Hard are the ways of truth, and rough to walk, Her dictates from thy mouth? Most men admire To tread his sacred courts, and minister Hard are the ways of truth, and rough to walk. Thus Silius Italicus, b. xv. where Virtue is the speaker :— Casta mihi domus, et celso stant colle penates; Ardua saxoso perducit semita clivo; Asper principio, (nec enim mihi fallere mos est) Prosequitur labor. Adnitendum intrare volenti.-DUNSTER. 480 485 490 We must not here overpass Milton's "Preface to his Reason of Church Government," &c. b. ii. "Those--who will not so much as look upon Truth herself, unless they see her elegantly dressed; that whereas the paths of honesty and good life appear now rugged and difficult, though they be indeed easy and pleasant; they will then appear to all men both easy and pleasant, though they were rugged and difficult indeed." Compare also "Comus," ver. 476. et seq.-—TODD. 1 Tunable as sylvan pipe or song. So, in "Paradise Lost," v. 149: Such prompt eloquence Flow'd from their lips in prose or numerous verse, More tunable than needed lute or harp To add more sweetness. And Shakespeare, " Midsummer Night's Dream," a. i. s. 14 :— More tunable than lark to shepherd's ear.-Dunster, m Most men admire Virtue, who follow not her lore. Imitated from the well-known saying of Medea, Ovid, “Met." viii. 20: Video meliora proboque; Deteriora sequor.-NEWTON. n Atheous. Cicero, speaking of Diagoras, says, " Atheos qui dictus est," De Nat. Deor. i. 23.-Dunster. "Atheous" may have hence been coined by the poet. "Atheal," which has the same signification, is not uncommon in Old English.-TODD. • Praying or vowing. Besides sacrifices of prayer and thanksgiving, the Jews had vow-sacrifices, (Lev. vii. 16.) oblations for vows, (xxii. 18.) and sacrifices in performing their vows. (Numb. xv. 3. 8.) -DUNSTER. P And vouchsafed his voice To Balaam reprobate. An argument more plausible and more fallacious could not have been put into the mouth of the tempter. Perfectly to enter into all the circumstances of this remarkable piece of scripture history, and clearly to apprehend this judicious application of it by the poet in this place, we may refer to bishop Butler's excellent "Sermon on the Character of Balaam," or to Shuckford's account of it in the twelfth book of his "Connection of Sacred and Profane History."-DUNSter. To whom our Saviour, with unalter'd brow: His gray dissimulation, disappear'd, Night with her sullen wings to double-shade The desert; fowls in their clay nests were couch'd; q Thou canst not more. So Gabriel replies to Satan, "Paradise Lost," b. iv. 1006 :— Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine; To boast what arms can do! since thine no more Et procul in tenuem ex oculis evanuit auram.-NEWTON. And Shakspeare, "Tempest," a. iv. s. 2 :— These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Virgil, "En." viii. 369: • Her sullen wing. Nox ruit, et fuscis tellurem amplectitur alis. And Tasso describes Night covering the sky "with her wings," Gier. Lib. c. viii. st. 57:- Compare Spenser also, "Faery Queen," vi. viii. 54 :— And see 66 And now the even-tide His broad black wings had through the heavens wide By this dispread. Allegro," ver. 6.—DUNSTER. t To double-shade. i. e. to double the natural shade and darkness of the place. This is more fully expressed in Hogeus's translation of this passage :— Nam nunc obscuras Nox atra expandere pennas Cœperat, atque nigras nemorum geminare tenebras. Thus in "Comus," ver. 335: In double night of darkness and of shades. In a note on which last verse, in Mr. Warton's edition of the "Juvenile Poems," the following line of Pacuvius, cited by Cicero, ("De Divinat." i. 14.) is exhibited :Tenebræ conduplicantur, noctisque et nimborum occæcat nigror. We may also compare Ovid, "Met." xi. 548: Tanta vertigine pontus Fervet, et inducta piceis a nubibus umbra Omne latet cœlum, duplicataque noctis imago est. And see ibid. 521.-DUNSTER. u And now wild beasts came forth the woods to roam. This brief description of night coming on in the desert is singularly fine: it is a small but exquisite sketch, which so immmediately shows the hand of the master, that his larger and more finished pieces can hardly be rated higher. The commencement of this description, both in respect of its beginning with an hemistich, and also in the sort of instantaneous coming on of night which it represents, resembles much a passage in Tasso, "Gier. Lib." c. iii. st. 71: Cosi diss' egli;-e gia la Notte oscura Havea tutti del giorno i raggi spenti.—DUNSTER. The description of the probable manner of our Lord's passing the forty days in the wilderness is very picturesque; and the return of the wild beasts to their paradisiacal mildness is finely touched. The appearance of the tempter in his assumed character; the deep art of his first two speeches, covered, but not totally concealed, by a semblance of simplicity; his bold avowal and plausible vindication of himself; the subsequent detection of his fallacies, and the pointed reproofs of his impudence and hypocrisy on the part of our blessed Lord, cannot be too much admired. Indeed, the whole conclusion of this book abounds so much in closeness of reasoning, grandeur of sentiment, elevation of style, and harmony of numbers, that it may well be questioned, whether poetry on such a subject, and especially in the form of dialogue, ever produced any thing superior to it. The singular beauty of the brief description of night coming on in the desert, closes the book with such admirable effect, that it leaves us con la bocca dolce.-DUNSTER. BOOK II. INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. Ir is sometimes useful to warn the reader what he is to expect in each portion of a long poem, as it is offered to him. The second book of the "Paradise Regained" begins soberly, perhaps in a tone almost prosaic. To begin low, and rise by a gradual climax, is admitted to be one of the great arts of beautiful composition. The anxiety and alarm felt by the disciples of Jesus, at missing him so sota, while detained in the wilderness, coming suddenly on their joy at the discovery of his advent; and the pathetic yet patient reflections of Mary at the loss of her son, though related with extreme plainness, are full of deep interest, and the most affecting natural touches: they abound in passages which excite human sympathy. Satan, hitherto defeated in his temptations of our Saviour, now resorts again to his council of peers at which occurs that magnificent dialogue between the sensual Belial and him, which is at any rate as rich and poetical as the finest in "Paradise Lost ;" and shows a vein of warmth, and imagery, and invention, and language, that is evidence how strongly the poet's genius was yet in its full bloom and verdure. Satan's answer to Belial is the more powerful, as coming from the prince of darkness himself: how then does the lustful fiend stand rebuked! Now Jesus had fasted forty days, and began to suffer by hunger: Satan seizes the occasion, and resolves to take advantage of it. Our Saviour, weary and exhausted, slept under the cover of trees, and dreamed of food supplied by an angel, ! who invited him to eat. He waked with the morning, and found that all was but a dream :-- Fasting he went to sleep, and fasting waked. He walked to the top of a hill, to see if there was any human habitation within reach; and there a rich but solitary landscape displayed itself before him, raised magically by Satan and his imps, for the purposes of the delusion which was to follow. While gazing upon this magnificent prospect, Satan again accosts him, and endeavours to alarm his faith at being left thus destitute : Here is an invented array, than which nothing in "Paradise Lost" can be richer either in imagery or poetical language. Our Saviour rejects with scorn the temptation: he says: I can at will, doubt not, as soon as thou, Command a table in this wilderness, Why shouldst thou then obtrude this diligence In vain, where no acceptance it can find? And with my hunger what hast thou to do? Thy pompous delicacies I contemn, And count thy specious gifts, no gifts, but guiles. Satan grows angry at the refusal, and With that Both table and provision vanish'd quite, With sound of harpies' wings and talons heard. The tempter was not yet to be foiled: he now makes an offer of riches, and descants upon their advantages for the purposes of that dominion which he assumes that our Saviour was sent to obtain. Jesus answers, that wealth without virtue, valour, and wisdom, is impotent; and that the highest deeds have been performed in the lowest poverty: he then expounds what are the duties and what are the cares of a king; and how much more desirable it is to surrender a sceptre, than to gain one. Were there in this book nothing but the spiritual and intellectual part, the thoughts and the sentiments, I, for one, should not think the less of it; but it is not so: there are duly intermixed that material, those picturesque descriptions, those striking incidents of fact, which the common critics and the generality of readers more especially deem to be poetry. The whole story (and it is a beautiful story) is in part practical, though operated on by immaterial beings, whose delusive powers over our earthly conduct and fate are consistent with our belief. The temptations are such as a mere human being could not have resisted; and to have resisted them is a true test of Christ's divinity. But the arguments by which they were resisted, contain the most profound doctrines of religion and morals, such as for ever apply to human life, extend and purify the understanding, and elevate the heart. We should have been glad to have learned the grand results at which the mighty mind of Milton had arrived, even if they had been expressed in prose; but how much more when arranged in all the glowing eloquence of poetry! when interwoven in a sublime story, and deriving practical application from their embodiments and their progressive influences! The reply to the allurements of female beauty, and still more to the impotent splendour of wealth, unaccompanied by virtue and talent, is an outburst of imaginative strength and sublimity: it is wisdom irradiated by glory. Whoever does not find himself better and happier by reading and reflecting upon those grand and Sentimental arguments, has neither head nor heart, but is a stagnant congeries of clayey coldness and inanimate insusceptibility. We may be forgiven for dispensing with all poetry, of which the mere result is innocent pleasure; that is, they may lay it aside to whom it is no pleasure. But this is not the case with Milton's poetry: his is the voice of instruction and wisdom, to which he who refuses to listen, is guilty of a crime. If we are so dull, that we cannot understand him without labour and pain, still we are bound to undergo that labour and pain. They who are not ashamed of their own ignorance and inapprehensiveness are lost. For the purpose of fixing attention, I suspect that Milton's latinized style is best calculated. He who has more acquired knowledge than native and quick taste, ought to study him as he studies Virgil and Homer: in him he will find all that is profound and eloquent in the ancient classics, amalgamated, and exalted at the same time by the aid of the sacred writings; all working together in the plastic mind of the most powerful and sublime of human poets. Strength, not grace, was Milton's characteristic: his grasp was that of an unsparing giant; he showed the sinews and muscles of his naked form: he put on no soft garments of a dove-like tenderness: he neither adorned himself with jewels for gold leaf; all was plain as nature made him. Thus his descriptions of scenery, of the seasons, of morning and evening, were rich, but not embellished or sophisticated. In this book, the break of the dawn, the gathering of the night shades, the dark covering of the umbrageous forests, the open and sunny glades, are all painted in the sober hues of visible reality. There is nothing enfeebling in any of Milton's visionariness. His bold and vigorous mind braces us for action; his strains beget a patient loftiness, prepared for temptations, difficulties, and dangers. It is in vain for authors to attempt to effectuate this tone by practising the artifices of composition: it is produced solely by the poet's belief in what he writes ; by his being under the impulse of the ideal presence of what he represents. He does not conjure up factitious images, factitious feelings, and factitious language. Where the soul is wanting, the dress or form will be of no avail. Milton's purpose was to represent the embodiment and refraction of what he believed to be truth. What was visible to himself, but not palpable to common eyes, except by the Muse's aid, he wanted to make palpable and distinct to others. The immaterial world is covered with a mist, or a veil, to all but the gifted; unless they become a mirror for duller sights. A A |