letters which he wrote, in the name of Cromwell, to redrefs the injuries of the perfecuted proteftants, who fuffered in Piedmont, were highly calculated to promote, in equal degrees, his zeal for the purity of religion, and his attachment to the protector. Yet great as the powers of Cromwell were to dazzle and delude, and willing as the liberal mind of Milton was to give credit to others for that pure public fpirit, which he poffeffed himself, there is great reafon to apprehend, that his veneration and esteem for the protector were entirely deftroyed by the treacherous defpotism of his latter days. But however his opinion of Oliver might change, he was far from betraying liberty, according to Johnson's ungenerous accufation, by continuing to exercile his office; on the contrary, it ought to be esteemed a proof of his fidelity to freedom, that he condefcended to remain in an office, which he had received from no individual, and in which he juftly confidered himself as a fervant of the state. From one of his familiar letters, written in the year preceding the death of Cromwell, it is evident that he had no fecret intimacy. or influence with the protector; and that, instead of engaging in ambitious machinations, he confined himself as much as poffible to the privacy of domeftic life. Finally, on a full and fair review of all the intercourse between Milton and Cromwell, there is not the fmallest ground to fufpect, that Milton ever fpoke or acted as a fycophant or a flave; he bestowed, indeed, the moft liberal eulogy, both in profe and rhyme, upon the the protector; but at a period when it was the general opinion, that the utmost efforts of panegyric could hardly equal the magnitude and the variety of the fervices rendered to his country by the acknowledged hero and the fancied patriot; at a period when the eulogift, who understood the frailty of human nature, and forefaw the temptations of recent power, might hope that praise fo magnificent, united to the noblest advice, would prove to the ardent spirit of the protector the best preservative against the delirium of tyranny. Thefe generous hopes were disappointed; the defpotic proceedings of Cromwell convinced his independent monitor, that he deserved not the continued applause of a free fpirit; and though the atchievements of the protector were so fascinating, that poetical panegyrics encircled even his grave, yet Milton praised him no more, but after his decease fondly hailed the revival of parliamentary independence, as a new dawning of God's providence on the nation. In contemplating these two extraordinary men together, the real lover of truth and freedom can hardly fail to obferve the striking contraft of their characters; one was an abfolute model of false, and the other of true, grandeur. Mental dignity and public virtue were in Cromwell fictitious and delufive; in Milton they were genuine and unchangeable; Cromwell fhews the formidable wonders that courage and cunning can perform, with the affiftance of fortune; Milton, the wonders, of a fuperior kind, that integrity and genius can accomplish, in defpight of adverfity and affliction. An An eager folicitude to vindicate a moft noble mind from a very base and injurious imputation has led me to anticipate fome public events. From these obfervations on the native and incorruptible independence of Milton's mind, let us return to the incidents of his domeftic life. Soon after his removal to his houfe in Weftminfter, his fourth child, Deborah, was born, on the 2d of May, 1652. The mother, according to Philips, died in child-bed. The fituation of Milton at this period was fuch as might have depreffed the mind of any ordinary man: at the age of forty-four he was left a widower, with three female orphans, the eldest about fix years old, deformed in her perfon, and with an impediment in her fpeech; his own health was very delicate; and with eyes that were rapidly finking into incurable blindness, he was deeply engaged in a literary conteft of the highest importance. With what spirit and fuccefs he triumphed over his political and perfonal enemies the reader is already informed. When thefe, in 1654, were all filenced and fubdued by the irresistible power of his fuperior talents and probity," he had "leifure again (fays his nephew) for his own "ftudies and private defigns." It feems to have been the habit of Milton to devote as many hours in every day to intenfe ftudy as the mental faculties could bear, and to render fuch conftant exertion lefs oppreffive to the mind, by giving variety to the objects of its application, engaging in different works of magnitude at the fame time, that he might occafionally relieve and infpirit infpirit his thoughts by a transition from one species of compofition to another. If we may rely on the information of Philips, he now began to employ himself in this manner on three great works; a voluminous Latin Dictionary, a history of England, and an Epic poem; of the two laft I fhall speak again, according to the order of their publication. The first and least important, a work to which blindness was peculiarly unfavourable, was never brought to maturity, yet ferved to amuse this most diligent of authors, by a change of literary occupation, almoft to the close of his life. His collection of words amounted to three folios; but the papers, after his decease, were fo difcompofed and deficient (to use the expreffion of his nephew) that the work could not be made fit for the prefs. They proved ferviceable, however, to future compilers, and were used by thofe who published the Latin Dictionary at Cambridge, in 1693. Though he had no eyes to chufe a fecond wife, Milton did not long continue a widower. He married Catherine, the daughter of Captain Woodcock, a rigid fectarist, fays Mr. Warton, of Hackney. This lady appears to have been the most tender and amiable of the poet's three wives, and fhe is the only one of the three whom the mufe of Milton has immortalized with an affectionate memorial. Within the year of their marriage fhe gave birth to at daughter, and very foon followed her infant to the grave. "Her husband" (fays Johnfon)" has ho"noured her memory with a poor fonnet," an expreffion of contempt, which only proves that the rough rough critic was unable to fympathife with the tenderness that reigns in the pathetic poetry of Milton: in the opening of this fonnet ; Methought I faw my late efpoufed faint Brought to me, like Alceftis, from the grave, and in the latter part of it, Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied fight But O, as to embrace me the inclin'd I wak'd, fhe fled, and day brought back my night. Milton has equalled the mournful graces of Petrarch and of Camoens, who have each of them left a plaintive compofition on a similar idea. The curious reader, who may wish to compare the three poets on this occifion, will find the fimilarity I fpeak of in the 79th fonnet of Petrarch, and the 72d of Camoens. The lofs of a wife fo beloved, and the fevere inthralment of his country under the increafing defpotifm of Cromwell, must have wounded very deeply the tender and patriotic feelings of Milton. His variety of affliction from these fources might probably occafion his being filent, as an author, for fome years. In 1655 he is fuppofed to have written a national manifefto in Latin, to justify the war against Sorin. From that time, when his defence of himfif alfo appeared, we know not of his having been engaged |