CHANGING SCENES AND THOUGHTS.
We passed some time in Switzerland, wandering from place to place, and never remaining for above a few months in any. Though not very rich, we were never in want of money; but it seemed to me that Father Bonneville protracted his stay occasionally in different towns, waiting the arrival of letters, and I concluded—having now acquired some knowledge of the general affairs of life—that these letters contained remittances. Whence they came, or by whom they were sent, I did not know; for Father Bonneville transacted all his money affairs himself, but at the age of sixteen he began to make me a regular allowance, too much for what is usually called pocket-money, and enough to have maintained me in a humble mode of life, even if he had not paid the whole expenses of housekeeping. With this money, at first, I committed, as I suppose all boys do, a great number of follies and extravagancies. I bought myself a Swiss rifle, and became a practiced shot, not only in the target-grounds, but upon the mountains, and Father Bonneville, seeming now to judge that the education of my mind was nearly completed, encouraged me to pursue that education of the body in which the good old man was unable himself to be my instructor. The Swiss hunters, however, were good enough teachers, and I acquired powers of endurance very serviceable to me in after life. About this period, however, although I was full of active energy, and fond of every robust exercise, a new and softening spirit seemed to come into my heart. Vague dreams of love took possession of me, and pretty faces and bright eyes produced strange sensations in my young bosom. I became somewhat sentimental, bought Rosseau’s nouvelle Heloise, and poured over its burning, enthusiastic pages with infinite delight. The beautiful scenery, which before had only attracted my attention by the effect of the forms and coloring upon the eye of one naturally fond of the arts, now seemed invested with new splendor, and the very air of the mountains fell with a sort of dreamy light, streaming from my own imaginations. I peopled the glens and dells with fair forms. I walked over the mountain-tops with beautiful creations of fancy. My daily thoughts became a sort of romance, and many a strange scene was enacted before the eyes of imagination in which I myself always took some part, as the lover, the deliverer, or the hero.
Was my little Mariette forgotten all this time? Oh no! Although I could not give her features or her look to the pretty girls of the Canton with whom from time to time I dallied, yet I pleased myself by fancying that there was some trait of Mariette in each of them, and I do not recollect fancy ever having presented me with a heroine for my dreams in whose fair face the beautiful, liquid eyes of Mariette did not shine out upon me with looks of love.
I do not believe that amongst all the many books which have been written to corrupt the heart of man—and they are ten times in number, I fear, those which have been written to improve it—there is one to be found so dangerous to youth as the works of Rousseau. The vivid richness of his imagination, the strong enthusiasms of the man, and the indefinite insinuation of pernicious doctrines can be only safely encountered by reason in its full vigor, aided by experience. I happily escaped the contamination, but it was by no powers of my own. Father Bonneville found Rousseau lying on my table, and when I returned from one of my long rambles he sat down to discuss with me both the character of the man, and the tendency of his writings. He showed no heat, no vehement disapprobation of the subject of my study; but he calmly and quietly, and with a clearness and force of mind I have seldom seen equaled, examined the doctrines, dissected the arguments, tore away the glittering veils with which vice, and selfishness, and vanity are concealed, and left with too strong a feeling of disgust for the unprincipled author, for my admiration of his style and powers of imagination ever to seduce me again. I felt ashamed of what I had done, and when the good Father closed the book which he had been commenting upon, I rose, exclaiming, “I will never read any more of his works again.”
“Not so, Louis,” replied the good Father. “Do not read his works at present. Pause till you are thirty. Your reason may be active, and I believe it is; but the mind, like the body, only acquires its full vigor after a long period of regular exercise and training. You will soon have to mingle largely with the world, to share in its struggles, to taste its sorrows, and to encounter its disappointments. You will see much of man and his actions. Mark them well. Trace them back to their causes. Follow them out to their consequences. It is a study never begun too soon, and about five or six-and-twenty, men who wish to found virtue upon reason, apply the lessons they have thus learned to their own hearts. If you do this, wisely and systematically, neither the works of Rousseau, nor of any other man will do you any harm. But here is another thing I wish to say to you, Louis. The income that is allowed you is intended to give you some means of practically learning to regulate your expenditure—to teach you, in fact, the value of money. This is a branch of study as well as every thing else, and each young man has to master it. At first, when he possesses money, his natural desire is to spend it upon something that he fancies will give him pleasure; it matters not what; and when he has wasted numerous small sums upon trifles which afford him no real satisfaction, he finds that there is some object far more desirable, which he has not left himself the means of obtaining. Then comes regret, and it is very salutary; for when the experiment has been frequently repeated, reason arrives at a conclusion, applicable, not only to the mere expenditure of money, but to the use of all man’s possessions, including the faculties both of mind and body. The conclusion I mean, is, that small enjoyments often kill great ones.”
That evening’s conversation I shall never forget. It afforded me much matter for thought at the time, and I have recurred to it frequently since.
Another little picture stands forth about this time, clear and distinct upon the canvas of memory, and I strongly suspect that the fact I am about to mention had a great influence on my after life.
We were then at Zurich, and I had been out on one summer evening for a long ramble through the hills. When I re-entered the town, it was dark, and going into the house of which we rented a part, I found a stranger sitting with Father Bonneville. He was a very remarkable man, and you could not even look at him for a moment without being struck by his appearance. His dress was exceedingly plain, consisting of a large, black, horseman’s coat, with a small cape to it, and a pair of high riding-boots; and round his neck he had a white cravat of very many folds, tied in a large bow in front. He was tall and well-proportioned, and of the middle age; but his head was the finest I think I ever beheld, and his face a perfect model of manly beauty. I shall never forget his eye—that eye so soon after to be closed in death. There was a calm intensity in it—a bright, searching, peculiar lustre which seemed to shed a light upon whatever it turned to; and when, as I entered the room, it fixed tranquilly on me, and seemed to read my face as if it were a book, the color mounted into my cheek I know not why. He remained for nearly an hour after my arrival, conversing with my good old friend and myself in a strain of sweet but powerful eloquence, such as I have never heard equaled. During a part of the time the subject was religion, and his opinions, though very strong and decided, were expressed with gentleness and forbearance; for he and Father Bonneville differed very considerably. The stranger, indeed, seemed to have the best of the argument, and I think Father Bonneville felt it too; for he became as warm as his gentle nature would permit. In the end, however, the stranger rose, and laid his hand kindly in that of the good priest. “Read, my good friend,” he said. “Read. Such a mind as yours should not shut out one ray of light which God himself has given to guide us on our way. We both appeal to the same book as the foundation of our faith, and no man can study it too much. From the benefit I myself have received from every word that it contains, I should feel, even were there not a thousand other motives for such a conclusion, that there is something wrong in that system of religion which can shut the great store-house of light and truth against the people for whose benefit it was provided.”
The moment he was gone I exclaimed eagerly, “Who is that?”
“One of the best and greatest men in the world,” replied Father Bonneville, “That is Lavater.”
I would fain have asked more questions, but good Father Bonneville was evidently not in a mood for further conversation that night. The visit of Lavater had pleased him—had interested him; but things had been said while it lasted which had afforded him matter for deep thought—nay, I am not sure but I might say, painful thought. I could tell quite well by his aspect when there was any vehement struggle going on in the good man’s mind, and from all I saw I thought that such was the case now.
A few days after, he went to call upon Lavater, who was living in the same town, but he did not take me with him. Lavater came again and again to see him, and they had long conversations together, at some of which I was present, at others not; and still there seemed to be a struggle in Father Bonneville’s mind. He was very grave and silent, though as kind and as gentle as ever—fell often into deep reveries, and sometimes did not hear when I spoke to him. At length, one day, when I returned somewhat earlier than usual from my afternoon rambles, I found him bent over a table reading attentively, and coming in front of him, I perceived not only that the tears were in his eyes, but that some of them had dropped upon the page. He did not at all attempt to conceal his emotion, but wiped his eyes and spectacles deliberately, and then laying his hand flat upon the page, he looked into my face, saying, “Louis, you must read this book; let men say what they will, it was written for man’s instruction—for his happiness—for his salvation. It contains all that is necessary for him; and beyond this, there is nothing.”
I looked over his shoulder and found that it was the Bible. “I thought I had read it long ago,” added Father Bonneville, “but I now find that I have never read it half enough.”
“I will read it very willingly, Father,” I replied, “but Father Mezieres to whom you sent me preparatory to my first communion, told me, that if not an actual sin, it was great presumption in a layman to read any part of it but the New Testament.”
“Mind not that, my son,” replied Father Bonneville. “It is hard to struggle with old prejudices; to root out from our minds ideas planted in our youth, which have grown with our growth and strengthened with our strength. But in this book there is life, there is light, and God forbid that any man should be prevented from drinking the waters of life freely.”
A faint smile came upon his face as he spoke, and after a moment’s pause, he continued, saying, “Do you know, Louis, I am going to become a boy again, and recommence my studies from a new point. Some months hence I will talk with you further, and every day in the mean time I will have my lesson.”
He had his lesson, as he said, each day; for he would sit for hours poring over either the pages of the Bible or some book of theology; but from that day I am quite sure that Father Bonneville was, at heart, a Protestant.
There is only one other incident worthy of notice which I remember in connection with the events of which I have just spoken. That was our separation from good Jeanette, who had hitherto been the companion of all our travels. For more than a month after our arrival in Zurich I remarked that she looked anxious and uneasy. She said nothing on the subject of her own feelings, however, to me, but was less communicative and more thoughtful than usual, would be in the same room with me for a long time without speaking one word to him who was I knew the darling of her heart, and was more than once spoken to without appearing to hear.
At length one day when I entered Father Bonneville’s room I found her standing before him; and heard her say as I came in, “I must go and see my lady. I am sure she is ill and wants help. I must go and see her. I have done nothing but dream of her every night.”
“Well, Jeanette, well,” replied he, “you must have your way; but you know not what you undertake. At all events you had better stay till some favorable opportunity can be found for sending you in safety.”
Jeanette only shook her head, however, repeating in a low voice, “I must go and see my lady.”
She remained with us two days after this interview, and I recollect quite well her coming into my room one night just as I was going to bed, and looking at me very earnestly, while I, with sportsman-like care, was cleaning my rifle ere I lay down.
“Ah, Monsieur Louis,” she said in a somewhat sad tone, “you are growing a man quite fast, and I dare say, you will soon be a soldier; but do not get into any of their bad ways here; and never, never forget your religion. They turn older and wiser heads than yours or mine; but do not let them turn yours.”
“No fear, I hope, Jeanette,” I answered; “but what do you want, my dear old dame?”
“Nothing, nothing, but only to see what you are doing,” she replied. “I see your light burning often late of nights, and I thought you might be reading bad books that craze many strong brains. Better clean a gun by far, Louis—only never forget your religion.”
I smiled at her anxious care of one no longer a boy, little thinking that I was so soon to lose one so closely connected with every memory of my youth, but when I rose the next morning somewhat later than usual, Jeanette was gone; and all I could learn from Father Bonneville was that she had set out upon a long and difficult journey, the thought of which gave him much uneasiness.
——
THE PLEASURES OF BATTLE.[[4]]
• • • • • • •
I was coming down the hill, and about five miles distant from the town, but my eyes had been rendered more keen by my hunter’s sports, and I was quite sure that it was so. The glittering of arms, both upon the heights above the city, and in the valley on the other side of the river, was perfectly distinct. Yet so still and silent was every thing, that I could hardly believe two hostile armies were there in presence of each other. Not a sound broke the stillness of the mountain air. No trumpet, no drum was heard at that moment; and my companion, Karl, would not believe that what I said was true. Soon after, we dipped into one of those profound wooded ravines which score the side of the mountains, and the scene was lost to our sight; but as we crossed over one of the shoulders of the hill again, and were forced to rise a little, in order to descend still farther, the loud boom of a cannon came echoing through the gorges, like a short and distant clap of thunder. The moment after, the full roar of a whole park of artillery was heard, shaking the hills around; and when we topped the height, we could see a dense cloud of bluish smoke rolling along to well-defined lines below.
Karl paused abruptly, saying, “We are well here, Louis. Better stay till it is over. We can help neither party, and shall only get our heads broke.”
Such reasoning was good enough for him—an orphan and tieless as he was—a mere child of the mountain; but I thought of good Father Bonneville, and told him, at once, that I should go on, and why. He would then fain have gone with me; but I would not suffer him; and leaving the chamois with him, I hurried as rapidly down as I could, taking many a bold leap, and many a desperate plunge, while the sound of cannon and musketry kept ringing in my ears, till I reached a spot where it was absolutely necessary to pause, and consider what was to be done next. I had come unexpectedly, not exactly into the midst of the battle that was going on, but to a point near that at which on the right of the French line, a strong body of infantry were pushing forward with fixed bayonets against an earthwork cresting the plateau, well defended by cannon. The guns were thundering upon the advancing column at the distance of about three hundred yards upon my left, and the Austrian infantry were already within a hundred paces of the steep ascent, along the face of which my path led toward the town. I was myself upon a pinnacle of the hill, a little above either party, and my only chance of making my way forward, was by taking a leap of some ten feet down, to a spot where a sapin started from the bold rock, and thence by a small circuit, getting into the rear of the Austrian infantry. It was a rash attempt; for if I missed my footing on the roots of the tree, I was sure to be dashed to pieces; and I was somewhat incumbered by my rifle. I took the risk, however, and succeeded; and then hurried forward as fast as I could go. But now a new danger was before me—to say nothing of the murderous fire from the French battery—for by the time I had reached the point from which I could best pass into the suburb, the Austrian infantry had been repulsed for the moment, and were retreating in great confusion. I know not how to describe my feelings at that moment—afraid I certainly was not; but I felt my head turn with the wild bustle and indistinct activity of the scene. A number of men passed me, running in utter disarray. An officer galloped after them, shouting and commanding, for some time, in vain. At length, however, he succeeded in rallying them, just as I was passing along. The moment they were once more formed, he turned his eyes to the front, where another regiment, or part of a regiment, had been already rallied, and seeing me at some forty yards distance, he spurred on and asked me, in German, whether there was a way up the steep to the left of the line. Luckily, I spoke the language fluently, and replied that there was, pointing out to him the path by which I usually descended. Without paying any further attention to me, he hurried back to the head of his corps, and I ran on as fast as possible to get out of the way of the next charge. There was a little bridge which I had to pass, where not more than four or five men could go abreast, and over it a small body of Austrians were forcing their way, at the point of the bayonet, against a somewhat superior party of the French troops, who, in fact, were willing enough to retreat, seeing that a considerable impression had been made upon their right, and that they were likely to be cut off. At the same time, however, they would not be driven back without resistance, and several men fell. I followed impulsively the rear of the Austrians, where I observed one or two of the Swiss hunters appareled very much like myself, who were using their rifles, with deadly effect, amongst the officers of the Republican army; nor was it to be wondered at, after all that had happened. I could not, however, bring myself to give any assistance, and kept my gun under my arm, with the belt twisted round my wrist.
As soon as the bridge was forced, the Austrians debouched upon the ground beyond with greater rapidity and precision than the French seemed to expect; and while their right retreated in tolerable order toward the heights, their left scattered in confusion, and sought refuge in the suburbs of the town. I took the same direction, and the first little street I entered was so crowded with fugitives, comprising a number of the townspeople, who, looking forth to see the battle, had been taken by surprise on the sudden rush of the French soldiers in that direction, that it was impossible to pass; and although I saw a sort of tumult going on before me, and heard a gun or two fire, I turned away down the first narrow street, only eager to be with my good preceptor, who lived in a little street beyond the third turning.
When I entered that street, the sun, a good deal declined, poured straight down it, and I could see two or three groups of not more than two or three persons in each, with the dress of the Republican French soldier conspicuous here and there. I ran on eagerly, and passed three persons all apparently struggling together. One was a woman, another a French soldier, and the third, who had his back toward me, so that I could not see his face, was endeavoring to protect the woman from violence, and seemed to me, in figure, very like Lavater. I should have certainly stopped to aid him; but there was another scene going on a little in advance, which left me no time to think of any thing else; but the moment I had passed, I heard a shot behind me, and then a deep groan.
I gave it no thought; for within a stone’s throw I beheld an old man whose face and figure I knew well, brutally assaulted by one of the soldiers, and falling on his knees, under a blow from the butt-end of a musket. The next instant, the soldier—if such a brute deserved the name—drew back the weapon, and ere I could have reached the spot, the bayonet would have been through Father Bonneville’s body. I sent a messenger of swifter pace to stop the deed. In an instant the rifle was at my shoulder, and before I well knew that I touched the trigger, the Frenchman sprang more than a foot from the ground, and fell dead with the ball through his head.
I paused not to think—to ask myself what I had done—to consider what it is to take a human life, or to fight against one’s countrymen. I only thought of good, kind, gentle Father Bonneville, and springing forward, I raised him from the ground. He was bleeding from the blow on the forehead, but did not seem much hurt, and only bewildered and confused.
“Quick, into the house, good Father,” I cried. “Shut the lower windows and lock the door.”
“Oh, my son, my son!” he exclaimed, looking at me wildly, “do not mingle in this strife!”
“Lavater is behind,” I said; “I must hasten to help him. Go in, and I will join you in an instant.”
“Did you do that?” he inquired, looking at the dead soldier, and then at the rifle in my hand.
“I did,” I answered, in a firmer tone than might have been expected, “and he deserved his fate. But go in, dear Father. I will return in a moment.”
I led him toward the door as I spoke, and saw him enter the house; and then ran up the street to the spot where I had seen the struggle I have mentioned. Two dead bodies were lying on the pavement. One was that of a young woman of the lower class, fallen partly on her side, with a bayonet-wound in the chest. The other was that of a man dressed in black, who had fallen forward on his face. I turned him over, and beheld the features of Lavater; I took his hand, and the touch showed me that death was there.
I had knelt while doing this, when a sudden sound made me attempt to rise—but I could not do so; for, while still upon my knee, I was struck by the feet of two or three men, cast back upon the ground, and trampled under foot by a number of Austrians in full flight. Every thing became dark and confused. I saw the long gaiters, and caught a glance of arms and accoutrements, and felt heavy feet set upon my chest, and on my head—and then all was night.
Although the weather was hot, and summer at its height, in that high mountain region the night was almost invariably cool. Probably that circumstance saved my life; for I must have remained, I know, several hours on the pavement untended, and perhaps unnoticed by any one. When I recovered my senses, it was nearly midnight, and then I found several good souls around me. One woman was bathing my head and chest with cold water, while a man supported my shoulders upon his knee. The first objects I saw, however, were three or four persons moving the body of the woman, near whom I had fallen, to a small hand-bier. The body of Lavater was already gone.
“Look, look, he opens his eyes!” cried the woman who was tending me so kindly. “Poor lad! we shall get him round! Where will you be taken to, young man?”
I named faintly the house where we lodged, and then another woman, who was standing by, exclaimed, “Heaven! it is young Lassi! Better take him to the hospital.”
I tried in vain to inquire after Father Bonneville; for a faint, death-like sensation came over me, and I was obliged to let them do what they pleased with me. A blanket was soon procured, and placed in it, as in a hammock, I was carried up into the higher part of the town to the hospital, and there laid upon a bed, in a ward where some hundreds of wounded men were already congregated. A surgeon, with his hands bloody, an apron on, and a saw under his arm, soon came to me, and asked where I was wounded. I endeavored to answer, but could not make myself intelligible; and putting down the saw, he ordered me to be stripped, and examined me all over. Two of my ribs, it seemed had been broken, and my head terribly beaten about. Indeed, I was one general bruise. But my limbs were all sound, and in four or five days, although I suffered a great deal of pain, and the scenes which were going on around me were not calculated to revive the spirits of any one, I was sufficiently recovered to make inquiries for Father Bonneville, whenever I saw a new face, and to send a message for him to the house where we lodged, giving him notice that I was to be found at the hospital.
Father Bonneville himself did not appear, but our landlord came in his stead—a good, plain, honest man, of a kindly disposition. He told me, much to my consternation, that my good friend, as he called him, had been carried off as a prisoner by the Austrians, after they got possession of the town; that he was suspected of being one of the French Revolutionary Agents, and that most likely he would have been hanged at once, without the testimony of himself, our landlord, who had come forward to prove that he was a quiet, inoffensive man, who meddled not with politics in any shape, and would have gladly got out of the town, after the French occupation, had it been possible. This saved his life for the time; but the only favor that could be obtained was that the case should be reserved for further investigation. At the time he was carried away, Father Bonneville was perfectly ignorant of my fate, the landlord said, and feared that I had been killed. The good man, however, promised that he would make every inquiry for my friend, and urged me, in the meantime, to have myself carried to his house as soon as possible. For more than a fortnight, during which time I was unable to quit the hospital, he came every day to see me, but brought no intelligence of Father Bonneville. At length he had me removed to his own house, and there he, and his good old wife, attended upon me with great kindness till I was quite well.
As soon as I could move about, the landlord told me that Monsieur Charlier, as he called him, had left with him a hundred louis d’ors for me, in case of my return. “And lucky he did so,” added the old gentleman, “for the Austrians ransacked every thing in both your rooms, upon the pretence of searching for papers, and left not a bit of silver worth a batz that they could lay their hands upon.”
Days passed—weeks, and yet no tidings could be obtained of good Father Bonneville; and thus was I left, ere I had reached the age of nineteen, to make a way for myself in life, with a small store of clothing, a few books, a ride, and one hundred louis.
[To be continued.
| [4] | Part of the manuscript, extending from page 56 to 61 is here wanting. As far us I can judge, the deficiency refers to a period of about 5 or 6 months, and I think the pages must have been destroyed by the writer |
A CHARM.
———
BY A. J. REQUIER.
———
I know not why a touch can thrill
The soul, till it doth seem
A single drop would overfill
Her pleasurable dream.
I know not, yet such moments are
Of measureless delight,
When fancy flashes, as a star
That falleth through the night!
A weary night, a solemn night,
Is Life, so stern and slow,
And gentle forms like thine, the light
Which guides us as we go.
Then, say not, maiden—never say
Thy heart in like the snow,
Thine eyes have far too fond a ray,
That we should deem it so.
I, too, have sought, with studied art.
To stay the tides that speak,
But still, the struggle at my heart
Was written on my cheek.
And now, my tuneless measure talks
One of the lonely lays
Which haunt my spirit when it walks
The melancholy ways.
I sing, and singing dwell on thee—
The Pilgrim of a Star!
Who, straining, deems he yet can see
Some solace, though afar.
Oh! in such times my harp will break
Forth in a fleeting tone,
But, ere its echo dies, I wake,
To find—I am alone!
LIFE’S VOYAGE.
———
BY TH. GREGG.
———
A gallant bark is wildly tossing
Upon the briny wave,
Freighted deep with human treasure—
With earnest hearts and brave.
For many a day that bark is rolling
Over the trackless sea;
For many a day those hearts are beating—
Are beating to be free!
At length the shore is dimly looming
On the horizon’s verge,
When that frail vessel boldly plunges
Unto the boiling surge.
A moment—and the ship is stranded!—
A number gain the shore—
Whilst others ’neath the boiling billows
Sink down for evermore!
’Tis thus Life’s waves are ever bearing
Our fragile bark along—
Whether freighted with Sin and Sorrow
Or joyous Mirth and Song:
And thus the surges are ever beating
Against the wreck-strewn strand
That stays the tide of Life’s rough Ocean
And bounds the Spirit-Land!
MILTON.[[5]]
———
BY B. H. BREWSTER.
———
We have had lying on our table, for some years, this beautiful edition of Milton’s Select Prose Works, and we have often, while reading it, resolved to set about that which we have at last attempted. But we have been deterred not more by the importance of the subject, than by the recollection of the great spirits who have already earned rich harvests of applause in this field. The article by Mr. Macaulay, published in the Edinburgh Review, would seem to forbid further comment, where the critic has left his reader in doubt which most to admire, the splendor of his criticism, or the lofty grandeur of his original. Then, too, Mr. St. John, the editor of these neat and elegant volumes, has given a preliminary discourse, which displays a keen and warm admiration for these writings, expressed, in a fervid strain of noble eloquence, which inspires that gentle apprehension for the “bright countenance of truth,” so soothing “in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.”
In a fine London edition of the Prose Works of John Milton, published in the year 1838, there is a well written review by the editor, Mr. Robert Fletcher, in which he laments that some effort had not before been made to “popularize, in a multum in parvo shape, the prose works of our great poet.” We have here an edition that completes his desires; an edition in which great judgment has been exercised in selecting, from various tracts, those portions likely to prove most agreeable to the public. While they give a proper conception of the opinions of Milton, they also contain some of the purest specimens of his style. Indeed, we think that some one of our own publishing houses would find it to their interest to bring out an edition of this work. The nice taste and the correct discrimination displayed in this selection would command for it a ready sale. It would be of great use to many, who know nothing of these writings, and of service to some, who, while they know of them, yet neglect and turn away from these rich well-springs of truth.
Like all great messengers, Milton was, while living, persecuted, and since his death has been the object of malignant hatred, by those whose place of abiding is fast by the “seat of the scorner.” He whose “words are oracles for mankind, whose love embraces all countries, and whose voice sounds through all ages,” has been slighted, misrepresented, abused, and reviled by those whose greatest glory should have been, that they were the countrymen of Milton—not Milton the poet—but Milton the statesman. He who wielded a pen that made Europe quake, and perpetuated political truths based upon eternal justice—truths that were to warm and kindle up mankind forever after in the pursuit of right against might.
Before we approach these fountains of living light, let us turn and see how it was that he, who had been educated in seclusion, and mingled with the scholars, the gentle and well-bred in his youth, did desert all, and peril his life in the wild tumult and hot strife of religious and political dissension, only that he might bear witness to the light that was in him.
John Milton was the son of John Milton, a scrivener of good repute, in the city of London. He was born in the year 1608, and was carefully educated under the supervision of his father, who was a man of refined taste. He was destined for the Church, and gave great promise of eminence; for he was an assiduous and diligent youth, and was noted for his complete learning and elegant scholarship, at the University of Cambridge, where he obtained his degrees. But he declined to take orders, and refused to subscribe to the articles of faith, considering that so doing was subscribing, slave.
In thus early displaying his independence of opinion in his religious belief, he did but follow the example set him by his father, while he obeyed the honest impulse of his nature; for his father had been disinherited by his grandfather for deserting the Roman Catholic faith.
Shortly after he left the University he retired into the country with his father, who had then relinquished business with a handsome estate; and while there he continued his studies, selecting no particular profession, but devoting himself to the cultivation of all.
It was in these years of sweet scholastic solitude, that he produced his Mask of Comus, than which there is not a nobler poem in any language. This brought him great fame among the polite and refined of the day, and was widely circulated for a while in manuscript; so that when he started on his travels soon after this, (which was in 1638,) he carried with him letters commanding, in his behalf, attention from the most eminent men of the Continent.
He went first to France, and while in Paris was introduced by Lord Scudamore, the English ambassador, to Hugo Grotius, with whom he had a very interesting interview. From Paris he went into Italy, and coming to Florence, in that city he mingled freely with the refined and learned, and, by the elegant displays of his own accomplishments and learning, won the admiration and regard of all. The scholars and wits of that place vied with one another in entertaining him, and celebrated his many merits in their compositions.
With many of those brilliant spirits of that favored land he formed an intimacy, which was continued for years after his return home, as we find by his familiar letters. From Florence he traveled to Rome, and was there again treated with marked kindness and attention by Lucas Holstensius, the librarian of the Vatican, the Cardinal Barberino, and other persons of distinction in that famous city. From Rome he proceeded to Naples, and there made the friendship of the Marquis of Villa, a man of “singular merit and virtue,” and who was afterward celebrated by Milton in a poem, as he had been by Tasso, in his Jerusalem Delivered, and his Dialogue on Friendship. Happy and fortunate lot! thus to be the object of regard, and to have his merits recorded, and his virtues enshrined, for the admiration of posterity, in the works of these great poetic minds!
He had intended, after having thus visited the finest parts of Italy, to go over into Sicily, and thence to Greece; but the news from England of the difficulties between the Parliament and the King changed his mind, and he determined to return home, to mingle with his countrymen in their toil for freedom, thinking it unworthy of him to be loitering away his time in luxurious ease, while his native land was distracted, and his fellow men at home were battling in fierce strife for liberty.
He returned to Rome, notwithstanding the desire of his friends that he should remain away; for by the freedom of his speech when there he had aroused the vindictive feelings of many of his hearers. And to this he was no doubt provoked by having himself seen the dreadful persecution undergone in the prison of the Inquisition, by one of the finest scientific minds the world ever knew—by Galileo—whom he visited when imprisoned for asserting the motion of the earth, and opposing the old notions of the Dominicans and Franciscans.
From Rome he went to Florence; and after being there a while he went to Venice, and from that port he shipped his books and music for England. He then took his route by Verona and Milan, and along the lake of Leman to Geneva; and thence he returned through France the same way he came, and arrived safe in England after an absence of one year and three months, “having seen more, learned more, and conversed with more famous men, and made more real improvement than most others in double the time.”
On his return home, he again devoted himself to the solitude of his study, and to the teaching of several youths (among whom were his nephews) who were intrusted to his care; and in his own house he formed quite an academic institute, where his scholars, like the disciples of the philosophers of old, gathered around him, and by assiduity added to their stores of knowledge, while with his advice and counsel they were purifying and elevating their feelings.
In the year 1641, the nation was in great ferment with the religious disputes of the day, which were intimately connected with the chief political questions then agitated. This roused Milton, who was alive to the close association of the two subjects; and for the furtherance of his political designs, the support of liberty, he issued a powerful tract upon Prelatical Episcopacy. This served to work out a good end, and strengthen the cause of the liberalists. For this, as for other reasons of a like nature, he was prompted to write several other polemical tracts, during that year, and then he dropped the subject forever.
In 1643 he married, being then thirty-five years old. After a month his wife, by his permission, went to visit her relations; and when sent for by him—for reasons which are as yet unexplained—she refused to return, and dismissed his messenger with contempt.
He was deeply wounded by this treatment, and maintained toward her a dignified and resolute indifference. Mortified, and full of sorrow, he found relief in the contemplation of his very source of wo; and after reflection upon it, he projected and published his work upon Divorce, which is to this day one of the most famous works on the subject ever printed.
Affairs had now assumed a new aspect, and the Presbyterian party had, after a great struggle with Royalty, gained the ascendency, and then ruled supreme in the councils of the nation.
The King and his abettors were fighting in the field for that authority, they had before vainly endeavored to establish with the arm of civil power. The Presbyterians were now in their day of prosperity; they had been oppressed but were now triumphant. Adversity had not been of use to them. They did not learn charity, or humanity, from her lessons, but now exercised authority with a lordly air, and wielded the sword of State with presumptuous arrogance. Among other acts of great inconsistency and oppression, they established a supervision of the press under the control of an authorized licenser, and at the same time endeavored to suppress the freedom of speech. This base desertion of the principles for which they had contended, this mean exercise of authority in that, in which they had suffered the most, and against which they had clamored the loudest, excited Milton to the writing of the Areopagitica. This pamphlet was written by him upon this shameful abuse. He had before acted in concert with them, as the movement party of the day; but when they abandoned and treasonably betrayed the rights of Man, they left him where he had always been, standing on the rock of truth fast by his principles.
There is not a nobler vindication of the freedom of speech, and the liberty of the press, to be found any where, than in this pamphlet.
This book was published in 1644, and in this year he was reconciled to his wife, who sought him out, and unexpectedly to him fell at his feet, and with tears besought his love and forgiveness. In this, as in other instances, have we a strong evidence of the mildness and gentleness of his feelings; for although his resentment had been aroused by her wicked abandonment of him, yet when she returned home, repentant and in sorrow, he joyfully received her, and forgave all. Nay more, when defeat and route had fallen upon the royal standard, he generously took home her father, and his whole family—who were attached to the cause of the monarchy—protected them during the heat of his party triumph, and finally interested himself to secure their estates from confiscation, although they had in their days of prosperity prompted his wife to her disobedience and desertion of her republican husband; thus showing a high-heartedness which was above malice, and in keeping with and but a practical domestic application of the pure, upright faith professed by him, which was stern and unyielding in the pursuits of right, but humane and gentle in the use of power and advantage.
He was now an eminent man, and his bold pen had won for him a public fame and name. About this time he was well-nigh being swept into the mid current of popular politics, and it was contemplated making him the adjutant general, under Sir William Waller; but this design was abandoned upon the remodeling of the army, and he was left at his studies.
The king was imprisoned and tried, and then it was that the true faith and intentions of many were made clear. The Presbyterian party, who had professed democratic republicanism, while their hopes of office were high—like many in our own days, who, when they have attained their hopes, or been rejected by the people for better men, desert their cause, abandon their principles, while they hold on to their name, and fight under their old banners, that they may more surely but more basely injure truth—being now in the minority and out of power, became noisy in their lamentations over the king’s fate, and endeavored by every means to prevent his execution, using all arguments, and stopping at nothing to undo what they themselves had brought about. For when they found that there was an unflinching determination of the democracy to punish this man for his enormities and wicked misgovernment.
“They who”—to use Milton’s language—“had been fiercest against their prince, under the notion of a tyrant, and no mean incendiaries of the war against him, when God out of his providence and high disposal hath delivered him into the hands of their brethren, on a sudden and in a new garb of allegiance, which their doings have long since concealed, they plead for him, pity him, extol him, and protest against those who talk of bringing him to the trial of justice, which is the sword of God, superior to all mortal things, in whose hand soever, by apparent signs, his testified will is to put it.”
Upon the happening of this event, Milton published his “Tenure of Kings,” from which is quoted the above passage, so applicable in its spirit to our own times, so true of all political trucksters, who shout loudly for the democracy, while they have hopes of using and abusing it, but who basely betray its confidence and abandon it, whenever they are required to put in practice their own professions. This book was published 1649, and served very much to tranquilize and calm the public mind upon that which had passed.
After the establishment of the Commonwealth, he was called to the post of Latin Secretary, by the Council of State, which station he held till the Restoration. This was an office of great importance, inasmuch as all the public correspondence with foreign States devolved upon him. While holding this high and honorable public station, one so congenial with his feelings, and one for which he was so well fitted, he produced many state papers of great merit, and which contributed to advance the fame of the republic abroad.
Upon the execution of Charles Stuart, there was published a book which was styled “Eikōn Basilikē,” and which was pretended to have been written by the king, and left by him as a legacy and parting word to the world. It had a most unprecedented sale, owing to the curiosity excited by its appearance. As it was a work which was then likely to excite public sympathy, when public sympathy would be thrown away upon a bad and unworthy object, while at the same time it would abuse and mislead the public mind, the Parliament called upon Milton to write an answer to it, and to furnish an antidote for this lying poison, which it is well believed was never written by the king, but was manufactured and industriously circulated by the enemies of the people, and the friends of arbitrary power, with a hope that by its means they could unsettle the public mind, weaken the republic, and reëstablish the tyranny.
Milton accordingly wrote his Eikonoklastes; and truly was he an image-breaker; for with merciless force he entered the temple, and with his own right arm shattered the idol that they had bid all mankind bow down before.
Charles the Second, who was then residing upon the Continent, hired Salmasius, a man of great learning, and the successor of the celebrated Scaliger, as honorary professor at Leyden, to write a work in defense of his father and of the monarchy. For this work Charles paid Salmasius one hundred jacobuses. In the execution of this book, Salmasius filled it pretty plentifully with insolent abuse of all the public men of the Commonwealth, and those prominent in the Revolution; both from a natural inclination, and according to directions. In this he was quite expert; for though he was a fine scholar and very famed for his learning, yet as it has been said of him—“This prince of scholars seemed to have erected his throne upon a heap of stones, that he might have them at hand to throw at every one’s head who passed by.”
Immediately upon the appearance of this book, the Council of State unanimously selected Milton to answer it; and he, in obedience to this call, prepared and published his Defense of the People of England, a work of great worth and power, and which was written at intervals, during the moments snatched from his official duties, when he was weakened and infirm. This book was read everywhere. Europe rang with it, and wonder at its force filled all minds.
By some it has been said that the Council presented him with £1000 as a reward, which was no mean sum in those days of specie circulation. But empty thanks were all that he received. Neither this nor any other of his writings ever obtained one cent for him from the public purse, as he asserts in his Second Defense. While Milton was thus receiving attentions from all quarters, it was much otherwise with his arrogant opponent; for he suffered not only by the severity of Milton’s reply, but was slighted and treated ill by Christiana, Queen of Sweden, who had invited him to her court, among other learned men. Upon the reading of Milton’s “Defense,” she was so delighted therewith, that her opinion of Salmasius changed, and she became indifferent to him, which he perceiving, left her court, and retired to Spa, in Germany, where he shortly after died of chagrin.
Milton had been for many years suffering from a weakness in his eyes, arising out of his severe application to his studies. Year after year his sight became more and more dim, until his physicians warned him that unless he ceased his continual toil, he would become totally blind. This for a while he heeded; but the urgent call made upon him in the production of this answer to Salmasius, led him again to over-application, and he became wholly blind. Notwithstanding his blindness, he still continued the discharge of his official duties, and employed his leisure moments in the production of various other political tracts, in answer to the many abusive works issued by the royalists.
On the death of Oliver Cromwell, and the taking place of the difficulties that followed, he wrote a “Letter to a Statesman,” [supposed to be General Monk,] in which he gave a brief delineation of a “free Commonwealth, easy to be put in practice, and without delay.” Finding affairs were growing worse and worse, the people more and more unsettled, and that a king was likely to be reëstablished, and the Commonwealth subverted, he wrote and published his “Ready and Easy Way to Establish a Free Commonwealth, and the Excellence thereof, Compared with the Inconveniences and Dangers of admitting Kingship in this Nation.” This short paper was published in 1659-60, and even after this he published his “Notes on a late Sermon entitled the Fear of God and the King, preached at Mercer’s Chapel, on March 25th, 1660, by Dr. Matthew Griffith,” the very year, and within a month of the Restoration; so that his voice was the last to bear witness against the overthrow of liberty and the restoration of tyranny.
Upon the return of Charles, he fled, and lay concealed, during which time his books, the Eikonoklastes and “Defense of the People of England,” were burned by the common hangman! An indictment was found against him, and a warrant for his arrest placed in the hands of the sergeant-at-arms. The act of indemnity was passed, and he received the benefit of it, and came forth from his concealment, but was arrested, and shortly after, by order of the House of Commons, discharged, upon his paying the fees to the sergeant-at-arms, who had endeavored to exact them from him, which he resisted, and appealed to the House. And thus, although a prisoner, he still displayed a determination and resolution to oppose that oppression in his own person, against which he had so stoutly battled for the whole people.
He now retired from public life forever; and when an offer was afterward made to him by the king, to return to his old post of secretary, he refused it, although pressed by his wife to accept it, and to her entreaties answered thus: “Thou art in the right; you and other women would ride in your coach; for me, my aim is to live and die an honest man.”
This offer has been denied by Doctor Johnson, in his life of Milton, and that, too, without sufficient foundation, for the contradiction is made without proof; and when Dr. Newton, in his admirable account of Milton, published in his splendid edition of the Poetical Works of Milton, confirms it, and asserts that these very words were from Milton’s wife only twenty years before the publication of his edition. The Doctor has in this, as in other instances, displayed a malicious desire to detract from his merits; his envy no doubt being excited by this unbending integrity of one, whose political opinions were serious enough in the Doctor’s eyes to affect even his merits as a poet. For this, as for other offenses, has he received again and again that censure which he so richly deserved; but from no one with more force than from Mr. St. John, in his able Preliminary Discourse to these volumes. We quote a passage.
“Another sore point with Johnson was, that Milton should be said to have rejected, after the Restoration, the place of Latin Secretary to Charles the Second. Few men heartily believe in the existence of virtue above their own reach. He knew what he would have done under similar circumstances; he knew that had he lived during the period of the Commonwealth, a similar offer from the Regicides would have met with no ‘sturdy refusal’ from him; he knew it was in his eyes no sin to accept of a pension from one whom he considered an usurper; how, then, could he believe, what must have humiliated him in his own esteem, that the old blind republican, bending beneath the weight of years and indigence, still cherished heroic virtues in his soul, and spurned the offer of a tyrant! Oh, but he had filled the same office under Oliver Cromwell!
“Milton regarded ‘Old Noll’ as a greater and better ‘Sylla,’ to whom, in the motto to his work against the restoration of kingship, he compares him, and evidently hoped to the last, what was always, perhaps, intended by the Protector, and understood between them, that as soon as the troubles of the times should be properly appeased, he would establish the Republic. In this Milton consented to serve with him, not to serve him; for Cromwell always professed to be the servant of the people. And after all, there was some difference between Cromwell and Charles the Second. With the former the author of Paradise Lost had something in common; they were both great men, they were both enemies to that remnant of feudal barbarism, which, supported by prejudice and ignorance, had for ages exerted so fatal an influence over the destinies of their country. Minds of such an order—in some things, though not in all, resembling—might naturally enough coöperate; for they could respect each other. But with what sense of decorum, or reverence for his own character, remembering the glorious cause for which he had struggled, could Milton have reconciled his conscience to taking office under the returned Stuart, to mingle daily with the crowd of atheists who blasphemed the Almighty, and with swinish vices debased his Image in the polluted chambers of Whitehall. The poet regarded them with contemptuous abhorrence; and, if I am not exceedingly mistaken, described them under the names of devils, in the court of their patron and inspirer below. Besides, even had they possessed the few virtues compatible with servitude, it would have been a matter of constant chagrin, of taunt and reviling on one side, and silent hatred on the other, to have brought together republican and slave in the same bureau, and to have compelled a democratic pen to mould correct phrases for a despicable master. So far, however, was the biographer from comprehending the character of the man whose life he undertook to write, that he seems to have thought it an imputation on him, and a circumstance for which it is necessary to pity his lot, that the dissolute nobles of the age seldom resorted to his humble dwelling! The sentiment is worthy of Salmasius. But was there then living a man who would not have been honored by passing under the shadow of that roof? by listening to the accents of those inspired lips? by being greeted and remembered by him whose slightest commendation was immortality? Elijah, or Elisha, or Moses, or David, or Paul of Tarsus, would have sat down with Milton and found in him a kindred spirit. But the slave of Lady Castlemain, or the traitor Monk, or Rochester, or the husband of Miss Hyde, or that Lord Chesterfield, who saw what Hamilton describes, and dared not with his sword revenge the insult, might forsooth have thought it a piece of condescension to be seen in the Delphic Cavern in England, whence proceeded those sacred verses which in literature have raised her above all other nations, to the level of Greece herself!”
Upon his release from arrest he retired to the obscurity and solitude of his own dwelling, where he passed his time in the composition of his Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes. During this time he also produced a History of Britain, with several other prose works. In 1674 he expired, worn out with illness and a life of toil; he died without a groan, and so gentle and placid was his departure, that they who were round him did not perceive it.
Although all of his political writings were called forth by the events that were passing before him, and were for that reason local in their immediate application, yet they are so catholic and elemental in their spirit, that we can hardly believe that they were written in an age when feudal tenures were not abolished, and before any people had as yet secured their own freedom.
His Areopagitica was his first political work; and although it was written for a special purpose, and with a view to a then existing evil, it is still a pamphlet that might very well be published at this day, as the declaration of our opinions upon this subject of the liberty of the press.
The very motto of the book, taken from Euripides, and translated by himself, indicates the whole spirit and intent of it.
“This is true liberty when freeborn men,
Having to advise the public, may speak free,
Which he who can, and will, deserves high praise,
Who neither can, or will, may hold his peace;
What can be juster in a state than this?”
After discussing the real merits of the question then before him, he departs altogether from that topic; and as he always did, generously claimed the same right for mankind, that he had sought for Englishmen. And then it is he utters this fine sentence, which shows a noble enthusiasm in his cause, and a firm belief in its justice. “Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience above all liberties!”
After this work he wrote his “Tenure of Kings.” The design of this pamphlet has been already explained. We may judge of its liberal character by these few passages. At first he alludes to the treasonable desertion of principles by those, who were then turbulent for the king’s release, and who had mainly helped to provoke and carry on the war. Afterward he declares this general principle; “No man, who knows aught, can be so stupid as to deny that all men naturally were born free, being the image and resemblance of God himself.” And after this proclamation of that essential truth, he proceeds to analyze the history of society, and shows by reason, scriptural authority, general history, and the universal opinions of mankind, that all government proceeds from the people, is created by them for their comfort and good, and is subject to their control, whether it be patriarchal, despotic, or aristocratic; and that no king or potentate holds by any other authority than the consent of the people; which being withdrawn his rule ceases, and for his crimes his life may be forfeited—declaring that this must be so, “unless the people must be thought created all for him singly, which were a kind of treason against the dignity of mankind to affirm.”
And after all this he shows his charity for his fellow men, wherever they may be, by saying, “Who knows not that there is a mutual bond of amity and brotherhood between man and man all over the world; neither is it the English sea that can sever us from that duty and relation.” It is this sentiment, and such like this, that demands of us our admiration and regard for this purest of men.
In the same manner does he fight the same fight in his Eikonoklastes, and “Defense of the English People,” fearlessly breaking new ground in behalf of the “Rights of Man,” as if he considered it to be his greatest glory to be the champion of his race, while he was defending his countrymen.
In the Eikonoklastes, after refuting the many lies uttered by the king’s lip-workers, he says, “It is my determination that through me the truth shall be spoken, and not smothered, but sent abroad in her native confidence of her single self, to earn how she can her entertainment in the world, and to find out her own readers.” Hearken then again to his words, which now, near two hundred years after they were published, come like a solemn and prophetic voice from out the writings of the old, blind republican.
“Men are born and created with a better title to their freedom, than any king hath to his crown. And liberty of person and right of self-preservation is much nearer, and more natural, and more worth to all men than the property of their goods and wealth.”
This is our truth, the corner-stone of our faith. Here we stand, and alone of nations have made this our practice, and thereby given a healthful example to all men. These things he believed, and, for the first time for ages, did he announce to the world those truths which were to unsettle tyranny and open the way to universal freedom.
When the king was about to return, he published “The Mode of Establishing a Free Commonwealth.” This was the last blast blown to rouse the people from their lethargy. With a prophetic energy did he predict the ills that would fall upon the nation, should the king again be established. How sadly have his words been realized in the gilded misery that now surrounds his country, where starving millions toil like beasts of the field to fatten a licentious and debased aristocracy!
In this book he told the people that “no government was nearer the precepts of Christ than a free Commonwealth, wherein they who are the greatest are perpetual servants to the public, and yet are not elevated above their brethren, live soberly in their families, walk the streets as other men, may be spoken to freely, familiarly, friendly, without adoration.” After extolling the excellent beauty of freedom, and exhorting them to stand by their rights, he thus concludes, with these passages so full of grand and pathetic eloquence.
“I have no more to say at present; few words will save us, well considered; few and easy things, now seasonably done. But if the people be so affected as to prostitute religion and liberty to the vain and groundless apprehension, that nothing but Kingship can restore trade, not remembering the frequent plagues and pestilences that then wasted this city, such as through God’s mercy we never have felt since; and that trade flourishes nowhere more than in the free Commonwealths of Italy, Germany, and the Low Countries, before their eyes at this day; yet if trade be grown so craving and importunate, through the profuse living of tradesmen, that nothing can support it but the luxurious expenses of a nation upon trifles or superfluities, so as if the people generally should betake themselves to frugality, it might prove a dangerous matter, lest tradesmen should mutiny for want of trading; and that therefore we must forego, and set to sale religion, liberty, honor, safety, all concernments, divine or human, to keep up trading. What I have spoken is the language of that which is not called amiss, “The Good Old Cause;” it seem strange to any, it will not seem more strange, I hope, than convincing to back-sliders. Thus much I should perhaps have said, though I was sure I should have spoken only to trees and stones, and had none to cry to, but with the prophet, ‘O Earth, Earth, Earth!’ to tell the very soil itself what her perverse inhabitants are deaf to; nay, though what I have spoke should happen, [which Thou suffer not, who didst create mankind free! nor Thou next who didst redeem us from being the servants of men!] to be the last words of our expiring liberty.”
The political works of this great man have been diligently suppressed, and his political fame traduced; while they, who could not deny him merit, have been busy before the world in lauding him as a poet, thinking thus to lead men off from a knowledge of that wherein consisted his true greatness. We question much whether the dullest mind could read these books now, without being roused and filled with enthusiasm for this apostle of liberty, and for his cause.
In them he nobly vindicates the people and their rights. “The Good Old Cause,” as he calls it, warms him up, and he writes with an exulting energy that would make your blood gush with delight. His opinions were not the distempered thoughts of a factionist. He never allowed his feelings to be warped by a selfish regard for party advancement. He knew no party, but generously devoted his whole soul to the cause of his country, and in defense of the rights of mankind. In his old age his greatest glory was, that he had always written and spoken openly in defense of liberty and against slavery.
The truths which he wrote in his matured years, as applying to the condition of his unfortunate country, were but repetitions of the faith of his youth, as he had powerfully expressed it in his Comus.
“Impostor, do not charge most innocent Nature,
As if she would her children should be riotous
With her abundance; she, good cateress,
Means her provision only to the good,
That live according to her sober laws,
And holy dictates of spare temperance:
If every just man, that now pines with want,
Had but a moderate and beseeming share
Of that which lewdly pampered luxury
Now heaps upon some few with vast excess,
Nature’s full blessings would be well dispens’d,
In unsuperfluous even proportion,
And she no whit encumbered with her store:
And then the giver would be better thanked,
His praise due paid; for swinish gluttony
Ne’er looks to heaven amidst his gorgeous feast
But with besotted, base ingratitude,
Crams and blasphemes his feeder.”
Even now, while we conclude these few pages our pen falters, and we feel disposed to abandon the task. His magnificence overpowers us. How can we point out the excellence of that which commands the admiration of all men, and is beyond the loftiest praise of the most eloquent? Again and again have we turned over the leaves of this work, with the intention of selecting passages worthy of comment and regard, and so thickly have they flowed in upon us, that page after page has been exhausted, and we had not finished. How idle, then, to select from these masterpieces of eloquence and storehouses of truth! How vain to dwell upon his merits, when every line of his splendid composition tells of his measureless learning and infinite purity of thought. His style, at once grand and simple, is happily suited to convey conviction to the mind, and inspire the soul with fervid energy.
While his works are filled with noble conceptions, clothed in language of corresponding state and grandeur, we nowhere find any attempt at fine rhetoric for mere empty display. The whole subject sweeps on with solemn magnificence, but with no idle pomp. From the depths of his soul did he speak, and his words were as fire, scorching to his enemies, and life-giving and cheering to those who love “truth and wisdom, not respecting numbers and big names.”
The most inspiring view that can be taken of the soul of these writings is, that they are, even at this day, far in advance of the social condition that exists in this land of liberal and enlightened principles of government. The precepts by which he would wish us to be guided, are the pure and humane doctrines of the Savior of man. He did not fight only for the liberties of Englishmen, contending for English rights, citing the charters of English liberty—no, not he—all mankind were alike to him, and for man alone he spake. No such Hebrew spirit animated his noble soul.
He proclaimed the rights of man, as man, and asserted his rights, natural and social, without ever launching out into Utopian speculations and visionary conceptions, the practical utility of which no one can affirm, and the application of which would have worked out ills innumerable, rooting up and overthrowing ten thousand times ten thousand social rights, that had grown up with the state itself. He asserted abstractions; but with an intimate knowledge of men and their affairs, he steadily avoided violating those relative rights, to suddenly encroach on which would have been even as great a despotism as the rugged foot of feudal barbarity, with which his country had been oppressed.
From the generous and life-giving precepts of the Gospel did he draw his faith. He there learned charity for the misdoings of men, as well as belief in their power to resist evil and attain truth. He there learned love for mankind, as he imbibed a stern, unyielding hate for tyranny and hypocrisy.
No timid navigator, skirting along the shores and headlands, but a bold, adventurous spirit, he pushed forth upon a wild, tempestuous sea of troubles, with murky night of ignorance and superstition surrounding him. The “Telemachus” of Fénelon, might have been the “first dim promise of a great deliverance, the undeveloped germ of the charter of the code,” for the whole French people. But in these writings of Milton, we have a full and manly assertion of those rights and duties which all men owe one to the other, and all to society, and which are far, far beyond the simple truths conveyed in that beautiful and easy fiction.
Well might the French monarch have “the Defense” burned by the common hangman! Well might he for whom “a million peasants starved to build Versailles,” look down with horror and fear upon that work, for in it were truths which have roused up men to assert their rights. It was the vindication of a noble people, who had trampled under their feet the yoke that oppressed them, and had brought to punishment the tyrant who reigned over them. These works and the events that produced them have an interest to us. Englishmen may slight them, but we look on them with exultation—they are associated with our own history—they are connected with our own family legends—and as they record the mighty struggle of the mighty with the powers and principalities of this earth, they should be reverenced and held sacred by us; they should be our household companions, as they were of those men whose blood now warms the hearts of an empire of freemen, who boast their lineage from a prouder source than kings—the Puritans of New England. The men of that Revolution have never been fully understood. He who would wish to know the justice of their cause, let him read Milton, and let him read the real documents of the times. They have been abused and misrepresented by most historians. Mr. Bancroft, in his History of his Country, has comprehended these martyrs in the cause of democratic rights, and dared to tell the truth concerning them. They and theirs were the settlers of this country. From them came the mighty forest of sturdy oaks, which in years after were to breast the storm of royal oppression and wrath, in this their refuge; and from which tempest we—WE THE PEOPLE, came out gloriously triumphant!
Think not ill of them. Tread lightly upon their memories as you would upon their ashes. They who perished upon the scaffold—they who found a home here—they who died upon the field in England, or worn out with anxiety and public care, sank to rest forever in their homes—they who, like Cromwell, fought in the field and ruled in the council—and they who, like Milton, have proclaimed from the study that “man is free,” have earned names that time will brighten, and have stood by truths that will secure the affections of a world hereafter.
| [5] | Select Prose Works of Milton, with a Preliminary Discourse and Notes. By J. A. St. John. London: J. Hatchard & Son. 2 vols. |
“BLESS THE HOMESTEAD LAW.”
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BY L. VIRGINIA SMITH.
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It was a summer morning. Soft the flame
Of the early sunlight up the zenith came,
Deep tinging with a golden-crimson hue
The clouds that floated o’er the welkin blue,
Or veiled the distant mountain. Far, and near,
From farm to farm the call of chanticleer
Rang like a clarion, shrilly sweet and long,
The robin red-breast trilled his matin song,
Hid in the high old maple, while around
From far, deep-waving grain-fields gayly sound
The carols of the bob-o-link. The bee
Was out among the blossoms, in his glee
To rouse them from their dreamings. Gracefully
The west-wind waved the weeping willow-tree
That drooped above the rivulet, or crept
Amid the branches of the elm that swept
A low-browed homestead. Ruby columbine,
Sweet honey-suckle, and the Indian vine,
Had veiled the rustic portico, and wild
Swayed o’er the casement, and the sunlight smiled
Through the low entrance. ’Twas a winsome place,
And like the sunny calm of some sweet face,
You would have thought in gazing on its rest,
That earth’s frail children sometimes can be blest.
And yet misfortune found it;—see the group
Now gathered at the threshold, o’er them droop
Long, swaying branches, and the loving leaves
Lay their light fingers o’er the heart that grieves,
As if to soothe its sorrows. Agony
Lights up the darkness of the husband’s eye,
He stands apart, his bearing calm and proud,
And yet his heart is burning ’neath a cloud
Of dread and misery. The young wife leans
By the old elm-tree, ’mid the passing scenes
Her heart is busy, for beside her stands
A lovely child, with snowy, dimpled hands
Clasping her mother’s, while within the shade
Her baby brother on the greensward played.
The little maiden mused, a choking swell
Filled her young bosom, and the large tears fell
All silently, then her slow-lifting eyes
(Their blue depths troubled with a strange surprise)
Sought out her mother’s;—tossing back her hair,
Her clear voice melted on the morning air;—
“We leave the homestead!—Say, dear mother, why?
Do not the birds and blossoms love us here?
Has any other home a clearer sky,
With brighter stars upon it? Mother, dear,
Shall we not sigh there for this old elm shade,
Where you and I and brother oft have played?
“We leave the homestead!—Oh! my father, tell,
Why turn we from the fields, and wood-paths dim,
Through which we wended as the Sabbath bell
Called us to worship, with its solemn hymn?
Shall we not sigh to pray where friends have prayed,
Or weep our loved ones in the church-yard laid?”
The haughty bosom of the strong man shook
With an internal tempest, and he took
Her tiny hand within his own; his pride
Was bending, and he earnestly replied:
“Why do we leave it?—’tis a tale too long,
And strange to fall upon thy heart, my child;
’Twould tell of dark misfortunes, pain, and wrong,
And wo, that seemed at times to drive me wild,
To make me doubt the path my fathers trod,
And that the poor man had indeed a God!
“But thou, my Ada, true and gentle bride,
Dost thou remember when thy violet eye
Looked first upon ‘Glenoran?’ All untried,
It seemed to thee a Paradise; ah! why
Am I myself its serpent and its bane,
To leave on all its bloom a deadly stain?
“Oh! could I only bear this all alone,
The grinding poverty—the lurking sneer—
All the poor debtor’s wretchedness—no moan
My soul would utter audibly, but here
My heart of hearts is crushed, my life of life,
They suffer also, child, and babe, and wife.
“We leave the homestead;—wanderers we go,
From friends, from kindred, and our native land—
My God! if I have merited such wo,
Have these deserved it at thy mercy’s hand?
Oh! let thy justice all my actions scan,
Yet leave one hope—to die an honest man.”
He drooped his head upon his bosom, bowed
With misery, and instantly the proud
Young wife was at his side; soft o’er his brow
Swept her white fingers, and her voice was low:
“Thy soul is dark, beloved, it fears for us—
Ah! only trust in God, as I in thee,
Lift up thy stately brow; to see thee thus
Is worse than all life’s agony to me.
Thou couldst have died for us, beloved, but we,
E’en when all hope is lost, will live for thee.
“They cannot separate our souls from thine,
They cannot part us wheresoe’er we roam,
Or place aught else within the sacred shrine,
Where dwell thy wife and children. Loved one, come,
Give me mine only home within thy heart—
I’ll bear it with me—let us hence depart.”
It is the summer twilight. Dark the shades
Are falling through the forest everglades,
The winds are hushed, the lonely whip-poor-will
Sings his wild lullaby upon the hill,
A sighing murmur from the mountain-pines
Steals up valley, and the love-star shines,
All brightly in “Glenoran.”
Since the morn
Glad tidings visited those bosoms torn
With unavailing sorrow, now the “right”
To have a home was granted, and delight
Was blended into orisons. That line
Whose fiat echoes back a law divine,
Was made a statute, and sweet Ada saw
Her loved ones singing, “Bless the Homestead Law!”
THE MISER AND HIS DAUGHTER.
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BY H. DIDIMUS.
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This man came to Louisiana many years since, a silver-smith by trade, poor, and largely in debt. He was born in New York, and in that city worked industriously at the business to which he had been apprenticed, until a competency rewarded his labors, and wealth, which he had before little thought of, was brought near enough to his door to be both seen and desired. The hammer, the soldering-iron, and the file were now thrown aside, as instruments of a slow getting; and the head was taxed with schemes for the acquisition of sudden and great gains. At the close of two years he was a bankrupt. But he was not a man of half-measures; true courage he had enough of; and honesty has never been denied him; so, he called his creditors together, laid before them a statement of his affairs, surrendered all that he had, gave his notes for eighty thousand dollars, and departed, with nerves unshaken, and a will indomitable, in search of a new land and a new fortune.
When the ambition of wealth drew him from his work-shop, he carefully laid aside the tools of his trade in a stout oaken box, to be kept as mementoes of former labor; they were now all that remained to him, the only gift which he had asked, and would receive of creditors who were disposed to be generous. With them, at thirty-five years of age, he bid the North good-bye, went on shipboard, entered before the mast, in payment of a passage to New Orleans, and on his arrival there, at once hired himself into the service of a silver-smith, who has since ranked with the wealthiest of its citizens, and who has since met with ruin more disastrous than that which brought the best of his journeymen to his door.
John Cornelius, when you first scented the Mississippi marshes, and stepped from ship to shore with a debt of eighty thousand dollars upon your back, John Gravier had not wholly parted with that domain, which now forms the noblest portion of the second municipality. To one with a soul in his body, bent on money-getting, the track clear, the goal in view, to be won with effort, eighty thousand dollars of debt is like weight to the race-horse—it is not best to run too light at the start. Your eye saw what John Gravier did not. You read the page written by the hand of God, legibly enough—the Mississippi with all its tributaries, rolling through lands of an unequalled fertility, and of every variety of clime, and you had faith. God’s promises are certain. With the return of spring comes the flower, and with the breath of autumn comes the fruit; with the twinkling star comes rest, and with the rise of day comes light and labor; every mountain, every hill and valley, every plain and running-stream, river and ocean, speak of God’s promises, and accomplish them. Read, and understand; this it is, which separates the man gifted from the common herd, who are born to toil for the benefit of the few.
John Cornelius read God’s promises in the Mississippi, and went heartily to work. With him, there was no folding of the hands, no waiting on Providence; for he knew that the fable of Hercules and the wagoner was as instructive under a Christian, as under a pagan dispensation; so he girded up his loins, made sharp his sickle, and entered upon the harvest which was already ripe for the reaper. Economy is the handmaid of wealth, and penuriousness is economy’s own daughter. John Cornelius took them both to his bosom, and for ten long years he lived upon one meal a day, and that a cold one. The larger portion of his monthly wages he hoarded up, and when the accumulations had become sufficient, remembering the promises of the Mississippi, he bought a lot of ground within the precincts of John Gravier’s plantation; hoarded again, put a small wooden tenement upon the lot, rented, and was a landlord. Thus he went on, working, hoarding, with economy and penuriousness his whole household, penuriousness holding the upper hand; adding lot to lot, tenement to tenement, and lease to lease, until at the close of ten years, he found that God’s promises written upon the Mississippi, were fulfilled and fulfilling; and he again laid aside the tools of his trade in a stout, oaken box, there to rest, as they do rest to this hour. He was rich; he had kept even pace with New Orleans, in its progress toward greatness; but, with his wealth had grown up a habit, the habit of penuriousness, which wealth only strengthened, as a child strengthens its parent. Habit moulds the soul, and fashions it to its will; habit makes the writer; habit makes the poet; of habit, are born the soldier, the statesman, and the scholar; habit created the arts, and all science; habit gives faith and religion, and fastens every vice upon us; and habit made John Cornelius a miser.
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