Milton's Pride and Humility

This is the first in a multi-part series in which I post past college papers I've written on this blog, because I have nothing creative or new to offer, yet I want to show off how insightful and articulate I am. This particular paper comes from freshman year, so it has its flaws. But at the heart of it, the thesis is a pretty profound understanding of the epic poem. Please don't be alarmed by my genius.

Paradise Lost can be loosely divided into two distinct halves, Books I through VI and Books VII through XII. The first half deals predominantly with the way things were before God created Earth, before the Biblical “six days.” Although Adam, Eve, Eden, and Earth do appear in the first half, they are used primarily as a forum in which Michael can relate to Adam the pre-Earth history of the Universe, i.e. Satan’s rebellion against God, his banishment to Hell, and his subsequent plans, although not in that order. Conversely, the second half of the poem deals almost exclusively with the real action that transpires on Earth, starting with the “six days,” Adam’s recollections of first becoming ontologically aware, and, of course, the tempting of Eve by Satan, man’s subsequent fall and banishment from Paradise, and even, in prophetic vision, Cain and Abel, Noah’s Ark, and Jesus Christ.

Each of these halves has a corresponding invocation in which Milton asks for divine inspiration, and each half has a distinct tone which fittingly introduces its subject matter. In short, the pre-Earth invocation uses very ambitious, boastful, and proud language, announcing its attempt to reach above and beyond our Universe, perhaps appropriate since this half of the book will concern itself exactly with such things that are above and beyond our Universe; the post-Earth invocation, on the other hand, uses language that is more grounded, humble, and, if I may say, “down to earth” than its forerunner, also perhaps appropriate, given that the text concerns itself with events that take place on Earth. However, at the same time, Milton also concedes that he does require some divine aid to reach his ambitious heights in the first invocation, while declaring in the second invocation that he won’t need much more help now that he has his feet on firm, familiar ground, so to speak.

The first invocation in Book I begins audaciously, asserting Milton as a cut above precursors like Homer and Virgil. It declares its subject matter to be “Of man’s first disobedience” (1.1). The word “first” can be construed not only in a chronological sense, but also as first in importance. The entire premise of using an invocation is obviously an homage to past epic writers like Homer and Virgil, but Milton also uses the invocation as a form to elevate himself and his poem above his predecessors. Within the same paradigm that they used, he declares his work “first” on the list, above whatever smaller, pettier stories Homer and Virgil had to tell about Odysseus or Aeneas. There is no doubt that Milton adopts a very proud attitude in this regard. Furthering his tone of unabashed superiority over the Classical era, he invokes the “aid” of his Muse, the Holy Spirit (in contrast to the lesser pagan Muses of mythology), to, “with no middle flight… soar above th’ Aonian mount” (1.13-5). Unlike Homer, who’s Muse is actually the one telling the story through him as a simple medium, Milton merely asks for “aid” so that he himself may “soar.” Milton, in this way, takes more ownership, more credit, for what he’s about to write than was traditionally done before him. His statements about wanting to bypass the “middle flight” and go above the “Aonian mount” are both allusions to places in which Greek inspiration resided. Milton, therefore, will go beyond whatever mental plane Greek writers aspired to, to something greater, grander, and closer to God and Heaven. The word “soar” itself is an interesting choice as well; it invokes an image of an angel with God-given wings reaching heights that no other bird of the earth can. It is an image about as ambitious as an image can get without drawing parallels between Milton and God Himself. Finally, his claim that his poem “pursues things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme” is a further insult to Classical writers (1.15-6). The implication is that they were never Godly enough, they were never good enough, to even think to attempt something on Milton’s ambitiously grandiose scale. They were only able to attempt stories of much less significance, and much less purpose. Milton’s words are wracked with pride and boastfulness.

Besides raising his relative worth in comparison with preceding epic writers (or lowering theirs, whichever your perspective), he also, in a subtle way, implies the cleanliness of his own personal moral character. He claims that the Spirit that he is trying to contact prefers to speak to “th’ upright heart and pure” (1.18). Our right hand tells us that this Spirit definitely made good and answered Milton’s requests, or else we wouldn’t have a poem to read. The implication, then, is that Milton is indeed upright and pure, deemed worthy by the Spirit to communicate this message, and Milton is not afraid to boast about it.

Milton closes his invocation with more elevation of his subject matter, as can be seen in the following lines to the Spirit:

“Instruct me, for thou know’st; thou from the first

Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread

Dove-like sat’st brooding on the vast abyss

And mad’st it pregnant…” (1.19-22).

The footnote for this passage says that Milton is emphasizing “the creative power and wisdom needed for such great undertakings as creating the world and writing this definitive poem” (Elledge 8). Equating the omnipotent forces that created the known Universe with the inspiration for this one poem seems rather ridiculous. It indicates just how weighty and profound Milton sees his own work, a rather brazen and pretentious way to approach things, especially at the outset. It’s fine to be proud, but to equate a poem with all of Creation?

Finally, the last two lines of the invocation really don’t need that much elaboration. Forgetting the Spirit’s role in the matter, he says, “I may assert Eternal Providence, and justify the ways of God to men” (1.25-6). In using first person, he assumes the full responsibility for this substantial charge. The tone of the phrase “assert Eternal Providence,” makes Milton appear rather presumptuous and pompous; who is he to assert to the rest of mankind anything, let alone something as weighty as Eternal Providence? Furthermore, that he wishes to “justify the ways of God to men” shows that he sees “men” as lesser than him, unable to understand God’s justice, and therefore it is up to the more Godly, more intelligent Milton to explain to all the uncomprehending souls exactly what God means. This is arrogance at its most complete, tempered only by his implicit admission that he can’t do it alone, and that he does need divine “aid,” although Milton seems to shoulder a preponderance of the responsibility and the credit when it comes to this charge. Milton can also be seen in a better light if we recognize that it was perhaps Milton’s intention to sound that boastful to introduce the first half of the poem, as a way of recognizing that this part of the story will mostly concern itself with things happening beyond Earth, in Heaven and Hell. Regardless of his reasons, however, Milton’s language in this invocation is undeniably marked by boastfulness, pride, and ambition.

The second invocation in Book VII is marked by a slight tonal shift, conveyed by Milton’s concession that perhaps he did not belong in Heaven, where the first half of the book often ventured. While the general theme in the first invocation was one of soaring ascension to great heights, the first word of this second invocation asks Milton’s Muse to “Descend from heav’n…” (7.1). Instead of riding on her wings upward, he’s now asking her to come down to him, admitting that he can’t write from up on high anymore. This shows a more humble, self-abnegating Milton, who is willing to suggest that his place is still on Earth, among the rest of the mortals. He is now “down to earth” in more ways than one. Milton also characterizes his stay on a divinely inspired plane as being “an earthly guest” (7.14). In this line, he both continues to ground himself as being merely “earthly,” while humbling himself, appropriately, as simply a guest in Heaven.

Milton even goes so far as to say that while his inspiration was ascending towards Heaven in the first half of the poem, he needed his Muse’s “temp’ring” of the “empyreal air” to survive, meaning the air up there was not suitable for mortal lungs (7.14-5). The implication is that Milton was plainly not built of Heavenly material; in a very basic, profound way, his constitution simply was not made for the heights he had so brazenly aspired to in the first invocation. He is deconstructing his previous arrogance and realigning himself with the rest of man, for ultimately, he recognizes that he is just a man. In fact, he expresses reservations, or even fear, about having been so high up; he wants to “return to [his] native element” before he falls “erroneous… to wander and forlorn” in a plane of mental existence beyond what was meant for him, or any man (7.16-20). He concedes that Earth, his “native element” is where he belongs, where it is safe, where he can not and will not “fall erroneous.” The next few lines in the text fairly explicitly express this sentiment:

“Half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound

Within the visible diurnal sphere;

Standing on earth, not rapt above the pole,

More safe I sing with mortal voice…” (7.21-4).

These lines also suggest the aforementioned possibility that Milton wrote each invocation to match the subject matter of the different halves of the poem. He says that the “half” that “remains unsung” is “narrower bound within the visible diurnal sphere,” basically meaning that the second half of the epic deals with the Universe that man knows about, i.e. the Earth and the stars. Correspondingly, he asks to get off the wildly flying horse of inspiration, Pegasus, to more appropriately address the rest of his story. He wants to use a “mortal” voice to speak now, more comfortable to be “standing on earth” than “rapt above the pole” (transported above the Universe). All of these things show a more grounded and humble Milton than in the previous invocation.

In the last lines of this passage, he even expresses this concern: “So fail not thou, who thee implores” (7.38). Aside from the self-effacement inherent in the fact that he uses the word “implores” to describe the nature of his requests, Milton also recognizes the possibility of failure. If his Muse leaves him, he will fail. This is not the Milton from Book I, to whom the chance of failure never occurred. This Milton knows he is fallible; there are no claims of being “upright” and “pure.” This is as much humility as we can reasonably expect from a man of such self-righteous Puritanism. Of course, implicit in his descent back to Earth is the likelihood that he still believes he is the best to ever write among men. The phrase “my native element” can be seen as a way of staking out his claim: the Earth belongs to him. He may not be worthy of Heaven, but he is a master of Earth. Milton’s getting off the “Pegasean wing” of inspiration can be construed to mean that he doesn’t need it anymore. He can handle himself now. In effect, he has done this to regain control, to regain mastery of his domain. Consequentially, his newfound humility is possibly shadowed by his regained confidence, self-assurance, and daresay pride on returning to Earth. This is just conjecture of course; in reading only for definitive evidence, Milton’s language in the second invocation ultimately seems to have humbled itself for the second half of the poem, to match the Earth-bound subject matter to follow, i.e. Creation, Adam and Eve, and the Fall.

When all’s said and done, Milton’s genius can not be disputed. His work indeed is an extraordinary feat of the English language, written in an English of the highest order. It was indeed something that had never quite been attempted in that way before, and most likely never again. So whether he was humble or proud, or both, is ultimately, perhaps, immaterial. Either way, Milton probably was justified – nay, he deserved – to feel anything he wished to feel. His was indeed a God-like genius.