It was known before many days elapsed, at Quin Abbey, and by none sooner than Molly Maguire, that the chief of the plotters against his patriotic efforts, Henry Luttrell, was likely to escape, at least for a time, the just punishment of his treachery. It became apparent that intrigue was still at work among the defenders of the besieged town-that secret communications were kept up with the enemy in spite of the example made. Almost at the very hour when Luttrell should have been led forth to suffer his deserved punishment, a flag of truce arrived from the English camp, with a message from General Ginkell-to the effect that if Colonel Luttrell, or any other person, was put to death for proposing overtures of peace or surrender with his most clement Prince, he would refuse all terms to the city, its defenders and inhabitants, and would inflict on all his prisoners the identical doom the garrison of Limerick should dare to urge against those humane persons who desired to stop the further useless effusion of Christian blood! The strength of the underhand opposition to Sarsfield appeared in the results of this menace. The General himself would have put the sentence of his court-martial into force the more inflexibly for it; but D'Usson summoned a council of war, in his quality of senior commander, and in this assembly the measure was opposed so strenuously and fiercely that Sarsfield, apprehensive of an open outbreak of these mutinous sentiments, was compelled to yield so far as to promise to reserve Luttrell's case for further consideration. The circumstance, however, convinced Lord Lucan more than ever of the necessity of the military coup he had concerted with Mahony. But it was incumbent to observe great caution in the execution of the plan. The necessities of the defence were in themselves engrossing and devouring; so it was only by slow degrees Mahony's forces at the Abbey, consisting of picked men, on whom reliance could be placed for the purpose in view, swelled in numbers. Certainly too slowly for the increasing dangers of the crisis; so that when Mahony, urged on by a new and exasperating personal motive of his own, proposed the arming of O'Neil's Rapparees, after earnestly representing the degree of efficiency they had already attained, and the zealous good-will exhibited by their young chieftain in the cause of his country, Sarsfield readily adopted the suggestion. And this new and exasperating motive was nothing less than the REJECTION of the honourable offers of the brave Mahony to the disgraced ex-mistress of the departed Lord Deputy of James the Second! Surely a remarkable circumstance! which we must take a new chapter to elucidate. THE BEAUTIES AND BLEMISHES OF MILTON. BOOK I. THE subject upon which we treat in this essay is hacknied; nevertheless, it may prove interesting to others who have not investigated the subject, prompted by the same reasons, and induced by the same circumstances, as those by which we have been influenced. We have met many who have complained of the dulness of Milton-who have said that he was too heavy to be read-and we were anxious to ascertain the reasons of this reluctance to read the works of a poet who had been praised so highly by persons who were the most eminent in literature. We once read Milton by the seaside, and were so struck by the magnificent image of the enormous proportions of Lucifer "extended long and large, floating many a rood," that we determined to re-read the poem from time to time slowly, and, as an animal chews the cud, bit by bit. While we were engaged in this snail-like process through the fields of sublimity, a letter, written by the poet Cowper to a reverend friend of his, and some very clever criticisms on Milton by Henry Reed, in his "Lectures on the British Poets," happened to fall in our way. Cowper, in the letter to which we have referred, has the following passage: "His (in allusion to Dr. Johnson) treatment of Milton is unmerciful to the last degree. He has belaboured that great poet's character with the most industrious cruelty. As a man, he has hardly left him the shadow of one good quality; as a poet, he has treated him with severity enough, and has plucked one or two of the most beautiful feathers out of the Muse's wing, and trampled them under his great foot. I am convinced, by the way, that he has no ear for poetical numbers, or that it was stopped by prejudice against the harmony of Milton's. Was there ever anything so delightful as the music of the Paradise Lost'? It is like that of a fine organ-has the fullest and the deepest tone of majesty, with all the softness and elegance of the Dorian flute-variety without end, and never equalled, unless, perhaps, by Virgil. Yet the Doctor has little or nothing to say upon this copious theme, but talks something about the unfitness of the English language for blank verse; and how apt it is, in the mouth of some readers, to degenerate into declamation." The time employed in perusing and critically reviewing this sublime poet, is, in our opinion, well employed. So highly do we reverence him, that we will, before we offer a single objection to his great work, "Paradise Lost," set before our readers as many of his beauties as we can conveniently notice in an essay. How soft and harmonious are these lines in the opening passage :— "Silva's brook that flowed 2 R VOL. III. and the comparison that the Almighty "Dove-like sat'st brooding o'er the vast abyss." The exclamation of Lucifer, "All is not lost!" is very fine, and a noble conception of his character is formed from the words "So spake the Apostate Angel, How much of horror is conveyed by the thought "Here in the heart of Hell, to work in fire.” How painful the idea "Fall'n cherub, to be weak is miserable." What a rallying of his prostrate nature is indicated by the resolution to "Summon his afflicted Powers," and ascertain "What reinforcement he might gain from Hope; We almost sympathize with the afflicted demon, and regard him as sublime in his grief and suffering, when we find him surveying the soil, and clime, and mournful gloom that he should exchange for Heaven. There is something inconceivably pathetic in his apostrophe "Farewell happy fields, Where joy for ever dwells." And how much of philosophy there is in the remark "The mind is its own place, and on itself Can make a Heaven of Hell-a Hell of Heaven." With what graphic power is painted the true character of Satan in these words: "Here we may reign secure, and in my choice Again, observe his unconquerable will in resolving once more to rally his army, and see what could be "regained in Heaven, or lost in Hell." How grand the description of Beelzebub, "the superior fiend,” — his ponderous shield, his enormous spear, his “ uneasy steps" over the burning marl—his voice resounding through the hollow deep of Hellhis legions lying “Thick as autumnal leaves," constitute images of great sublimity. And then his address to the "Princes, Potentates, Warriors, the flower of Heaven;" the description of "Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood;" and in the concluding admonition "Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen !" what could better express a last appeal to souls unconquered, though despairing? There are portions of these passages too elaborate, prolix, discursive, and parenthetical, by which the strength of condensation is destroyed. Milton sometimes sacrificed effect to a display of his learning. His description of the angels hovering under the cope of Hell is fine, but rather marred by long interweaving and involving sentences. Then come the principal fiends "First Moloch, horrid king." The idea that our world is filled with good and evil spirits is thus expressed : "Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both, so soft And uncompounded is their essence pure." The grouping of spirits is very noble-Astarte, Queen of Heaven; Dagon, the Sea-monster, and Belial, the most lewd of all the spirits; but we cannot avoid thinking that there is a certain ruggedness and prolixity in the language that detracts from its graphic power. The description of the downcast looks of the fallen angels is heart-touching. What a picture of dignity in distress is that of Satan :— "His wonted pride Soon recollecting, with high words that bore Semblance of worth, not substance, gently raised We should like to see a picture by Martin, Hadyn, or Dante, of the tall cherub "Azazel," the Imperial Standard Bearer-the flag of Hell, "streaming like a meteor to the wind." Is not this, too, a grand conception of a shout-" Tearing Hell's concave, and frighting the reign of Chaos, and old Night." The scene is full of sublimity, dark, horrible, agonizing : "Ten thousand banners rise into the air; by the legions-their firmness, fortitude, and courage; and destitute, indeed, of feeling must that heart be, which does not thrill with an exquisite sensation while these lines meet the eye : "Thus they, Breathing united force with fixed thought, Now, behold the general-in-chief of this sorrowing, suffering, but magnificent army "His heart distends with pride, He glories in his forces ;" in shape and gesture proudly eminent; like a tower, firm, erect, seen from a distance-a mighty landmark, o'ertopping all things : "His form had not yet lost All its original brightness, nor appeared Less than archangel ruined." Then behold his face-black, convulsed, scarr'd and scorched by the thunder, like a Mirabeau or a Marat, glaring through the hellish fires of a revolution. View him again :— Is he not like Bonaparte, looking on the blazing splendour of the Kremlin, with one cheering thought-the devotion of his soldiers? Here is fidelity, indeed, each standing like a scathed, a scorched, and withered pine upon the blasted heath. See! he prepares to speak-his legions enclose him round-he weeps; his tears are those which angels only shed, and words, interwoven with sighs, find a laboured and imperfect utterance : "Henceforth his might we know, and know our own." Here is a declaration-how much it speaks of a fixed and determined mind! And thus he concludes his speech to the "Myriads of immortal spirits," bidding them prepare for "War, Open or understood." What is the response? Do the angels-" matchless," save with Their flaming swords from mighty cherubim. Hell is illuminated. sounding shields rattle and clash with the din of war; and looking up, with faces all black with smoke and red with blood, and wings expand 1 1 |