Edward Phillips, who in 1694 published a life of his uncle, wrote that little John’s death was caused by “the ill-usage or bad constitution of an ill-chosen nurse.” Yet Deborah survived.
Four years later Milton married a second wife, Katherine Woodcock of Hackney. Very little is known about her. This is the wife whom in a sonnet he called “my late espoused saint.” She died in February, 1657, and her five-months-old daughter Katherine died six weeks later.
He continued, despite his blindness, to work for the Council of State, though at a reduced salary. Probably he wanted to go to Sweden as British Ambassador and there replace Salmasius in Queen Christina’s affectionate esteem: he certainly wrote her a panegyric in his Second Defence of the English People which is so adulatory that it cannot be easily explained otherwise. But if he had such a plan, he was disappointed, for on June 16th, 1654, three weeks before the book came out, the Queen abdicated the throne. Salmasius had lately died “it is thought of a broken heart.” Milton accepted £1,000 from the Council of State as a reward for his Second Defence, written against a Scot named More who had taken up the cudgels for Salmasius. The following autobiographical passage occurs in this book:
“Let us now come to the charges which were brought against myself. Is there anything reprehensible in my manners or my conduct? Surely nothing. What no one, not totally divested of all generous sensibility, would have done, he reproaches me with want of beauty and loss of sight.
“‘A monster huge and hideous, void of sight.’
“I certainly never supposed that I should have been obliged to enter into a competition for beauty with the Cyclops; but he immediately corrects himself, and says, ‘Though not indeed huge, for there cannot be a more spare, shrivelled, and bloodless form.’ It is of no moment to say anything of personal appearance, yet lest (as the Spanish vulgar, implicitly confiding in the relations of their priests, believe of heretics) anyone, from the representations of my enemies, should be led to imagine that I have either the head of a dog, or the horn of a rhinoceros, I will say something on the subject, that I may have an opportunity of paying my grateful acknowledgments to the Deity, and of refuting the most shameless lies. I do not believe that I was ever once noted for deformity by anyone who ever saw me; but the praise of beauty I am not anxious to obtain. My stature certainly is not tall; but it rather approaches the middle than the diminutive. Yet what if it were diminutive, when so many men, illustrious both in peace and war, have been the same? And how can that be called diminutive, which is great enough for every virtuous achievement? Nor, though very thin, was I ever deficient in courage or in strength; and I was wont constantly to exercise myself in the use of the broadsword, as long as it comported with my habits and my years. Armed with this weapon, as I usually was, I should have thought myself quite a match for anyone, though much stronger than myself; and I felt perfectly secure against the assault of any open enemy. At this moment I have the same courage, the same strength, though not the same eyes; yet so little do they betray any external appearance of injury that they are as unclouded and bright as the eyes of those who most distinctly see. In this instance alone I am a dissembler against my will. My face, which is said to indicate a total privation of blood, is of a complexion entirely opposite to the pale and the cadaverous; so that, though I am more than forty years old, there is scarcely anyone to whom I do not appear ten years younger than I am; and the smoothness of my skin is not, in the least, affected by the wrinkles of age.
“If there be one particle of falsehood in this relation, I should deservedly incur the ridicule of many thousands of my countrymen, and even many foreigners to whom I am personally known. But if he, in a matter so foreign to his purpose, shall be found to have asserted so many shameless and gratuitous falsehoods, you may the more readily estimate the quantity of his veracity on other topics. Thus much necessity has compelled me to assert concerning my personal appearance. Respecting yours, though I have been informed that it is more insignificant and contemptible, a perfect mirror of the worthlessness of your character and the malevolence of your heart, I say nothing, and no one will be anxious that anything should be said. I wish that I could with equal facility refute what this barbarous opponent has said of my blindness; but I cannot do it; and I must submit to the affliction. It is not so wretched to be blind as it is not to be capable of enduring blindness. But why should I not endure a misfortune, which it behoves every one to be prepared to endure if it should happen, which may, in the common course of things, happen to any man; and which has been known to happen to the most distinguished and virtuous persons in history. Shall I mention those wise and ancient bards, whose misfortunes the gods are said to have compensated by superior endowments, and whom men so much revered, that they chose rather to impute their want of sight to the injustice of heaven than to their own want of innocence or virtue? What is reported of the Augur Tiresias is well known; of whom Apollonius sung this in his Argonauts:
“‘To men he dar’d the will divine disclose,
Nor fear’d what Jove might in his wrath impose.
The gods assigned him age, without decay,
But snatched the blessing of his sight away.’
“But God Himself is truth; in propagating which, as men display a greater integrity and zeal, they approach nearer to the similitude of God, and possess a greater portion of His love. We cannot suppose the Deity envious of truth, or unwilling that it should be freely communicated to mankind. The loss of sight, therefore, which this inspired sage, who was so eager in promoting knowledge among men, sustained, cannot be considered as a judicial punishment. Or shall I mention those worthies who were as distinguished for wisdom in the cabinet, as for valour in the field? And first, Timoleon of Corinth, who delivered his city and all Sicily from the yoke of slavery; than whom there never lived in any age a more virtuous man, or a more incorrupt statesman; next Appius Claudius, whose discreet counsels in the Senate, though they could not restore sight to his own eyes, saved Italy from the formidable inroads of Pyrrhus: then Cæcilius Metellus the high priest, who lost his sight, while he saved not only the city, but the Palladium, the protection of the city, and the most sacred relics, from the destruction of the flames. On other occasions Providence has indeed given conspicuous proofs of its regard for such singular exertions of patriotism and virtue; what, therefore, happened to so great and so good a man, I can hardly place in the catalogue of misfortunes. Why should I mention others of later times, as Dandolo of Venice, the incomparable Doge; or Boemar Zisca, the bravest of generals, and the champion of the Cross; or Jerome Zanchius, and some other theologians of the highest reputation? For it is evident that the patriarch Isaac, than whom no man ever enjoyed more of the divine regard, lived blind for many years; and perhaps also his son Jacob, who was equally an object of the divine benevolence. And in short, did not our Saviour himself clearly declare that that poor man whom he restored to sight had not been born blind, either on account of his own sins or those of his progenitors? And with respect to myself, though I have accurately examined my conduct, and scrutinized my soul, I call thee, O God, the searcher of hearts, to witness that I am not conscious, either in the more early or in the later periods of my life, of having committed any enormity which might deservedly have marked me out as a fit object for such a calamitous visitation.”
[Translation by the Rev. Robert Fellowes.]
As Secretary for the Foreign Tongues, Milton supported the Lord Protector Cromwell, whom he styled “our chief of men,” in all his bold acts, from the rude abolishment of what was left of the Rump Parliament (the “take-away-that-bauble” episode), to the un-English attempt at governing England by regional major-generals. Not being required to do so much office work as formerly, Milton found time for his own writings. As John Phillips wrote in 1686:
“Nor did his darkness discourage or disable him from prosecuting, with the help of amanuenses, the former design of his calmer studies. And he had now more leisure, being dispensed with, by having a su
bstitute allowed him, and sometimes instructions sent home to him, from attending in his office of Secretary.
“It was now that he began that laborious work of amassing out of all the Classic Authors, both in Prose and Verse, a Latin Thesaurus to the emendation of that done by Stephanus; also the composing of Paradise Lost; and the framing a Body of Divinity out of the Bible: all which, notwithstanding the several calamities befalling him in his fortunes, he finished after the Restoration. As also the British History down to the Conquest; Paradise Regained, Samson Agonistes, a Tragedy; Logic and Accidence commenced Grammar; and had begun a Greek Thesaurus; having scarce left any part of learning unimproved by him.”
John Phillips was a journalist. Just before the Restoration he had turned Royalist and wrote of Milton’s Eikonoklastes as a blasphemous libel, though previously he had written vigorously in defence of it.
Oliver Cromwell died in 1658. His mild son Richard succeeded him. The Restoration took place in 1660. Milton’s life was then in danger, but though he was for a while in custody he was not hanged and disembowelled as Hugh Peters and the rest were: he merely lost all the money he had invested in Government funds. Jonathan Richardson relates (1734) that Milton’s life was saved by the intercession of Sir William Davenant, the noseless Poet Laureate whose life Milton himself had similarly saved in 1651, when Davenant was captured on the way to America.
Richardson also writes:
“After all it is to be observed that the pardon which secured Milton to us was that of the Parliament, into whose hands the King had committed the affair, and who did as they thought fit; in some points, no doubt, complying with the Royal intimations in other ostentatious of their zeal and then most remarkably fashionable loyalty. Though the King had expressed his desire that the Indemnity should extend to all who were not immediately guilty of the murder of his father, and had said it mainly in his speech of 27th July, yet that restriction was far from being punctually observed. The interest that saved Milton was therefore made to, and was effectual with the Parliament, or rather the Legislature; the nation forgave him, though they little knew how well he would reward their clemency by his future writings, chiefly Paradise Lost. And what made this clemency the more remarkable is that this very year, whilst his fate was in suspense, the old controversy was raised up with bitter invectives. Salmasius died some year before, whilst he was preparing a furious reply. This work, though imperfect, was now printed; but Milton’s fortune and merit withstood this malicious attack.
“’Twas enough that Milton was screened from being excepted in the general pardon, his life and person were then safe, his two most obnoxious books being sacrificed in his stead, which was the most that his friends could hope for. Bishop Burnet’s conclusion of what he says on this head I will add. ‘Milton had appeared so boldly, though with much wit and great purity and elegancy of style, against Salmasius and others, upon that argument of putting the King to death, and had discovered such violence against the late King and all the Royal Family, and against monarchy, that it was thought a strange omission if he was forgot, and an odd strain of clemency if it was intended he should be forgiven. He was not excepted out of the Act of Indemnity. And afterwards he came out of his concealment, and lived many years much visited by all strangers, and much admired by all at home, for the poems he wrote, though he was then blind, chiefly that of Paradise Lost, in which there is a nobleness both of contrivance and execution, that, though he affected to write in blank verse, without rhyme, and made many new and rough words, yet it was esteemed the beautifullest and perfectest poem that ever was writ, at least in our language.’ This passage is put in this place entire, though the latter part of it refers to what comes after. I will only further observe, that had the Bishop known this story of Sir William Davenant, he would not have been one of the wonderers at Milton’s escape. How many things appear unaccountable, merely because ourselves cannot account for them. The wisest men fall into this folly in some degree every day of their lives.
“Secured by pardon, Milton appeared again in public, and in a short time married his third wife. He was now blind, infirm, and 52 years old. He had several dwellings in the remaining part of his life. One in Jewen Street. This was in 1662, and about 1670 I have been told by one who then knew him, that he lodged some time at the house of Millington, the famous auctioneer, some years ago, who then sold old books in Little Britain, and who used to lead him by the hand when he went abroad. He afterwards had a small house near Bunhill Fields, where he died, about 14 years after he was out of public affairs. Besides those dwellings Elwood says in his Own Life, ‘Himself took a pretty box for him in Giles-Chalfont (Bucks) for the safety of himself and family, the pestilence then growing hot in London.’
“His time was now employed in writing and publishing, particularly Paradise Lost. And after that Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes. The last of these is worthy of him, the other of anyone else. If it be true that he preferred this to the first of the three, what shall we say?…
“Well it was for him that he had so fine an amusement, and a mind stored with rich ideas of the sublimest kinds: for besides what affliction he must have from his disappointment on the change of the times, and from his own private losses (and probably cares for subsistence, and for his family), he was in perpetual terror of being assassinated. Though he had escaped the talons of the Law, he knew he had made himself enemies in abundance. He was so dejected he would lie awake whole nights. He then kept himself as private as he could. This Dr. Tancred Robinson had from a relation of Milton’s, Mr. Walker of the Temple. And this is what is intimated by himself:
“‘On evil Daies though fall’n and evil tongues
In Darkness, and with Dangers compast round,
And Solitude…’
“His melancholy circumstances at this time are described by an enemy, in what my son found written in the spare leaf before the Answer to Eikon Basilike:
“Upon John Milton’s not suffering for his traiterous book when the Tryers were executed, 1600.
“‘That thou Escapd’st that Vengeance which o’ertook,
Milton, thy Regicides, and thy Own Book,
Was Clemency in Charles beyond compare,
And yet thy doom doth prove more Grievous farr.
Old, Sickly, Poor, Stark Blind, thou Writ’st for Bread,
So for to Live thou’dst call Salmasius from the Dead.’
“If this writer had known of the terrors mentioned above, he would have been glad to have added to his other miseries this which was equal to all the rest put together—if he can be said to be miserable who could write Paradise Lost….
“It has been seen that he was tormented with headaches, gout, blindness; and that though he was a gentleman, and had always enough for a philosopher, he made no show, nor had the affluences of fortune, perhaps was sometimes a little straitened, at least his family was not easy, how much soever himself was, only on their accounts. He had other domestic vexations, particularly that uncommon and severe one of the affront and scorn of a wife he loved,18 and the continuance of it for some years, and this without allowing him time to know what conjugal happiness was. Many of his choicest years of life were employ’d in wrangling, and receiving and racquetting back reproach, accusation and sarcasm. Which though he had an arm and dexterity fitted for, ‘twas an exercise of his abilities very disagreeable to him: as it must needs be to one accustomed to praise, as he was in his younger years, to one ever labouring to deserve esteem and love, to find himself laden with obloquy and hatred by a great part of mankind, and even by many of those from whom he had a right to expect and demand the contrary.
“I have heard many years since that he used to sit in a grey coarse cloth coat at the door of his house, near Bunhill Fields, without Moorgate, in warm sunny weather to enjoy the fresh air, and so, as well as in his room, received the visits of people of distinguished parts, as well as quality. And very lately I had the good fortune to have another picture of him from an ancient clergy
man in Dorsetshire, Dr. Wright. He found him in a small house, he thinks but one room on a floor; and that up one pair of stairs, which was hung with rusty green, he found John Milton, sitting in an elbow chair, black clothes, and neat enough, pale, but not cadaverous, his hands and fingers gouty, and with chalk stones. Among other discourse he expressed himself to this purpose; that, was he free from the pain this gave him, his blindness would be tolerable.
“Music he loved extremely, and understood well. ’Tis said he composed, though nothing of that has been brought down to us. He diverted himself with performing, which they say he did well on the organ and bass viol. And this was a great relief to him after he had lost his sight.
“In relation to his love of music, and the effect it had upon his mind, I remember a story I had from a friend I was happy in for many years, and who loved to talk of Milton, as he often did. Milton, hearing a lady sing finely, ‘Now I will swear,’ says he, ‘this lady is handsome.’ His ears now were eyes to him.”
Paradise Lost was the epical version of the play Adam Unparadised, and when he published it in 1667 he got a £5 advance from Simmons (a son of the Aldersgate Street publisher) on every edition of 1,300 copies, to sell at three shillings a copy. This was good payment for an epical poem in unfashionable blank verse, for money was worth about five times what it is to-day. He was paid the second £5 in 1669.
Edward Phillips wrote about Marie’s daughters:
“By his third wife Elizabeth, the daughter of one Mr. Minsha of Cheshire (and kinswoman to Dr. Paget), who survived him, and is said to be yet living, he never had any child; and those he had by the first he made serviceable to him in that very particular in which he most wanted their service, and supplied his want of eyesight by their eyes and tongue. For though he had daily about him one or other to read to him, some persons of man’s estate, who of their own accord greedily catched at the opportunity of being his readers, that they might as well reap the benefit of what they read to him, as oblige him by the benefit of their reading; others of younger years sent by their parents to the same end; yet excusing only the eldest daughter by reason of her bodily infirmity, and difficult utterance of speech (which to say truth I doubt was the principal cause of excusing her), the other two were condemned to the performance of reading and exactly pronouncing of all the languages of whatever book he should at one time or other think fit to peruse; viz. the Hebrew (and I think the Syriac), the Greek, the Latin, the Italian, Spanish and French. All which sorts of books, to be confined to read, without understanding one word, must needs be a trial of patience almost beyond endurance; yet it was endured by both for a long time. Yet the irksomeness of this employment could not always be concealed, but broke out more and more into expressions of uneasiness; so that at length they were all (even the eldest also) sent out to learn some curious and ingenious sorts of manufacture that are proper for women to learn, particularly embroideries in gold and silver. It had been happy indeed if the daughters of such a person had been made in some measure inheritrixes of their father’s learning; but since fate otherwise decreed, the greatest honour that can be ascribed to this now living (and so would have been to the others, had they lived) is to be daughter to a man of his extraordinary character….
Wife to Mr. Milton Page 45