| The infernal doors, that on their hinges grate Harsh thunder. |
The emissary of Satan in Cædmon had “a strong mind, lion-like in air, in hostile mood he dashed the fire aside with a fiend’s power.”8 That demon flings aside the flames of hell with the bravery of his sovereign, as we see in Milton—
| Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool His mighty stature; on each hand the flames Driv’n backward, slope their pointing spires, and roll’d In billows, leave in the midst a horrid vale.9 |
Cædmon thus represents Satan:—“Then spoke the haughty king, who of angels erst was brightest, fairest in heaven—beloved of his master—so beauteous was his form, he was like to the light stars.”
Milton’s conception of the form of Satan is the same.
| His form had not yet lost All her original brightness, nor appear’d Less than archangel ruin’d.10 |
And,
| His countenance as the morning star that guides The starry flock, allured them.11 |
Literary curiosity may be justly excited to account for these apparent resemblances, and to learn whether similarity and coincidence necessarily prove identity and imitation; and whether, finally, Cædmon was ever known to Milton.
The Cædmonian manuscript is as peculiar in its history as its subject. This poem, which we are told fixed the attention of our ancestors “from the sixth to the twelfth century,” and the genius of whose writer was “stamped deeply and lastingly upon the literature of our country,”12 had wholly disappeared from any visible existence. It was accidentally discovered only in a single manuscript, the gift of Archbishop Usher to the learned Francis Junius. During thirty years of this eminent scholar’s residence in England, including his occasional visits to Holland and Friesland, to recover, by the study of the Friesic living dialect, the extinct Anglo-Saxon, he devoted his protracted life to the investigation of the origin of the Gothic dialects. A Saxon poem, considerable for its size and for its theme, in a genuine manuscript, was for our northern student a most precious acquisition; and that this solitary manuscript should not he liable to accidents, Junius printed the original at Amsterdam in 1655, unaccompanied by any translation or by any notes.
We must now have recourse to a few dates.
Milton had fallen blind in 1654. The poet began “Paradise Lost” about 1658; the composition occupied three years, but the publication was delayed till 1667.
If Milton had any knowledge of Cædmon, it could only have been in the solitary and treasured manuscript of Junius. To have granted even the loan of the only original the world possessed, we may surmise that Junius would not have slept through all the nights of its absence. And if the Saxon manuscript was ever in the hands of Milton, could our poet have read it?
We have every reason to believe that Milton did not read Saxon. At that day who did? There were not “ten men to save the city.” In Milton’s “History of England,” a loose and solitary reference to the Saxon Chronicle, then untranslated, was probably found ready at hand; for all his Saxon annals are drawn from the Latin monkish authorities: and in that wonderful list of one hundred dramatic subjects which the poet had set down for the future themes of his muse, there are many on Saxon stories; but all the references are to Speed and Hollinshed. The nephew of the poet has enumerated all the languages in which Milton was conversant—“the Hebrew, (and I think the Syriac,) the Greek, the Latin, the Italian, the Spanish, and French.” We find no allusion to any of the northern tongues, which that votary of classical antiquity and of Ausonian melody and fancy would deem—can we doubt it?—dissonant and barbarous. The Northern Scalds were yet as little known as our own Saxons. A recent discovery that Milton once was desirous of reading Dutch may possibly be alleged by the Saxonists as an approach to the study of the Saxon; but at that time Milton was in office as “the Secretary for Foreign Tongues,” and in a busy intercourse with the Hollanders.13
“Secretary Milton” at that moment was probably anxious to con the phrases of a Dutch state-paper, to scrutinise into the temper of their style. Had Milton ever acquired the Dutch idiom for literary purposes, to study Vondel, the Batavian Shakspeare,14 from whom some foreigners imagine our poet might have drawn his “Lucifer,” it could not have escaped the nephew in the enumeration of his uncle’s philological acquirements. But even to read Dutch was not to read a Saxon manuscript, whose strange characters, uncouth abbreviations, and difficult constructions, are only mastered by long practice. To have known anything about the solitary Cædmon, the poet must have been wholly indebted to the friendly offices of its guardian; a personal intimacy which does not appear. The improbability that this scholar translated the manuscript phrase by phrase is nearly as great as the supposition that the poet could have retained ideas and expressions to be reproduced in that epic poem, which was not commenced till several years after.
The personal habits of Junius were somewhat peculiar; to his last days he was unrelentingly busied in pursuits of philology, of which, he has left to the Bodleian such monuments of his gigantic industry. Junius was such a rigid economist of time, that every hour was allotted to its separate work; each day was the repetition of the former, and on a system he avoided all visitors. Such a man could not have submitted to the reckless loss of many a golden day, in hammering at the obscure sense of the Saxon monk, which the critics find by his own printed text he could not always master; nor is it more likely that Milton himself could have sustained his poetic excitement through the tedious progress of a verbal or cursory paraphrase of Scripture history by this Gothic bard. At that day even Junius could not have discovered those “elastic rhythms,” which solicit the ear of a more modern Saxon scholar in his studies of Cædmon,15 but which we entirely owe to the skill, and punctuation, and accentuation of the recent editor, Mr. Thorpe.
Be it also observed, that Milton published his “Paradise Lost” in the lifetime of Junius, the only judge who could have convicted the bard who had daringly proposed
| ————to pursue Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme— |
of concealing what he had silently appropriated.
There are so many probabilities against the single possibility of Milton having had any knowledge of Cædmon, that we must decide by the numerical force of our own suggestions.
The startling similarities which have led away critical judgments, if calmly scrutinised, may be found to be those apparent resemblances or coincidences which poets drawing from the same source would fall into. There is a French mystery of “The Conception,” where the scene is hell; Lucifer appeals to its inmates in a long address. This Satan of “The Conception” strikingly reminds us of the Prince of Darkness of Milton, and indeed has many creative touches; and had it been written after the work of Milton, it might have seemed a parody.16