han a Miltonic Sonnet. The rigid principles of form,
adhered to so scrupulously in the medium used, intensify, rather
than detract from, his individualistic character. That Miltonic wit, so
granite-like and mordant, how well it goes with the magical
whispers that "syllable men's names"!

All Milton's personal prejudices may be found in the Sonnets, from
his hatred of those frightful Scotch appellations that would "make
Quintlian gasp" to his longing for Classic companionship and "Attic
wine" and "immortal notes" and "Tuscan airs"! As one reads on,
laughing gently at the folly of those who have so misunderstood him,
one is conscious more and more of that high, cold, clear, lonely
tenderness, which found so little satisfaction in the sentiment of the
rabble and still less in the endearments of women! As in the case of
"sad Electra's poet," his own favorite, it is easy to grow angry about
his "Misogyny" and take Christian exception to his preference for
mistresses over wives. It is true that Milton's view of marriage is
more than "heathen." But one has to remember that in these matters
of purely personal taste no public opinion has right to intervene.
When the well-married Brownings of our age succeed in writing
poetry in the "grand style," it will be time--and, perhaps, not even
then--to let the dogs of democratic domesticity loose upon this
austere lover of the classic way.

What a retort was "Paradise Lost" to the lewd revellers who would
have profaned his aristocratic isolation with howlings and brutalities
and philistine uproar! Milton despised "priests and kings" from the
heights of a pride loftier than their own--and he did not love the
vulgar mob much better. In Paradise Lost he can "feel himself" into
the sublime tyranny of God, as well as into the sublime revolt of
Lucifer. Neither the one or other stoops to solicit "popular voices."
The thing to avoid, as one reads this great poem, are the paraphrases
from the book of Genesis. Here some odd scrupulousness of
scholarly conscience seems to prevent him launching out into his
native originality. But, putting this aside, what majestic
Pandemoniums of terrific Imagination he has the power to call up!
The opening Books are as sublime as the book of Job, and more
arresting than Aeschylus. The basic secrets of his blank verse can
never be revealed, but one is struck dumb with wonder in the
presence of this Eagle of Poetry as we attempt to follow him, flight
beyond fli