to keep
them out of it. Milton liked the voice of the majority well enough
when he could plead it against Charles I; but when he found it calling
for Charles II he treated it as a mere impertinent absurdity; the vain
babble of a "misguided and abused multitude" with whom wise men have
nothing to do except to keep them in their place. And it is in the
latter attitude that he is most really himself. His is, of course, an
aristocracy of mind and character, not of birth and wealth; but the
self-sufficient scorn which was almost a virtue in Aristotle's eyes,
and is in ours the besetting sin of even the noblest of aristocrats, is
too frequent a note in all his prose, and even in his poetry; and it is
sometimes poured out upon those who are fitter subjects for tenderness
than for contempt. One can scarcely imagine a child {87} or an
ignorant man being quite at ease in Milton's company.

But these are the penalties that greatness has too often to pay for
being itself. So long as we remain human beings and not divine, it
will be found hard to unite humility, ease of manner, and the glad
sufferance of fools with a mind struggling in a storm of sublime
thoughts, with powers that are and know themselves to be far above
those of ordinary men. It will never be easy for men of supreme genius
to behave to their inferiors as if they were their equals. But that is
not the side of Milton of which we ought to think most often now. It
is more just as well as more merciful to him, and it is of more use to
ourselves, to fix our eyes on his strength, and not on the weakness
that more or less inevitably accompanied it. The ancients admired
strength more than the moderns have, at least until lately. But no one
can refuse to admire such strength as Milton's, so continuous, so
triumphant over exceptional obstacles, so disdainful of all petty or
personal ends. There is a majesty about it to which one scarcely knows
any real parallel. Strength implies purpose and art implies unity of
conception; the instinct of art was only less strong in Milton than the
resolute will; so that it {88} is not surprising that scarcely any life
has such unity as his. It is itself a perfect work of art. If we put
aside, as we may fairly, the partial political inconsistencies, the
rest is absolutely of one piece; a great building, nobly planned from
the beginning and nobly executed to the last harmonious detail of the
original design. We men are, most of u