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tary kind for oar eonduet in it' so as best to regain that happiness whieh our first parents had lost, and that further seeured to us everlastingly and unehangeably in a blessed eternity. When we thus eonsider the fonr different regions, in whieh the seene of the poem is in faet laid, we ean well aeeonnt for what the erities have said respeeting the eleventh and twelfth books falling short of the majesty, subiimity, and beanty of the rest. In eensuring the poem in this respeet, they in fart wi.-h that whatever relates to this world, and the state of mankind in it sinee the fall, had been omittedt and that the seene and deseriptions had been eonfined to the delights of tke "happy seat" the sublime horrors of the " dark' sojourn" and the divine gloeien of the empyreal region and the "heaven of heavens."

Rut, Milton, even while "rapt above the pole" he meditated his vast design, was fully aware that he was "standing upon the earth," and writing to the inhabitants of it for their instruetion as well as their delight, A poem, however wonderfully pregnant with the deleetare, wiil be wanting in its most essential port, if it does not elose with the monere, or materially involve it . This, I mueh ineline to believe, eonld not have been done in the present poem, in a more judieious, momentons, digniIied, and truly poetieal manner, than that of our anthov.—Dunster.

Johnson's eritieism, inserted in his "Life of Milton," is so universally known, that I shall not repeat it here: it shows the eritie to have been a master of langnage, and of perspienity and method of ideas: it has not, however, the sensibiiity, the graee, and the niee pereeptions of Addison: it is analytieal and dry. As it does not iilustrate any of the abstraet positions by eited instanees, it reqnires a phiiosophieal mind to feel its full foree: it has wrapped up the praises, whieh were popularly expressed by Addison, in langnage adapted to the learned. The trnth is, that Johneon's head was more the parent of that panegyrie than his heart: he speaks by rule; and by rule he is foreed to admire. Rules are vain, to whieh the heart does not assent. Many of the attraetions of Miiton's poem are not at all indieated by the general words of Johnson. From Addison's eritiqne, we ean learn distinetly its eharaeter and eolours; we ean be taught how to appreeiate; and ean judge by the examples produeed, bow far our own sympathies go with the eommentator: we eaunot read therefore withont being made eonverts, where the eomment is right. It is not only in the grand ontline that Miiton's mighty exeellenee lies; it is in filling up all the parts even to the least minntiae: the images, the sentiments, the long argumentative passages, are all admirable, taken separately; they form a double foree as essential parts of one large and magnilieent whole. The images are of two sorts; inventive and reIleetive; the first are, of eourse, of the highest ordev.

If onr eoneeptions were eonIined to what reality and experienee have ,mpressed upon us, our minds would be narrow, and onr faeulties without light- The power of inventive imagination approaehes to something above humanity: it makes us partieipant of other worlds and other status of being. 8tiil mere invention is nothing, unless its qnality bo high and beautifui. 8hakspeare's invention was in the most eminent degree rieh; bnt stiil it was mere human invention. The invention of the eharaeter of 8atan, and of the good and had angels, and of the seats of biiss, and of Pandsemoninm, and of Chaos and the gates of bell, and of 8in and Death, and other supernatural ageneies, is unqnestionably of a far loftier and more astonishing order,

Though the arts of eomposition, earried one step beyond the point whieh brings ont the thonght moat elearly and foreibly, do harm rather than good; yet up to this point they are of eourse great aids; and all these Milton possessed in the ntmost perfeetion: all the strength of langnage, all its turns, breaks, and varieties, all its flows and harmonies, and all its learned allusions, were his. In Pope there is a monotony and teehnieal meliiflnenee: in Miiton there is strength with harmony, and simplieity with elevation, lie is never stilted, never giided with tinsel: never more eramped than if he were writing in prose: and, while he has all tho elevation, he has utl the freedom of unshaekled langnage. To render metre during a long poem unfatigning, there must be an infinite diversity of eombinations of sound and position of words, whieh no English hard bnt Miiton has reaehed. Johnson, assuming that the English heroie line ought to eonsist of iambies, has tried it by false tests: it admits as many varied feet as Horaee's Odes; and Bo seauned, all Miiton's lines are aeeented right.

If we eonsider the " Paradise Lost" with respeet to instruetion, it is the deepest and the wisest of all the uninspired poems whieh ever were written: and what poem ean be good, whieh does not satisfy the understanding?

Of almost all other poems it may be said, that they are intended more for delight than instruetion; and instruetion in poetry will not do withont delight: yet when to the highest delight is added the most profound instruetion, what fame ean eqnal the valne of the eomposition? 8ueh unqnestionably is the eomponnd merit of the '' Paradise Lost." It is a dnty imperious on him who has an intelleet eapable of reeeiving this instruetion, not to negleet the eultivation of it: in him who understands the Engiish langnage, the negleet to study this poem is the negleet of a positive dnty: here is to be found in eombination what ean be learned no where else. •

There is a mode of presenting objeets to the imagination, whieh purifies, sharpens, and exalts the mind: there may be mere sports of the hnugiuation, whieh may be iunoeent, but frnitless. Sueh is never Miltou's produee; he never indulges in mere ornament or display; his iight is fire, and nntriment, and gnidanee: iike the dawn of returning day to the vegetation of the earth, whieh dispels the noxious vapours of night, and pierees the ineumbent weight of the air; it withdraws the mantle of dim shadows from eommon minds, and irradiates them with a shining lamp. As to what are ealled the figures of poetry, in whieh Pope deals so mueh, they are never admitted by the soiid and stern riehness of Miiton.

The generality even of the better eiasses of poetry is not the food of the mind, bnt its mere luxury; Miiton's is its substanee, its life, its essenee: he introduees the gravest, the most abstruse, the most learned topies into his poetry; and by a spiritnal proeess, whieh he only possesses, eonverts them into the very essenee of poetieal inspiration. I assert, in defianee of Dry den, that there are no flats in Miiton: ineqnalities there are; bnt they are not flats in Dry den's sense of the word. Dr3'den was a man of vigorous talent, but he was an artist in poetry: if aetive and powerful talent is genius, then he had genins; otherwise not: a elear pereeption and vigorous expression is not genins. Dryden had not a ereative mind; Miiton was all ereation: we want new ideas, not old ones better dressed. Dryden thought that what was not worked up into a pointed iambie eouplet was Ilat: he valned not the ore; he deemed thai the whole merit lay in the use of the tool, and the skiil of its applieation. Milton said, "I am eontent to draw the pure golden ore from the mine, and I wiil not weaken it by over polish."

Tho merit of Miiton wns, that he used his gigantie imagination to brtng into play his immense knowledge. Heaven, Hell, Chaos, and the Earth, are stupendous subjeets of eontemplation: three of them we ean -oneeive only by the strength of imagination; tho fourth is partly exposed to our senses, but ean bo only dimly and partially viewed exeept through the same powev. Who then shall dare to say, that the genins most f,tted to deitneate and iilustrate these shadowy and evaneseent wonders, and who has exeeuted this work in a mauner exeeeding all human hope, has not performed the most instruetive, as well as the most delightful of tasks? and who shall dare to deny that sueh a produetion ought to be made the universal study of the nation whieh brought it forth?

Refore sueh a performanee all teehnieal beauties sink to nothing. The qnestion is,—are the ideas mighty, and just, and anthorized; and are they adeqnately expressed? If this is admitted, then ought not everyone to read this poem next to the Rible? 8o thought Rishop Newton. Rnt Johnson had the effrontery to assert, that though it may be read as a duty, it ean give no pleasure: for this, Newton seems to have pronouneed by antieipation the stigma due to him. Is any intelleetnal deiight eqnal to that, whieh a high and sensitive mind derives from the perusal of iunumerable passages in every book of this inimitable work of poetieal fietion ?—The very story never relaxes: it is thiek-wove with inei' dent, as well as sentiment and argumentative grandenr: and how it eloses, when the arehangel waves the "flaming brand" over the enstorn gate of Paradise; and, on looking haek, Adam and Eve saw the "dreadful faees" and "fiery arras" that "throng'd" round it!—In what other poem is any passage so heart-rending and so terrible as this?—8ir EgebTox Rri Dges.

In Dante, and oven more universally in Tasse, the terror of the sublimity is of the physieal kind, and the impression is produeed upon the imagination of the reader by the dread fidelity with whwh the pieture is eopied from some known or faneied reality: their demons have eolossal sise indeed, bnt they are furnished with the horns, the hoofs, the tails, and the talons of the monkish demonology of the Middle Ages: Milton's sublimest pietures, on the eontrary, have none of this material or earthly horror abont them, hnt are terrible thoughts, grim abstraetions, whose lineaments are veiled and undefined, and whieh are only the more irresistible in the solemu dread they inspire, As they address themselves, so to say, not to the eye, bnt to the imagination: they are fragments of tho primeval dark, passionless, formless, terrtble. 8peaking of Death, he

The other 8hape,
If shape R ndght be eall'd, that shape had none
Distingnishable, in member, form, or iimb:

and again, in the same passage, whieh all the erities have agreed in ealling one of the most wonderful embodiments of supernatural terror whieh ever was eoneeived by poet,—

What seem'd his head
The likesust of a kingty erown had on.

In these and many other passages the poet seems perpetnally on the point of giving way to that tendeney so natural in the human mind, to denneibe; but his genius pnts a bridle upon the realizing power, and tho dread image is left in the awful vagueness of its mystery, beeoming, like the veiied Isis, a thousand times more august and terrible from the eloud that shuts it from our eyes. The greatest of nil poets, Homer, ^Esehylus, 8hakspeare, not to mention the Hebrew 8eriptures, are full of this kind of retietnee, by whieh the grandenr of the objeet is rendered more terrible by the gloom and indefiniteneas whieh surround it.

No language that we eould use would be suffieiently strong to express the extent and exaetuess of this writer's learning; a word whieh we use in its largest and most eomprehensive sense: no speeies of literuture, no langnage, no book, no art or seienee seems to have eseaped his euriosity, or resisted the eombined ardour and patienee of his industry. His works may be eonsidered us a vast arsenal of ideas drawn from every region of human speeulation, and either themselves the eondensed qnintessenee of knowledge and wisdom, or dressing and adorning the fairest and most majestie eoneeptions. If 8hakspeare's immortal dramas are like the rieh vegetation of a primeval paradise, in whieh all that is sweet, henling, and beantiful springs up uneultured from a virgin soil, the produetions of Milton may justly be eompared to one of those stately and magnifieent gardens so mueh admired in a former age, in whieh the pereeptible art and regularity rather seta off and adorns nature—a stately solitude perfumed by the breath of all home-born and exotie flowers, with lofty and airy musie ever and anon floating through its moonlit solitudes, deeorated by the divine forms of antiqne seulpture—now a Graee, a Cupid, or a Nymph of Phidias; now a Prophet or a 8ibyl of Miehael Angele.

In his delineation of what was perhaps the most diffieult portion of his vast pieture, the beanty, purity, and iunoeenee of onr first parents, he has shown not only a fertility of invention, bnt a severe and 8eriptural purity of taste as surprising as it is rare. His Adam and Eve, withont eeasing for a moment to be human, are beings worthy of the Paradise they inhabit.—8naw.

Was there ever any thing so delightful as the musie of the Paradise Lost? It is like that of a fine organ: it has the deepest tones of majesty, with all the softuess and eleganee of the Dorian flute; variety withont end, and never eqnalled.—Cowper.

Among the vietories gained by Milton, one of the most signal ls that whieh ho obtained over all the prejudiees of Johnson, who was eompelled to make a most vigorous, though evidently a reluetant effort, to do justiee to the fame and genins of Vne Greavesv Of Englisn Poevs.8ir James Maekintosn.

In Milton's mind there were purity and piety absolnte: an imagination to whieh neither the past nor tho present were interesting, exeept u far as they ealled forth and enlivened the great ideal in whieh and for whieh he lived; a keen love of truth, whieh, after many weary pursnits, found a harbonr in a sublime listening to the still voiee of his own spirit; and as keen a love of his eountry, whieh, after a disappointment still more depressive, expanded and soared into a love of man as a prohationer of immortality. These were, the8e alone eonld be the eonditions under whieh sueh a work as the Paradise Lost eonld be eoneeived and aeeomplished. By a life-long study, Miiton had known—

What was of use to know,
What best to say eould say, to do had done;
His aetions to his words agreed, his words
To his large heart gave utteranee dne; his heart
Contained of goed, wise, fair, the perfeet shape;

and he left the imperishable total, as a beqnest to the ages eoming, in the Paradise Losv.Coleridge.

I wish the Paradise Lost were more earefully read and studied than I ean see any gronnd for believing it is, espeeially those parts whieh, from the habit of always looking for a story in poetry, are seareely read at all, —as, for example, Adam's vision of future events, in the 11th and 12th books. No one ean rise from a perusal of this immortal poem, without a deep sense of the grandenr and purity of Miiton's soui.—Colerldge.

No Poet, either aneient or modern, ever eharmed me as Milton does; and freqnently—nay, almost daily as I read him, it is always with inereased delight. Bnt it would reqnire a tongne like his own to speak Ms praises. He invigorates our understanding, he purifies our affeetions, he lifts our hearts to God. His strains have never been eqnalled on Earth, and ean only be exeelled in Heaven.—William Peter.



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Night orison «

Morning orison

Preparations to entertain the
Angel Raphael

The table and entertainment

Their nuptial bed

Nuptials eelebrated....

Partlng preeeding the temp-
tation „

Rrhavionr after their faii

Ilnd themselves naked

Make themselves breeehes of

Reeriminate on, and reproaeh
enoh other «

Hide themseives from Ged.,

Appearunee before him


Expulsion from Paradise....
8ee 8imiies.
Adam, bis diseourse with Eve
on the prohibition of the
tree of knowledge

To her at night

Answer to her qnestion abont
the nightly luminaries

Vlewlng her sleeping

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Answer to her, relating ber
dream {the subjeet of 8a-
tan's first lllusive tempta-

To her weeping

lnvites the Angel Raphael to
his bower, Ae . V.

Diseonrse with him . . v.

Continoed on various sub-
jeets from v. 503 to viii.

8ee Raphati.

His ereation, and dominion,
Ae. over the ereatures vii.

Prohibited the tree of know- f vii.
ledge \ viii.

Aeeonnt of himself and ob-
jeets about him, Ae., on his
ereation viii.

Of his first view of the Divine
Presenee, inststioned in
Paradise. Ae riii.

8peeeh to Ged thereon, and
on his soiitnde there viii.

Reply to Ged's answer viii.

8leep, on the formation of
Rve, deseribed viiL

His first view of her viii.

Passion for her viii.

Valedietion to Raphael viii.

Diseourse with Eve preeed-
ing the temptation )on 8a-
tan's subtii ty, and the
means to resist it, Ae.l.... ix. 205-384

Care, and fears for her in ab-
senee ix. 838

Meets her returning with the

forbidden frnit ix. 840

8oliioquy, lamenting her
transgression ix.

Resoives to die with her ix.

8peeeh to her thereon ix.

Eats the forbidden frnit ix.

lneites her tn earnal frnition

{the first effeet of itl... ix. 1011,1010

The plaee, Ae. deseribed ix. 1037

After speeeh to ber. on their

fall and nakedness ix. 1007

Another, eharging her as the
aggressnr ix. 1132

Reply to her answer lreerind-
nates her affeeted self-suf-
fleieney, Ae.1 ix. 1102

Answer to Ged, ealiing him
to jndgment x. 110

Reply to him )aeeuses Evel... x. 124

The sentenee prononneed ou

him « x. 107

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