POET
OF REVOLUTION:
The Making of John Milton
Nicholas McDowell
ISBN 978-0-691-15469-5
An intellectual biography, this book is not for those interested in
the details of Milton’s everyday life, his relationships, how he got
through the week. Mc Dowell has set himself the formidable task of
discovering the influences and choices which made Milton the writer
he was. The result is a remarkably researched and precise book which
grants much more than its major aim: readers unfamiliar with
eighteenth century literature, with its classical precursors, with
the doctrines which ruled the age and the disputes which divided it,
will learn a great deal.
Milton was born eight years before Shakespeare died. He wrote a
sonnet in his praise, one of those occasional pieces which permit
access to his talent far less laboriously than through his major
work. Milton’s mentality was very different from his predecessor’s:
he was steeped in religion and obsessed with questions of sin and
virtue. Milton, the man, is very much at the heart his work while
Shakespeare, three centuries before Flaubert summoned the
disappearing narrator, occupies his universe as the French genius
advised: “présent partout, visible nulle part” (ubiquitous but
nowhere visible). Could Shakespeare have been a polemicist? It’s
hard to imagine. His genius was to hold up the mirror to nature and
then, Ariel-like, to vanish. Milton has a very different strategy:
he is a preacher, a teacher, a pamphleteer, an agitator for causes
(divorce, for example). The book’s title may refer to Milton the
poet, but McDowell in intensely interested in what made Milton the
polemicist. Paradise Lost and Areopagitica have
something in common: what Iris Murdoch called, with reference to
Sartre, “a rhetorical anxiety to persuade.” Nor was Milton modest in
his aims: explaining the ways of God to man on the one hand,
reforming the nation’s polity on the other.
Milton’s paternal grandfather, Richard, was a devout Catholic who
refused to convert to Protestantism. He disinherited his son John,
Milton’s father, when he found an English Bible in his room. Milton
was born into religious strife. His father was a scrivener and
money-lender, well-off enough to secure his son a good education.
Milton took learning very seriously, an unarguable position. Yet
what is disturbing is what he thought necessary to pursue it. In the
latin “prolusion” on the subject of “defence of knowledge” which he
delivered to his
teachers and fellows at Christ’s College, Cambridge in 1631, he
declared:
“We allow ourselves to be outdone by laborers and husbandmen in
working after dark and before dawn..Though we aspire to the highest
and best of the human condition we can endure neither hard work nor
yet the reproach of idleness.. It is a shameful admission that we
neglect to cultivate our minds out of consideration for our bodies,
whose health all should be ready to impair if thereby their minds
might gain the more.”
No doubt Milton conceived of “mind” as a species of essence, not
dependent on flesh. Like Descartes’s erroneous “cogito”, Milton’s
view fails to recognise the primacy of matter. He wore out his eyes
reading in bad light, no great advantage for a scholar and writer.
He also believed sexual
abstinence conducive to learning and the attainment of “the highest
and best of the human condition”. It’s interesting to ask how such a
wayward idea every entered the human mind and also, why a man as
intelligent and insightful as Milton could fall for it.
Milton married Mary Powell in 1642. The marriage was over in a
trice. Mc Dowell cites John Aubrey who believed that Mary’s
revulsion at the beatings Milton dished out to his
nephews Edward and John
Phillips the better to assist their assimilation of Latin grammar
was part of the cause. Once again, taking into account the
tyrannous power of custom, it’s alarming that a man of Milton’s
intellectual power could believe that beating little boys until they
wept would in any way improve their minds.
“Beauty,” Baudelaire remarked, “is the promise of happiness.” What’s
the connection? Cross translations in the brain. Neither Baudelaire
nor Milton had any inkling of that, but the latter associated beauty
with wisdom, as if Laura Ashley had read her David Hume.
“For that I do not know what else God may have decreed for me, this
certainly is true: He has instilled into me, if anyone, a vehement
love of the beautiful.”
Whether Milton thought beating children beautiful we’ll never know.
Later in the same passage he speaks of “the warped judgement of the
public” and of his cleaving to whoever “dares to feel and speak and
be that which the greatest wisdom throughout all ages has taught to
be the best.”. Milton’s mind is so fixated on reaching up for the
best that his feet are in danger of trampling the snowdrops he
doesn’t see. It is said the non-conformist clergy used to warn their
flock against being “too heavenly minded to be of any earthly use.”
“Fame is the spurre” he wrote in Lycidas. Yet Milton’s fame was not
ours. His ambition was Virgilian. It was to have his work read,
admired and studied over centuries like the Augustan. In this,
Milton is admirable; his capacity to value what matters in the
long-term and to resist fads is a tonic to our celebrity intoxicated
age. Yet Shakespeare too expected his work to endure, “as long as
men may breathe and eyes may see”,
but he recognised that just because some people think they’re
virtuous doesn’t mean there’ll be no more cakes and ale. Milton is
not a man for cakes and ale.
McDowell carefully reviews the evidence for Milton’s degree of
interest in the religious disputes of his time. He’s not happy with
the standard view that the hostile Puritan reaction to his writings
on divorce led to his argument with the Presbyterians. He sees
antecedents in the earlier anti-prelatical writings. McDowell is
nothing if not thorough. He is exemplary in finding the evidence to
sustain his arguments. The result is at once fascinating and
overwhelming. This will become a standard reference book. For the
“intelligent general reader”, as they used to say, McDowell’s
immersion in the subject is likely to inspire a sense of seriously
inadequate familiarity with the seventeenth century. That’s a
compliment. McDowell, like his subject, has faith in learning and is
extremely diligent.
Milton believed that popish forms of domination were disastrous for
learning, for intellectual excellency, for creativity. Perhaps
discussion of this is the point at which the book gains its greatest
relevance to our culture. When Milton wrote Of Reformation he
relied more heavily on poets of his time than on patristic texts. He
had faith in literature as a source of truth and wisdom and he
feared the wrong kind of clerical policy was destructive to the
artist’s ability to reveal them. He was dismissive of the “the
writings and interludes of libidinous and ignorant Poetasters”. What
would he have made of the three for two table in Waterstones? He
believed literature should “inbreed and cherish” the “seeds of
vertu, and publick civility.” What would he have made of the Booker
Prize? When he made a gift to the Bodleian librarian John Rouse of
all eleven of his prose tracts in 1646 he spoke of “satisfying
himself with but few readers of this kind.” Imagine writing
Paradise Lost for “but few readers”. What would today’s literary
agents and publishers and indeed critics, have to say about that?
Milton reflected that he might “perhaps leave something so written
to the aftertimes, as they should not willingly let it die.”
Wouldn’t it be more likely today that something so written for the
aftertimes would be swiftly put to death? He scorned the “toylsom
vanity” of “verbal curiosities” and wanted to be “an interpreter and
relater of the best and sagest things among mine own Citizens”. He
also considered the English people susceptible to idolatry of power
and its vacuous ceremonies. Publishing mostly anonymously, not till
1642 did he begin to gain recognition, but not as a great writer: he
was traduced as an encourager of sexual immorality because of his
defence of divorce. His response, among other things was
Areopagitica, still the most eloquent defence in English of the
freedom to publish.
McDowell’s study ends half way through Milton’s life. He promises in
the second volume to explore how the “gleaming vision of the poet’s
powers became darkened, but not overwhelmed, by the experience of
revolution”. A fascinating prospect. Prepare for it by reading this
one.
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