Plato,* could not recite Homer+ without almost falling into convulsions. The Mohawk‡ hardly feels the scalping-knife while he shouts his death-song. The power which the ancient bards of Wales and Germany exercised over their auditors seems to 5 modern readers almost miraculous. Such feelings are very rare in a civilised community, and most rare among those who participate most in its improvements. They linger longest among the peasantry. Poetry produces an illusion on the eye of the mind, 10 as a magic-lantern produces an illusion on the eye of the body. And, as the magic-lantern acts best in a dark room, poetry effects its purpose most completely in a dark age. As the light of knowledge breaks in upon its exhibitions, as the outlines of certainty be- 15 come more and more definite, and the shades of probability more and more distinct, the hues and lineaments of the phantoms which it calls up, grow fainter and fainter. We cannot unite the incompatible advantages of reality and deception, the clear 20 discernment of truth and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction. He who, in an enlightened and literary society, aspires to be a great poet, must first become a little child. He must take to pieces the whole web of his 25 * Plato, (429-347, B.C.), a Greek Philosopher of great note. Homer, the author of the two first and greatest epic poems, which are written in Greek, the 'Iliad' and the 'Odyssey'. Mohawks, a tribe of North American Indians. mind. He must unlearn much of that knowledge which has perhaps constituted hitherto his chief title to superiority. His very talents will be a hinderance to him. His difficulties will be proportioned to his 5 proficiency in the pursuits which are fashionable among his contemporaries; and that proficiency will in general be proportioned to the vigour and activity of his mind. And it is well if, after all his sacrifices and exertions, his works do not resemble a lisping Io man, or a modern ruin. We have seen in our own time great talents, intense labour, and long meditation, employed in this struggle against the spirit of the age, and employed, we will not say absolutely in vain, but with dubious success and feeble applause. If these reasonings be just, no poet has ever triumphed over greater difficulties than Milton. He received a learned education. He was a profound and elegant classical scholar : he had studied all the mysteries of Rabbinical literature:* he was intimately 20 acquainted with every language of modern Europe from which either pleasure or information was then to be derived. He was perhaps the only great poet of later times who has been distinguished by the excellence of his Latin verse. The genius of Petrarch+ 25 was scarcely of the first order; and his poems in the ancient language, though much praised by those who 15 Rabbinical Literature-literature connected with the doctrine of the Rabbins (Rabbi, Heb. 'my master') the Jewish masters of the law. + Petrarch (1304-1374)—Italy's first and greatest lyrical poet. have never read them, are wretched compositions. Cowley, with all his admirable wit and ingenuity, had little imagination: nor indeed do we think his classical diction comparable to that of Milton. The authority of Johnson is against us on this point. But Johnson 5 had studied the bad writers of the middle ages till he had become utterly insensible to the Augustan* elegance, and was as ill qualified to judge between two Latin styles, as a habitual drunkard to set up for a wine-taster. ΙΟ Versification in a dead language is an exotic, a farfetched, costly, sickly imitation of that which elsewhere may be found in healthful and spontaneous perfection. The soils on which this rarity flourishes are, in general, as ill suited to the production of vigorous native 15 poetry as the flower-pots of a hot-house to the growth of oaks. That the author of the Paradise Lost should have written the Epistle to Manso† was truly wonderful. Never before were such marked originality and such exquisite mimicry found together. Indeed, 20 in all the Latin poems of Milton, the artificial manner indispensable to such works is admirably preserved; while, at the same time, the richness of his fancy and the elevation of his sentiments give to them a peculiar * Augustan, so-called from the Roman Emperor Augustus (63 B.C.14 A.D.) whose reign was marked by great excellence of art and literature. The Augustan age of English Literature, ¿.e., its best period, is usually said to date from the beginning of Elizabeth's reign to the Restoration. + Epistle to Manso, a Latin Poem, addressed by Milton when in Italy, to Manso the Marquis of Villa, a friend of the Italian poet Tasso. 5 charm, an air of nobleness and freedom, which distinguishes them from all other writings of the same class. They remind us of the amusements of those angelic warriors who composed the cohort of Gabriel : 'About him exercised heroic games The unarmed youth of heaven. But o'er their heads Hung bright, with diamond flaming and with gold.' 10 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 15 and ardent was the fire of his mind, that it not only was not suffocated beneath the weight of its fuel, but penetrated the whole superincumbent mass with its own heat and radiance. It is not our intention to attempt anything like a 20 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 de25 grade, which displays in their highest perfection the idiomatic 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 5 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 10 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 his images in so clear a light 15 that it is impossible to be blind to them. The works of Milton cannot be comprehended or enjoyed, unless the mind of the reader co-operate with that of the writer. He does not paint a finished picture or play for a mere passive listener. He sketches, and leaves 20 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 25 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 enchant |