His great command: take heed, lest passion sway And all the blest: stand fast; to stand or fall So saying, he arose; whom Adam thus Thy condescension, and shall be honour'd ever From the thick shade, and Adam to his bower. 635 640 645 650 the chief points in the Ptolemaic and Copernican hypotheses are described with great conciseness and perspicuity, and at the same time dressed in very pleasing and poetical images. Adam, to detain the angel, enters afterwards upon his own history, and relates to him the circumstances in which he found himself upon his creation, as also his conversation with his Maker, and his first meeting with Eve. There is no part of the poem more apt to raise the attention of the reader than this discourse of our great ancestor; as nothing can be more surprising and delightful to us than to hear the sentiments that arose in the first man, while he was yet new and fresh from the hands of his Creator. The poet has interwoven everything which is delivered upon this subject in Holy Writ with so many beautiful imaginations of his own, that nothing can be conceived more just and natural than this whole episode: as our author knew this subject could not but be agreeable to his reader, he would not throw it into the relation of the six days' works, but reserved it for a distinct episode, that he might have an opportunity of expatiating upon it more at large. Before I enter on this part of the poem, I cannot but take notice of two shining passages in the dialogue between Adam and the angel: the first is that wherein our ancestor gives an account of the pleasure he took in conversing with him, which contains a very noble moral, v. 210, &c.: the other I shall mention is that in which the angel gives a reason why he should be glad to hear the story Adam was about to relate, v. 229, &c. There is no question but our poet drew the image in what follows from that of Virgil's sixth book, where Æneas and the Sibyl stand before the adamantine gates, which are described as shut upon the place of torments; and listen to the groans, the clank of chains, and the noise of iron whips, that were heard in those regions of pain and sorrow. Adam then proceeds to give an account of his condition and sentiments immediately after his creation. How agreeably does he represent the posture in which he found himself, the delightful landscape that surrounded him, and the gladness of heart which grew up in him on that occasion! He is afterwards described as surprised at his own existence, and taking a survey of himself, and of all the works of nature: he also is represented as discovering by the light of reason, that he, and everything about him, must have been the effect of some Being infinitely good and powerful; and that this Being had a right to his worship and adoration. His first address to the sun, and to those parts of the creation which made the most distinguished figure, is very natural and amusing to the imagination: his next sentiment, when upon his first going to sleep he fancies himself losing his existence, and falling away into nothing, can never be sufficiently admired: his dream, in which he still preserves the consciousness of his existence, and his removal into the garden which was prepared for his reception, are also circumstances finely imagined, and grounded upon what is delivered in sacred story. These, and the like wonderful incidents in this part of the work, have in them all the beauties of novelty, at the same time that they have all the graces of nature; they are such as none but a great genius could have thought of; though, upon the perusal of them, they seem to rise of themselves from the subject of which he treats. In a word, though they are natural they are not obvious; which is the true character of all fine writing. The impression which the introduction of the Tree of Life left in the mind of our first parent is described with great strength and judgment; as the image of the several beasts and birds passing in review before him is very beautiful and lively. Adam, in the next place, describes a conference which he held with his Maker upon the subject of solitude. The poet here represents the Supreme Being as making an essay of his own work, and putting to the trial that reasoning faculty with which he had endued his creature. Adam urges, in this divine colloquy, the impossibility of his being happy, though he was the inhabitant of Paradise, and lord of the whole creation, without the conversation and society of some rational creature, who should partake those blessings with him: this dialogue, which is supported chiefly by the beauty of the thoughts, without other poetical ornaments, is as fine a part as any in the whole poem: the more the reader examines the justness and delicacy of the sentiments, the more he will find himself pleased with it. The poet has wonderfully preserved the character of majesty and condescension in the Creator, and at the same time that of humility and adoration in the creature, in v. 367, &c. Adam then proceeds to give an account of his second sleep, and of the dream in which he beheld the formation of Eve: the new passion that was awakened in him at the sight of her is touched very finely : Under his forming hands a creature grew, Man-like, but different sex; so lovely fair, That what seem'd fair in all the world, seem'd now Adam's distress upon losing sight of this beautiful phantom, with his exclamations of joy and gratitude at the discovery of a real creature who resembled the apparition which had been presented to him in his dream; the approaches he makes to her, and his manner of courtship; are all laid together in a most exquisite propriety of sentiments. Though this part of the poem is worked up with great warmth and spirit, the love which he describes in it is in every way suitable to a state of innocence. If the reader compares the description which Adam here gives of his leading Eve to the nuptial bower, with that which Mr. Dryden has made on the same occasion in a scene of his "Fall of Man," he will be sensible of the great care which Milton took to avoid all thoughts on so delicate a subject that might be offensive to religion or good manners. The sentiments are chaste, but not cold; and convey to the mind ideas of the most transporting passion and of the greatest purity. What a noble mixture of rapture and innocence has the author joined together in the reflection which Adam makes on the pleasure of love, compared to those of sense! These sentiments of love in our first parent give the angel such an insight into human nature, that he seems apprehensive of the evils which might befall the species in general from the excess of this passion; he therefore fortifies him against it by timely admonitions, which very artfully prepare the mind of the reader for the occurrences of the next book; where the weakness of which Adam here gives such distant discoveries, brings about that fatal event which is the subject of the poem: his discourse, which follows the gentle rebuke he received from the angel, shows that his love, however violent it might appear, was still founded in reason, and consequently not improper for Paradise. Adam's speech at parting from the angel has in it a deference and gratitude agreeable to an inferior nature; and at the same time a certain dignity and greatness suitable to the father of mankind in his state of innocence.-ADDISON. BOOK IX. INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. THE most extraordinary part of this story is Eve's perverse resolve to separate herself from Adam in her morning cultivation of the garden, contrary to Adam's remonstrances; and her so soon falling into the serpent's snares, though so very strongly warned this is not consistent with the goodness which the poet before ascribed to her. To me it appears that there is a good deal of concealed satire in this: it was open to the poet to have represented her making a longer struggle; and not having before exposed herself, almost as if voluntarily, to the temptation. Eve ought to have been too happy in her favoured state to be seduced by the serpent's arguments, which were only calculated to mislead those who were oppressed, and saw pleasures around them, all of which they were restrained from tasting. The moment Eve partook of the poison, it produced an intoxication, which made it frighfully sensual; and I must confess, I think that Milton is not blameless, and has not his usual sanctity of strain, in the pictures he consequently draws: as poetry, it is exquisite; as morality, it is dangerous, almost disgusting. Allow the story to take this turn, and the bard almost exceeds himself in richness: the remorse, sickness, and despondence which follow, are nobly exhibited; and here, perhaps, it will be contended, lies the moral: but the parties have deserved their fate; and this lessens our pity for them: for Adam ought not so easily to have yielded to Eve's persuasions, fully aware as he was of the consequences. All this, I must venture to say, is an outrage upon the probable. The mutual crimination and recrimation is drawn with perfect mastery; but Eve's reproach to Adam, as being the more offending person because he had indulged her, is a little too provoking. The descriptive parts glow with a uniform freshness, splendour, and nature; with a compactness of imagery, and a simple and naked force of language, which make all pictures of other poets fade away before them. There never appears a superfluous word, or one which is not pregnant with thought and matter. The sentiments have a weight and a profundity of wisdom which seem like inspiration: out of every incident arises such reflections as have the spell of oracles. As Milton lived in visions, all his dialogues were pertinent to his characters; and it is by these dialogues that the imagery, as connected with them, is made to have a double force. The inanimate material world derives almost all its interest from its connexion with human intellectuality: for this reason Gray expressed an opinion merely descriptive poem was an imperfect work. The charm of Gray's "Elegy" is, that all his imagery has a moral adjunct; but the moral of Milton is deeper, more extended, and more reflective, than of others: his illustrations are drawn from all the founts of knowledge, learning, and wisdom, sacred and profane: he has the art of making us see features and colours in the forms of nature, which that a we did not see before. The ninth book is that on which the whole fate and fall of man turns; and so far is the most important. It is called the most tender. If the submission to sensual human passions be tenderness, it is so; taking the resistance to those passions to be loftiness. The serpent himself appears to have been enamoured of Eve's beauty and loveliness of mien, and for a moment to have repented of the evil he was plotting to bring upon her. All that we know from the Mosaic history is, that the serpent tempted Eve, and Eve tempted Adam to eat of the forbidden fruit; but we do not know by what wiles this sin was brought about. We may suppose that by the serpent the operation of the evil passions of contradiction, disobedience, rebellion, and scepticism was meant; just as we may suppose that Eve persisted in roaming alone in spite of Adam's dissuasions, merely because her pride was thwarted by her husband's fear that "some harm should befall her" in his absence. Critics will say, that had she been more purely virtuous, Heaven would not have decreed the loss of Paradise; and therefore that it was of the essence of the story to represent her thus guilty. It may be deemed highly presumptuous in me to suggest that Milton might have represented her equally guilty, with more probability and more spirituality. He might have painted mental delusions rather than the intoxicating pleasures of the senses: it was open to him to follow his own course in the inventions of his overflowing imagination; but it could never be necessary to Milton's genius to dwell on matter rather than on spirit. The luxuriance of description has made this a favourite book of the poem: it is this luxuriance which I think misplaced in so holy a work. ARGUMENT. SATAN having encompassed the earth, with meditated guile, returns, as a mist, by night into Paradise; enters into the serpent sleeping. Adam and Eve in the morning go forth to their labours, which Eve proposes to divide in several places, each labouring apart: Adam consents not, alleging the danger, lest that enemy, of whom they were forewarned, should attempt her found alone: Eve, loth to be thought not circumspect or firm enough, urges her going apart, the rather desirous to make trial of her strength: Adam at last yields; the serpent finds her alone: his subtle approach, first gazing, then speaking; with much flattery extolling Eve above all other creatures. Eve, wondering to hear the serpent speak, asks how he attained to human speech, and such understanding, not till now: the serpent answers, that by tasting of a certain tree in the garden he attained both to speech and reason, till then void of both: Eve requires him to bring her to that tree, and finds it to be the tree of knowledge forbidden; the serpent, now grown bolder, with many wiles and arguments induces her at length to eat; she, pleased with the taste, deliberates awhile whether to impart thereof to Adam or not; at last brings him of the fruit; relates what persuaded her to eat thereof: Adam, at first amazed, but perceiving her lost, resolves, through vehemence of love, to perish with her; and, extenuating the trespass, eats also of the fruit: the effects thereof in them both; they seek to cover their nakedness; then fall to variance and accusation of one another. No more of talk where God or angel guest b a No more of talk. These prologues, or prefaces of Milton to some of his books, speaking of his own person, lamenting his blindness, and preferring his subject to those of Homer and Virgil, and the greatest poets before him, are condemned by some critics; and it must be allowed that we find no such digression in the "Iliad" or " Eneid"-it is a liberty that can be taken only by such a genius as Milton, and I question whether it would have succeeded in any hands but his. As Voltaire says upon the occasion, I cannot but own that an author is generally guilty of an unpardonable self-love, when he lays aside his subject to descant upon his own person :-but that human frailty is to be forgiven in Milton; nay, I am pleased with it. He gratifies the curiosity he has raised in me about his person;-when I admire the author, I desire to know something of the man; and he, whom all readers would be glad to know, is allowed to speak of himself. But this, however, is a very dangerous example for a genius of an inferior order, and is only to be justified by success. See Voltaire's "Essay on Epic Poetry," p. 111. But as Mr. Thyer adds, however some critics may condemn a poet's sometimes digressing from his subject to speak of himself, it is very certain that Milton was of a very different opinion long before he thought of writing this poem: for, in his discourse of the "Reason of Church Government," &c., apologising for saying so much of himself as he there does, he adds," For, although a poet, soar Venial discourse unblamed. I now must change 5 Those notes to tragic; foul distrust, and breach And disobedience: on the part of Heaven Now alienated, distance and distaste, Of my celestial patroness, who deigns Her nightly visitation unimplored, And dictates to me slumbering, or inspires Easy my unpremeditated verse: Since first this subject for heroic song Pleased me, long choosing, and beginning late"; Wars, hitherto the only argument ing in the high region of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him, might, without apology, speak more of himself than I mean to do; yet for me, sitting here below in the cool element of prose, a mortal thing among many readers of no empyreal conceit, to venture and divulge unusual things of myself, I shall petition to the gentler sort, it may not be envy to me," vol. i. p. 59, ed. 1738.-NEWTON. b God or angel guest. Milton, who knew and studied the Scripture thoroughly, and continually profits himself of its vast sublimity, as well as of the more noble treasures it contains, and to which his poem owes its greatest lustre, has done it here very remarkably.-RICHARDSON. The poet says that he must now treat no more of familiar discourse with either God or angel; for Adam had held discourse with God, as we read in the preceding book; and the whole foregoing episode is a conversation with the angel.-NEWTON. e I now must change Those notes to tragic. As the author is now changing his subject, he professes likewise to change his style agreeably to it: the reader therefore must not expect such lofty images and descriptions as before. What follows is more of the tragic strain than of the epic :- which may serve as an answer to those critics who censure the latter books of the "Paradise Lost," as falling below the former.-NEWTON. 4 Long choosing, and beginning late. Milton intended pretty early to write an epic poem, and proposed the story of 'King Arthur" for the subject; but that was laid aside, probably for the reasons here intimated. The "Paradise Lost" he designed at first as a tragedy: it was not till long after that he began to form it into an epic poem; and, indeed, for several years he was so hotly engaged in the controversies of the times, that he was not at leisure to think of a work of this nature; and did not begin to fashion it in its present form till after the Salmasian controversy, which ended in 1655; and probably did not set about the work in earnest till after the Restoration: so that he was "long choosing, and beginning late.”—Newton. The only argument. The three species of the epic poem are morality, politics, and religion: these have P |