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We are profound admirers of the genius and the productions of Milton; and would, therefore, though not so extensively as desirable, our limits being necessarily contracted, endeavour to contribute, in our degree, to that act of justice in which we consider the world of letters is yet indebted to the "Old Blind Man of Britain."

Of the labours of Addison and Johnson, we have spoken in terms which imply, that they left something for their successors yet to accomplish. The critique of Addison is less ambitious than Johnson's, but it is more accurate. Having, however, been composed in the childhood of criticism, it partakes the feebleness of infancy. It partakes also the character of the writer's mind, which depended rather on the graces of Art, than the energies of Nature. The author of "Cato" could only afford one concession to the genius of the poet. He was contented to waive the question, whether the poem was heroic, or not, so it were allowed to be divine; and proceeded to judge of it, by the rules applicable to epic poetry. Determining not the fate of single persons or nations only, but of a whole species-the united powers of Hell arrayed for the destruction of mankind-the Omnipotence of Heaven exerted for their preservation;-in greatness he allowed it to transcend all previous efforts, both in the action and the actors. "Man," says Addison, "in his greatest perfection, Woman in her highest beauty; the fallen Angels their enemies, the Messiah their champion, the Almighty their judge-all that is great in the whole circle of being, whether within the verge of Nature, or out of it, has its proper part assigned to it in this admirable poem."

Just as this tribute is to the merits of Milton, and honorable to the taste of Addison, more decidedly honorable if we consider the age in which he wrote-an age in which there was little feeling for Nature in her freshness, and a mania for Art in the very last stage of vapid imitation-it yet, as we have before insinuated, partakes the constitutional fault of the writer, and also the error of his times. The first enquiry of the critics of old was into the genius of a poet-or, rather, it was no enquiry, for it was no question-they found it acknowledged by general consent, and recognised it in its effects on their individual consciousness. This point, therefore, having been both settled for them and by them, they proceeded to examine the work which had been so universal and permanent in its influence, the principles of its construction, and the rules of its composition. But they forbore to put legal shackles on what ever was, and ever must be, a law unto itself. They derived the canons of poetry from a perusal of the poets, and, questioning a work of genius as an oracle, were concluded by its responses. Our critics have professed an anxiety to bring back the old spirit to the writings of their contemporaries; it would be as well if, in this particular, a greater portion of it had been exemplified in their own.

Addison's conduct in his critique was of a mixed character-he yielded at once to the authority of antiquity, and the pre-eminence of the poet's genius. But though he gave the poet a fair hearing,

he judged him by the precepts of Aristotle. He enquired not so much into what this poem differed from his artificial prepossessions, as into what it agreed with them; not so much those characteristic distinctions which made it what it was, and originated its identity, as those general marks by which it might be assimilated to other productions-a mode of proceeding, we are bold to say, only calculated to keep the art in a given station, not to advance it beyond, to a greater degree of excellence.

Milton, however, claimed expressly higher privileges when he proposed to execute a "work which the world should not willingly let die"-" whether," says he, "the rules of Aristotle herein are to be kept, or nature to be followed, which, in them that know art and use judgment, is no transgression, but an enriching of art." Our examination will tend to show, that he exercised the liberty which he claimed, and, by following nature, was enabled to enrich epic composition with additional graces, otherwise unattainable.

Johnson was a critic of a higher mark. It was not the foible of his mind to succumb to authority, whether ancient or modern. He showed well in his Preface to Shakspere, that he could grant to genius its prerogatives, but claimed extraordinary privileges for criticism. It is remarkable that in his Lives of the Poets, he always says his best things, and gives his most cordial commendations to the works of inferior writers. The sense of superiority sheds a complacency over his mind and feelings, which is benignantly expressed in his opinions. He makes, as if he were doing a kindness, and delivers his sentiments with a rough good nature of which we have nothing to complain except its ostentation. When he meets with a master mind, his own rises in opposition"Greek meets Greek." His conduct on these occasions, by such as are ignorant of the workings of a great intellect, has been attributed to literary jealousy-a feeling which, surely, cannot generally exist towards departed genius, although the instance of Lauder's forgeries, and another example or two, serve to show that it sometimes may obtain.

The mind of Johnson was of a manly frame, and his conduct must be laid rather to the account of that emulation which incites a noble spirit to measure its energies equally with the living and the dead. Of this feeling might be produced many illustrations. Hear what Burns in expressive language says of himself. "I weighed myself alone-I balanced myself with others-I watched every means of information to see how much ground I occupied as a man and a poet-I studied assiduously nature's design in my formation, where the lights and shades in my character were intended." A similar impulse seems to have actuated Johnson; he was desirous of ascertaining the measure of his capacity as an author by means of comparison with the powers exemplified in the results of the genius of other men, though of a different kind. It must, however, be confessed that he felt his ambition somewhat baffled by the transcending excellence of Milton; and it appears that he would have been better satisfied with an author of less merit. This, indeed, he very ingenuously confesses, in terms frequently animadverted upon,

and not calculated to be soon forgotten. "Paradise Lost is one of the books which the reader admires and lays down, and forgets to take up again. Its perusal is a duty rather than a pleasure. We read Milton for instruction, retire harassed and overburthened, and look elsewhere for recreation; we desert our master and seek for companions."

In the latter clause of this sentence, Johnson unconsciously permits the emulation by which he was incited to appear; an emulation laudable in every point of view, and which whoever should condemn would only prove himself incapable of being awakened to any noble exertion by example or precept, or, indeed, of attempting any thing beyond the run of every-day mortals. The reason, however, for the reluctance to repeat the perusal of Paradise Lost, is to be sought for in a want or deficiency of a corresponding taste in the mind of the reader, considered rather in kind than in degree. We can readily believe that there are lovers of many sorts of poetry, who would feel no particular affection for this sublime epic-many who have no relish for the epic at all. In such the poet would have to create the requisite taste; a task which every great poet in every age, we will venture to say, has found it necessary to accomplish. All minds are not constituted to dwell with delight on the song that reports of heroic deeds, any more than all poets possess the feeling and genius to celebrate them in no unworthy numbers. In fact, only the few of either are capable of elevating their genius or taste to the conception or appreciation of what is eminently great and lovely in action, character, or sentiment. Heroes, philosophers, martyrs, and epic poets are few indeed; they require a kind and degree of enthusiasm seldom to be found, and which the rest of the world are too apt to consider as madness or folly. One of their own order describes them as

"--the madmen, who have made men mad
By their contagion; conquerors and kings,
Founders of sects and systems; to whom add
Sophists, bards, statesmen, all unquiet things
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs,
And are themselves the fools to those they fool."

Milton was of this order of men; but it does not appear that the last line of the preceding extract is at all applicable to him, as a poet. He neither appears to have fooled others, nor to have been made a fool himself. Not ambitious of popular applause, but of enlarging and elevating the compass and stature of his own understanding, the fame which he sought was that "which the clear Spirit doth raise."

"Fame is no plant that grows in mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."

"The Muse" which he "meditated," so far as regarded its

immediate effects, was a "thankless" one; but his aspirations had no regard to "this ignorant present." Even "here on this bank and shoal of time, he jumped the life to come." His hopes stretched forward into the future, and his faith, though so elevated, yet deceived him not, for he cultivated his extraordinary powers rather as a pious duty than a pleasing recreation, and succeeded accordingly. Criticism existed not in his times as it exists now, periodically reflecting popular prejudice, on which most writers are contented to live "day by day," as they supplicate to receive their "daily bread." That this has an injurious effect, even on our men of genius, cannot be doubted. They forsake the permanent for the immediate and apparent, and in their eagerness to embrace the shadow lose the substance; of which truth the noble poet from whom we have quoted may stand as a proof and an ensample. The remark, which is not at all applicable to Milton, is in every way suitable to him; and doubtlessly, in this, as in many other instances, he wrote from personal experience. There can be no mistake more fatal to a genuine poet than the expectation of immediate acceptance with the public, and a trust in its opinion, rather than a "lively faith" in individual impulse and consciousness of power. We have in our day myriads of these empirical poets, men who live on the breath of others, and not in that breath of life, by which only, if at all, they can hope to "become living souls." These "may flourish or may fade,

A breath may make them, as a breath has made;"

but the spirits which will go down the stream of time are those whose works, "if once destroyed, can never be supplied," in the freshness and vigour of original genius, by any thing to be found in the productions of others.

The order of men of which Milton was so eminent an individual, is divisible into two classes. Of the first and superior class, it is observable that they move in an atmosphere of their own, and derive every thing from individual resources. They may be distinguished by pride, but are exempt from vanity-a pride not ostentatious, but calm and dispassionate; conscious of inborn worth, regardless of opinion, which is to them as "the idle air," more idly articulated. Pride, subsisting in itself, is best gratified by silent Admiration; Vanity, dependent on external occasions, is anxious for the whispers of Praise or Envy. The individuals of the first class possess an intensity of character, to which those of the latter have no claim. Nor do they lose in comprehension what they gain in intensity; for they are all the world to themselves, and are, in themselves, a map of what the world is, and a universe of their own. In their own spirits the laws of nature are, as it were, prefigured; and all knowledge lies dormant in a state of pre-existence. Such, for the most part, are the "men of whom the world is not worthy." They are the "salt of the earth," hid, perchance, from the eye of observation, but exerting an influence almost imperceptible, yet the more permanent and powerful on that very account, and penetrating and impregnating, secretly and by degrees, every pore of the social body.

The other sort must have a kingdom for a stage, and the gazing world for a theatre; "their breath is agitation, and their life a storm whereon they ride." Knowing nothing of their own nature, but as it is reflected in the conduct and character of others, their motto is, "to know another well were to know oneself;" although the converse of the position form the truer axiom. The axiom is heaven-descended, but their position is of human fabrication, and therefore they like it the better. They must be "the observed of all observers," else they perish-and why? Because, having placed too much importance in the habit of observing others, they are dissatisfied, if they discover reason to suspect, that people think nothing is to be learned from them also. Yet, they must almost think as much themselves, since they refer so seldom to their own bosoms for instruction or enjoyment. Therefore it is that they are

"so nursed and bigoted to strife,

That should their days, surviving perils past,
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast
With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste

With its own flickering, or a sword laid by
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously."

Had they looked more frequently into their own natures, and made enquiry into the welfare and solvency of the tenant in their own bosoms;-had they put his house in order, and made a right arrangement of his affairs;-they would not have wrecked in the common bankruptcy of external advantages, their proper and personal opulence, those treasures of the spirit which "the world can neither give nor take away."

However the contrary course may suit with mere sophists and conquerors, founders of sects and false systems, who, of all men, are the most dependent on circumstance and observation, the poet can only be a poet in so far as he unfolds his own nature, however manifoldly propagated in apparently different copies of individual humanity. Although it is most truly said of Shakspere, that the persons of his dramas are distinguished by distinct attributes, and not mere variations of his own identity, and that his personal character is never suffered to intrude-yet it is equally certain, that in every one of the dramatis person the poet is essentially present, animating and directing every movement with his own peculiar spirit. It is in this way the assertion of Dr. Johnson, that every character in Shakspere is a species, may be reconciled with that of Pope, that every character is an individual. In so far as every character is something more than a mere copy of the reality which it is supposed to resemble, and is elevated above the stage of its ordinary conduct, and the range of its probable acquirements, it becomes something more than the representation of a single person. The truth is, that the character is generally produced after the image of the idea in the poet's mind, not after the conception of any particular individual with whom he may have happened to be acquainted.

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