. The most exquisite art of à poetical colouring can produce no illusion when it is employed to represent that which is at once The Spirits of Milton are unlike those of perceived to be incongruous and absurd. Mil- almost all other writers. His fiends, in partiton wrote in an age of philosophers and theo-cular, are wonderful creations. They are not logians. It was necessary therefore for him to metaphysical abstractions. They are not abstain from giving such a shock to their un-wicked men. They are not ugly beasts. They derstandings, as might break the charm which it was his object to throw over their imaginations. This is the real explanation of the indistinctness and inconsistency with which he has often been reproached. Dr. Johnson acknowledges, that it was absolutely necessary for him to clothe his spirits with material forms. "But," says he, "he should have secured the consistency of his system, by keeping immateriality out of sight, and seducing the reader to drop it from his thoughts." This is easily said; but what if he could not seduce the reader to drop it from his thoughts? What if the contrary opinion had taken so full a possession of the minds of men, as to leave no room even for the quasi-belief which poetry requires? Such we suspect to have been the case. It was impossible for the poet to adopt altogether the material or the immaterial system. He therefore took his stand on the debatable ground. He left the whole in ambiguity. He has doubtless by so doing laid himself open to the charge of inconsistency. But, though philosophically in the wrong, we cannot but believe that he was poetically in the right. This task, which almost any other writer would have found impracticable, was easy to him. The peculiar art which he possessed of communicating his meaning circuitously, through a long succession of associated ideas, and of intimating more than he expressed, enabled him to disguise those incongruities which he could not avoid.

Poetry, which relates to the beings of another world, ought to be at once mysterious and picturesque. That of Milton is so. That of Dante is picturesque, indeed, beyond any that was ever written. Its effect approaches to that produced by the pencil or the chisel. But it is picturesque to the exclusion of all mystery. This is a fault indeed on the right side, a fault inseparable from the plan of his poem, which, as we have already observed, rendered the utmost accuracy of description necessary. Still it is a fault. His supernatural agents excite interest; but it is not the interest which is

Perhaps the gods and demons of Eschylus may best bear a comparison with the angels and devils of Milton. The style of the Athenian had, as we have remarked, something of the vagueness and tenor of the Oriental character; and the same peculiarity may be traced in his mythology. It has nothing of the amenity and elegance which we generally find in the superstitions of Greece. All is rugged, barbaric, and colossal. His legends seem to harmonize less with the fragrant groves and graceful porticos, in which his countrymen paid their vows to the God of Light and Goddess of Desire, than with those huge and grotesque labyrinths of eternal granite, in which Egypt enshrined her mystic Osiris, or in which Hindostan still bows down to her seven-headed idols.

His favourite gods are those of the elder generations, the sons of heaven and earth, compared with whom Jupiter himself was a stripling and an upstart, the gigantic Titans and the inexorable Furies. Foremost among his creations of this class stands Prometheus, half fiend, half redeemer, the friend of man, the sullen and implacable enemy of heaven. He bears undoubtedly a considerable resemblance to the Satan of Milton. In both we find the same impatience of control, the same ferocity, the same unconquerable pride. In both characters also are mingled, though in very different proportions, some kind and generous feelings. Prometheus, however, is hardly superhuman enough. He talks too much of his chains and his uneasy posture, He is rather too much depressed and agitated. His resolution seems to depend on the knowledge which he possesses, that he holds the fate of his torturer in his hands, and that the hour

thof his release will surely come. But Satan is sereature of another sphere. The might of This intellectual nature is victorious over the exremity of pain. Amidst agonies which cannot be conceived without horror, he deliberates, resolves, and even exults. Against the sword of Michael, against the thunder of Jehovah, against the flaming lake and the marl burning with solid fire, against the prospect of an eternity of unintermittent misery, his spirit bears up unbroken, resting on its own innate energies, requiring no support from any thing external, nor even from hope itself!

forth their blood on scaffolds. That hateful proscription, facetiously termed the Act of Indemnity and Oblivion, had set a mark on the poor, blind, deserted poet, and held him up by name to the hatred of a profligate court and an inconstant people! Venal and licentious scribblers, with just sufficient talent to clothe the thoughts of a pander in the style of ą bellman, were now the favourite writers of the sovereign and the public. It was a loathsome herd-which could be compared to nothing so fitly as to the rabble of Comus, grotesque monsters, half bestial, half human, dropping with wine, bloated with gluttony, and reeling in ob

To return for a moment to the parallel which we have been attempting to draw between Mil-scene dances. Amidst these his Muse was ton and Dante, we would add, that the poetry of these great men has in a considerable degree taken its character from their moral qualities. They are not egotists. They rarely obtrude their idiosyncrasies on their readers. They have nothing in common with those modern beggars for fame, who extort a pittance from the compassion of the inexperienced, by exposing the nakedness and sores of their minds. Yet it would be difficult to name two writers whose works have been more completely, though undesignedly, coloured by their personal feelings.

enced every calamity which is incident to our nature, old, poor, sightless, and disgraced, he retired to his hovel to die!

placed, like the chaste lady of the Masque, lofty, spotless, and serene to be chatted at, and pointed at, and grinned at, by the whole rabble of Satyrs and Goblins. If ever despondency and asperity could be excused in any man, it might have been excused in Milton. But the strength of his mind overcame every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor age, nor penury, nor domestic afflictions, nor political disappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor neglect, had power to disturb his sedate and majestic patience. His spirits do not seem to have been high, but they were The character of Milton was peculiarly dis- singularly equable. His temper was serious, tinguished by loftiness of thought; that of perhaps stern; but it was a temper which no Dante by intensity of feeling. In every line sufferings could render sullen or fretful. Such of the Divine Comedy we discern the asperity as it was, when, on the eve of great events, he which is produced by pride struggling with returned from his travels, in the prime of health misery. There is perhaps no work in the and manly beauty, loaded with literary distincworld so deeply and uniformly sorrowful. The tions and glowing with patriotic hopes, such melancholy of Dante was no fantastic caprice.it continued to be—when, after having experiIt was not, as far as at this distance of time can be judged, the effect of external circumstances. It was from within. Neither love nor glory, neither the conflicts of the earth nor Hence it was, that though he wrote the the hope of heaven could dispel it. It twined Paradise Lost at a time of life when images every consolation and every pleasure into its of beauty and tenderness are in general be own nature. It resembled that noxious Sardi-ginning to fade, even from those minds in nian soil of which the intense bitterness is said which they have not been effaced by anxiety to have been perceptible even in its honey. and disappointment, he adorned it with all His mind was, in the noble language of the He- that is most lovely and delightful in the phybrew poet, "a land of darkness, as darkness sical and in the moral world. Neither Theoitself, and where the light was as darkness!" critus nor Ariosto had a finer or a more healthThe gloom of his character discolours all the ful sense of the pleasantness of external passions of men and all the face of nature, objects, or loved better to luxuriate amidst and tinges with its own livid hue the flowers sunbeams and flowers, the songs of nightin of Paradise and the glories of the Eternal gales, the juice of summer fruits, and the Throne! All the portraits of him are singu- coolness of shady fountains. His conception larly characteristic. No person can look on of love unites all the voluptuousness of the the features, noble even to ruggedness, the Oriental harem, and all the gallantry of the dark furrows of the cheek, the haggard and chivalric tournament, with all the pure and woful stare of the eye, the sullen and contemp-quiet affection of an English fireside. His tuous curve of the lip, and doubt that they belonged to a man too proud and too sensitive to be happy.

poetry reminds us of the miracles of Alpine scenery. Nooks and dells, beautiful as fairyland, are embosomed in its most rugged and gigantic elevations. The roses and myrtles bloom unchilled on the verge of the avalanche.

Milton was, like Dante, a statesman and a lover; and, like Dante, he had been unfortunate in ambition and in love. He had sur- Traces, indeed, of the peculiar character of vived his health and his sight, the comforts of Milton may be found in all his works; but it his home and the prosperity of his party. Of is most strongly displayed in the Sonnets. the great men, by whom he had been distin- Those remarkable poems have been underguished at his entrance into life, some had valued by critics, who have not understood been taken away from the evil to come; some their nature. They have no epigrammatic had carried into foreign climates their un-point. There is none of the ingenuity of Fili conquerable hatred of oppression; some were caji in the thought, none of the hard and brilpining in dungeons; and some had poured liant enamel of Petrarch in the style. The VOL. L-2

are simple but majestic records of the feelings is good; but it breaks off at the most interestof the poet; as little tricked out for the public ing crisis of the struggle. The performance eye as his diary would have been. A victory, of Ludlow is very foolish and violent; and an expected attack upon the city, a momentary most of the later writers who have espoused fit of depression or exultation, a jest thrown out against one of his books, a dream, which for a short time restored to him that beautiful face over which the grave had closed forever, led him to musings which, without effort, shaped themselves into verse. The unity of sentiment and severity of style, which characterize these little pieces, remind us of the Greek Anthology; or perhaps still more of the Collects of the English Liturgy-the noble poem on the Massacres of Piedmont is strictly a collect in verse.

The Sonnets are more or less striking, according as the occasions which gave birth to them are more or less interesting. But they are, almost without exception, dignified by a , sobriety and greatness of mind to which we know not where to look for a parallel. It would indeed be scarcely safe to draw any decided inferences, as to the character of a writer, from passages directly egotistical. But the qualities which we have ascribed to Milton, though perhaps most strongly marked in those parts of his works which treat of his personal feelings, are distinguishable in every page, and impart to all his writings, prose and poetry, English, Latin, and Italian, a strong family likeness.

I

His public conduct was such as was to be expected from a man of a spirit so high, and an intellect so powerful. He lived at one of he most memorable eras in the history of mansind; at the very crisis of the great conflict between Oromasdes and Arimanes-liberty and despotism, reason and prejudice. That great battle was fought for no single generation, for no single land. The destinies of the human race were staked on the same cast with the freedom of the English people. Then were first prociaimed those mighty principles, which have since worked their way into the depths of the American forests, which have roused Greece from the slavery and degradation of two thousand years, and which, from one end of Europe to the other, have kindled an unquenchable fire in the hearts of the oppressed, and loosed the knees of the oppressors with a strange and unwonted fear!

the same cause, Oldmixon, for instance, and Catherine Macaulay, have, to say the least, been more distinguished by zeal than either by candour or by skill. On the other side are the most authoritative and the most popular historical works in our language, that of Clarendon, and that of Hume. The former is not only ably written and full of valuable information, but has also an air of dignity and sincerity which makes even the prejudices and errors with which it abounds respectable. Hume, from whose fascinating narrative the great mass of the reading public are still contented to take their opinions, hated religion sa much, that he hated liberty for having been allied with religion-and has pleaded the cause of tyranny with the dexterity of an advocate, while affecting the impartiality of a judge.

The public conduct of Milton must be ap proved or condemned, according as the resist ance of the people to Charles I. shall appear to be justifiable or criminal. We shall therefore make no apology for dedicating a few pages to the discussion of that interesting and most important question. We shall not argue it on general grounds, we shall not recur to those primary principles from which the claim of any government to the obedience of its subjects is to be deduced; it is a vantageground to which we are entitled; hat we will relinquish it. We are, on this point, so confident of superiority, that we have no objection to imitate the ostentatious generosity of those ancient knights, who vowed to joust without helmet or shield against all enemies, and to give their antagonist the advantage of sun and wind. We will take the naked, constitutional question. We confidently affirm, that every reason, which can be urged in favour of the Revolution of 1688, may be urged with at least equal force in favour of what is called the great rebellion.

In one respect only, we think, can the warmest admirers of Charles venture to say. that he was a better sovereign than his son. He was not, in name and profession, a papist; we say in name and profession, because both Charles himself and his miserable creature, Of those principles, then struggling for their Laud, while they abjured the innocent badges infant existence, Milton was the most devoted of popery, retained all its worst vices, a comand eloquent literary champion. We need plete subjection of reason to authority, a weak not say how much we admire his public con- preference of form to substance, a childish duct. But we cannot disguise from ourselves, passion for mummeries, an idolatrous veneraThat a large portion of his countrymen still tion for the priestly character, and, above all, a think it unjustifiable. The civil war, indeed, stupid and ferocious intolerance. This, howhas been more discussed, and is less under-ever, we waive. We will concede that Charles stood, than any event in English history. The Roundheads laboured under the disadvantage of which the lion in the fable complained so bitterly. Though they were the conquerors, their enemies were the painters. As a body, they had done their utmost to decry and ruin literature; and literature was even with them, as, in the long run, it always is with its enemies. The best book, on their side of the question, is the charming memoir of Ms. Tuchinson. May's History of the Parliament

was a good protestant; but we say that his protestantism does not make the slightest distinction between his case and that of James.

The principles of the Revolution have often been grossly misrepresented, and never more than in the course of the present year. There is a certain class of men, who, while they profess to hold in reverence the great names and great actions of former times, never look at them for any other purpose than in order to and in them some excuse for existing abuses.